Not quite a baptism of fur.

(I'm attempting to write from prompts. I don't know if my pieces will always be true stories, but I'll try and be honest with you readers. Today I am trying #15 from Jericho Writers' Memoir-Writing prompts page, which I was originally linked to when I did my second course at Hastings Writers Workshop, and have had sitting comfortably in my collection of neglected tabs ever since)

15. Can you recall a moment when you overcame your fear of something? Perhaps you asked someone out for a drink, or spoke in front of an audience, or abseiled down a cliff…? 

I love telling people about the evolution of my comfort and behaviour around dogs. It starts horribly; I'm told I was attacked by a big dog when I was very small, and although I can barely remember the moment, it seemed to define me in a strange way for most of my young life. I would freeze whenever one came near me, no matter how big or small, but a particular level of horror would be hit if it was a German Shepherd or an Alsatian or a Labrador. It seems so silly, because of course I now know that Labradors are the silliest floppiest creatures who mean no harm. Alsatians too, I suppose; I once had a neighbour who illegally bred them in her basement flat and let them run amok in our street without any supervision, which led to me stopping drivers in the road and calling the police on her several times - but even those big blonde beings who had never been trained or properly cared for were fairly pleasant, when they weren't running headlong into cars. 

Yes, I froze. I would stand so painfully still, barely daring to breathe, whenever a dog would approach. I'd let them sniff around me and move on, which they always did, never bothered nor deterred. My friends with dogs would have to hide them from me when I went round their houses for dinner. I hope they didn't feel too sad that I stopped them snuggling with their fluffy family members after school. 

Photo by Elina Volkova.

It wasn't until I was at uni that my mind started to change - or rather, my head started to tilt. At 19, I got into a relationship with someone who loved dogs, which I always knew was a risk as I grew up and socialised more, but fortunately he didn't have one of his own so it wasn't quite a baptism of fur. It was more of a slow burn, in fact; we'd often be wandering about in town and he'd spot cute canines, point them out to me and tell me to give them names, tell him their back stories, and review their handsomeness out of 10. Then sometimes we'd stop to say hello. I'd reach out my hand and let them decide how they felt about me, how I smelled, how my palm tasted. Soon I was the one pointing them out, I was stopping to say hello, I'd happily pat their heads or scratch behind their ears and ask the owners what their names were. I was enlightened. I had been carefully and kindly inducted into the Doggo Appreciation Club. It was sneaky, in a good way. I was so grateful to this partner of mine - not indebted however, as I worked the same magic on him when it came to cats; he'd been a hater until I showed him just how magnificent they were, often greeting them as we walked along quiet residential roads or side streets with garden walls the perfect height for feline friends to leap from or cute white picket gates they could weave around or peer through. My favourite walk from campus to town included a cut through St James Terrace, which was just beyond the infamous cemetery and intersected with Mews Lane (I kid you not), and it was cat central. All the boldest brown tabbies congregated there, at the ends of garden paths and among the tall trellises, more than happy for hundreds of students to walk by and coo at them as they went. 

I took many things away from that relationship, but one of the greatest achievements and most unexpected love lessons was definitely my new appreciation for dogs. 

Now almost every time I greet a dog with an eagerly extended hand, cuddle them on someone's sofa or simply smile at them as they walk by (hardly ever acknowledging their owners), I'm so in awe for my younger self. I often reflect and wonder how she'd have felt, if I'd leaned in as she stood frozen on the muddy path through the woods quietly praying she wasn't approached by a snout, and said 'one day you'll love them almost as much as you do cats. One day you'll hug them, boop their noses, let them kiss you and even look after your friends' pups.' What would she have thought? Would she be horrified, or hopeful? I like to think she'd have sighed with relief, and smiled up at me. Then she'd have wrinkled her nose and yelped, 'wait... you let them KISS you?!' 

Thanks for reading. 

G. x