Love is dog. Dog is love.

Otto was my mum's last project. Well, not quite -- when she was very ill and mostly off her head on morphine she decided it would be an excellent idea to get a new bathroom installed (she also planted a monkey puzzle tree in the front garden because that's a totally normal thing to do when you're about to die). 

So when she went into the hospice the house was full of workmen. I can't leave this fucking dog in the house with these fucking plumbers, my dad said. They keep leaving the gate open and he's so stupid he'll run out into the road and get himself killed. 

So we took him with us. Look, I said, you go in first and I'll stay here with him, then we can swap. Hospices being the amazing places they are, my dad came straight back out and said 'they said bring him in'. 

Otto knew exactly who we were going to see, and exactly where she was. He was beyond excited to see her and he barked the place down. She was happy to see him too but he was a lot to deal with, so after a few minutes I took him out into the garden, which had a smoking corner. There's something almost sacred about a hospice smoking corner. I've rarely craved cigarettes since I knocked smoking on the head at 3.25 am on 1 January 2003 (approx) but I wanted one sooooo badly just then. Otto would have understood. 

I let him off the lead and he ran straight into someone else's room. He really was pretty stupid. And I was gripped with angst -- someone is dying in there and now I have to retrieve a fucking hyperactive dachshund from their bedside. But you know what, everyone in there loved him. He made a shitty day a little better. 

Otto didn't come from a shelter, but he did get rescued from a bad start in life. He was bred for show, and lived with a load of other fancy dachshunds. Sadly -- or not -- he was deemed defective, as the back of his head was a bit pointy: by the time my parents shelled out £££ for him he was a year old, called Spiky, and still had his balls (he'd already impregnated another fancy dachshund, in fact, but no one knew that at the time). 

No creature has ever been less spiky than the puppy they renamed Otto. He was the gentlest soul, if a little randy. I first met him a couple of weeks after he joined the family and I took him for a walk to Green Drive in Lytham, one of my favourite places. He was polite, but honestly, he really didn't know what he was supposed to do. I don't think he'd been for many walks. 

He also had, it transpired, canine IBD (Irritable Bowel Disease), which led to a lifetime of restricted diets and expensive veterinary care. We never knew whether he was born that way or contracted an infection in his bleak showdog early puppyhood, but either way it hadn't been treated, and eating was something that caused him pain. Getting to the bottom of this was my mum's gift to him: she did not give up until she (and the vets) had created a regime that kept him well. It involved multiple meds, including steroids, and a lot of white fish, white meat and hypoallergenic dry food. My vegetarian mother bought a mincer for that dog's turkey diet. 

Their relationship was a delight. He knew she was the one who knew. When she got ill, one of the first things that happened was she had a chest drain fitted. Otto managed to dislodge it one day when he propelled himself off her to bark at the postman. Her response was to wedge a copy of the TV listings magazine into her pants when she lay down on the sofa so he wouldn't do it again. 

My relationship with him was also a delight. We first bonded in the year after he arrived, when my parents and sister went on holiday for a week and I travelled from Oxford to the parental home to look after him. It was just the two of us, we didn't know each other that well, but we went for walks and picnics and I learnt that he liked to sit on the bath mat when I was in the bath and lick my (lower - he was v short) legs when I got out. This was also the week I learnt that he could still get an erection despite being neutered, and that he would, how shall we say, pleasure himself on my lower leg unless he was physically prevented from doing so. I spent time that week considering the ethics of allowing vs discouraging this. 

By the time my mum died in 2013, he was five and the happiest boy imaginable, even though he knew something was up. We took him to her funeral. I carried him in, and he sat on my lap apart from when I was speaking. At the end, everyone clapped and he barked his little head off. He had a very big bark for such a small body. I always admired that about him. He spent much of the next nine years (aside from lockdowns and Covid near-death experiences) sitting on my dad's lap in Caffe Nero. They were a local fixture. Everyone (with a heart) loved Otto. It was basically impossible not to. 

There were people who tried, but they were defeated. In December 2015 my dad and sister and various significant others went to Tenerife for Christmas. Would I consider having him for the week, my dad asked several months earlier. Of course I would. This was when he was still mobile enough to manage stairs, though he used to descend them in a zig zag, like a little boat tacking into the wind, on account of his tiny legs. It was always a joy to have him visit. Small children would queue up to stroke him in the street, and occasionally visit him at our house by appointment. He didn't really enjoy this, but he was a very patient boy. I used to ignore the Pet Policy that decreed he should be on a lead at all times, as he liked to scamper up and down the street with me, and he was never going to bite anyone or shit inappropriately. He had a very tidy routine (he did occasionally wee himself when he got over-excited, but who among us etc). 

But he definitely was not allowed in the Common House (per said policy) and, unlike Mimi the cat, who roams like the wild thing he is, I would totally have been culpable -- and shamed -- had I ignored this edict. Equally though, I wasn't going to leave him home alone on Christmas Day -- turkey was one of the few things he could eat. So I set out a message asking if anyone was interested in a Christmas dinner that involved a) turkey and b) a small dog. My thought was that if we got a few people, we'd have them round ours, and if we got more than say six we'd use the Mill, which has no dead bird or live dog restrictions (although does not have much by way of a kitchen). 

And 28 people wanted to come. So I made that happen, and it was a kind of magic. This tiny little blonde (cream, if you're from the Kennel Club) creature catalysed something that would never otherwise have happened. We had three courses, and a playlist, and it went on for hours, and it was hilarious. Otto himself enjoyed his turkey and carrots. 

It wasn't seamless, he did get a bit barky with all of the people (remember that dachshunds are like a foot tall, and this one mainly spent time with max two other people). At one point someone said 'I didn't know there was going to be a dog here today, I'm not sure how I feel about that' and I said 'if there hadn't been going to be a dog here today, there wouldn't be anything here?' 

On balance, I maintain that Otto's life sparked a disproportionate amount of joy. He taught me that if a creature's basic needs are met (and it can be a challenge to meet them) they -- we -- can give so much more to the world than we take out. 

We lost him this morning. He was fully deaf, mostly blind, fairly arthritic and covered in lumps, some of them malignant and frankly quite stinky. He defied the odds even to make it to adulthood, but he was happy till the very last. I saw him a week ago and he had a little bark when he smelt me and a valiant go on my leg. I am verklempt, but my world is so much better for the love he brought into it, both ways round. Rest in power, little guy. You were immense x

joella