Pet Sounds

When I was growing up in my family’s chaotic and toxic household, pets were an issue. When my mum was in an “up” phase she would have heard of someone who had puppies or kittens on offer and we children would go with her, excited at the prospect of a new animal in the family. But sadly these relationships were short lived when either my mum went into a “down” phase and/ or the reality of an extra mouth to feed, however small dawned and, more often than not, due to the prospect of more puppies or kittens because she couldn’t afford to have the pet neutered. A lot of our pets “ran away” (including one who managed to come back – a poor crossbreed brindle bitch my dad found starving and with her muzzle wrapped in wire whom he called Pepper after the Angie Dickinson character in “Policewoman” but who never fully trusted us and would slip the lead and run away from us until my mum persuaded him to take her to the police station as a stray, which she escaped from and returned to us delighted kids, only to run away for good - I overheard my mum tell someone that she had taken her on the bus into Edinburgh and let her go!). So to Starsky, Pep, Chummy, Tootsie, Misty, Ben and Tammy, I am sorry that I couldn’t help, only being a child.
We were a bit more successful with cats. One time my mum had taken us to see a litter of kittens. My brother chose one who later apparently “ran away” but it was on Bonfire Night, so maybe she did. One wee dark tortoiseshell kitten was playing on the back of the settee and I approached her. “Oh you don’t want her”, said the woman. “We call her Freaky Feet.” This poor wee mite did indeed have large feet as she had what is called polydactyly with 6 or 7 toes on each foot. Of course I wanted her and I took her home. I called her Di because yes it was 1981 and another Di was in the news but more because of her fur, which looked like a bad dye job. We kept Di and her many kittens, who I made sure went to good homes. She used to sit on my Dad’s shoulder with her large paws in his shirt breast pocket and scent mark his glasses, knocking them from his face and did mourn him when he died. She was a skilled hunter, once bringing down a seagull. I had a friend of a boyfriend who was a biker and had a large car tell me he used to drive up our long street and she would be sitting in the middle of the road, whereupon he would stop, get out and lift her onto the pavement. She stayed with my mum until she was (according to my mum, who was visibly upset) killed by a dog aged 13. We kept one of Di’s kittens, an orange tom named Fizz with his mother’s feet who we did manage to have spayed and he died age 12 on a chair in my mum’s flat.
When we got our first flat together in 1987, Gee and I got 2 kittens from a woman we knew, a brother and sister called Billie (after Billie Holiday, Billy Bragg and Rob Lowe’s character in “St Elmo’s Fire”) and Rosie, so named after she tried to drink cider. They were a right pair of characters. Billie was a big sook and even as an adult would “milk-stamp” on your chest, drooling. Rosie was the boss, with something of the wildcat about her, large and cobby to Billie’s more Egyptian slenderness. She had a fondness for cucumber, which she once stole from the fridge. Rosie died in 1998 from complications following a urinary tract infection (she was bleeding and the PDSA sent us home with antibiotics, then she went off her food and was in pain –a n emergency visit on a Sunday found her to be dying and she was put to sleep in my arms). Billie lasted a year without his sister and succumbed to tumours. The vet told us to bring him back when he seemed ready to go – the night we decided it was we took him out to wait for the lift and, as if he knew, he died in my Gee’s arms. We also had another cat, Puff, who my mum had brought home for herself but was too much of a pest to an elderly Di and Fizz so came to stay with our two. Overshadowed by the terrible twosome, he didn’t come into his own til they were dead. He was a great companion to me when I was ill with ME, lying on the couch as I slept. He just faded away and died of old age at 20 on a blanket on our bed on a cold December morning in 2007 aged 20. He is buried under a cherry tree in our back garden and we call the tree Puff’s tree.
The house seemed empty without an animal in it and after some discussion we decided that maybe, this time we would get a dog. We first went to a well-known dog rescue charity near to our house and after they took some details, told us to have a look at the dogs they had for rehoming and come back if we saw any we fancied. When we did, for every animal we looked at, there seemed to be a reason for us not to have it. We were made to feel like we were unsuitable as dog owners, more because we didn’t have the right “look” or the right car. Downhearted we headed home but on the way decided instead to travel all the way across town to the SSPCA’s animal shelter in Cardonald. There we were given a form to complete, asked a few questions then again were told to have a look at the dogs. One of their staff came out to speak to us and on finding out that this would be the first time as a family we would have a dog, that none of the ones they had today were suitable but urged us to please come back in a few days as more came up to be rehomed. We went away from there felling a little more positive. The following week I had a back-to-work meeting with my then employers (I was on sick leave following gallbladder surgery) and as it was near the rescue centre, I popped by for a look. Again, I made a wee list and although the first 2 were reserved, the third one was available. One of the staff brought out a very energetic but nervous young female collie cross (with a whippet, we later discovered) who cuddled into my legs then tore off around the car park as I tried to remember how to walk a dog on a lead. I had picked her out because she had jumped up with her feet on the fence in her kennel as I looked around, wagging her tail. It turned out that she had been one of the dogs we had all chosen together on the Saturday before but she had only just come in and was still under what they call their cooling off period, which is when an owner has 7 days to collect them or change their mind if they were given up as she had been. I was keen to take her but because I had a daughter, even one who was mad about all animals but dogs in particular (she had always been ones of those kids who has to stop and pet every dog she encounters) they had in the past allowed dogs to go home with people, only to be brought back shortly afterwards because “the wean disnae like it”. So I took a couple of pictures, had the dog reserved for me and went home to tell Gee and Vee excitedly that I had found “our dog”.
Vee was very excited and wanted to go the next day to see and possibly pick up the dog. It was a school day but one very close to Xmas and she was looking a bit unwell. So with Gordon’s blessing and trust in our judgement, we headed off the next morning to the rehoming centre where Vee and the dog got on swimmingly. Roxy, as she was called, had apparently been handed in by an elderly man whose wife had gone into hospital and was heartbroken to give her up but couldn’t look after her any more and give her proper attention. We changed her name’s spelling to Roxie (as in Roxie Hart from Chicago – I still think it’s strange name but it does suit her as she is a real floozie), had her microchipped and our details recorded, bought her a new red collar and lead and took her home.
The past few years have been a lesson for us all – anyone will tell you having a dog is very different from having cats. I have gone to being a lackey to moggies to being den mother and alpha female to a big puppy who is always happy to see me. She is a bright wee dog, can scam biscuits from everyone and can not only hear a tin being opened from upstairs (usually on our bed) but can wait a few minutes to discern what is in said tin before seeing if it’s worth her time coming down. If you follow this blog you’ll be guaranteed to hear a lot more about our wee Roxie Ribbons. They say a dog is man’s best friend and diamonds are a girl’s but I’d rather have my Rox over rocks anytime x