Vanessa Austin Locke: Canine crush

I’m a bit gooey in the head this week and, for the first time in my life, it’s not because I’ve been partying too hard. No. It’s something far more sinister than that. It’s parenthood… of a sort. You see, last Sunday I got a puppy. Those of you that are parents are probably snorting into your lattes just now, but imagine your baby’s really fast and can’t wear nappies… Ok, ok, my agonies will only last a few weeks while you’ve got 18+ years to go, but it’s all relative when you’re scrubbing another accident off your white carpets. (Yes, I’m an idiot.)

Now, whenever I’ve told anyone I’ve got a puppy they say, “Ooooh! Getting broody are we?” or, “Is this practise for the real thing?” Well, I see why you might think that, but no, actually… I don’t want children. I never have. It’s just the way I’m wired. Not saying that might not change someday, but thus far I’ve not had a twinge of longing for sleepless nights and labour pains. The thought that I’d never be truly alone again has me reaching for the beta blockers.

But now I have a puppy everyone’s referring to me as ‘Mummy’. They put on that silly voice and, addressing the dog instead of me, they say things like, “Are you being a good little girl for Mummy?” as if I’d mated with a dog and produced the hybrid myself, and that was perfectly acceptable to them. Then there’s this awkward moment when I’m not sure if they’re talking to me, or the dog; should I engage in conversation while they’re kneeling at crotch height talking to my puppy? What’s the social etiquette when a human has been reduced to a drooling mess at your feet by a hound?

“What’s the social etiquette when a human has been reduced to a drooling mess at your feet by a hound?”

Suddenly my days have gone from quiet hours spent in my study, occasionally wandering from room to room and breaking up the day with bits of housework or cooking, to spending most of the day on my hands and knees with rubber gloves or the dustpan and brush. That’s what they call a reality check, I think. My visions of the faithful creature sleeping peacefully at my feet, as I bash out profound and prize-winning prose, was not entirely accurate it seems.

Children are a blessing – when they’re at a safe distance. But they need earth mothers, not a woman who’s spent most of her life on wanderlustful expeditions of mind and body. And anyway, I understand they’re no good for conversation until two years after university, when the headstrong idealism has worn a bit thin along with the Che Guevara T-shirt. Try asking my pup for her thoughts on the Israel/Palestine conflict and she’ll just gnaw your shoe.

So my left eye is twitching and my tinnitus rings every time she yelps. I’ve had to leave the house with un-brushed hair on more than one occasion, my nails are chipped and I’m having conversations with my man about the consistency of her ‘offerings’. But watching her bounding through the long, wet grass in the fields around our house, or rolling in a patch of bluebells makes it all worthwhile. What is this thing then? This thing that makes me say that…

If I don’t have the gene… why do I love her?