Home

They say, when you walk into your home, you know. You can look at ten, twenty, thirty houses, and then, you pull up to one more, stand on another kerb, look up at another frontage, step through another front door…and recognise that you are home. It was like that the first time I saw you. The shelter had taken out a double page ad in the paper, it’s motley crew of furred friends-to-be arranged around the page, and you, meeting my eyes from the centrefold. I had been flicking through, taking a break, not looking for love, but there you were. I knew. I took the paper home, and I showed you to my mum. I knew that she knew too. I showed you to my dad.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t want the responsibility. Who’s going to walk her when it’s raining?”

Her. Not it. He and I went together to see you.

When we arrived at the shelter, they had you, unexpectedly, sitting behind the counter, long skinny legs tucked under, serpentine spine a smooth ridge running down to the tapering arrowhead of your grey bearded face. You lifted you head as we approached the desk, one ear up, one down. I watched my dad’s chin quiver and his face tighten. I knew he knew, even as he went on saying no, until he started saying “only if”, until he signed his name on the paperwork and I opened up my heart.

My mum and I went to collect you. That was part of the “only if”s. “Make sure, “ they said “for the first few weeks, to always keep her on the lead while you get to know each other.” “Of course.” It seemed so sensible.

You came willingly, happily, unfolding yourself with easy grace, and jumping onto the backseat like you knew your way . You were calm, dignified, despite the chaos of your eyebrows, despite the scraggy ruff, despite the grizzled whiskers. We had never had a dog live to the age you were on that first day before. You seemed old to us, serene perhaps. We drove along the coast road home, the tide far out and the wide coves pristine and gleaming, the sands made virginal again and again by the tides.

“We should take her for a little walk” I said. “She’s been cooped up so long. Maybe it will help her settle.”

We pulled over, and clipped a lead to your wide leather collar, stood back as you hopped out of the car. We walked together down the cobbled ramp, we three ladies, and onto the beach. You didn’t pull, but I felt your body shift as we hit the sand, I felt the energy fizz from your high stepping paws, down the lead and to my hand. You were born to run, all legs and lungs, and long, streamlined power.

“She wants to run.”

We looked at you, standing, patiently, head up and nose working the wind. I pulled back the metal clasp and unclipped. The line went dead in my hand, the contact was lost. And then you were off.

The two of us gaped, paralysed by shock. “What have we done!” You were so fast, within seconds you were the other side of the bay, moving away. We had had you less than an hour and we had lost you! But then…then you turned a wide curve towards the sea, clipping the incoming waves and arching back towards us, past us, beyond us, to the other end of the bay, and up towards the road – not the road! – and then around, again, thundering past, turning, thundering past, turning again, not away, but orbiting, tracing a wide ellipse between the rocks bookending the beach, my mum and I at the centre, like the sun drawing the hurtling planets ever towards her.

We watched, as you ran, for the sheer joy of it. The extended length of you, flying, legs outstretched, the depth of your chest swooping back to your narrow waist, tail flying behind, head low like a diver plunging into space, and then the contracted coil, front paws behind back paws, ears flat back, eyes set forwards, the pounding of those four dainty feet rising and falling and you spun us around. I have never seen an animal more beautiful than you were that day, that first run. The unexpected speed of you, the fear turning to awe, turning to devotion, as you spiralled in, slowing to a lope, then jogging a beeline back to us, smiling, it seemed, and coming to rest just touching distance from our rapture slackened arms. We were home.

It was the first day of so much more. We were not without hiccups, as you learnt to play, at 9 years old, not to snarl and nip when feet got too close, to trust us not to hurt you. For eight more years you took your place on our sofas, by our beds, firmly, deeply, in our hearts. And my dad? Didn’t stand a chance. Eventually, his responsibility to you took that prideful fool into hospital when was in dire need of going. “I probably would have been fine”, he said “but I worried I might die in the night and no one would be there to take her out in the morning”.

All along, he knew.