Suzanne Harrington: We've got a lockdown puppy. It was like being part of a drug deal
Suzanne Harrington: Even if I had three grand down the back of the sofa, I wouldn’t give it to a breeder.
Obviously, we want a lockdown puppy. The dog, Angelina Jolie in her youth, is now more Angela Lansbury in dog years; when she still has some old dog life in her, we need her to train up an apprentice, show them the ropes.
But it’s lockdown and everyone wants a dog – 3.2 million in the UK, Ireland’s Dogs Trust receiving 400 enquiries a week. The price of puppies has gone mad, as has dog theft. Ireland is the puppy farming capital of Europe. I’d rather eat placenta than have anything to do with any of that – but where can we get a puppy? Even if I had three grand down the back of the sofa, I wouldn’t give it to a breeder.
Obviously, we want a rescue. A friend has a houseful of Romanian street dogs that all need rehoming, but they are a bit psychotic from the cruel hand life has dealt them. Could we deal with a dog who may or may not chew someone’s face-off, depending on if they are triggered by the colour of the person’s anorak? Also, none of us speaks Romanian.
Our last rescue, an elderly Portuguese street dog the size of a Fiat Uno, had multiple neuroses. He disliked men, cats, small children, open spaces, loud noises, radios, and being in cars. That time he showed the depth of his dislike for being in cars by turning into an exploding four legged slurry machine is something that still comes up in therapy. Except I can no longer afford therapy because Angelina / Angela’s old dog joint supplements cost the same as a medium-sized coke habit. Thankfully, he died. The old Portuguese dog. The car was never the same.
We are on the verge of giving up the lockdown puppy idea when we see an ad on Gumtree for a long-haired German Shepherd. I ring the number, on full puppy farm alert, except the dog is five months old. Is he stolen? Nah, says the twentysomething guy selling him. We ain’t allowed dogs in our flat on the fifth floor and a neighbour snitched. Hmmmmm. We arrange a meet in a dark city street, like a drug deal in The Bill, our suspicions turned up to eleven.
A giant floppy puppy with lion-sized paws lollops out of the car. His weed-scented, Nike-covered owner is carrying a huge box of dog toys, dog chews, dog treats, dog blankets, dog shampoo, even dog cologne (yes, it exists). He shows us the paperwork – vaccinations, microchip, all legit – so we do a phone bank transfer on the street. Then we drive away, with a massive German Shepherd puppy in the back seat whose ears are still collapsing inward.
Twenty minutes down the motorway, the phone beeps. It’s the guy. Yeah hey, he mumbles. Can you like, send me photos? Only I miss him already. The poor guy actually sounds a bit tearful. We film the dog peacefully asleep in the back and press send.
