A reluctant dog mum

I never wanted a dog. Not really. I liked them well enough, the same way you like the child of friend. Fun to cuddle and play with for a short time, knowing they can be handed back at any moment when it all gets too hard.

We’d had a rescue when I was a kid. A big lump of a Labrador, renamed “Sam,” previously “Van Dam,” after his owner tragically died in an accident. Truth be told, I was terrified of him. I was a small, fragile kid. When small, fragile kid meets excitable, overweight Lab, guess who comes out on top?

Sam was put on a diet when he moved to our home. He had his own microwave outside, which sat on top of the old, green beer fridge. We used to microwave a mix of frozen vegetables, peas and carrot mostly, with raw kangaroo meat. I will never forget that smell. Still burnt into my nostrils all these years later. Have never been able to enjoy kangaroo meat myself for that reason. He didn’t seem to mind and would wolf it all down like he’d never been fed before.

When I was twelve, we moved from an acreage to a small suburban block. It had a yard, but was a huge downgrade when you’re a Lab. Poor Sam was pretty miserable. He went from having chooks to chase and mulberries to eat, to a back door to sit at. Both mum and dad were quite allergic to him too, so there was never a chance of coming inside. This is how I thought dogs lived. Always looking in from the outside.

After a few years, it became clear that Sam needed a better life. One we could no longer provide. Now, this next part of the story has been doubted and scoffed at more times than I can count, but I swear it to be true. We took him to a farm. As a family, we went on a road trip to a walnut farm a few hours from home. I remember a beautiful expanse of land with rolling hills, nut and fruit trees, lambs to chase and a dam to swim in. Sam was in seventh heaven. We heard from the property owner a few years later that Sam had befriended a little lamb, and gotten fat on walnuts again.

Years after that we received a call from a local primary school to say they had found Sam wandering around the school grounds. He was evidently still registered as our pet.

A few years after that, we received the call that he had died. He would have been about fourteen by then. Finally at peace after a wild and exciting life.

Decades passed, and I fell in love with a dog-lover. He would tell tall stories of his childhood pets and try to convert me. He told me stories of his old Red Heeler, Cindy, who would lie against the wall outside the kitchen looking in, so much so that a shadow in her shape and size remained there for years after she was gone. I eventually conceded, under strict conditions: no bigger than medium-sized, hypoallergenic, outside dog.

Last year, we found Loki. By chance through a friend of a friend, and quite spur of the moment too. He didn’t meet any of the criteria. He is a huge thirty-five kilos now, a serious shedder, and spends most nights curled up between us in bed. He is a good boy, and he knows it. Lives up to his namesake, and gets away with all manner of mischief, because who could say “no” to that face?

Next month, he’ll be celebrating his first birthday, and we will of course throw a party. He probably won’t know what all is the fuss is about, but I’m sure will enjoy the attention and pigs ears thrown his way. I can honestly say all the joy he has brought to my life is worth every hair on the couch and hole in the yard.

And there you have it, the emergence of a reluctant dog mum. I wouldn’t have it any other way.