Every time a man tells me he doesn’t want to marry me after all I buy a horse. This is getting very expensive, as you can imagine. Tara Lee appeared weeks after I inquired of a fiancé about the possibility of us having children. I can’t remember whose idea she was now, but she proved most effective. It is hard to hanker after babies when one is being hurled around the hunting field on the back of a mutinous mare who wants to be the first over every six foot hedge with a dirty great ditch in front of it. My maternal instincts were thus stifled.
The next boyfriend played an equally cunning game by claiming he wanted wedding bells and babies while doing everything in his power to make sure bells and babies came there none. That went on for three years and when it started to hit the rocks Gracie May appeared.
The five-year-old skewbald with her long black mane — think Red Indian pony — was a terrific baby substitute and I put all my maternal instincts into nurturing her, including through a serious injury, to the point where we have now achieved something called join-up. Officially, this is when man and horse establish lines of communication so profound that the horse will trust the man to the point of following him everywhere without a halter.
Unofficially, it’s when a woman is so heartbroken she spends so many hours with her horse that eventually the horse thinks, ‘I’m going to have to humour her or she’ll never leave me alone. In any case, she’s probably got Polos in her pocket.’
While the join-up with the pony was going on, the break-up with the man was long and drawn out, and when he finally went I took on a small share in an Arab called Elijah, because his feet don’t touch the ground when he gallops, and it put a smile on my face after weeks of whining about my love life which was tedious.
But as I say it’s getting expensive. So, when last week romantic disappointment hit me again, I decided, ‘Whatever happens, I must not react to this by buying a horse.’ Off, therefore, I went to Battersea Dogs’ Home.
What is the opposite of a horse? A Chihuahua (Long-haired) (Cross), 5 years old, not suitable for children.
I spotted him almost immediately. The pint-sized bundle of perkiness was housed in a block filled with huge Staffordshire bull terriers and mastiffs.
No one was stopping to look at him because, well, you couldn’t see that he was there. Not until you went right up to his pen and peered into a basket underneath a shelf and clucked. At which point he leapt out as if on springs — boing! — stood on his back legs and opened his mouth silently as if smiling.
Then I saw the warning notice on his cage. Do not judge this dog on appearances. He must live out of town. He has a big bark. He is problematic. His new owners will need to work on his behaviour.
As the Staffs and mastiffs leapt at the bars yowling like wolves, Jingles, for ’twas his name, sat looking at me pathetically. He was probably just over a foot long. He made no sign of having a bark, never mind a big bark. So I tried to gee him up a bit. ‘Come on, Jingles! Show us what you’ve got!’
Jingles put his little head on one side, jumped up and down and went ‘Ee! Ee!’ The noise was so faint I had to crane my neck to hear it.
He was cute-ugly or possibly ugly-cute. He wore a pale blue diamanté collar — someone had loved him.
I filled in an application form as I sat waiting for my interview. Other pets: rabbits, horses. Views on neutering: for all males, yes. Then a young girl called me in. ‘Do you mind if we have a dog in the room?’ she said, as a big Staffie lolled in a basket. ‘Not at all,’ I said, patting his muscular sides and trying to display subtle canine handling skills.
‘It says here you will be out of the house for hours at a time?’ Oh, dear. It suddenly occurred to me that just as with child adoption, the dog authorities might prefer those on benefits or stay-at-home mums who venture only to Starbucks. ‘Rabbits?’ she mused. Oh dear, oh dear. That’s going to count against me, unless I volunteer for them to be eaten, I suppose. ‘I’m going to put you down for a home visit,’ she said briskly. When I got back I emailed my friend Sarah a picture of the Chihuahua. ‘Too small and yappy and thin and needy,’ was her verdict. ‘Like me,’ I said.
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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