A DAD'S LIFE:Even the dog seems to be homesick for our old place, writes ADAM BROPHY
WE GOT the dog spayed. After two litters we figured any more accidental pups would have the ISPCA and the righteous pet owners’ brigade banging the door down. The girls didn’t approve, they see the dog as some sort of puppy-making machine and her relationship with the two-time father as a glossy Hollywood romance.
From the two litters, we have kept one pup, named after his father in an attempt to cause confusion on the road. Every time we had to go out and scream for Harry Junior to come in we were, in a sense, reminding all the neighbours what a rogue Harry Senior was. He doesn’t seem to mind, appearing at the front door to entice his missus out for a promenade, only pausing long enough to lift a leg and leave me a present on the mat.
Their romance was destined to be short-lived as we moved house last week and I reckon a broken heart made her sick. The operation was blamed but I’m not so sure. The vet gave us a list of symptoms to watch out for afterwards but she seemed to be progressing nicely, wandering round the house in her lampshade collar, appearing like some Victorian canine by my side with sad eyes and a pant. Then, a week after the job, she starts to retch and mewl and get us all worried.
We haul her back to the vet who launches another batch of antibiotics and advises keeping a close eye, that she may have an infection and might have to be opened up again. I’m looking at her, all forlorn and miserable, and suddenly realise she’s not sick at all. She’s homesick and lovesick. The mutt.
Obviously, I can’t suggest this to the vet. How would that sound? “Nah, she’s not sick because of the serious op she had last week. She’s pining for her boyfriend, that’s all.” I don’t want him looking at me thinking: “Ah here’s another one, sure he probably believes in homeopathy too.”
I take her home, feed her the pills and am doubly nice because she needs a bit of TLC. Although I take what the vet said seriously, I’m not surprised when the next morning the dog’s wandering round the place again, a little bit chippier. It appears she’s gotten over her love bump.
She gets me thinking about the kids though. Okay, this time we haven’t dragged them across the country, uprooted them from school, friends and family, inflicted a new and notoriously difficult local lilt on their ears. This time we’ve only shifted across town. Everything stays the same except the place you lay your head. There shouldn’t be any difficulty.
But we’re creatures of habit. I pick the elder up from school and drive her home. She looks up as we enter the driveway and sighs: “I completely forgot we were coming here.” She goes on then and, in an almost stream of consciousness, talks about how she had an idea in her head about where she would be and what she would do when she went through the front door. Now the idea has to be changed because the front door, and what lies behind it, is different.
She’s talking and she’s processing at the same time, and it’s fascinating to watch this nine year old digest how her world has altered in a subtle way as she verbalises herself through the nuances. She knows she feels different, and she’s put her finger accurately on why that is through a small show of surprise.
I get it because I feel it too, waking in the morning in a strange room and wandering to a kitchen where you can’t find anything, and this mild confusion spreading out over the whole day. It’s no drama but it’s disconcerting without any real concrete reason. I can think this through and see why I’m edgy, the elder can talk about it without fully realising what she’s doing, but the younger and the dog can only express themselves through their actions.
No surprise then to discover that the younger, in our first week here, took two of her friends into my car to play and proceeded to give them and herself haircuts. In fairness to her, she did a pretty good job, especially on herself. We couldn’t get mad, so we advised her to leave this sort of thing to professionals, locked up all sharp instruments and explained the situation as best we could to the friends’ parents. Drop of gel, couple of well-placed clips, they’ll be fine.
As for the dog, she’s taken to listening to Glenn Medeiros, but seems to be on the mend.