Read Jo Jacobius’s puppy diaries. She spills the beans on the trials and tribulations of living with new labradoodle puppy, Bertie – and how the DHH (dog hating husband) David is gradually won round.
WEEK 17: The Rug of Doom
It’s been an eventful few weeks for Bertie the Labradoodle. The List-of-Things-Puppy-Must-Encounter -as set out Gwen Bailey’s The Perfect Puppy book – is rapidly being checked off, together with some items even the formidable Ms. Bailey didn’t think to include.
Bertie has attended business meetings, paddled in a fast-flowing river; met two horses, whom he found deeply disturbing; encountered six (live) chickens, which he found very enticing; digested literature (more of that later); enjoyed encounters with large and sensible Labradors; and had his first taste of being on duty with me at the charity where I volunteer.
At the charity call-centre, Bertie was shown the ropes by the gorgeous Otto, whose human pet is the renowned photographer, Richard Ansett. Now Richard’s photography is edgy and never cute, so any rumours that he was in any way responsible for these delicious dog shots will be strongly denied by all who were present.
Otto, the most perfectly-trained and majestic Labrador-type you could possibly meet, informed Bertie that, as top dog, he would be occupying the sofa whilst the young upstart took to the floor during their vigil.
A few days later, I was feeling content that Bertie had learnt a huge amount of good sense from Otto and I had learnt much from Richard. This seemingly calm puppy persuaded me that he could happily amuse himself alone. And amuse himself alone, he did.
You might think that Bertie, named after PG Wodehouse’s engaging Bertram Wooster, would respect Wodehousian books. But it was not to be. At least, when selecting literature to digest, was there any significance, I asked myself, that he chose as a pre-supper snack, not a Jeeves and Wooster novel, but one of the Blandings series – my beloved original orange Penguin version of ‘Blandings Castle’ ?
This anti-literary phase has continued: two days later, virtually the entire Sunday newspaper was stolen from the kitchen table and consumed. Bertie has become a WMD where the printed word is concerned. He has already been dubbed by one family member, Lizzie, as ‘The Rug of Doom’. The only section of the paper which remained untouched by tooth or claw was the sports supplement which holds as little interest for me as it clearly does for the Rug of D. Lizzie advised long ago that Bertie should be introduced to newspapers, not of course as entertainment but rolled tightly and used as a deterrent.
Fortunately the DHH was on the other side of the world, enjoying the relative peace of a business trip, and so did not have to witness this wholesale and anarchic destruction of the printed word.
WEEK 16: No Sex in the City – if you’re a dog, life’s a bitch.
Bertie the Labradoodle has come of age, rather faster than I, innocent that I am in the ways of puppy pre-teenage-hood, would have expected. He just occasionally cocks his leg against the garden fence. And he has discovered sex.
The objects of his desire are usually my legs, or the legs of any passing human female; occasionally the sleeve of a jacket left handing on the back of a chair gains special attention; and yesterday a real, live Labrador bitch was the object of his ardour.
Talk of neutering is rife amongst virtually everyone I encounter. ‘When’, not ‘if’, is the assumptive question generally in use. The vet checks her calendar and his age, asking ‘when’ we should book him in for the life changing deed. Well-meaning friends and strangers ask ‘how long before, you know, he has the snip?’
Some years ago, I commissioned an opinion poll about neutering on behalf of a canine charity with which I was working. Back then there was a clear divide in opinion based on gender: whereas as most people (women included) thought spaying bitches was fine, male respondents were far less positive about neutering male dogs. They expressed an empathy with their own sex. We headlined the survey results ‘if you’re a bitch, it’s a dog’s life’.
Now I don’t know if that gender divide still exists but one thing is becoming clear. There is a divide, but it’s between country dwellers and city folk.
I meet a lovely dog breeder in the local woods. A City dweller now, she explains that her heart and soul are in the country. “We never neuter dogs in rural areas,” she says, pointing to her gorgeous black Labradors. The mother and son duo who Bertie is sniffing at are both intact and she claims she never has any problems.
The truth is that I like the idea of little Bertie siring off-spring one day. I rather hope that someone might wish to see my puppy betrothed to their bitch. But I suspect that, City dweller as I am, peer pressure will get the better of me. ”Let him do it once, then take his ‘nads away,” says my otherwise kindly and lady-like client. This balanced opinion can only be explained by the fact that she has a foot in both camps: a senior business woman, work brings her to London and Brussels a good deal, but she lives in the wilds of the country surrounded by fields and with a menagerie of assorted animals.
It seems that, for City dogs, life’s a bitch. If the majority have their way, there’s to be no sex in the City for young Bertie.
It was late on Saturday night. We’d been forced to abandon the car and walk the last few streets through heavy snow. Bertie was tucked up safe and warm at home, oblivious of the winter wonderland that had formed during the couple of hours we’d been away listening to wonderful music.
I flung open the back door and I expected Bertie, spotting snow for the first time, to bound out. No bouncing ensued. Instead he cocked his ears: the silence unnerved him. He put two paws tentatively outside, keeping the rear-legs firmly on the warm side of the threshold. He reached down; and he tasted snow. He ate it and licked it and eventually, when I had ventured outside to give him courage, he joined me in the twinkling, white back garden.
Taking the plunge, he nose-dived into the drifts, he ran around in excited circles and he dug, hiding a toy, revealing it, and then digging again until I insisted that it really was not the best time for play. Heavy snow continued to fall.
The next morning, the DHH, Bertie and I joined the masses at the local park. The place was abuzz with laughter, noise, sledges, toddlers resembling miniature Michelin Men, dogs and puppies. Bertie, who for the past few days has been allowed off the lead, tore through the crowd. His mission: to see what happens when you race at top speed towards very small children, who were also tasting their first snow. Result. This was fun. The miniature Michelin Men fall over. A parent stands them up. Again and again they fall making an enticing noise, like noisy skittles. And I was too far behind and walking too tentatively, fearful of breaking a wrist once again, to reprimand him.
We’d recently seen the film Carnage which explores the horrors that ensue between couples and within relationships when parents try to resolve their children’s misdemeanours. I feared a real-life re-enactment.
But this was middle class north London. The opposite occurred. There was I, in the red corner, apologising for the bad manners of my excited puppy; in the blue corner were the toddler owners, insisting it would do the child good to ‘get used to dogs’. I didn’t agree, fearing these infants would be scarred for life because of their Labradoodle encounter.
Bertie was eventually restrained and even the DHH got involved. “It’s like ‘Carnage’,” he said echoing what I’d already been thinking. “First civilised, reassuring conversations and then next thing you know, you’ll be having rows with these parents,” he warned, warming to his subject as he warmed himself with coffee at the outdoor café. Meanwhile, Bertie happily foraged for chips and cake crumbs dropped by his new favourite category of humans, careless toddlers.
WEEK 14: Choosing ‘The One’? Tough love and tough lessons in love
Bertie has graduated to Primary School. Puppies and many older dogs gather in the chill wind of a London park. As we chat before lessons begin I’m delighted to be greeted by some familiar faces from Puppy Kindergarten along with some anxious owners whose adult dogs have serious need of training.
“He’s really behaving so badly. He just doesn’t obey the training programme,” bemoans one of the human pupils. The target of her dismay wasn’t the dog. It was her boyfriend whose lack of support for training had helped lead her adolescent dog into confusion and lack of discipline.
“He wouldn’t come to classes,” she said sadly. “Wouldn’t even give me a lift here today. And I know when I get home he just won’t listen to what we need to do!”
But there was more. “I’m really wondering now,” she added, brow furrowed, “If this is the man I really want to have children with. It’s made me rethink my life with him. He’s not who I thought he was.”
Ouch. Tough stuff for a Sunday morning.
Another couple nod vigorously. “We understand how that feels,” said the female half of the duo as her partner smiles wanly in agreement. “We had to have a long hard talk about staying on the same programme with this dog,” she added. “It could have affected our relationship.” For them, the experience of bringing up baby seems to be a bonding experience but it interests me that by the sound of it, tough love could easily have slipped in another direction to become a tough lesson in love.
So we get to the nub of the issue. We all choose to own dogs for different reasons but it seems that some couples are treating dog ownership as a testing ground for whether they truly have found The One – The One they want to live with, put trust in, love forever and with whom to have babies. These dogs have a big responsibility.
As we near Valentine’s Day it is a salutary thought. But perhaps it’s as well to test the relationship on a dog rather than the even more stressful business of bringing up a child. I relate the story to the DHH. “You’re very, VERY lucky,” he says, “that we didn’t have a puppy first.” I smile as sweetly as four hours in the chill of a winter park will allow. “No, you’re the fortunate one,” I retort. The DHH idly strokes Bertie who has settled onto his lap oblivious of the fact that his puppy love is unrequited.
The issue of choosing ‘The One’ reminds me of the old joke: To test who really is your best friend, your partner or your dog, ask yourself: ‘If you locked both in the boot of the car for an hour, when you open that door, who shouts, glares and sulks and who is truly happy to see you?’ Fellow dog owners: I think we know the answer. Perhaps now is a timely moment to turn to the PetsPyjamas shop for some gorgeous, heart-adorned gifts.
WEEK 13: Bertie takes the lead
Bertie takes the lead on his first walk in the street with my eldest son Daniel. Bertie’s ability to walk comes not a minute too soon as, small though he still looks, he now weighs in at nearly 5 kilos – a challenge to carry compared with the mere 1.5 kilos of puppy only 4 weeks ago. Now we must carry out the lessons drummed into us by Super-trainer Sue who runs the Alpha Puppy Kindergarten. We must ensure that people greet us humans first or puppy will believe he is top dog; and Bertie must never, ever, be permitted to pull on the lead.I can’t help thinking how as a society we are failing by not giving some people similar training. Take the behaviour at the cinema just the other day for instance. Coriolanus was gripping and thought-provoking for most of the audience – but sadly not for incessant texter in front of me or the young woman to my right who felt her boyfriend (and I) would be more entertained by her running commentary than by the film-script. Human socialisation is definitely in need of attention in some cases.
Luckily some members of the younger (human) generation are being brilliantly socialised like the truly charming young girls at Puppy Kindergarten. The pets of gorgeous Mac, a chocolate Labradoodle (pictured left) – asked each and every time if they could play with Bertie before touching him – all under the supervision of eagle-eyed Sue (right). These children were quite simply a class act and put to shame the appalling manners of certain adult cinema goers.
WEEK 12: It’s a dog’s life for Rufus
It was an exciting day as Bertie had his final vaccination and was micro-chipped (with the aid of a chop bone supplied by the Splendid Vet, Amanda). So celebrating with close friends the impending freedom of potential walks a mere 5 days later was a delightful prospect.
But, just as we seemed to be making a breakthrough with the DHH, Bertie is in the dog-house. We feared possible territorial hostility; but far from being unwelcoming, the opposite was true.
Bertie the bouncy Labradoodle welcomed with open paws his first canine dinner companion – Rufus, the lovely Norfolk Terrier. Unfortunately the excitement was not shared by the ever-friendly, intelligent and thoughtful Rufus. The lack of interest and general docility annoyed his canine host who appears not to be blessed with the charms of the perfect host. Bertie barked; he pounced; he chased; he clambered. He was annoying. The lessons from his recent first class at Puppy School, where Nellie The Tutor had taught ‘polite’ socialisation, had been forgotten.
Rufus tried to ignore the unwanted attention but it was impossible. As a last resort, he sat at the feet of the Dog Hating Husband (the DHH), picking him out at the only human clearly attuned to his own predicament.
Rufus looked up at the DHH. The DHH looked down at Rufus. Silently, using only eye contact, they bonded: partners in the face of adversity. As is so often true in troubled times, former enemies come together to make strange bed-fellows when faced with a common enemy. The DHH was to Rufus as Nick Clegg is to David Cameron – a necessary but uneasy coalition partner.
Buoyed up by having such a staunch ally, Rufus allowed the tension to show, just a little. But Bertie felt the honour of Labradoodles was at stake and kept going at full pace until nearing midnight when he could be spotted, slumped in the middle of the kitchen floor, exhausted and content with a good evening’s work.
WEEK 11: School and String Theory
Bertie starts school this week. We are signed up for puppy classes and ’socialisation parties’ at the Splendid Vet’s. As we anticipate the first weekly evening class, I have no idea what to expect, except mayhem. I think Bertie is unlikely to make strong headway in the academic stream however as he seems more interested in vocational career paths.
Already he shows talent for electrical work as studying wiring is a keen interest. He has brilliantly discovered just how many pretty wires are concealed within the outer casing of the ‘phone line which is also the door-phone cable. This ensures that we cannot have‘human socialization’ as visitors will now rarely gain access because we lack a door-bell. In fact anything that is long, thin and dangly holds a fascination for him that is as strong as Prof. Brian Cox’s fascination with the wonders of the universe. String, birch twigs, scarf fringes, long hair, knitting yarn, ribbons, shoe-laces… but especially string. And, of course, wire cables.
Having shown his talent as a potential spark, Bertie has moved onto light plumbing, finding solace and interest in chewing the radiator caps and pipe-work too.
This talent which promises so well for future NVQ success doesn’t stop indoors. His interest in construction – or rather, de-construction – leads him to some cunning demolition work as, using teeth and claws, he plucks out the grouting between the York paving in the garden. Delicately picking out the concrete and consuming it is apparently so much more interesting than the ‘potty’ training which is the aim of me standing, night-dress wafting in the gale force winds, at 7am on a dark, cold wintry morning.
While I offer constructive advice, Bertie avidly pursues his future career in construction and demolition, with a little String Theory for good measure.
WEEK 10: Party Puppy
Puppies are the must-have party guest it seems. Already, Bertie was one of the star turns at a brunch, a lunch, a drinks party and various other pre-Christmas events. It’s often men who seem to be completely smitten. At the lovely Roz’s Christmas lunch, whilst Bertie was not short of attention from many of the guests, it was a man who came over to me and begged to hold the dog: “I feel the need to breast-feed,” he said. The Puppy Expert has written to all of us novice puppy owners reminding us to make the crate available as a place of refuge during this busy season. But for Bertie no such refuge is needed, although of course it is there if he feels the need to be alone. He loves company as much as he loves food. If, as puppy prances around my legs in the dark and dank gloom of these unseasonably warm December mornings, I fleetingly convince myself that he loves me above all others, I am swiftly disabused. He loves everyone equally. When the DHH retrieved puppy’s favourite ball from an impossible nook, he received a noisy, wet, licky kiss which I could hear from the other side of the room.
When 10 year old Ella and 8 year old Martha visit, tousling both over him and his favourite soft toy, he is happy and contented with the attention even when trying to snooze. A constant stream of visitors is what he craves. My concern is that when life resumes its quieter pace in January, our puppy will feel bereft. He has known only this busy social whirl. Just as I am thinking that we might be forced to arrange social events just for him, my pal Debbie – self-appointed ‘Furry Godmother’ – arranges a lunch date in the New Year so that he can become acquainted with Molly Valentine, the adorable cocker spaniel. This rather thick skinned puppy who believes he can love the whole world and it will return that affection has his first lesson about felines. My friend and neighbour Sheila knocks on the door and, as usual, her cat sits on the porch window ledge looking needy – but only for a moment. Bertie is in my arms; noses touch (the animals, that is, not Sheila and me). Bertie wags his tail; the cat arches his spine and bristles all over, then leaps in spectacular fashion to escape a dog that is about a third of its body size. This is the very cat whose chief sport was chasing my previous dog (a rather Beta Bolognese Bitch) around the garden. But there again, one of the resident magpies used to do so too.
I am quietly proud that Bertie is showing subliminal Alpha dog characteristics to others. It bodes well that Party Puppy will one day grow into a proper dog.
WEEK 9: A dog is for Christmas
A present with no future… that’s what strikes me as kind friends give chewable presents to young Bertie as his first Christmas nears. Bones and balls; shoes and chews; a Christmas pudding on a rope… all at nibbled at enthusiastically – but of course none so enthusiastically as my favourite cashmere or best evening shoes. My arm seems to be another favourite snack and play-thing and I have the puncture mark to show for it.
According to Winifred Robinson on Radio 4’s excellent You and Yours programme, Britons spend £4 billion a year on pets. Two weeks ago I’d have been sceptical but now I find this completely credible. My guess is that much of that is spent by non-pet owners on gifts for lucky dogs like Bertie. The more toys and chews the merrier. However, when the flurry of gifts dies down, I notice that, like toddlers, Bertie get bored with the same toys. Removing the toys after play-time and rotating the use of the toy collection seems to work.
Then each play session and training period is greeted as if every day is Christmas and the now-forgotten toys are embraced as if brand new.
It’s a bit like my Book Club: we so often forget the plot details a few months on that I’m sure we could recycle the same 6 books and find new interest each time.
WEEK 8: Sweet Dreams are Made of This
Ah yes, sleep; I remember that.
I have a dream – a waking dream that is – that one day I will sleep throughout the night once more, without being persuaded by the highest pitch yelping imaginable to join young Bertie in the wintry, moonlit garden at 3.30am. He prances about entranced by shadows, leaves, twigs… everything but the task which should be concentrating his mind.
Night One: we sleep on the sofa together.
Night Two: We sleep in the spare room. Bertie is on my head like an exotic, warm hat when I awake at 4am.
Night Three: puppy remains in his cage until 7am. It feels like a lie-in. We are both so refreshed that the first training session of the day goes extremely well and Bertie sits and even stays, on command, a couple of times. Or perhaps that is just coincidence.
WEEK 7: Puparazzi
Puppy is already in demand.
Only one day on, he receives an invitation to an evening party next week, drinks at the weekend, a Brunch party and a Sunday lunch. I do believe that if he didn’t require me for transport, the puppy’s diary would be fuller than mine. But, most excitingly, he has just put his best paw forward to face the Pets Pyjamas’ Paparazzi. He couldn’t wait to scramble aboard the yellow NYC Taxi, the sleek black Furcedes, and to try out his glamorous new poodle-adorned feeding bowls which will make even puppy food seem like a gastronomic treat.
Photograph after photograph and then, like any diva, he was no longer ready for more close ups and simply fell asleep.
WEEK 6: Welcome to the Gated Community
Puppy has arrived. And at just seven weeks and two days of age he is tiny, beautiful, fragrant, soft and altogether adorable. The house and husband stood in wait as, six hours after our pilgrimage from north London into the countryside and back, we welcomed our very small, bat-black Labradoodle to his new home.
Our rather open plan house has now been heavily reinforced with baby safety gates at the garden door, the kitchen door and staircase plus a ‘crate’ (the Puppy Expert insists it is not a cage). Puppy-gate is our new modus operandi with each section of the house sectioned off prison-style. We are a one home gated community.
Like any new baby’s arrival, the first thing that strikes us all is how small the new arrival seems and yet how very bulky is all the necessary equipment to keep him happy and safe.
We joined all the other puppy parents collecting their charges from the same litter for a three hour postnatal lecture by the splendid Puppy Expert. At the close of the session, my notebook brimmed with 35 pieces of advice.
I was accompanied on the adventure by my lovely mother and son Jonathan. My dog-hating husband (the DHH) was at home and basking in denial. The lecture was long but a brilliant idea as it enabled the small audience of worried puppy parents to ask all sorts of tricky questions. If only such classes were mandatory for parents of new human babies there would be fewer ASBOs I’m sure. The charming breeder, Annette, is a hugely responsible and caring woman with a marvelous laugh who has given these pups a happy start in life. On arrival the DHH struggled past the prison gates to greet us and meet the new arrival. Later that evening this puppy has melted even this cynic’s heart.
“As dogs go, he is rather an engaging little thing!” he mutters.
But puppy has not to be concerned. There are plenty of loving arms reaching out. My adult sons Daniel and Jonathan have amassed an array of gorgeous guest for Puppy’ First Dinner Party. Nine of us chink glasses and welcome the new arrival. We are joined by Jessie, Theo, Antonia and Bernadine and the conversation turns to puppy names. After huge debate, puppy is named Bertie – after that fine Wodehousian character, Bertram Wooster.
WEEK 5: The Puppy Proofing Phase
Lunch to talk business with Phillipa wouldn’t have been complete without at least some doggy talk. Her long haired, long-legged Jack Russell bitch is beautiful and looks, in the photograph, the perfect companion. “Tips?” I ask. “Get someone else to train it,” she replies. “It’s the only way.”
The thing about the ‘only way’ argument is that of course one can’t set up the control experiment. So do I try training and only take the puppy to a professional when it goes off the rails. Will I need to employ the services of the doggy equivalent of super-nanny? Or will my angelic looking pup be willing and able to learn with me? This feels like the equivalent of deciding whether to put an infant’s name on the waiting list for a top school. Instead, I content myself with nest-making and ignoring the potential for damage.
Then our lovely cleaner, Nora, arrives. The new puppy in another house she looks after has chewed the lead on the vacuum cleaner, attacked Nora’s trousers and generally caused mayhem. Only last week she had adoringly shown me a picture of the puppy. From ‘cute’ to ‘brute’ in a week. How quickly one can fall from grace; a week’s a long time in puppy-dom.
WEEK 4: The Perfect Puppy Phase
Like any proud mother-to-be I have been reading the books. Mostly I’ve been tucked under the bedclothes late at night absorbing The Perfect Puppy by Gwen Bailey as recommended by The Puppy Expert.
Now if you are the parent of a human and gave birth any time in the last decade you will know Gina Ford’s The Contented Little Baby. Gina is a little like Marmite – you love her methods which some (my friend Gill, step forward) believe are like the tablets delivered from the mountain; and others of us think are institutional – style tyranny (step forward and join me, Gill’s daughter, Martha).
The puppy schedule is relentless. From 8a.m. until 11p.m. there will be no respite according to Ms Bailey. When, I wonder, will I have a little time to myself – to read and shop on the PetsPyjamas website for example? Yet despite my misgivings about Gina Ford, somehow Ms Bailey’s timetable is enticing.
And when I get to the back of the book I find, in addition to the hourly timed ‘must do’ events, a list of people puppy must meet each week. When am I to fit in puppy meeting someone in a helmet, with a beard, on a skateboard, on a bicycle, in a uniform, a hat, glasses and a host of others…?
Got it: I will kit out the DHH (that’s the Dog-Hating Husband if you only dipped in at this stage) to wear or use all these required ‘socialization programme’ items at once. Should save time. Something tells me that the Perfect Puppy is the one who hasn’t yet moved in. Two weeks to go and counting.
WEEK 3: The Hamley’s Phase
Can you hear them?” said Annette the breeder as I picked up the ‘phone. The sound was an exact rendition of Sue, the glove puppet, of Sooty & Sweep fame. Then came the photograph, as she spoke to me. I proudly emailed it to lots of dog-loving friends and The Dog Hating Husband. Even he admitted it was ‘rather sweet’. Emails came back thick and fast including one from Rhoda: “I thought you were getting a live puppy not a toy”. I do see what she means.
Perfect. I can hardly wait.
WEEK 2: The Fear of Flying Phase
It’s five weeks since I went flying across the room and broke my wrist. It’s mended – just. But fear of flying is the current theme as Jill – The Puppy Expert – says I must not allow the puppy to fly down stairs for at least six months. Or up for that matter. Potential hip problems might ensue if I fail to heed this advice.
I live in a three storey house on a hill with a heavily stepped garden. Quotes are in from the gardeners – sorry, landscapers – working down the road. I need a pretty but temporary fence around the main deck of my garden to contain puppy and stop him learning to fly and swim (the pond is but a slip of the paw away). The quote is £800. Now call me mean but I’m only going to need this fence for six months and £800 would buy a lot of dog toys.
WEEK 1: The Mitten Phase
He looks like a mitten” said my friend Rhoda when I, proud puppy-parent-to-be, showed her the photograph of my potential companion, a two week old Labradoodle. A mitten did rather describe the size of this very tiny creature, plucked from his basket of six other adorable squeaking puppies that were squirming and wriggling contentedly beside their mother, Dottie. It was love at first sight – for me, not for him. The mitten had yet to open his eyes. It is five weeks Before Puppy (BP) as the countdown began.
Annette, the Brilliant Breeder, was dishing out tea and advice in her homely kitchen. I’d arrived by train full of anticipation at Bedford station full of concern that my broken wrist, up to the elbow in a fetching black plaster, would heal well before I was required to handle my puppy. No such problems existed that day. As they are only two weeks of age, the cautious and professional Annette wouldn’t let me even touch the puppies for fear of ‘cross-contamination’.
This litter was precious. Their mother, Dottie, experienced severe labour problems and had had to undergo an emergency Caesarean and a swift hysterectomy. So my little pup and his siblings were to be the last litter the elegant Dottie would produce. It hadn’t been a planned pregnancy. Her overly enthusiastic suitor had rather, ahem, forced the issue, I learnt.
Described by the breeder as The Rapist, and by me as The Eager Lover, I met him looking rather shame-faced just outside the kitchen. Brown, handsome and short of stature, his romantic Irish parentage had perhaps created the ardour that clearly appealed to Dottie
I was delivered back to the railway station, my notebook brimming with notes about equipment needed; food; cleaning fluidsto use (not normal anti-bacterials); cleaning fluids to use on the dog equipment (Virkon)… and instructions to speak to puppy expert, Jill.