It’s Sunday evening again, and like a bold secondary school student, I’m sitting down after a weekend of slacking off to try and make my self-imposed Tuesday deadline. This heat, I’m sure every writer will agree, hasn’t been conducive to bursts of creativity. Yet, you might be impressed to read that I’m typing this from my brand-new office! I got a new desk, and have now moved in most of my paraphernalia: the computer and printer, my paltry collection of articles and short stories, and my trusty office chair. And this evening, I added the finishing flourish: a crate with a bed for two of my most loyal friends, Troy and Rupert. As I type, Rupert has made himself at home, whereas Troy is more suspicious of this new layout. (That’s what old age will do to you. Troy turned four on Saturday, 9 September). 

These two furballs are pains in both my arsecheeks, and yet, I can’t imagine life without them now. I had always wanted a dog. We didn’t have one at home until I left for university. He was a sparky Jack Russell. My then-boyfriend, now husband, suggested the name Fred as we already had a cat called Ginger (an homage to Fred Astaire and Ginger Roberts). Fred was an absolute lunatic. He loved his walks, but he was an absolute nightmare, as he would rather drag you around the neighbourhood than walk like a sane dog. Fred was also petrified of the Hoover – it didn’t even need to be turned on, as I discovered when his beloved ball landed within inches of it, and he refused point blank to retrieve it. Instead, he would jump behind the couch, occasionally peering over to make sure the hoover was nowhere near him.  

In 2008, JP and I had a Labrador for two weeks, who we called Lady and, after a visit to the vet’s, Laddie (the woman we adopted him from had told us that she had a pack of female puppies. Obviously, she needed to brush up on her biology!) The same week, I was offered a job with Offaly CIL, which meant that I’d be out of the house for seven hours a day. After many tears, we decided to do what was best for the dog, and so Laddie was rehomed with a lady who loved dogs and had lots of land for him to run around on. It wasn’t easy, and my heart broke doing it. I hadn’t realised it was possible to love a dog so much. I decided that I could never put myself through that pain again. 

Fast forward eleven years, to November 2019. My husband and I had been talking about taking the plunge again for the guts of two years. Our friend recommended a lady who treated her puppies like babies, and so Troy made his entrance into our world. He loved his walks, he housetrained quickly, and soon, we couldn’t remember what our lives had been like before he came along. Troy was our saving grace when the Covid pandemic hit, when everyone was scrambling to get a dog. My husband did four walking challenges (unfortunately, it gave him a bunion the size of a pingpong ball), which kept him going through these lonely times. Troy loves the sun, and relishes the sunny days stretched out in the heat. Thankfully, he outgrew his unpleasant marking phase (my side of the bed was his target of choice), although he will still climb onto the table after meals to see if we “forgot” any remnants of dinner (some of the things he’s eaten include an entire chicken roll, a Crème Egg, an entire bolognese and, most recently, a bowl of porridge).  

Troy is a gentleman. Like most dogs, he instinctively knows when you are sad and will curl up on your lap, hoping to distract you. He’ll lick your tears, he’ll jump up to greet you when you come into the house, and he’ll do everything possible to ensure that you know how much he loves you. He’s the biggest softie going. If I’m scolding Alison, he will stand between us to protect her – cute and irritating in equal measure! 

In 2021, we decided to adapt the house to make it more accessible, and thank God we did, given that both JP and I are shuffling around the place like a pair of old crocks at the moment. This meant that we had to give Troy to two dogsitters over a seven-week period. The first lady could only mind one dog at a time, and Troy didn’t know himself, being the centre of attention for the first three weeks. The second dogsitter also minds dogs in her own home, and so Troy spent the rest of the summer with his new best friend, Brid, who loved him so much that she didn’t want to give him back!  

After coming home from Brid’s place, Troy was seriously depressed. He spent the days lying in his crate like a lovesick teenager, and it suddenly seemed cruel to leave him without some canine company. I must admit I wasn’t thrilled at first by the prospect of another dog. Double the cost, double the walking, double the poo. Then my friend sent me a picture of a little ball of ginger fur with enormous brown eyes. I thought he was kinda cute, but my husband had decided that he was ours. His name was Rupert, and he was Troy’s (and our) new best friend. Double the trouble, and double the love. 

I’d always heard that dogs had their own little personalities, but I didn’t quite believe it until I met Rupert. He’s a nervous little thing, and highly strung. He also loves the sound of his own voice, and barks on walks for no reason whatsoever (although, through training, he is improving). Like Troy, Rupert is a King Charles, but he can run like a greyhound, as we have discovered on the occasions he’s managed to escape from the garden. Because of the barking, passer-bys are often afraid of him, but he is the sweetest thing and rarely sleeps alone, choosing instead to plop his arse on Troy’s head or bury into my knee in the evenings. He also encourages Troy to eat his food. Before Rupert came along, Troy would only eat a bite or two a day, but now, it’s a race to the feeding bowls, which are always empty by twelve noon. 

I know it sounds cliché, but Troy and Rupert are my friends. When I’m sitting here during the day tapping on my keyboard, their antics keep me amused, and I secretly envy their endless napping. We go for regular walks, and after barking at everything that moves for the first kilometre or so, Rupert trots beside his brother, taking in the sights and smells. When he finally quietens down, I enjoy those moments: when I’m alone but at the same time, not alone. 

I honestly think my heart would rip in two if anything were to happen to either of my precious furballs. They’re not just pets – they’re family (Alison refers to them as my naughty sons). I love them to bits. And for all the words I’ve written here, everything I feel can be tied up in just two lines of poetry, by Richard A Bilby: 

“So the next time you hear the phrase ‘just a dog,’ 

Just smile, because they ‘just don’t understand’.”