From Hatred to Love
I, Andrew, used to detest dogs. It began years agoback when I was a chubby, ginger-haired boy in glasses, lugging a backpack crammed full of books and jotters, trudging down the old wasteland behind our terrace in Liverpool.
It was there that I was surrounded by a pack of dogs. Their leadera lean, black mongrel with rusty markings on his snoutlocked eyes with me. I wept and pleaded with them to let me go, even bribed them with the ham sandwiches I hadnt eaten at school, but the pack was relentless.
Any time I so much as twitched, the leader curled his top lip on the right side, showing those sharp, yellow-white fangs and growled low in his throat. They kept me penned in for over two hours. Suddenly, the leader flicked his right ear, listened intently, and in an instant he bolted off towards the woods beyond the wasteland. The pack fell into line and disappeared, one by one, among the trees.
I wiped my tears, gripped my bag tight, and sprinted home.
But I never made it home that day. The ancient wooden block where my family lived with a few other tenants had gone up in flamesa faulty gas heater had exploded.
The fire took my grandfather, my dads father. I always called him Gramps. Hed been a sailor in his day, weathered by salt and wind. His beard was always snowy white. Hed shave it off after New Year, and then hed let it grow right backsometimes plaiting it into a funny little ponytail, wrapping it up with a colourful band, or just tucking it behind his ear.
After Gramps died, and that encounter with the dogs, I stuttered terribly for ages.
The next time a stray dog bothered me, I was a thin, stretched-out boy of thirteen, contact lenses replacing those silly glasses. I was walking home after school, escorting the class beauty, Emily Turner. Lads like Simon, the tough kid who was repeating Year 11, had an eye on her too, and most boys didnt dare get close. Simon ruled the school by fearbut I still plucked up the courage to walk with Emily.
Out of nowhere, a dog appeared and started growling, shoving me away from her. I stepped back, forced to retreat by the power of the animal. As soon as Emily vanished round the corner near her house, the threat melted out of sight too.
I sighed and made my way home.
The next day, during Maths, Emily passed a note to my desk. Just three lines:
Dont walk with me again. Simon wanted to hurt you last night. Im sorry.
That trampled any hope of friendship with herand my grudge against dogs just grew.
Years went by. I grew up, earned a first-class degree, started my own company and eventually became a businessman. Life treated me well; my career blossomed, I made the right connections and decent moneypounds, not pennies. And romance found me, too. That same Emily Turner became my wife. We named our wonderful boy George after my beloved Gramps, even though he was just eight months, barely said a word, but he always grinned at passing dogs and barked, Woof, woof!
One Sunday, I was strolling with George in his pram through Sefton Park, chatting about the wood pigeons and the squirrels, one of which even took a nut out of my palm.
It was time to head home. Leaving the park, I pushed the pram towards the zebra crossing, waited for the green man, and stepped forward.
Where on earth did that mad little dachshund come from?
She was yapping desperately, darting about in front of the pram, blocking our way. It seemed as if a moment more and shed burst her own vocal cords.
Right then, a car shot by, missing the pram by inches. It skidded across the common, crashing into a lamp post. Teenagers tumbled out and vanished into the backstreets.
It took me a second to steady my heart, beating so hard it seemed the passers-by could hear it, too.
The dachshund was gone; a crowd was running towards the wreck. One kindly man caught my arm.
Are you alright, lad? Did the pram get hit? His eyes were wide with shock.
I just shook my head, speechless with reliefthe baby was untouched, pram was fine, all was well.
I couldnt even remember walking home. I never told Emily the storyno need to worry her, since alls well that ends well. But that day, something shifted in me as I remembered the little ginger dachshund. I felt grateful to the dog whod saved my son.
All evening, I kept reflecting on the three dog incidents in my life, and something clickedthese creatures hadnt hated me or threatened me; theyd protected me, each in their own way. Emily shot me curious glances, wondering at my thoughtful silence, but let me be.
Later, we took an evening stroll, our little family together in the dusky courtyard. Over by the far bench, a knot of neighbours was gathered. As we passed, I overheard:
What are we supposed to do with him now? Whod want a thing like that?
I peered over a neighbours shoulder and there, on the bench, was a cardboard box with a puppy inside. The poor thing didnt have any eyesmust have been born like thatand his back legs were twisted underneath him. People whispered among themselves. Emily, pushing Georges pram, walked on ahead, waiting quietly for me.
Hows anyone meant to care for that?
Where can he go now, bless him?
No way I could take him… a voice murmured.
I edged forward and took a proper lookthe puppy was a gorgeous chocolate brown, whimpering softly, turning his tiny snout this way and that, searching for warmth.
No mother there for comfort.
I hesitated just for a second, then took off my scarfits still nippy in spring, morning and night. Gently, I scooped up the puppy, wrapped him snug in the scarf just as you would a newborn, and said:
Well, little chap, looks like its my turn now… Come on. Lets go and meet our mum. Shes grand, that one. Theres bound to be some milk in the fridge for you.
And so I joined Emily, who looked at me and the puppy with such love in her eyes.
Today I learned that love can creep up on you from the places you least expect. The things I once feared have become my greatest teachers and, in the right light, even old wounds can heal. Theres a place for forgivenessand a homefor anyone, if youre ready to open your heart.
