I had arrogantly assumed that, as a vet, I knew everything there was to know about dogs. Verity proved otherwise. In 2017 I stopped working to raise my young son and cope with debilitating bladder pain. Six months later a sad dirty white pug entered our lives and changed everything.
I had hoped for an active, independent dog to revive my broken spirit, but it soon became clear Verity was the exact opposite. After she howled for three hours for the first five nights, I almost drove her back to the rescue. Together with my son, she shadowed me incessantly; we moved from chore to chore, a suffocating, inseparable trio. She objected vehemently to my taxing preoccupation with dog walking, adopting the inertia of a great dane when presented with the prospect of the great outdoors. We limped along like an unhappily married couple.
Her favourite hobby was languishing in the sun while draped over the back of the sofa, or nestling in the warm and welcoming crook of Grampie’s arm – but her air of lazy nonchalance belied a stealthy athleticism. Teddies, bobble-hats, sourdough and jam doughnuts vanished mysteriously, without trace. Jumping with expert precision on to the dining table, leaping across to the kitchen counter, skirting silently around the gas hob, she could snaffle a bowl of quinoa in the time it took me to nip upstairs and change a nappy. Verity was an accomplished kleptomaniac; as an act of revenge I signed her up for agility classes.
Of the two of us, I jumped more fences and burrowed through an infinitely greater number of tunnels in a desperate attempt to lure her, until eventually she could be persuaded to complete a full course. With each synchronised step we took, my suffering diminished and Verity’s confidence grew.
Verity sprinkled her fine white hairs as liberally as her affection and I was the centre of her adoration. A lovestruck lap limpet, she crept slowly ever upwards, large brown eyes unblinking in unwavering devotion, as if she could not be satisfied until she had climbed inside me and inhabited my very soul.
She was a surprisingly ferocious guard dog, hurling insults with the vigour of a mighty beast 10 times her size, her tiny torso rigid with petulant fury. She once chased a Tesco delivery van down the middle of our road. For five years she guarded our skies valiantly from blackbirds, Boeings and the menacing boughs of our maple tree, until one day the house fell silent and empty of her belligerent bark. Verity underwent surgery for a painful abscess in her jaw and I found myself the reluctant chauffeur of a “pug in a pram”, an absurd phenomenon I had previously poked fun at. Verity travelled in style, until the abscess returned and she was put to sleep, cradled in my arms.
Verity showed me that I did not need to heal in order to feel whole again; in return I granted her most ardent wish. I carry the little white pug with the big wide heart buried deep within me. She is with me in the everyday things I had forgotten I was capable of, from joy and laughter to mending sick, cherished pets and, finally, writing this one last love letter to her. My dearest Verity, always.