New Year’s Day

The house smells faintly of toast, coffee, and lingering chaos. The living room looks like a minor war zone: half a soggy stick here, a muddy paw print there, and a suspicious pile of wrapping paper in the corner that no one admits to.

Alice is stretched across the sofa like a furry loaf, occasionally twitching her ears as if she’s dreaming of further mischief. Nicolas is tucked under my chair, trembling slightly but otherwise motionless, clearly calculating how many days until he has to face humans, sticks, and ovens again. Shiva sits calmly, looking at us like she personally ensured we all survived the previous day’s disasters.

The cats are unconcerned. Blossom, the elegant Ragdoll, occasionally blinks as if to remind everyone she was never involved in the chaos and never will be. Mortimer strolls with dignity, sniffing cautiously for anything edible or worth judging. Ursie sits on the stairs, eight kilos of Maine Coon disapproval, watching the humans try to regain some semblance of order.

Andy has already begun muttering about tools, muddy boots, and the horrors of returning to work after Christmas. Meanwhile, I sip coffee and reflect: back to walks tomorrow. Real walks. With clients. Real dogs. Other people’s expectations. Which, if I’m honest, might be preferable to this, because despite the calm on the surface, I know the truth: the chaos is still here. It’s just quieter for now. Alice will be awake in thirty minutes, Nicolas will find something new to fear, and Shiva will silently prepare to intervene in a manner only a German Shepherd could.

And the cats?

They will continue their quiet oversight, silently judging every life choice, plotting subtle revenge, or perhaps just napping through it all.

But one thing has been hanging over the past few days.

The missing cockerpoo puppy.

Every day since Boxing Day someone in the village has been out looking. Fields searched. Hedges peered into. Facebook posts shared like modern-day carrier pigeons.

And still… nothing.

Until today.

Late morning, a message appears.

Possible sighting.

In the woods beyond the fields across the road from us.

Which immediately activates the household emergency response team.

Well.

Gabe.

Gabe announces he’s going to search for the puppy and heads out heroically into the countryside like a teenager starring in his own wildlife documentary.

Hours pass.

The house settles back into its lazy New Year rhythm. Coffee is made. Toast is eaten. Nicolas relocates twice for reasons only he understands.

Eventually Gabe returns, cold, muddy, slightly mysterious.

“Did you find the puppy?” I ask.

“Well…” he says.

This is never the beginning of a confident answer.  He explains that deep in the woods he saw something small and fluffy near the road.  Something that looked suspiciously like a cockerpoo. And it was standing beside one of the strangest sights our countryside offers, a massive pile of potatoes.  Now this sounds ridiculous, but if you live near farms you know this is completely normal. Farmers occasionally deposit mountains of vegetables by roadsides like some kind of agricultural art installation.

Apparently, the tiny mystery creature was happily eating potatoes. Just casually.  Like a fluffy carb enthusiast. Gabe approached slowly. Quietly.  Trying not to scare it.  Heart pounding.  Rescue mission imminent.

He gets closer…

closer…

and just as he’s about to properly see it…

The creature vanishes.

Not runs.

Not scampers.

Not darts away dramatically.

Just…

gone.

Into the woods.

Like a tiny potato-loving ghost.

Gabe stands there staring into the trees.  No rustling.  No movement.  No fluffy backside disappearing into the distance.

Nothing.

He searches around for a while but can’t find a single trace.

And here’s the problem.

He isn’t even completely sure it was the puppy.  It might have been. It might also have been a small spaniel.  Or a fox with excellent table manners.  Or possibly just a hallucination caused by standing next to a mountain of potatoes for too long.

So the mystery continues.

Somewhere out there in the woods may or may not be a tiny cockerpoo surviving on root vegetables like a very fluffy survivalist.

Meanwhile the house returns to its quiet New Year lull.

Alice snores gently.

Nicolas remains suspicious of the world.

Shiva watches everything like a calm security guard.

And I make another note in this diary.

January 1st, 2024 – possible sighting of the missing puppy.

Also apparently…

we now have a potato-based wildlife situation developing across the road.

And yet, underneath all the usual household chaos, something else has been sitting heavily in the back of my mind.

Today is the first day that no XL Bully can legally be rehomed in England and Wales.

For the last three months, I have been posting, sharing and contacting rescues, offering a home to an XL Bully before this day arrived. I've sent messages, made offers and waited for replies, knowing that once the deadline passed, the opportunity to simply give one of these dogs a home would disappear.

And now it has.

Yesterday, an XL Bully in rescue could still, in theory, have found a family.

Today, that door is closed.

I keep thinking about the dogs who don't know anything has changed. Dogs sitting in kennels or temporary homes, completely unaware that humans have spent months arguing about their future. They don't understand legislation, bans, deadlines or paperwork. They don't know that today marks the beginning of something that could change their lives forever. They just know whether somebody comes to see them, whether they get their dinner, whether they have somewhere warm to sleep, and whether somebody loves them.

I've had no replies to any of my offers, which makes today feel strangely frustrating. Not because I believe we are owed a dog, but because I know what we could have offered. A home that understands big dogs, rescue dogs and dogs who might arrive carrying a fair bit of emotional baggage.

Of course, anyone looking at our current household might reasonably question whether adding another enormous dog would be a sensible decision. Alice would probably steal its dinner, Nicolas would bark at it for three weeks, Shiva would immediately establish herself as head of security and the cats would refuse to acknowledge its existence until it proved useful as a heated footrest. But we would have made room, we would have figured it out, and I can't help feeling sad today for the dogs who may have been waiting for exactly that chance.

There is, however, one small piece of hope that I am incredibly grateful for. Scotland has not followed the same path, and XL Bullies can still be rehomed there. Knowing that there are still places where these dogs can be given another chance, rather than simply being left behind because of a date on a calendar, feels like a small light in what has otherwise been a very dark situation.

Perhaps that's why the missing cockerpoo puppy has also been playing so heavily on my mind. Two completely different stories, but both involving dogs who are out there somewhere, dependent entirely on humans making the right decisions for them.

One is lost in the woods.

The others are caught up in a system they cannot possibly understand.

And neither knows why.

So while the house smells of toast and coffee, and everyone slowly recovers from Christmas and New Year, I find myself thinking about dogs I haven't met.

The little cockerpoo, somewhere out there in the cold.

And the XL Bullies sitting behind kennel doors, unaware that yesterday they still had the possibility of being rehomed.

Today, all I can do is hope that somebody, somewhere, is still fighting for them. And quietly be grateful that, at least north of the border, some doors are still open.