Louise O'Neill: Isn’t that what love is, accepting people and dogs for who they are?

'Our last dog was a Yorkshire Terrier named Jinky, who died in 2016. In his eight years, I only heard him bark once and I almost fell off my seat with the shock.' Picture: Miki Barlok

When I first brought Cooper, our corgi-collie cross, home from the CSPCA, it took him a while to settle in. He was quiet in the beginning, cowering under the table if anyone so much as looked at him.

The poor baba, I thought. Hopefully, one day, he’ll gain enough confidence to come into his own. That was 10 months ago and this is Cooper’s house now and he’s generous enough to allow me to live here too. Honestly, he is the most contrary dog I’ve ever met.

Here are some examples — currently, there’s a hose coiled up in the garden and Cooper has decided it is a monster that must be slain, and he’s the dog to do it. He barks in its direction for hours at a time, looking at me as if to say, ‘Mama, can’t you see it? Please allow me outside so I can protect your honour’.

There is a dog up the road whom Cooper has decided is his nemesis — this dog made the mistake of barking at us on our first walk together and Cooper has never forgiven him for this terrible slight — but Cooper has also taken against miniature dachshunds and Irish setters, for reasons only known to himself.

On the other hand, we met the tiniest chihuahua puppy on the beach recently — I cannot overstate how small this dog was, Paris Hilton could have fit three of them in her handbag — and Cooper almost vomited with terror, nearly choking himself with his own leash in his attempts to flee the scene.

My father calls in every day after work to give Cooper a treat and take him for a short walk, Cooper trotting after him adoringly, the best of friends.

Then, as soon as Dad brings him home again and closes the door behind him, Cooper throws himself at the window, barking as if he’s never seen this stranger before in his life.

Does my dog have face blindness? The memory of a goldfish? It’s a mystery.

He hates the postman and the DPD man with equal intensity (in fairness, that is my fault. My house is small and the only place I could set up his bed was by the front door.

He thinks I’ve given him one job — protect the household — and he’s determined to do this to the very best of his ability), prompting one delivery man to say to me, “he’s very cross, isn’t he?”.

But the thing is, Cooper isn’t cross. He’s nervous and he’s protective of me, and ultimately, he’s just a bit odd. I’m a bit odd too, you see, so I can recognise his behaviour for what it is.

He’s also incredibly loving and loyal, and is happiest curled up on my lap as we sit on the couch watching Love Island. (He wants Kaz to win, obvs.)

But sometimes when we’re out for a walk and he lunges at a car or pulls at his lead, barking at another dog, I feel a hot flush of shame that other people will think he’s a bad dog.

Or if I’m being honest, that they will think I’m a bad dog-mom. I want to say, listen, I’ve had sessions with three different dog-trainers and I do the requisite exercises with him daily. I’m doing my best, I swear.

I wonder if this is how parents feel when their toddler is throwing a tantrum in the supermarket, pounding at the floor with their tiny fists. Do they also feel a weird mixture of embarrassment and defensiveness?

Our last dog before Cooper was a Yorkshire Terrier named Jinky, who died in 2016. In his eight years, I only heard him bark once and I almost fell off my seat with the shock. Jinky was brilliant with children, and loved everyone so indiscriminately that you could have handed him over to any random stranger on the street and he would have gone home with them happily.

Unlike Cooper, he received little to no training — there were no drops of Rescue Remedy put in his water bowl to ‘calm his nerves’, no treats given if he managed to sit for more than 2.5 seconds.

He was just naturally well-behaved. And I suppose what this has taught me is that I have to find a balance between training Cooper as best I can but also accepting that his personality is what it is. He isn’t as ‘easy’ as Jinky was, but he’s also far more loyal, far more discerning in whom he loves. (Me. He loves me.)

It’s the nature versus nurture debate, and I am trying to let go of the need to control that, to allow Cooper to be the awkward, goofy, affectionate dog that he is.

Because for all of his idiosyncrasies, there are not enough words to describe how much joy he has brought into my life. I could spend hours kissing his head and telling him how much I love him, that he’s a good boy, the best boy.

How lucky I feel to have found him. Isn’t that what love is, in the end — accepting people/dogs for who they are?

Louise Says

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