How a cocker spaniel pup, a flatcoat retriever and a small white fluffball became my lifeline

An ex once described me as “needing let off my lead every day”. She meant I’m no good at sitting behind a desk for hours or being stuck in the house all day. I get restless and jangly and need to do something. So when lockdown hit, I found it tough. Really tough. The guidance said you should only go out once per day. It was important to make those forays count.

I found something that got me through. I’ve always loved dogs and think a house is not a proper home without a waggy-tailed resident. There is a certain brotherhood of owners that exists, too. People to whom you nod or smile or make small talk with as your respective canines play together, steal each others’ tennis ball or show off for some new pup that’s started coming to the park. The nature of routine means that oftentimes you — and they — traipse to the same park at the same time day after day. You can tell you’re running late for work if a regular has already left for home.

But as Scotland slammed shut in March, that fellowship became ever more important. The simple human need to talk to someone, seek reassurance, dissect the news and pass on the gossip face to face instead of through a computer screen became overwhelming. So, too, was the little sense of triumph of going out for the morning walk to the playing fields and seeing four or five other owners there. Being able to gravitate over and stand in a (socially distanced) circle to chat safe in the knowledge that you were breaking no rule, but still cheating the solitude that lockdown sought to convey.

And, while a simple act that has been absent for so long — touch — was forbidden, there was no legislation saying you couldn’t pat people’s dogs. So at the park across the road Molly the chocolate Labrador was fussed over, Elmo the Jack Russell cross had his ears ruffled and Katie the stately lurcher was rubbed as she leaned into your legs.

As weeks turned to months, Oscar the working cocker spaniel pup grew into a dog. Paws first, with body catching up after. Mabel, the beautifully white flatcoat retriever, forgot that she’d grown to double the size of most of the pack and jumped like a newborn, knocking them sideways. Pip, another working cocker with a shiny russet coat, started to be accompanied by Roo, the baby that her owners kept from her first litter, while Olly the small white fluffball (Maltese?) would occasionally have a double if his owner’s son, an emergency plumber who was still working, dropped his twin fluffball off at dad’s for respite.

And I got to know the owners too. Molly’s dad, Davey, who runs the ex-servicemen’s club, Katie’s granny, Linda, who would get her own dog as soon as lockdown lifted. Maggie, who would manage on her own with Pip and Roo plus a baby strapped to her chest in a papoose, everybody offering to pick up the poop for her so the infant didn’t tumble (offers always rejected and a mother’s strength winning through). Raymond, the old boy who would bring Milo his springer and Jack the border collie out in the morning, who one day stopped coming. His wife, who he never mentioned, died in her care home. In time, his neighbour, Cat, led the walk to our morning assembly instead.

I saw these people (and their dogs) more often than I saw my own parents. Our discussion was a lifeline. The fresh air and joy at watching our dogs lifted my mood. Our congregation was the highlight of each day.

As some restrictions are reimposed and the nights draw in, it’s time for our communion to start again.