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The Guardian - UK
The Guardian - UK
Lifestyle
Tim Dowling

Tim Dowling: my wife has fallen madly in love with a puppy called Nothing

Illustration of Tim Dowling with dog and cat

During the time I spent in the US, either side of my father’s funeral, I would periodically send my wife photos I thought illustrated some poignant or absurd aspect of mortality – a deer eating someone’s graveside flower arrangement, say. And after an acknowledgment and a pause each time, I would receive a picture of a puppy in return.

I understand that it is common to send people pictures of puppies as a comfort in times of distress, but these were not random images of little dogs doing cute things harvested from the internet. These were pictures of quite specific puppies, and in a lot of the photos my wife was holding them.

I could think of no reply beyond “uh-oh”.

It’s my fault, really: some weeks ago a friend texted me a picture of a litter of puppies and I, rashly, turned the phone screen round to show my wife.

“Oh how sweet,” she said. She was instantly taken with these puppies, and also with the story that accompanied them.

“This pedigree fox red labrador was locked in the kitchen because it was on heat,” she told my sons. “But then a neighbour’s terrier got in through the cat flap.”

“That doesn’t explain everything,” I said. “Unless he brought a little step ladder in with him.”

While I was away it became clear that my wife had been visiting these puppies in person. Shortly after my return, she persuades me that I also need to pay a visit.

“Thank you for doing this,” she says, as we crawl through terrible summer traffic on the hottest day of the year.

“Huh,” I say, indicating that my presence should not be taken as any kind of validation of this project, which has already moved past the point of no return in my absence.

“They’re very sweet,” she says.

“Well, they’re puppies,” I say.

Half an hour later than planned, we arrive at the home of Mrs Norris, unwilling owner of seven tiny puppies of dubious provenance.

“Are they ruining your life?” says my wife.

“Yes,” says Mrs Norris.

We ferry the dogs from their kitchen cage to a shady patch of lawn. They move across the grass like carp in a pond, tumbling over one another in a tight shoal. I keep my arms folded.

“Which one do you like best?” my wife says.

“They all look the same,” I say. Some are slightly browner than the others, and only one is a boy, but they are otherwise indistinguishable. The Norrises have given the dogs temporary names in order to tell them apart. Three – Top Tail, Mid-Tail and Tail-Tip – have been named for the position of faint white markings which, on closer inspection, have clearly been applied using Tippex. A fourth, with no tail marks of any kind, is simply called Nothing. It is this dog, this sad-eyed Nothing, that my wife has fallen in love with.

“What do you think?” she says. But I don’t know what to think. I guess I was imagining a dog that combined a labrador’s sleek red coat with a terrier’s can-do approach to obstacles, not this depressed-looking hamster. Most of the other puppies are now accounted for, and nobody else has expressed an interest in Nothing. As a direct beneficiary, I of all people am in no position to criticise my wife’s ill-advised fondness for an unpromising underdog. It’s Nothing, or nothing.

“I suppose,” I say, “you really ought to stick with your original choice.”

“Marvellous,” my wife says.

“You should probably change the name,” says Mrs Norris.

“I want to take a picture for the boys,” my wife says, pulling out her phone and kneeling on the grass. But Nothing will not face the lens.

“Can you just make sure she’s turned the right way?” my wife says.

“Me?” I say.

“Yes you,” she says. “Just flip it.”

“OK,” I say. I pick up the dog to re-position it, but it squirms. I hold it under my chin until it calms down, and then slowly swivel it to face outward. This is how my wife manages to take a picture of me apparently cradling a tiny brown puppy with sad eyes, before posting it to the family WhatsApp group.

“It’s still Nothing, btw,” reads the caption.

When I look at the image later that night I have to admit I look like an old man who is totally smitten with a sad-eyed, floppy-eared puppy. If that man has any serious objections to the proposal, you certainly can’t tell from the picture.

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