The Puppy That Came for Christmas by Megan Rix Page B

it’s lunch hour, a group of us from the office take Callum to the park so he can have a run around and sometimes we even go to the pub after work. I just have orange juice—don’t want to be drunk in charge of a wheelchair!”
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    Knowing how important it was for Emma to be obedient didn’t make me any more relaxed, and on the day of the exam, I struggled to control my nerves. I didn’t want to affect her performance. Eight or ten other dogs—Helper Dogs and dogs from the normal obedience classes—lined up across the lawn, and one by one they were put through their paces. Emma walked smartly with her lead, not pulling or lagging behind, and returned straightaway when she was called. There remained one final test: she had to lie still in one place for a minute while I walked away. As I patted and praised her, she settled into the down position well. I commanded her to stay. She lay still, perfectly obedient, until the time was up, but as I came back to her, she sat up—and, by so doing, failed the test. It was such a shame that she’d fallen at the final hurdle, but she wasn’t to know that she’d done anything wrong, so I gave her a piece of cheese as a reward anyway. She’d have a chance to retake it in a month’s time. Eddie passed without a problem.
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    Not all dogs are as well behaved, as we found out soon after on a walk on the riverbank. Emma was now four months old, and although she was growing fast, people recognized her all the time as the puppy in the newspaper column. She took to celebrity well and always welcomed being stroked. I was happy to let people fuss her: it filled me with pride and it was also important that Helper Dogs become used to dealing with the public in all kinds of situations. Passersby and dog walkers always made kind remarks—“It’s the best bit in the paper. I always turn to your column first,” or “That time she chewed up the toilet rolls . . . But it looks like butter wouldn’t melt!”
    It made me so happy that people could see how special and lovable she was.
    Emma usually got on as swimmingly with dogs as she did with people, but as I was to learn, there are always exceptions. In the weak March sunshine that morning, we met an elderly man and his wife walking a large greyhound. He was a rescue dog, thin and jumpy, and he’d only been with them for a few weeks. While his wife held on to the greyhound, the man stiffly bent down and made a big fuss of Emma. The greyhound looked unhappy enough at this, but when his owner reached into his pocket and gave Emma a biscuit, the larger dog rushed over and bit her. Emma squeaked in shock and pain while the woman pulled the vexed greyhound away.
    â€œShe’s OK, she’s OK,” the man said. “It didn’t break the skin.”
    â€œHe was probably just jealous,” explained his wife. I could see how a celebrity puppy grabbing all of his owners’ attention could make a rescue dog insecure and want to bite, but it didn’t really make things any better. It was the first time I’d had to deal with this kind of situation, and I, too, was in shock. Still, I reasoned, Emma didn’t seem to be hurt, so I bade them a frosty goodbye and carried on with our walk.
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    Emma slept as usual when we got back but woke up crying and limping. In a panic, I phoned Jamie, but there was no answer. The organization paid the bills, so we were meant to check with the Helper Dogs bosses before we went to the vet’s. But my puppy was hurt, and I wasn’t in any mood to hang about. I took her anyway. By the time we got there, she had staged a marvelous recovery and wasn’t crying or limping. She licked the vet’s face as he tried to examine her. The vet, the receptionist and the whole waiting room were smitten.
    â€œI don’t think there’s much wrong with this little girl,” he said, laughing. “She might have