Leaving paw prints on the heart: The joy of pets

I might have been stropped from playing with my toys, caught with my hand in the biscuit barrel or told off for firing a cricket ball through a kitchen window. Doubtless, I’d have been in the wrong. As tears ran down by seven-year-old face and the rest of my family got on with what they were doing, our pet dog spied me out.

Mischief, a white-and-tan mongrel collie, came and sat beside me. Nuzzling her face against mine, she took my mind off whatever had been troubling me and reassured me that everything would be fine. I stroked her back and within five minutes the world was a brighter, sunnier place. The grievance had been forgotten and soon we were running around the garden again, carefree and happy.

Pets. Are. Great. Bringers of joy, purveyors of smiles, providers of reasons to be cheerful, they make us tick. Through the most topsy turvy year that any of us have endured, they have come into their own. Providing companionship for the otherwise-lonely during a long and uncomfortable lockdown, the region’s cats, dogs and more have been a boon to both the physical and mental health of many folk.

Mischief – what a great name – was the first of many. She went to the big kennel in the sky just before my teens. My mother, quite sensibly, decided that she’d be the last for a while. After all, she’d been the one cleaning up after the family pet while we’d all been enjoying the fun. The moratorium didn’t last, of course, and new additions to the family were welcomed.

Two dogs, two cats and a rabbit have been joyous additions to my own family during adult years.

The first dog, Josh, was an energetic collie rescue who taught me the joys of early morning walks through the parks. Who knew people who normally walked with heads looking to the ground could be so friendly when out walking pets.

Next up was a personal favourite, a runaway rabbit called Basil. I’ve loved all of my pets equally, I hasten to add, especially Basil. Basil was discovered one evening, after work, hunkered down by raspberry canes. He was eating the lot and had seemingly escaped from a neighbour’s house before finding the garden most overflowing with vulnerable fruit and veg and deciding to call it home.

I’d imagined he’d either hop off, be found by his owners or be savaged by a fox come the morning. He wasn’t. As I walked past to get into my car, he’d made light work of other crops during a night’s feasting. That afternoon, I took action: water cannon. A garden hose was deployed, Basil was doused and I imagined the raspberries would survive as he’d find a less unwelcoming place. He didn’t. The same cycle continued as he continued to squat and wipe out a year’s worth of soft fruit. Cheers, pal.

After another day, I spoke to a friend. “Phil, I’m thinking of calling the police.”

“Why?”

“The rabbit.”

“They won’t arrest a rabbit…”

“Perhaps I should take him for a walk along the river, then.” I channelled by inner Jack Nicholson as I imagined Basil floating down the River Severn and the raspberries making a slight return.

“You don’t have a lead…”

I gave up. Basil moved into an old outhouse in the garden and spent three happy years going feral, eating his way through every plant in the garden before digging a burrow beneath what had been a rosemary bush and refusing to budge.

He met his end after feasting on plums which didn’t agree with him. The vet administered a final shot and having learned how he’d lived his life commended me for giving him the sorts of freedoms that few bunnies enjoy.

By then, Blue, a bearded collie with David Bowie eyes, had moved in – and taken a shine to Basil. I’m reasonably sure there’d have been an unforgettable and unforgivable incident between them had we not kept them separate.

Blue was the King of Dogs, a wise and intelligent animal who made for perfect company. On our first weekend at home together, we decided to go for a walk. We drove out to the Long Mynd and started taking in the sights of Shropshire’s Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. His enthusiasm didn’t waver, nor did mine, and spurred on by one another we walked for the entire day. The next four days, Blue didn’t move. Exhausted and hunkered down in his basket, he slept – waking only to eat.

He developed a neat trick with jacket potatoes. Sitting on his hind legs, he’d catch them like a tennis ball – then eat them whole. Gulp. Gone. Another, please. Bon A-pet treat. Eventually, he retired to a new home to enjoy happy, carefree autumn years. Gone, but never forgotten.

And then along came Itchy and Scratchy, two ragdoll cats whose favourite activity is sleeping. Bought on a whim after a boredom-inspired internet search – ‘Shall we buy some cats?’ ‘Yes, great’ – they run the house.

Reminding us when it’s time to go to bed, waking us each morning for breakfast – I can’t remember the last time I needed to set an alarm – they’ve been a joyful addition, a moment of pure inspiration that’s had the happiest of outcomes. Brothers born to the same litter, they could not be more different. One is cautious and diffident, the other confident and as thick as two short planks.

The time that we’ve all spent at home during lockdown has reminded many about the joy of pets. A dog’s life has never felt so good. Pets are truly pawsome.