1 day ago
8
Jack, the cocker spaniel, was sacked by the police. His career as a detection dog was an utter failure – he was more interested in people than cannabis and made some embarrassing mistakes, including begging for treats from potential offenders rather than alerting officers about drugs.
A colleague told me about a police dog that needed a home and so Jack arrived – via police van – at our house. He was lithe, glossy black and animated. He ricocheted around the house, knocking over children and pot plants. He chased rabbits and pheasants over the fields. He ate off the children’s plates and collected shoes. He loved us all indiscriminately and liked to have us where he could see us. If anyone left the room, he’d sigh deeply and follow, remaining close until the pack was back together.
About a year after Jack arrived, I found out a breast lump the GP had initially thought was nothing was actually cancer. I had surgery and when chemotherapy started, I felt too ill to see friends. The children were at school. I was lonely and, for the first time I could remember, had nothing to do.
On chemo weeks, I was too sick to get out of bed, and lovely friends arrived every morning to walk Jack. When I felt well enough, Jack and I walked over the fields. He was gentle and came back when called. He stopped bringing me rabbits. He never complained about the long days at home where we’d lay on the sofa, both out of work. We watched Star Trek and Pride and Prejudice. He repressed his natural instinct for chaos until the rest of the family came home.
Jack gave me a job. He nudged me off the sofa, gave me love and gave me structure. He lay on the bathroom floor with me when I was vomiting and never let me out of his sight. I felt unlovable and he loved me, steadily and without demand.
When I was in remission and back at work as an NHS hospital consultant, Jack continued to supervise me closely, including coming out on call with me sometimes. One night, I brought him along while I saw a patient in the police cells. In the station, Jack took one look at the sergeant and sat under a desk, refusing to make eye contact. I don’t think he regretted the loss of his previous career. He’d found another way to make the world a better place.
Jack died when he was 12, quietly and without fuss. We scattered his ashes on his favourite beach. It took me a couple of years to stop making a space for him on the sofa.
