Of Taps and Dogs

The plumber came. As well as new washers on the bathroom taps, I now have lovely new stainless steel knobs. ('Spindles', he called them.) I'm thrilled. And I miss Andrew being here to share my delight. There is no-one any more with whom to share such trivia, no-one who will respond with equal enjoyment. I was quite pissed off about this, and said aloud to him accusingly, 'You used to ring me up three times a day when we were apart.'

That was when he used to go to work and I worked from home, in our early days. And whenever one of us was in hospital, or away on a separate trip for some reason, or he was in a nursing home, we used to have phone calls at least once a day, as well as visits. Even when I was in Texas we managed daily emails most of the time. Why can't he get in touch as often from the Other Side, I query petulantly.

I give myself two answers. One is that he does but I am too deaf to hear. The other is that he is occupied with rather more important things nowadays, and cannot take the same pleasure in a mere new tap or two. I tend to think both are true.

Of course, the second one also works in good ways. There are things I put in place to try and make his life better, thinking he would be with me longer, such as buying DVDs I thought he would enjoy, when he became unable to go to the cinema any more. Most of them he never got to watch. I have moments of regret, and then I remember, 'It's OK. It doesn't matter to him any more. He's not here now; he's in his new life.'

A psychic friend says I will have a new male companion in my life, though not a lover. (Good! I don't want a lover.) Maybe it won't be a human companion. I have been getting a yen for a dog. I have been trying to stomp on these yearnings. 'Not at all practical,' I tell myself. And then I see a request on Facebook for a good home for a 9-year-old German Shepherd. He's been brought up with cats. Hmmm. (I should add that, for me, a dog has to be at least German Shepherd size before I consider it a real dog.)

Housing Department says that because I have a fenced yard I may have a dog; I don't even need to ask permission. 'Lucky dog,' my contact adds. (They like me at HD.) Now I await a call from the woman who is giving the dog away. She is the previous owner's daughter. The owner had to relocate overseas. There is one other person interested, but the daughter isn't sure she would suit.

I am not altogether sure I would suit, or that the dog would suit me. Maybe I'm insane to think of acquiring any dog. And this one would cost a bit to feed. And my back yard is too small for a dog that size to run around in. I'd have to take him for long walks twice a day. (Well, that would be good for me too.) I must find out about his medical history, and how obedient he is, and whether he's a barker who might disturb the neighbours.

I've seen photos. Lovely boy, but he looks a trifle overweight. He's fairly long-haired and would need frequent combing. Just when I am relishing my freedom to come and go as I please, and enjoying the lack of nursing duties, I contemplate taking on this responsibility. Yes, I must be mad. Well, we'll see. Whatever happens, it's nice to know I can just go ahead and get a dog if I want to.

Post script: On further enquiry this dog turned out not to be the right one for me, nor mine the right home for him. Perhaps it's just as well. I'd hate to put the cats' noses out of joint when they're still adjusting to being without Andrew. But I'm no longer completely closed to the idea of having one some day.