and they call it...

So…

Last week I went round to my mum's for lunch (post Argos-triumph) and on the way there received a text from my sister saying they had a surprise for me ("no, not babies or marriage").

After much speculating on what this surprise could be, I arrived at my mum's house to find that… my mum had accidentally adopted a puppy.

This was not just a puppy. This was the smallest, cutest, meekest, quietest eight-week-old Yorkshire Terrier with sad little eyes, no bigger than my foot (and my tootsies ain't giant sized), barely able to trot down the shallow steps to the garden.

The story that accompanied said puppy (Tuppence, since you ask, but I shall refer to her herein as The Puppy or The Dog) was that an Australian work colleague in my mum's office had unexpectedly had to move out of a pet-friendly flat into a pet-not-at-all-friendly flat a few weeks after getting the puppy, and came into work very distressed as she had been told the puppy had to leave that day or she would be evicted. My soft-hearted mum said she would take her (the puppy, not the Australian) on for a few weeks until a suitable permanent home could be found.

Now, I might be about to incite riot or at least some English disapproval, but my family aren't really "animal" people. If you can't eat it, I'm not really interested. My idea of a good pet is a goat. And after an altercation with an Alsation many many years ago, my sister and I are particularly wary of the canine variety of domestic companion. However, the surprise element and adorability factor suddenly caused my sister and I to turn into seven-year-olds: "PLEASE may we keep the puppy, mummy, PLEASE?"

"Mummy", as you may be aware, is about to emigrate. Not terribly far, but you know, not the best time to be adopting a puppy. Still, sister having recently moved back home, not impossible. So lots of fun last Sunday playing with puppy and discussing possible future arrangements.

Yesterday my mum held a farewell garden party so I turned up early to help set up, chop strawberries etc. On arriving I went into the living room and saw my brother and my father sitting on the sofa looking rather sombre. My brother turned to me and said: "Did you hear what happened to the puppy?". My very worst fears were immediately allayed by seeing the puppy lying on his lap, wrapped in a towel, looking dopey but awake. However, the story that then transpired has kept me in a state of slight distress for the last twenty-four hours.

It turns out that the following has happened: my father has trodden on the puppy.

As previously mentioned, the puppy was as small as my foot last week. She's grown a bit since then, but not enough to withstand the tread of a grown man. My father had only arrived at my mum's house the evening before in order to be there for the party. The details of the story still keep creeping back into my head and making me wince so I'll keep it brief.

He treads on the puppy, within a few minutes my mum and sister are on their way to the vet's with her, the puppy has blood coming out of its mouth, ears and nose, the vet says that the puppy will probably not live for more than a few hours but they put her on a drip and keep her in overnight. Sister distraught, mum similar. In the morning, the puppy is miraculously still alive and x-rays have revealed no broken bones. She also seems still to have her sight and hearing. There may be brain damage but she is too poorly to have any kind of operation. So the puppy comes home and, for the most part of the day, lies very still with people looking at her.

A few hours after I arrive, the puppy eats some food and is much more alert. She stays with a neighbour for the afternoon as my mum's party goes ahead and the house is filled with people. I can't say that this event has endeared me to my father any more than the previous 31 years but there is no point in blaming anyone and I even feel a little sorry for him as the story is told and retold over the course of the afternoon. The party is otherwise very nice and people come from every era of my mum's life, school, nursing, motherhood, studies, work, more studies, more work and say nice things to her and tell her children how amazing she is (we know).

Later in the day the dog seems to become very dozy and dopey again. We hope it is the drugs but she won't take any water and shows little sign of life apart from continuing to breathe. However on speaking to my mum this morning she seems to be a little better. I never thought I would be either interested or pleased to hear that a dog has had a poo, but it's a good sign that she is still functioning. I guess now we just have to let her rest and wait and see.

Anyway it's been a strange couple of days. I've never really understood why people get so upset about pets but now I guess I do a bit.