Breaking The Mould - Would You Like to Walk My Dog?

I walked into the doctor's in Bedford for a routine appointment to extend my fit note and walked out ten minutes later with a dog. A small, silky, amber-coloured cocker spaniel somewhat magnificently named Nike to be precise.  Another thing I didn't see coming but I forgive myself for that one.

Nine minutes and forty seconds into the ten minute appointment, sick note signed but still in front of him, the doctor turned to look at me and decided to close the appointment with 'Did I have any pets?'.


Did I have any pets?  Where on earth did that come from? But  there I was now reaching for a balled-up Kleenex in my pocket, looking up and away at the top left-hand corner of the room, frantically blinking back rapidly-erupting tsunami-size tears when a simple 'er No? would have got me out of there.

Would you like to walk my dog?  She's just in the car outside the surgery- she's quite old now and very good.  Just take her round the park opposite and pop her back when you're done.  She's called Nike.

So there I was walking the doctor's dog around a strange park with tears streaming down my face and snot on the back of my hand with a sick note in one hand and an opportunity leading me by the other.  This random act of kindness (kind act of randomness?) did two things for me.  It restored my faith in the 'chaos factor' that always helped me land on my feet with a twist; but also showed me that having a dog could be just the protective, nourishing reality I needed. (Not to mention the fact that NHS prescriptions just got real!)
When I'd been lying on the sofa in the dark blocking out the world only the week before, I hadn't wanted to see or speak to anyone.  But I had craved a dog.  A dog lying on the floor next to me, just to rest my hand on its warm, quiet, loyal head as I emptied mine.


That was 3 March 2015.  Almost three months later, I now have a puppy lying sprawled in the sunlight on the floor in front of me. (He has just scratched up his first stretch of carpet and worked out that pot plants spit real earth onto the floor when harassed but he's still perfect in his wilful, stubborn, snoozy, adorable way.)
But that, ladies, gentlemen, and all my friends- is a whole 'nother magic story!