A DAD'S LIFE:There's a lot of explaining to do when puppies arrive
THE PUPPIES came into our lives and made them exciting for a little while. First, dog gets fat and we have to explain why to the small people. The same small people wonder how the small dogs will get out. We don’t just get to tell them, we get to show them.
In the course of this procedure, one small dog dies. In one short period, we have creation, life and death. We have awe and shock and, to use a term coined by former Northern Ireland footballer Iain Dowie, we have a brave display of “bouncebackability” by small humans and dogs alike.
The small dogs never seem bothered at all. The only thing they have to bounce back from is the wall after their mother pings them against it, as was her occasional form should they suckle too long. Dogs are great, they don’t worry about “Contented Little Baby” books or attempt to be “baby whisperers”. They have pups. They generally love pups and nurture pups. But if those pups get too much, or step out of line, there’s no worry about administering discipline “in a calm and consistent manner”. Mum bares teeth and pup gets pinged.
“Daddy, why is Poppy so mean to her children sometimes?”
“She’s not mean. She’s just worn out being used as a constant food bag. They won’t leave her alone and she needs space.”
The missus looks on and we catch eyes, share a flashback. For a second it’s 4am, neither of us have slept all night because our pup, the one who is now concerned for the welfare of her own dogs, is only four months old and hasn’t stopped crying, except to feed, for what seems like weeks. We can empathise with a growling mother. Our daughter is shocked – parental needs have never crossed her mind.
Time goes by. The pups grow. They assume the colouring and facial characteristics of their dad, who is hairy and broad-shouldered. By eight weeks they are more than half their mother’s size. Still, it appears size doesn’t matter in the pen, she continues to rule with an iron fist and even when they have the gall to fight back she dismisses them with an earthy growl. They begin to play together, the teen mum and her couple of bawdy offspring. Everyone’s happy.
I get the emotional works. From day one the kids had been at me to keep one. No, it’s enough hassle managing our own mutt, particularly as we’re on the road a lot. No way. As usual, they hear ‘no’ and believe it to be an invitation to try harder. They beg and badger, but I’m strong and, besides, on this topic I have the missus’s support. We’re united.
Around week five she weakens. “I don’t know if I can give them both away,” she says.
“Back off, wife. They’re going.” I know the rug is being pulled, I can feel the sand shifting under my feet.
By week seven she has abandoned all pretence and is actively lobbying me in front of the children. Like any good political movement, my three women provide a united front in the face of an authoritarian leader and promise the earth should they get what they want. If they get to keep one, they’ll feed him, walk him, play with him, look after his shots. When we go away they will organise cover. I won’t ever notice the extra body in the house.
Skilful though their three-pronged assault might be, they deliver it while I am knee-deep in dog mess in our previously laundry-smelling utility room. I can wave them away with a brown-stained crumpled newspaper.
I crumble and long before I let on to them, know I am beaten. I know which one we are keeping, accept it and get to know him. I know it’s hassle and that there will be times when, with the car packed and us about to head off, I’ll look at my women and wonder where they have arranged for the dogs to stay. And the dogs will come with us. I know and don’t mind.
With that decision made, a request comes in for the second one. As a birthday present for a friend’s daughter, a buddy of the elder child. We have a window of opportunity. I push it. Gently. They go for it.
Over three days last week both pups went. It was my responsibility to carry out delivery so as not to upset our pair and I performed my duties manfully, with not a damp eye. I handed them over thinking of freedom and space.
The kids are fine. I’m wondering should we have a baby.
abrophy@irishtimes.com