Our man On the radiO makeS a new beSt friend
SSam Cooke once sang A change is gonna come, and it has. I’ve got a dog. I am 100 per cent certain that Sam’s song wasn’t about a Yorkshireman living in Dubai getting a dog, but it fits with my life right now so I’m running with it. Surely my life is now complete, right? A wife, three kids, the debt, the ridiculous midlife crisis car, the tolerance of wearing cycling shorts on a weekend and, now, a dog. I can’t think of anything else I need to complete the textbook middle-aged man collection. I am on autopilot until the nursing home. Of course, with a great dog comes great responsibility. I knew this because my family had a dog when we were growing up and my Dad gave me the “he’s your responsibility” talk.
For most of last year, my wife and kids have been petitioning me to get a dog. I have been steadfast in my refusal. Normally they know they can get round me with persistence and cuteness, but there was no way this was happening. The kids promised me the Earth: “We’ll walk him, Daddy,” “We’ll clean up after him, Daddy,” “Please, please, please, Daddy!”
They even said they didn’t want Christmas presents if they could have a dog, although when I asked my 12-year-old again about this he started coughing-out caveats, such as “I meant no big presents.”
Anyway, long story short, after a month of reading and researching, I walked into the house with Charlie Dickens, an ugly little puppy with more than a passing resemblance to a famous Hollywood star.
My wife burst into tears. My inlaws (who were, at the time, staying in my villa and using more than their fair share of my Nespresso pods) were overjoyed. The kids were, understandably, cock-a-hoop. That first day, they fussed him, tickled him, fought over him and even attempted to train him.
Twenty-four hours later, after the kids had seen just what can be produced by a ten-inch ball of wrinkly fur, they barely looked up from their iPads when I said he needed walking.
So, much like many other armtwisted Dads, most mornings, whilst my children snooze away, I find myself sat in my dressing gown in the garden before dawn, chatting away to the little guy and trying to persuade him to stop eating gravel. On weekends, my wife and I pack a small picnic and trundle up to the Al Qudra Lakes (my favourite place in the whole of the UAE), taking Charlie Dickens for a short stroll, before sitting in our deckchairs drinking coffee, whilst our tiny, brainless dog attempts to startle the massive swans, who could undoubtedly snap him in half, should the mood take them.
And now we’re members of that strange community: dog owners. I’m already au fait with the passing pleasantries: “Morning,” “Lovely day,” “Ah, he’s cute,” and you should see me when we bump into someone with the same kind of dog. You’d think we’d been conjoined twins earlier in life, the way we instantly bond.
Which begs the question: was I wrong to turn down the kids’ request for so long? And the answer is yes, I was wrong. Kids are always going to be kids. Very few have the staying power for raising a puppy. I, on the other hand, have a new best friend.