I’M SO GLAD I FOUND Benji, my emotional rescue

My Benji is a rescue dog from Romania. We do not rehome dogs anymore, we “rescue” them. The term adds a bit of drama and implies I am a hero who personally saved Benji from a burning building rather than just made a few calls from London then picked him up from a nice lady in High Wycombe. The heroes are the people who set up charities and save dogs from being euthanised. They gather up the overspill in the shelters abroad and bring them back to the UK because they know that putting a dog down when so many of us would give them a home here is just beyond sad.

I don’t know much about Benji’s background, just that he was found abandoned on the streets and was about seven months old when I got him. He looks like a fox crossed with a dingo and has the biggest, softest, pointiest ears, the wettest nose and a gentle nature.

We were his second rehoming; the first family couldn’t cope and gave him back to the charity. It happens. I would be lying if I said it was easy taking in an older pup who was unhousebroken and bewildered and whose every waking hour was spent frantically, obsessively, urgently looking for food. I’ve had my own moments of “I can’t cope”, but reminded myself that, as with human babies, the tough times, the sleepless nights, are temporary.

His need for affection was intense. I put him in my own bed in those first few nights. I’m against leaving any mammal to “cry it out”. Reassurance builds confidence. I’ll never forget the look on his sweet face as I tucked him in under the covers next to me. He looked grateful and a little nervous as if to stay, “You’re sure I can stay? Are you SURE sure? Are you sure sure sure?” Some people will scoff at my anthropomorphising here, but if you have a dog, you will know what I mean. They know. They really do.

Soon, he was happy snuggling in my kitchen with my other dog, Taylor, a two-year-old golden retriever.

Being an ex-street dog, he is used to cats and children and is great with both. He is also an expert tipping out the bin and scattering the contents all over the floor and climbing to fetch things that look good to chew. Such as my favourite books. With a ton of patience, endless reassurance, and constant replacements of wooden spoons, Benji is settling in. I still get “ahem” texts at midnight from my neighbour from time to time when Benji has heard a leaf fall from a tree nearby and has thunderously barked to protect us all from it, but we are getting there. It’s hard to let your mind get too gloomy when you have a dog bouncing around your home that has spent its life living on the streets.

Unexpected things trigger Benji. A coat I have with huge fake fur collars sent him into a growling frenzy one day. He went berserk at the grouting gun when I was sprucing up my kitchen tiles. We don’t know what he’s been through, what he has seen. He wets himself if he’s caught stealing food, expecting perhaps to be told off or hit. Of course, I do neither. My fault for not putting the food away. His endless, obsessive scavenging has subsided. After three months with us, he seems to have come to believe that the meal times are regular, that treats are the norm. He has started to trust that he is here to stay, that we are sure sure.