Dog Tired

When my wife announced that we would be looking after a dog for five weeks, she tried to sweeten the news by promising that my involvement would be limited to the occasional stroll around the block. Like a fool I reluctantly agreed.

However things didn't quite turn out as I'd hoped. News travelled around the Lewes grapevine that there was a family who looked after dogs for free and before long we were joined by a second terrier - a neurotic Jack Russell that would only sleep with humans. I wasn't happy, but decided to try and put a brave face on things.

Then my wife developed pneumonia and I suddenly found myself in charge of a household of feral children and incontinent dogs. At this point something snapped.

I didn't mind the cooking and cleaning. I'd even resigned myself to the long walks and the dog poo. But after a day of being an überfather, I felt that I'd earned the right to a decent night's sleep. Sadly, Poppy the Jack Russell had other ideas, howling, barking and scratching at doors as soon as it was bedtime.

After two sleepless nights I felt a deep, primordial rage at Poppy. When, just before lunchtime, Poppy and I were alone in the dining room, I decided to vent my frustrations:

"Look, you ******* ****, we don't even want you here. You're a ******* ***** ** *** **** and I can't wait until you go. I never want to see you again, you ******* annoying, neurotic canine ****"

The rant was cathartic and Poppy was blissfully oblivious to my sentiments. It was a win-win situation.

Then the door swung open and my oldest son walked up to his laptop:

"Hi! Are you still there?"

"Yeah. I've just been crafting an obsidian sword..."

At this point, I realised my son was in the middle of a Skype conversation and that my expletive-ridden diatribe against Poppy had been relayed to her owners in Scotland. Apparently the whole family were sitting around a table, listening to my obscenities.

It wasn't my finest moment, but on the plus side I don't think we'll have to worry about looking after Poppy again.

Maisy the border terrier will be with us for another week and although I can't say I've ever got used to the constant smell of overcooked peas, I will miss her when she's gone. She has, without exaggeration, transformed our lives and my older son seems happier than he has been for a long time. For that reason alone, I'm prepared to endure the grimmer aspects of dog ownership.

I know several people who say that owning a dog is almost like having a child. I always agree with them because I don't want to shatter their illusions, but I'm afraid that owning a dog is nothing like having a child.

If only children were content to sit in a basket for hours, occasionally requesting a brief tummy tickle or a walk around the block.

A month ago, my oldest son was the only dog lover in the house. My wife was indifferent, I was hostile and our youngest son was terrified. In the space of four weeks, Maisy has won us all over. When I tried to explain to our six-year-old that he needed to wash his hands because Maisy was a magnet for bugs, he was indignant: "No she isn't! She's a magnet for love".

Before they left for their five-week holiday in France, Maisy's owners said that they were going to arrange for her to have puppies in the autumn. With any luck, a mini-Maisy will be with us by Christmas.

Small World

This time two months ago I was making the final preparations for a family holiday in Spain. I'd booked it during a moment of foolhardy optimism on New Year's Day, blithely disregarding our oldest son's agoraphobia and my fear of flying.

Three months later, the whole idea seemed absurd and I was tempted to cancel the booking. But I naively clung on to the belief that if we could take our son away from his comfort zone to a beautiful place with warm seas and blue skies, he would be transformed. Some people never learn.

As for the fear of flying, I decided to undergo a course of hypnotherapy sessions with a lovely woman who came highly recommended. The hynotherapy seemed to be very successful. Within minutes of arriving, she was able to put me into a deep trance and induce a feeling of tranquility that I hadn't enjoyed since I was a foetus.

Sadly, when I sat on a plane for the first time in six years, I realised that instead of being cured of my phobia, I had merely been hypnotised into believing that I wasn't scared of flying. When the plane took off, everything changed and the three-hour flight was one long silent scream.

Since then, I've been feeling rather gloomy. My son won't travel beyond the environs of Lewes and I seem to be limited to a damp part of northwestern Europe.

As if that wasn't enough, my wife casually announced that she'd agreed to look after someone's dog for five weeks, adding a further layer of restrictions to our movements. My world, which once extended to South America, had now contracted to a tiny, dog-friendly corner of England. I wasn't happy.

But then, one afternoon, I walked in the front door and found a small border terrier looking up at me, with trusting brown eyes. "This is Maisy", my wife solemnly announced. Maisy ambled towards me and jumped up, gently resting her paws on my legs. I smiled nervously, hoping that she wouldn't damage the sofa.

In many ways, Maisy is the ideal dog. At home she is only slightly more animated than a stuffed toy, which is perfect, but outdoors she becomes far more active and performs the sorts of tricks that children expect from dogs. I can't say that I particularly relish the hairs and the smell, or having my face licked, but I'm grateful to her for getting my sons out of the house.

The South Downs are less than ten minutes' walk from our front door, but persuading the boys to go there is usually almost impossible. If they do agree to have a walk, the continual carping and moaning puts a bit of a dampener on things. But since Maisy joined us, they've been up on the Downs every day:

(Trivia fact - this is the site of the Battle of Lewes in 1264, which resulted in the birth of parliamentary democracy)

Seeing my youngest son swinging on a farm gate, describing it as "The best fun ever" made me realise that I had to put all of my reservations about the smell, the hairs, the inconvenience and, worst of all, the poo, to one side. If this is the price I have to pay for getting my sons to swap the virtual world for the real one, then so be it.

Sadly, for the boys, this is a holiday romance that will have to end. In just over a month, Maisy's real family will return from their absurdly long holiday in France and I suspect that the house will be very quiet without her.

Sedimentary

The other day I took my younger son to Birling Gap where, at low tide, a rather dull, pebbly beach becomes an enchanted world of rockpools populated by crabs, anemones and fragile, transparent fish that dart into cracks the moment they sense danger. My son seemed disappointingly indifferent to the wonders of marine life, but later told someone that he was so happy he wanted to cry. Children are strange creatures.

What a contrast to his older brother, who is virtually imprisoned by an OCD that won't allow him to venture beyond the front door. It has taken me a while to realise how much my son's condition has changed our lives. Unlike an accident or conventional disease, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder can assimilate itself so insidiously into the sufferer's world that even their family can't always recognise the huge tectonic shift that has taken place.

Why does one child possess the capacity for happiness whilst another is wretched? In my sons' case, the glib answer would be that the world is a much happier place when you're six than it is at 12, but I don't think that's the answer. Even at six, my oldest son was a troubled soul.

On the beach, I looked up at the cliffs and marvelled at the fact that they were made up of the skeletons of countless billions of marine creatures. On the clifftop, tiny figures walked along a thin, grassy topsoil, probably unaware that the solidity of the landscape was the result of so many forgotten, insignificant, prehistoric lives.

I looked at my son. What would he remember of this day, if anything? But did it even matter? Perhaps the sum total of who we are is like sedimentary rock, largely comprised of invisible, forgotten events that have helped to silently create solid foundations.

But I'd done all of these things - the rockpools, the forest walks, the zoo and the museums - with my oldest son, and they hadn't created a bedrock of security. If I could go back, what would I change? I can't think of an answer.

In many ways life has become very challenging. I have had to give up a secure job for the uncertainty of sporadic, freelance work. My wife and I now pass like ships in the night, taking it in turns to spend time with our oldest son. We aren't the house of spontaneity.

However, I feel quietly hopeful. The OCD has been very powerful, but it is no match for a neighbour's Border Collie that appeared one day on the doorstep, demanding to be taken for a walk. After witnessing several professional strategies fail, it was a surprise to see a dog have such a huge impact, but in many ways it made perfect sense. The front door has been breached.

The next phase will involve territorial expansion: a street corner today, the postbox tomorrow and the end of the road by Friday. But the dog may have its own ideas, guided by unknown smells and hidden memories. My son will follow the dog.

I've no idea what will happen next, but I'm now resigned to a life of living in a house that smells of dog, out in all weathers so that an incontinent canine can relieve itself.

I can't wait.