A dogged love of domesticity

By Julie Myerson, FT.com site

Published: Oct 13, 2006 

He's quiet. He's very, very quiet. His absolute favourite activity is standing still. He'll stand and stare at a plain white wall for half an hour as if it's the very most interesting thing in the whole world. And then, when he's finished doing that, he'll potter off and find another one to stare at.

He follows you around the house like a polite but slightly annoying guest who feels he ought to help but can't quite summon the confidence to offer. He wanders around tentatively, as if he's never had the run of a whole house before, as if he can't quite believe in all this space, all these stairs, all these (fascinating) white walls.

He acts like he can't afford to take anything for granted, as if there has to be a catch, a snag, a price. He acts like he can't quite believe his luck and is just waiting to have the rug pulled from under his four furry feet. He's only a dog but I'm startled to find he breaks my heart - because he behaves like someone who doesn't know what a home is, who can't quite believe he's really being offered one now.

We'd only had him a day or two when a possibility struck me.

"I think your dog might be deaf, " I said to Raph.

How else can you explain a dog who literally doesn't notice you come into a room, who has to be gently tapped on the shoulder like some old man dozing over his newspaper? Yet once he knows you're there, he's alert. He jumps to his feet, stretches, yawns, wags his tail, eager to know what's next. And like all the best guests he's up for anything: walk, watch TV, sit on your lap, lie in his bed (facing the wall) and wait - for ever if necessary. He's cool. All he wants is to fit in. He does fit in. You so wish you could tell him that.

We got him from a rescue centre. A dark rainy day, middle of the country, black skies. The noise of barking was so deafening that the staff wore earplugs. They charged up and down in their wellington boots, patiently telling us about all the dogs and their personalities.

Some were hurling themselves against the metal of their cages, barking and yowling, but not him. He was sitting quietly. We noticed him straightaway because he wasn't trying to be noticed. He looked like a puppy with his wispy blonde hair and dark eyes but they said he wasn't young. They'd been told 13 when he was first brought in but 
the vet had then looked at him and said no way was he more than eight or nine.

They released him into the field so we could meet him. He leapt around in stunned, grateful silence like a small, tipsy rabbit. He sniffed the air carefully. They said he'd lived with an old lady who had a lot of dogs and cats - too many. She couldn't cope. She'd been rehoused anyway and most of the dogs had to go.

His name was Ted but he didn't respond to it. Raph changed his name to Andy. He didn't respond to Andy either. He didn't respond when we blew a dog whistle behind him, when we clapped our hands, when we rustled a biscuit wrapping. Definitely deaf, we said.

We brought him home and he gazed around like an orphan being shown a palace. He sipped some water from a bowl then stood for a moment, savouring it. The look on his face said it was the best water he'd ever tasted in his life.

"He looks like Timmy from the Famous Five, " I said. "You should call him Timmy. "

"He's Andy, " Raph said firmly. "Andy suits him. "

I was drinking tea and Andy trotted over and stood beside me looking up politely. I had a sudden vision of what his old life might have been: a little front room crammed with animals, an old lady in a chair, TV flickering, a gas fire turned up hot, a saucer of tea on the floor.

What's it like, I thought, to be a dog - to have no say at all over where you live and who with? You don't know what class you are or what your income is. You don't know whether you're going to end up in a tiny room with a gas fire and three rottweilers or with a great big garden of your own, two cats to chase and a whole shouty family to subject you to regular hearing tests. Home for a dog is - what? - comfort, food, walks, routine and affection. But when a dog stands waiting for you to put your key in the front door, what precisely is he thinking?

Andy has lived with us for a month now and we're not quite as convinced as we were about the deafness. Because just recently he's started to seem to hear things - the clink of his waterbowl, the bang of the front door, Raph chirruping his name in a particularly stupid way. Probably coincidence, my husband says, and maybe he's right. Or could it just be that a big dollop of love and security - and the understanding that at last he has a home - is all it's taken to persuade this small dog to start listening?