Blue Dress Hot Mess

I don’t know if I’m avoiding the issue by filling the large hole in my heart with four paws and a wet nose. It presents a crucial question (one I’m certain Plato would have sought to address had he had the time): can you be ‘running away from your problems’ if you’re followed loyally by a dog? At least I shall no longer be running alone. Companionship makes the run more of a jog than a marathon. (Please not, this run is entirely metaphorical; I rarely run in reality – more of a rambler).

One week after Gabriel landed in my life after a whirlwind romance during which I packed an empty dog crate and drove into the depths of Norfolk in unwavering pursuit of a love founded online, with nothing but an address and the image of his saggy-lidded puppy eyes blurring my vision down the A14, I am sitting at my kitchen table, writing. My eyes now are half on the laptop screen and half on the sleeping puppy in front of the Aga, from whom the occasional snuffle reassures me that I’ve managed to keep this tiny creature alive for a week. He is hugging a pheasant very close to his chest, and his legs move rhythmically in his sleep as though the act of being subconscious is a physical occupation. (He’s running too, you see. I hope the corporate pursuit doesn’t translate into the dog world… woe betide them if it does). Taylor Swift sang ‘Everything has Changed’ as I drove back down the A14 (Westbound), and, catching a glimpse of some slightly shocked Mummy-I’m-going-to-be-sick eyes staring out at me from behind the bars on the back seat, I promptly burst into tears. It struck me then as forcefully as it does now: everything has changed. That one tiny thing who is so devoted to his stuffed toy has changed my life forever.

In a way that a man (of the human variety) could not be, Gabriel will always be in my life. He is in my dreams, and has been in some guise for as long as I have been alive (ask anyone, I have ALWAYS wanted a dog); he is in my Now, my twenties (whatever they may mean), the little soul trotting at my heels down the path I am currently trudging, whether those heels conquer the rough terrain in wellies, Uggs, stilettos, or ballet flats; and, undeniably, he will be in my Future – the first dog, the golden standard, a love which endures the ages: my angel Gabriel. (I tempted fate with the name, but it was too good an opportunity to miss.)

I am looking at his little cocked black ears and half-freckled nose. I can’t help but wonder at him — he’s mine. Men (of the human variety) are never fully yours. Perhaps I have replaced sex with peeing on the floor. Out of context, that previous sentence might read rather oddly.

There are some distinctions in amongst the similarities between Dog and Man. Men rarely come when they’re called (some dogs do). Dogs rarely talk (although some do, Disney ones specifically. Even some real dogs are more capable of tantalising conversation than most men, and are frequently considerably better listeners). Both spend a lot of time thinking about food and toilet habits. I, in turn, seem to spend a lot of time thinking about both (Dogs and Men, not Food or Toilet Habits. It felt right to capilatise). A man wouldn’t curl up on my knee and read Vogue on a Sunday morning (or if you know one who would, I am as yet unaware of his existence but would gladly make his acquaintance; please send him in my direction). A dog wouldn’t leave one’s life with no goodbye and never acknowledge one’s existence again (men apparently would, and in fact do, frequently). And finally, a dog never forgets; most men struggle to remember the day of their wedding.

Unfortunately for me, the advent of one new love did not hail the funeral of the last. I love both Dogs and Men. But for now, if I had to choose, I shall be sending PupDates instead of post-dinner-date run-downs to the girls Group Chat for the foreseeable future. I have been caught in Cuffing Season by a wiggly body with deep brown eyes and a little pink tongue. And, frankly, there is no one with whom I would rather cosy up this winter.