‘Getting a dog was supposed to cure my anxiety – instead it made it worse’

There tends to be a rose-tinted view of life with a new pet – but the reality can be exhausting, frustrating and emotionally bruising

She’s a puffball. Well, she is when she’s been groomed. Otherwise, she’s raggedy-shaggedy. She greets every visitor with a hastily found gift. A fabric rabbit. A squeaky ball. 
If she brings the pink octopus with the seven legs, you’re truly honoured. She melts hearts instantly. Makes friends easily. And with her saucer eyes and round nose, her face fits the golden ratio that gave the world Grace Kelly. 
Let me introduce Eadie Rockets, aka Eadie Rock Cakes, Eadie Rock Rocks, Miss Eadie, Rockety Rock Star, Rockface and Bonzoid (random).
A two-year old Maltese and miniature poodle cross, she’s generally monikered a maltipoo. Pluses of the breed? They barely shed, stay small and make good companions. Unofficial characteristics? She lives to play. Doesn’t hold grudges. Licks your hand when you’re down and your ear when you’re not.
No matter how long I’m away from home, whether I’ve been to the moon or M&S, her relief and rejoicing at my return know no bounds. And if she’s the one out and about, the house is pin-drop quiet and dripping-tap sad. 
Burying my face in her fur calms me. Watching her gambol makes me giggle. She’s my little ’un. Beloved third member of the family. Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? Cards on the table, pee pads on the floor: it was not always thus. Not by a long throw of the ball.
It started well: 5 January 2020 was pick-up day (so she was not a lockdown pup). Bit of a rush as my husband Paul, and I had just landed at Gatwick after a transatlantic slog from Tierra del Fuego. 
But we were soon motoring up the A3 to the breeder’s home where I’d viewed the litter – tiny, warm bodies, piled like a fluffy game of Jenga, watched over by an attentive poodle mum. Eadie had been the pup I’d picked up first; I held her like porcelain. How could I possibly put her back and choose another? She was the one.
Question (quick): why get a dog? Answer (longer): Paul was working away in Northern Ireland, I was freelancing and hating it, so he mooted the idea of a pet for company. My first thought was CAT. My second thought was CAT. 
But we live on a busy road, unsuited to freewheeling felines. Cue Paul’s suggestion of a pup. Frankly, my canine knowledge was scant, save what I’d gleaned from snippets of Crufts: namely that owners who facilitate a dog’s progress round an agility course don’t have to be as agile themselves, and pedigrees often have names like Syon Hieronymus Dandy III or Daisy Librarian Smartypants the Successor. Suffice to say not sound enough info on which to base buying a dog.
The idea gained traction when, at a local pub, I befriended a toy poodle who would rest her chin on my thigh while I supped a Sipsmith and slimline. I felt an ocean of love for such uncomplicated affection. Eventually, we put out feelers for a hound of our own.
Our first hope was to adopt a dog whose elderly owner, sadly, had died. Fully grown, fully trained, he was a maltipoo (a breed I’d never heard of) and exerted a magnetic pull. 
I penned a heartfelt email. Held my breath. Heard nothing. It later transpired my message had gone straight to spam, like Tess (she of the D’Urbervilles) posting a letter to Angel under the door but accidently slipping it beneath the carpet. Our chance was gone.
When we saw a mirror-image pooch while shopping, we quizzed the owner and one thing led to another, culminating in that momentous January morning with little Eadie swaddled, Paul paternally waiting by the car and me pausing on the steps of the house like an aged Duchess of Cambridge, sporting neither the postnatal blow-dry nor the designer smock as a nod to the late Princess Di.
Our kitchen was dog-ready. Bowls. Brushes. Bed. Baby gate. But instead of the oft-suggested wire crate, we’d gone posh with cushioned cabinetry – think G Plan with the weight of a grand piano. Eadie ignored it. As for the gate, she was so unexpectedly mini, we had to stretch mesh across the bars to prevent her slipping through.
That evening, with Paul returning to Northern Ireland, our strategy was to get Eadie sleeping in the kitchen, so after settling her, I locked the gate and retired to cleanse 24 hours of aeroplane off my face.
All was quiet. Not a peep. Until I realised why. She was sitting by my dressing table, watching the ablutions. Turned out a commando-style op had occurred. She’d pulled the mesh down, formed a ladder and scaled the stairs while whistling the theme from The Great Escape.
Given this technical failure, and in order to save the bedroom carpet, I bedded down with her on the sofa. Unfortunately, I let this develop into a habit. 
If ever I left her alone, she’d whimper and whine until I caved and was back on the couch, Eadie camped on my head like a Davy Crockett hat, me watching Father Brown at 2am while clearing up endless pees and poos through the night. Bless you, my child. House-training became crucial. But my efforts went to shit.
The basic idea is that you take puppy outside regularly, wait for as long as it takes, praise and reward. However, our timing couldn’t have been worse. Not only was it one of the wettest winters on record, the neighbours started excavating an extension. Fences were down. Trenches were dug. 
As I stood shivering, all Eadie did was investigate leaves while I googled their potential toxicity. Only when she was back in the house would she relieve herself. Rinse (literally) and repeat. 
I battled on, still besotted but now badly sleep-deprived and turning down work. I’m sure you’re thinking, ‘It’s only a puppy, for goodness sake,’ but I remember describing her as a baby with no nappy on roller skates. Occasionally, she stopped to chew things. Like Paul’s Thom Browne specs. We’ll speak no more of those.
Simple things became complicated. Putting on socks turned into a tug of war. I ended up balancing on the bed to get dressed, pulling on leggings, wobbling while an eight-inch-high puppy patrolled the duvet’s perimeter. 
She followed me with the tenacity of a teasel on tweed trousers. Sounds sweet but it also involved watching me on the loo. I ceased moving about my home freely. If I sat down, forgot something and had to get up again, I found myself apologising for the inconvenience. If she looked bored, I felt bad. 
More seriously, I’d stopped going out much because Eadie had developed separation anxiety – she couldn’t bear to be alone and I couldn’t bear it that she couldn’t bear it, so aspects of my social life began ebbing away. I felt more isolated. 
And although Paul came back at weekends, with just me at the coalface, we began to spar from afar. There’d be nice emails, sharp emails, ‘let’s talk about it’ emails, ‘let’s not talk about it now’ emails.
I couldn’t believe I was cocking up. I love animals, support charities, can’t bear to hurt a fly (I once swam the length of a swimming pool with an insect in my hand to prevent it from drowning). How was I making such an almighty hash of this? 
I hardly dared admit it, except to a couple of friends – but mainly to Amber, who’s lived with dogs all her life and to whom I blubbed on a regular basis. She was sympathetic. Supportive. Practical. Nothing short of magnificent.
I started researching what this inner turmoil was about. Turns out I was experiencing the ‘puppy blues’. Yes, it’s a thing. Mumsnet talks about it. Proper dog sites describe it. Even my GP had heard similar tales. 
It’s when the level of life upheaval begins to hit you. When you’re dragged under a wave of conflicting emotions. Excitement. Stress. Love. Uncertainty. Frustration. Fear of failure.
So I began being honest. When a neighbour, who had a much-adored spaniel, asked how it was going, I gave him the unvarnished truth. Revelation, he and his wife empathised. At the park, I came clean to a young family. Ditto. They’d survived but it had been touch and go. So many lovely people whispering from the same secret hymn sheet, thinking it was just them.
I checked in with a true professional: ‘I think we carry this mantle of being a nation of dog lovers, and at a personal level, we often set unrealistic expectations, not just for ourselves but for our dogs,’ says Adam Clowes, operations director of Dogs Trust, the wonderful charity that’s actively involved in everything canine-related, from training to sponsoring and adopting (and is one of the charities supported by the Telegraph Christmas Appeal).
‘We often fall for the Disneyfication of getting a dog. That a puppy bounces in on Christmas Day and everything is wonderful. We forget how busy our lives are and how much we ask of our pets to fit in, not really acknowledging to ourselves – or demonstrating to our dogs – what that means. 
It takes time to introduce them to your life slowly and carefully. And not every detail will go to plan. We all make mistakes and new owners often get in a mess when they’re tired. We see that a lot. But there is so much help out there if you ask.’
Puppy lessons were a benefit and I hired a great ‘dog whisperer’, Ade Howe, who taught me how to think and talk more ‘dog’. But here was the kicker: I wasn’t convinced me as a cat person was turning into me as a dog person. 
I stood at the park gates but didn’t fit in. I didn’t want to chat about raw diets. Didn’t want to hear from couples who’d fully house-trained their puppy in three weeks. It was like listening to parents proclaiming their five-year-old was performing Chopin on the piano while mine was tooting London’s Burning on the recorder.
One memorable foggy morning walk, I heard a honking like a duck. A dog was producing a swirl of neon-yellow sick. Eadie somehow wriggled out of her harness, sniffed the sherbet froth, then, as I wrestled her back, licked me. 
Not on my face. My tongue. I wiped it with a tissue, gagging. We continued silently on our way through the mist. Two forlorn souls, trying their best together but somehow missing the mark.
I stumbled on, regretting my naivety when rushing in. But mainly feeling overwhelming guilt. In the end, I simply wanted to ensure Eadie’s eternal happiness, doubting I was the answer. 
Through a friend, it came to pass that a lovely woman in the countryside with three little dogs, who had their own professional bathing set-up in a boot room, their own sofa and safe fields in which to run, agreed Eadie could stay for a while. To see if I regained my equilibrium. To face the fact Eadie might prefer doggy friends and a dog-literate lady rather than a loser like me. Paul was heart-broken. I felt like a heel. So far, so crap. So there must be a plot twist right? Comin’ atcha.
With the sabbatical plan in place, I spent my birthday alone, not even bothering to open my cards. Then a text came in. The kindly lady suddenly had some unforeseen life stuff come up. The offer was apologetically withdrawn. 
I read the text again, sat on the kitchen floor and sobbed. But here’s the thing. I was crying out of relief. Deep down, I never wanted Eadie to go. I was simply shattered and no longer thinking straight.
‘Shall we make this work, Eadie Rockets?’ I said, still on the floor. She put her head to one side, quizzically. ‘Shall we open my birthday cards together?’ I continued. 
It was one of those moments that you live through while simultaneously imagining an audience is watching. I just knew she was going to lick the tears from my face. I just knew it. She didn’t. She chewed the envelopes and spat them out as damp confetti. The union was blessed.
Ironically, it was during lockdown that things looked up. Paul came home. I got proper sleep. The rain stopped. The sun shone. Eadie romped through meadows and weed outside. 
We even bumped into Clare Balding, surely a sign from the canine gods. The feel-good credits rolled. But stay for the part where the voiceover says, ‘If you’ve been affected by this story…’
Because here’s some thoughts that might help. The obvious is that you really need to comprehend the commitment a puppy needs. Training is all about consistency, which requires time and energy. 
You have to be prepared to lose some freedom in the short term and to understand you’ll always have to plan ahead in the long, so audition some reliable helpers who can report to the deck. And whatever your circumstances, if you run into issues, reach out for support rather than thinking you’re alone.
‘Asking for help is the most responsible thing you can do and earlier is always better,’ says Clowes. ‘Don’t wait until things have spiralled and become really difficult. That’s our key message. Because a very important part of our remit is that owners and dogs stay together to enjoy a successful partnership. 
‘That’s such a super outcome. But if that just proves impossible, while heartbreaking, early intervention still helps prevent extremely challenging behaviours setting in.’
I also think it’s beneficial to see you and your pup as teammates, learning the ropes together. Me and Eadie Rockets are old hands – we’re even working on a book and blog about puppydom (she’s the editor, I’m the assistant). 
But know that in the early days, you will both step in shit. And that’s OK. Because metaphorically, life is all about stepping in shit and dealing with it as sensibly and sensitively as you can.
What else have I learnt? That dogs are part of your family and it can take time for everyone to elbow their way in and learn each other’s ways. They’re not exotic flowers that open overnight. They’re perennials that flourish when you help them establish strong roots. Oh, and I’ve also learnt that your truest friends are the ones who stick by you when snot is bubbling out of your nose.
But most of all, I’ve appreciated that it’s the difficult journeys that can ultimately add most to the rich tapestry of life… although if you do own a rich tapestry, I don’t recommend leaving it anywhere near a puppy because frankly, they don’t know the difference between a rich tapestry and a pee pad. And why would they? My work here, I hope, is done.
Dogs Trust is one of four charities supported by the Telegraph Christmas Appeal, which ends today. To make a donation call 0151-284 1927 or go to the website.