Wag the puss

My dog died today. We, I mean my parents and me, knew it was going to happen. He'd been ill for a while, but that doesn't stop it feeling like someone has just reached down my throat and pulled out my insides. There is now a big hole in my life and I don't know what to fill it with. I'd rather not notice it's there. See, he was more than just a dog. He was my dog, and a very special one at that. I remember when we picked him up from the pound. I was only eight years old, so I don't remember everything, but I do remember the woman say, "He has some strange behavioural traits for a Jack Russell. Nothing aggressive, just strange."
She wasn't wrong.
"So, what shall we name him, Olivia?" my dad asked on the way home.
"Wag!" I insisted, apparently.
"Wag? Are you sure?" he said. I think he thought I could have come up with something more original.
"Wag!" I said again.
So Wag it was.
Despite his physical problems and what the woman at the pound said, Wag was pretty normal looking. I mean he had a tail and four legs and really cute rings of black fur round his eyes that made him look like he was wearing sunglasses, but he didn't act like your regular dog.
According to the woman at the pound Wag was found in a ditch with a litter of kittens. The mother cat was found on the road side. She'd been knocked down by a car. Wag was about six months old, they estimated. The kittens were fine and were rehomed almost immediately, but Wag had a crooked leg and only one eye so he wasn't as so appealing. But his past instantly explained his behaviour.
On the way home I had Wag on my lap in the back of the car. As I stroked his bristly fur he arched his back and let out a strange, gravelly purr, like a cross between a cat purr and a growl. At first it startled me and I stopped stroking him, a little afraid as I didn't know if he liked it or not. But when I stopped he looked up at me with his one eye as though asking me to carry on. So I did and he purred louder and louder.
"Is that Wag making that noise?" Dad asked.
"Yep. I think he thinks he's a cat," I declared.
Dad laughed and said that wasn't possible and that Wag knew he was a dog.
Boy was he wrong.
When we got home the first thing Wag did was coil himself round the telephone wire and start to play with the cord with his paws.
"Told you," I said, as mum trotted down the stairs.
When she saw Wag she nearly had a fit.
"You only went out for milk!" she barked.
"Mum, meet Wag," I said, tugging Wag out from under the telephone table. "Wag, meet mum."
Mum rolled her eyes, slung her handbag over her shoulder and made for the door.
"I won't be late, so don't get any ideas about staying up with that little one," she said. She was looking at me when she said it but really I knew it was directed at dad. Dad was a soft touch when it came to me. I suppose that's why we came home with a dog and not a pint of semi-skimmed.
That night none of us got any sleep, including Wag. In fact Wag was the cause of it. He cried and wailed and screeched and paced round the kitchen by the door until dad got up and opened it for him. But once outside Wag refused to come back in. He wanted to wander round the garden all night, so dad had to sleep in the kitchen with the door ajar. The next day dad had a dog flap fitted in the kitchen door, so he didn't have to get up.
Given I was the one that wanted Wag in the first place I was the one that fed him morning and evening and walked him round the garden. Mum said I was still too young to take him for longer walks so dad was left with that job. Wag was difficult to walk though. He didn't like to go on the lead. He preferred to lead himself. And when he did eventually get to the park he spent most of the time trying and failing because or his crooked leg to climb trees, or he would hiss at other dogs, or pounce on bits of rubbish blowing across the ground or meow at children. He and my dad got a lot of strange looks from people; some stared, some craned their necks over other people to get a good gawp, some muttered under their breath 'crazy dog' or giggled and one person even strode confidently up to my dad and thrust a business card into his palm.
"I think you're dog needs help," the man said. "Give me a call."
The card was from an Animal Behaviourist, but dad never called him.
"Wag might have a few screws loose, but he's not hurting anyone," dad said as he picked up his newspaper.
A vomited fur ball dropped from the pages and plopped onto his lap. "But then again."
Dad, myself and even mum, eventually accepted Wag for what he was: a cat in a dog's coat. We even accepted Wag's love of bringing home dead birds and mice, which he left on the hall floor or in dad's slippers. Though his lack of sight did mean that on the odd occasion he'd bring in next door's plastic duck from their pond.

And as the years passed Wag's behaviour got more and more unpredictable. He rarely seemed to sleep, preferring to spend hours wandering outside and trying to scale the trees in our garden. Sometimes he'd be gone all day, only returning at night to get his fish stew dinner (the only thing he could eat without vomiting it back up). Then one day he didn't return. Nor did he return the day after.
"He'll be back," dad said confidently. "Once the town is fed up with giving him scraps."
"How can you be sure?" I said, feeling bitter that he didn't seem the slightest bit concerned.
"Because he always comes back."
That wasn't good enough for me. I needed to know that Wag wasn't lying in a ditch again somewhere. So I used a photo I had of Wag that my cousin, William, used when he entered Wag into an 'Ugliest Dog' competition (I gave him a thorough beating for that), and created a lost dog poster. I printed out as many as my printer would allow before the ink ran out and plastered them all over town. I put them on telegraph poles, in shop windows, through letter boxes, on notice boards in my school, in the police station, hospital, dentist, doctors, supermarket and anywhere else I knew there would be lots of people. A week went by and I heard nothing. I was beside myself with worry. I couldn't sleep or eat, my stomach was in knots and my mind kept tormenting me with ideas of what could have happened to him.
I was so desperate I began pestering the police. Every day I rang and asked if they'd heard anything, and everyday I got the same answer. 'No'. So I rang the local radio station every day and asked them to announce I was still looking for my dog. But got nothing. It seemed hopeless.
By the end of the second week I was convinced Wag was dead. The weather had been particularly bad, heavy rain and strong winds so I was sure that Wag, as independent and brave as he was, couldn't have survived it. That was when I was utterly depressed. I cried all night and day for Wag. I was inconsolable . Mum considered taking me to a bereavement counsellor to help me get over my loss and that was when I got a phone call. It was the Fire Bridage. They'd been called out to old Mrs Scrimmanger's house on the outskirts of town. Mrs Scrimmanger is a particularly crabby old bat who never left her home and complained about absolutely everything. She was the kind of person who would call the emergency services because she couldn't get the lid of her jam jar. Anyway Mrs Scrimmanger had complained to the police that there was a strange 'gurl'ing noise coming from the trees outside her house. The police had tried to ignore her for as long as they could but Mrs Scrimmanger was as persistent as me and wouldn't stop until they sorted it. So they conceded, investigated the problem and what do you think they found?
Yep, there was Wag, at the top of a Silver Birch. The only problem was that they couldn't get Wag out. He didn't seem to want to come down.
When dad and I arrived at Mrs Scrimmanger's, who grimaced at us as we walked down her driveway and muttered under her breath something about us being irresponsible pet owners, I realised why. Wag was a bit wet and scraggly but he wasn't scared, or unhappy or distressed or even all that hungry. He turned down everything the Fire Officers offered him. He was the opposite. He was happy or I should say delighted. He was making the same noise as the day dad and I took him home from the pound.
"He climbed the tree, dad," I said with a smile.
Dad looked at me with sheer surprise, obviously wondering why I had only just worked that out.
"I mean he managed it. He's been trying to climb trees ever since we had him. Now he's succeeded he doesn't want to come down."
"But we'll have to get him down, Olivia. He can't stay up there forever."
Dad was right. I wanted him down too. I wanted to give him a bath and see him jump around my bedroom like a crazed rabbit when given shiny bits of paper to play with. And that was when the answer came to me.
"I know how we can make Wag happy," I said confidently.
A week later we had the grand opening of Wag's official home: a tree house. Wag was delighted and 'gurled' in my arms. Wag's home was filled with everything he loved; his scratching post, balls of wool I got from the charity shop, newspapers for him to shred, and even a ramp that led from the garden up to the entrance. Now Wag could come and go as he pleased.

And that is where I'm sitting right now. Surrounded by Wag's familiar scent of fish and biscuits. Soon I will be gone, moved away to a new town and this tree house will belong to some other family. They won't know who lived here but I will, 'The cutest ugliest tree-climbing dog cat in the world'.