…that dogs can die if they eat grapes (or raisins)? Cue minor panic this morning when one piggy mutt scoffed a stray box of Sunmaid. I think he’s OK though.
This is Wilkie the smiling dog. People say he’s fat but he’s just got a really
I can’t remember if I’ve shared the story of how we came to have Wilkie. We were living in LA and, heavily pregnant and hormonal, I happened to pass a dog-adoption stall at Larchmont Village farmer’s market, where they were looking for volunteers to foster dogs. At that time I was doing a lot of walking – or hiking, as they melodramatically call it over there – up at Runyon Canyon, and everyone else had a dog, so goddamn it I wanted one too.
I’d expected a lot of background checks, suitability questionnaires and stuff like that, but I guess it was a sign of their desperation that the process consisted of me picking the cutest-looking dog, taking him home and christening him Jason.
Jason was pretty cute. And devoted, too. Although he did have some issues, like snarling if my husband came near me, and having random panic attacks in the street. He also had a problem with lifts.
Every Sunday morning I’d have to return him to the farmer’s market and call late afternoon to see if he’d been adopted. This made Sundays something of an emotional ordeal. Jason was so adorable, I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be adopted, and sure enough one Sunday I called as usual, at around three, and they said he’d gone home with another family. I didn’t even *sob* get to say goodbye. I decided then that dog fostering was far too heartbreaking and I’d never do it again.
Later that week I got a call from the head of the charity saying they had a dog they’d no room for and could I please consider fostering it? ‘Only they kill strays in California,’ she reminded me. So I found myself driving to pick up this dog, having forgotten to ask a single question about it. For all I knew it could have been a 12-stone pitbull.
So I was relieved when it was only a little chihuahua/Jack Russell hybrid, albeit a stinky and revolting one. His legs were covered with open sores, his fur was scabby and missing in parts, and did I mention the smell? I vowed I wasn’t going to get attached to this one, but was simply going to provide basic care. Food, water, walks. That was it. I didn’t even give him a name.
But Californians are quite big on talking, in queues, on escalators, etc, and passers by would regularly exclaim, ‘Oh, he’s so cuuuuuuuuuuuuute! What’s his name?’ (They were lying. He wasn’t cute. He smelt like an abattoir. And looked like I’d been maltreating him for years, which someone obviously had.) Anyway, it turns out you look a right bitch if you say, ‘He hasn’t got one.’ So I had to think quickly. I remembered that one of the many books I’ve never read is No Name by Wilkie Collins. It seemed apt. ‘His name’s Wilkie,’ I said. And it stuck.
Invariably I grew attached, and took to phoning the charity and making up elaborate lies as to why I couldn’t bring him to the farmer’s market that Sunday. ‘We’re out of town and our car’s broken down,’ I’d say, ‘so we can’t possibly get back in time.’ There was also the small matter of what the hell I was going to do with him when the time came for us to return to England, but I dealt with that in the same way I deal with all problems, which is to say I ignored it.
When I went into labour I left him in the care of some friends. That night I had my son, and at 7am the following morning got a phone call from our landlady, who said, ‘Why is your dog sitting outside the house?’ I texted my friend, ‘If you’re worried about Wilkie, don’t be – he’s gone home.’ Somehow he’d walked the three or so miles from our friend’s house to ours, over six-lane freeways and traffic-choked junctions, without ever having done the journey on foot. Our poor friends were up all night, shitting themselves that they’d lost our dog.
I know, it’s like the Incredible Journey. Well, you can’t get rid of a dog like that, can you? Cue an absolute mountain of paperwork and bureaucracy, vaccinations, frantic phone calls to DEFRA and I can’t even admit how much in airline charges, vets’ fees and bullshit charges they add on because they know you’re a sentimental retard, and Wilkie is here with us, shiny furred, scab free and only marginally stinky.