Features and blogging

I’m starting the new year with a 10-foot tall ‘sorry’ sign: a cat or dog-shaped sign, depending on your persuasion, and it applies to a large number of people but mainly goes out to our son, who I feel I have let down considerably of late.
The dog debate arrived at our house around the same time we got back from Singapore, two and a half years ago. Our son always dreamed of owning one, as so many children do, but I’m a cat person. I speak fluent cat, I know their feline ways, how to live with them. I’ve never had a dog. My husband never had pets at all but he was always brilliant with the two moggies we owned before leaving for Singapore.
Likes and dislikes are inherent, though: as our son grew older he was turning out to be all dog, and the idea of owning one was soon fully embraced by both of them.
The more I deflected the dog argument the less I wanted a pet at all. My work was only just taking off, we were not long settled. Could we maybe have a little break?
To counteract all the minus points I routinely trotted out when challenged about the canine debate, helpful friends recounted the merits of having one, but the more they ‘helped’ the more they unwittingly dug up layer on layer of muddy doubt. I only had to listen to someone recounting a dog schedule and I’d get a twitchy eye – and absolutely everyone rounded off the list with THE disclaimer: it would all be on me.
It’ll be you, they said, who’ll be up at 5am to let the dog out (where, though?) for its first wee, you who gives it a long walk at 9am, you who mops pooch vom after it steals the chocolate cake, you who stays home to keep the cone in place after doglet has the snip, you who takes it for its afternoon dump, mops piddle on the Persian rug, nags the boy to do a night walk to then do it yourself, and you who watches the husband come home, pet the dog, get all the love, then saunter off to the Tube next morning as someone (yes YOU) leaves your own work at home to loyally do the morning schlep… repeat to fade.
Of course there were key points in favour: a dog would give us undying love and would undoubtedly be the answer to the gap in our son’s sometimes lonely life. And there was no doubt among anyone who knew us that it would be animal-adoring me who’d fall deepest in love with any pet at all.
So I wavered, exchanging smiles with passing dog-walkers as I took my morning run, idly picking out breeds and names with the boys, patiently watching endless greyhound clips on YouTube, all the while allowing the boy to believe his furrytale might actually come true.
Meanwhile the husband looked into dog-walkers then went one better and talked to his boss about working from home, PERMANENTLY OH MY DOG, while our son demonstrated admirable poo-picking skills on countless dog-walks with friends. As canine discussions developed, my counter-argument dwindled. Who was I to dictate how our family lived?
We borrowed a small dog for the day and it was sweet and fluffy, until it turned into a crazy growler on a park walk then failed to have an afternoon nap, pacing the hall until home-time. A friend’s dog stole a ball in a park and wouldn’t give it back: adorable but impossible. Another chewed one of my favourite shoes. Another shouted at cars (all cars). They were cute up to a point, but could I deal with the mayhem?
Unfortunately (or fortunately as it turned out), our little trio is prone to bouts of inertia and true to form, nothing happened. Work and school were mega busy for all and we let the dog thing slide. In my case if I wasn’t jammed into a keyboard I was prepping for meetings, splitting evenings between stirring dinner and nagging about homework, jabbing more words out as the night wore on then rising before dawn to put in a precious early hour before the day kicked off – at just the same time as a dog might need its morning wee (while both boys slumbered, funnily enough).
We wilted every time the dog question came up with friends, which it still did. Why were we still dogless, eh? The boy would shake his head and walk off as I mewed the same old responses, throwing his dream far out across the park, all of us sensing the increasing improbability of it ever coming back.
As 2019 clunked towards its finish I finally put us all out of our misery, hoisting a huge NO sign for good. Queen bitch. For our boy, dog hope leaked out of every pore, and with the sour taste of refusal lingering, no one wanted a pet of any kind, not even a gerbil.
October half term came round and a friend’s new kittens were a sweet distraction: phones were put away for the entire evening as the moggies worked their charm. But they weren’t dogs, so no thanks.
And then…
Christmas, ah Christmas, the most wonderful time of the year. As fairylights went up and nights drew in, the season worked its festive magic. Lists floated about. Mine had a cat-shaped question mark but nothing palpable, thanks to the nagging thought that I might not deserve one after what I’d failed to allow. But Christmas makes the saddest heart generous, and the more our family discussed the feline topic, the more it seemed a viable option, all of us in rare cohesion. The cat question padded a silent path into our shared thoughts and took up residence.
We browsed rescue centres until, on New Year’s Eve, I placed a call about a stranded girl cat and her one remaining kitten. Days later we hopped in the car for a visit, agreeing in advance that if we weren’t instantly smitten we’d move on. But after half an hour of whiskery-snouted, tail-winding, paw-padded greetings we were all deeply in love, cats included so it seemed. We’re welcoming them into our home next week, along with a cat tree, food bowls, litter tray and scoop (don’t worry I’ll do it).
I’m not sure I’ll ever be forgiven, and don’t expect to be. The boy will always be more canine than feline but in the short time since we met those cats (OUR cats) there’s a lightness about him that I’ve not seen in a long time. He’s picked out toys, helped decide on names and planned where he thinks they might sleep, a nice sense of ownership developing already.
Still, I’m sorry. For asking endless dog questions then not taking any of the advice. For the short-tempered rebuffs to all your canine solutions. For anyone with cat allergies who’ll now have to take Piriton before entering our home (they’re short-haired, though, so you should be OK]. And for entertaining a question that was only ever going to be a NO.
So Happy New Year to you all from us five, and may all your resolutions hold as fast as a good dog on a tight lead.

NB I do like dogs, I really do. I like your dog, and yours and yours. I actually love the dog who ate half the birthday cake I’d made then smashed the Christmas decoration. And I really totally love the big white fluffy dog who shares the odd Heath walk with us from time to time. I just don’t want my own.
NB I might add this was never a busy contest: I’m no busier than all my busy friends who own dogs. It’s simply a case of my reluctance to learn from scratch how to have one, when there is so much else going on. I’d rather take up Mandarin again.
NB Please let’s not get into the CatvDog thing, I’m so done with debating. They’re all lovely.
NB I promise not to post too many cat pics on @_wordfairy_ I’ll just send them all to @_londonmoo instead