So we did it. We did what, four months ago, in these very pages, I said we wouldn’t do. We decided to get another dog. We got two, since we figured that it would take that number to fill the hole in our lives left by Humphrey.
The change of heart happened during the summer. It was a Friday – a rare sunny day – and we were having an early evening drink in the garden at the back of the Merrion Hotel in Dublin. I commented on how great it was that, for what seemed like the first time in years, we didn’t have any reason to rush home. But as soon as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. It was miserable. We both knew it.
In the days that followed, I was thinking about all the beautiful messages I received after I wrote in this magazine about the sadness of losing a dog. I said I didn’t think I could feel the same about another animal as I did about Humphrey, but people assured me that I would in time and if we had love to give, and we could afford the kibble, then we should think of opening our home to another dog.
A few days later, we found out about a family in Kilkenny, whose basset had given birth to a litter of 10. We saw the photographs. We phoned the number. We were smitten by two in particular. They happened to be the biggest and the smallest in the litter. The biggest was a lemon-coloured puppy – the blond, I call him – who was so big that he had to be delivered by Caesarean mid-labour. The smallest – the brunette – was tiny with a thin, cat-like body and big, brown eyes that put me in mind of a Sacred Heart painting that hung in my grandmother’s good room.
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The owner asked, with a sad edge in her voice, which of the two I was leaning towards. I told her I wanted both of them and she laughed with relief. It so happened that the two dogs we’d chosen had already buddied up – an understatement, we would discover – and she was afraid that they were going to be separated.
We puppy-proofed our home. We laid carpet remnants down over the carpet and placed nappy mats down on top of that, then we hunkered down for the months of toilet training and general chaos that we knew lay ahead of us. We thought about the inevitable accidents and the sleepless nights filled with the sound of two dogs pining for their mother. But any worries we had were blown away by the sight of them playing with Humphrey’s old toys, which we hadn’t had the heart to clear away after he left us.
‘When they go outside for their 5am wee, they perform the duty standing side by side and you would struggle to fit a cigarette paper between them’
We gave them human names. The blond would be Arthur. The brunette would be Walter. Over the weeks that followed, as the two little trip-hazards made themselves at home, we watched their personalities take shape. Walter – the small one – was the boss. He let Arthur know when it was time to play and when it was time to rest. They familiarised themselves with the garden by venturing a couple of metres further every day. Walter led. Arthur followed. That’s the way it’s been ever since.
In many ways, two dogs are easier to manage than one. We always felt guilty that Humphrey didn’t have a playmate. He was devoted to us, but when we weren’t there, he slipped into sleep mode, seeing no real point in remaining awake.
Arthur and Walter can at least make their own entertainment. And they do. They are absolutely besotted with each other, which I know isn’t always true of canine siblings. And we are resolved to the fact that, while they may love us, they will never love us the way they love each other.
They never did yowl for their mother in the night – not even once. But if we separate them, for instance, to bathe them one at a time, they whine until they’re back together again. They walk around the house, shoulder to shoulder, like cops on the beat. When they go outside for their 5am wee, they perform the duty standing side by side and you would struggle to fit a cigarette paper between them.
They spend hours playing together, chasing each other in figure-eight circuits of the kitchen, or rolling around the floor, play-fighting each other, then the house will fall silent and we’ll find them fast asleep, lying nose to nose, or curled into each other like a cinnamon bun, as if Anne Geddes had posed them for a shot.
I’ve written here before that bassets have a temperament that isn’t for everyone. They are not receptive to training in the way that many dog breeds are. Some consider this a sign of stupidity. People who’ve shared their lives with a basset know it’s a sign of deep intelligence.
Already, I can see Humphrey’s stubbornness in both Arthur and Walter, in their absolute refusal to obey instructions, such as ‘stay off chairs and beds’, ‘stop chewing the furniture’, and ‘refrain from swan-diving into fox poo’.
Taking two bassets for a walk should be classed as an extreme sport. Invariably, one wants to follow a scent at full pace, while the other wants to go back to spend 15 minutes sniffing the same spot on a tree trunk where another dog left its scent, so that handling their two leads is like sailing a boat in a force-nine gale.
Feeding time is chaos. It’s like throwing a bucket of chum into a shark tank. They turn all of the puppy nuts out on to the floor and engage in a contest to see who can eat the most in the shortest possible time. But we don’t care. Because we remember the silence in our home after Humphrey’s departure in April and now it’s happily noisy and happily busy and happily messy again.
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I’ve struck the same deal with Arthur and Walter as I did with Humphrey – you just be yourselves and I’ll find a way of dealing with the stress of it all, seeking professional help where necessary.
Because it turns out that I was wrong. I could love another animal the way I loved Humphrey. And I’m rediscovering all of the joys inherent in having a dog in your life, like waking up from an afternoon nap on the sofa to find a wet nose in your face or a set of teeth play-biting your ankle. Or discovering that, while you’ve been sleeping, they’ve mastered yet another new skill, even if it’s knocking over the kitchen bin and turning the floor into a smorgasbord.
But the greatest joy of all is to sit there and listen to Humphrey’s old toys squeaking again.
