Handbags and Poobags: Tales of a Soho Boxer Dog

PRAISE FOR
HANDBAGS AND POOBAGS:
TALES OF A SOHO BOXER DOG

“
I think Alice Wright is really Bridget Bones!
Handbags and Poobags.... and bags of laughs too.
A love story with a twist in its very waggy tail.

If you’re contemplating settling down with a good dog, read this first and if it doesn’t put you off then you’ll be fine. Already had your heart stolen by a dog? You’ll definitely recognise the dogification of your wardrobe, the permanent damage to your flooring and especially the gritty bed linen!

What a page-turner. I Loved it.”
Beverley Cuddy,  Editor DOGS TODAY MAGAZINE

“
Heartwarming and hilarious, a must for all dog owners. A lovely story”

Becky Sherriff, THE KINDLE BOOK REVIEW

“Incredibly honest, genuine and captivating...
A real life take on modern day doggie living.

It’s brutally honest yet heart-warmingly brilliant.

A must for all animal fans”

Jessica Brown, PETS MAGAZINE

TWO THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW
BEFORE READING THIS BOOK:

This is not a dog training manual

The dog does not die at the end

If dog-trainer Donald McCaig is to be believed
if you live with a dog you
'share the thoughts, habits, tics and aspirations
of a genuinely alien mind'
…

so then why would you expect anything to go as planned?

PROLOGUE:  THE CONTENTS OF A HANDBAG

Soho, 3am.

I’m standing on the side of the road, neon signs flickering all around me, I’m scanning the traffic for the yellow light of an available taxi-cab. I clutch my expensive handbag to my chest as I sway drunkenly from side to side and rub my blurry eyes. I’ve had a great night out, dining in a beautiful restaurant and drinking in a private members bar with my girlfriends. But now I need to get home. Realising that my chances of flagging down a cab are vastly reduced by displays of drunken behaviour I straighten up and rifle through my bag for a hairbrush.

Current contents of my handbag:

• A crushed packet of cigarettes (Silk Cut)
  
• Two cigarette lighters (borrowed, never given back)
  
• Purse, keys, mobile phone (obviously)
  
• Lipstick (dubious origin, not my colour)
  
• Spare underwear (just in case)
  
• A small but heavy ashtray in the shape of a letter (stolen from said restaurant)
  
• Broken pens (ink everywhere)
  
• Some business cards, a bit soaked in booze
  (one of them has a phone number written on it)
  
• No hairbrush (I think I must have left it in the
  toilets of the bar?) Bugger!
  

Still, it could be worse. I could have found a puddle of cold vomit.

Yes, I’ve been sick in my own handbag before. I was incredibly hungover one morning and it was all I had with me that was suitable. I was in a taxi with my (also very hungover) flatmate on our way to work and we were both late, we’d been to a magazine party the night before and were now feeling the awful after effects of our fun evening out. I knew if I was sick in the car we would be unceremoniously dumped by the side of the road, so there was nothing for it - I opened up my bag and let it go.

My friend immediately clocked what was going on and asked the cab-driver to turn the radio up because she ‘
loved this song’
and proceeded to sing along loudly as I retched. (We had to give up using that cab firm eventually as both of us pretended to be pregnant so many times in order to explain having to pull in by the side of the road so we could throw up it was starting to get suspicious that neither of us were growing any bigger!) I made the mistake of admitting the handbag incident to someone at work and suddenly I became known as the ‘
girl who was sick in her handbag
’ in the office.

This was before I was known as the
‘girl who was sick in her hat’
. Yes, that happened too. One morning on the bus going down Oxford Street after a particularly big night out in the latest new bar to open up in Soho I felt the familiar nausea, I anxiously looked around me for a suitable receptacle as I tried to keep swallowing the liquid that was fast filling my mouth. As I stood up to rush off the bus and hopefully find a roadside bin events sadly overtook me, I was going to be sick right there and then. I yanked the hat (new, grey woollen beret, expensive) off my head and threw up into it, much to the horror of every other passenger. Mustering as much dignity as I could, I stepped off the bus holding the dripping hat out in front of me and walked to office with it. I was loathe to throw it away because it was new and I really liked it. Surely I could wash it out later that night?

On arrival at work I sealed it into a carrier and popped it under my desk. Later that day a colleague walked into my office and remarked: ‘
It smells like sick babies in here’.
Only if they had been drinking vodka! I confessed to my crime, causing much office hilarity. I believe it even went round on a ‘Copy All Office’ email.

Or there was the time I found some cold chips in my handbag one morning. I don’t remember how they got there, but on the way home from some awards ceremony we’d been to the night before we must have thought food was a good idea and bought them. I do remember waking up in bed to the sound of my mobile phone ringing:

“
Where are you?
” It was my boss.

“
I’m in bed”

I’d slept through my alarm, or forgotten to set it.

“
You’re meant to be here. Right now”

Ah yes, that important client meeting that was taking place at 9am.

“I’m on my way”.

Stepping out of bed into some clothes on the floor, I picked up my bag and stepped out of the flat without pausing to brush my hair or teeth, I stepped onto a bus that seemed to be just outside my house and 20 minutes later stepped into the meeting, all apologies. I sat down and opened my handbag to get some chewing gum (last night’s furry tongue was now a harsh reality) only to reveal a cold, congealed bag of uneaten chips. Funny how old chips can still smell just like chips the morning after. Maybe it’s the vinegar? Everyone looked at me in disgust. Well, at least it wasn’t a kebab?

But that was all a long time ago… a long, long time ago. My days of hangover-induced throwing up, staying out late and carrying expensive handbags with rather disconcerting contents are long gone. These days I am far more likely to be found with a carrier bag full of supermarket shopping, or a doggy poobag. The little black plastic sacks carried by dog owners everywhere. The contents of which probably don’t need describing…

Chapter 1: THE AGE OF INNOCENCE

I always assumed I was one of those people who loved animals. But I knew I loved my responsibility free life more. When discussing pets I would always confidently nod my head and agree that ‘
yes I would love a dog’
or ‘
your cat is so cute’
, without really thinking about it and congratulating myself on living what could be termed as a rather hedonistic existence.

Despite having lived with a couple of dogs as a youngster – owned by my mother’s boyfriends and nothing to do with me (I largely ignored them or saw them as a nuisance that had to be walked when I would rather be listening to records in my room) – I had no real experience of owning my own dog and was largely indifferent to their existence.

My track record with other pets wasn’t good! I’d had three hamsters as a young girl, all called Bam-Bam (only distinguished by numbers 1, 2 and 3). I tried to make them into mini-ponies and made my dolls ride them around makeshift racecourses. And all had met their end in a rather odd fashion…. 1 was found sat on and squashed under a sofa cushion, 2 starved because I’d fed it nothing but my toast crumbs for weeks because I didn’t know where to buy food for it and 3 went up the Hoover. To this day I believe youngsters shouldn’t keep pets without constant supervision, and I still feel bad about the Bam-Bams (especially 3).

But because I considered myself an ‘animal lover’ I always thought it would be in my future to have one and often discussed the merits of owning a chinchilla over having a human boyfriend with my mates.

Chinchillas are suited to the single girl’s lifestyle because they are:

• nocturnal by nature (great for when you come home late and want to play)
  
• clean and virtually odourless
  
• hilarious to watch
  
• very soft and cuddly
  

But my life was already packed. I was (and still am) the company director of a small but successful entertainment public relations agency and with an office based in the heart of Soho I didn’t lack opportunities for fun. My world consisted of parties, premieres and private members clubs, lacked responsibility or liability, and I loved it. 

I have always relished freedom and my social life. How does one carry on such an existence when you have small furry mouths to feed at home? There was no room for accountability when you like being able to say yes to any invitation or go to one of the many Soho nightspots at the drop of a hat (hopefully a vomit free one). 

Still I flirted with the idea of animal ownership just so everyone would still consider me that animal lover, and had a few hilarious discussions with my flatmate when we shared a beautiful maisonette in Notting Hill.  We decided that a kitten would be a good idea and made plenty of plans for our new little charge as we sat chatting late into the night over bottles of wine. We even came up with a name for her.

But we knew that the probable fate of ‘Kitty Petal’ would be to end up impaled by a stiletto heel onto our spiral staircase (the result of one of us staggering drunkenly upstairs and oblivious to a small furry scrap of cat asleep on the step). No it was probably not a good idea. And besides we never had anything to eat in the house, only wine and takeaway menus, we’d certainly never remember to buy cat food. Or could kittens eat Broccoli in Oyster Sauce? We weren’t sure.

A visiting friend asked us to consider getting a really, really big dog. Over a booze-fuelled debate he tried to convince us that massive hounds such as Great Danes didn’t really need a lot of walking or attention and could probably sleep under said spiral staircase for about 20 hours a day, only raising their colossal heads to acknowledge our coming home after work.  He actually curled up into the spot to illustrate a suitable sleeping arrangement and insisted it was the perfect city dog. But I wasn’t really sure, it would be like having Jabba The Hut waiting for you at home, and my flatmate did look a little bit like Princess Leia.

(This is the flatmate who managed to drunkenly fall down a full flight of stairs in a rather well-to-do restaurant on one memorable night out – right from the top to the bottom – landing in a crumpled heap at the feet of the maître d’ who, with hands on his hips asked in a rather arch manner: ‘
Shall I call Madame a cab? Or an ambulance?’
Ah we used to have such fun together).

Besides, I was single, successful, carefree, happy. I had designer dresses hanging in my wardrobe and plenty of men to date. What could possibly be missing? Well it turns out that before I got the dog, I got the boyfriend!  I’d managed to bypass even getting a chinchilla.

I really didn’t want a boyfriend when I met Patrick, I had recently finished a rather boring relationship and my beloved Granddad had just died, emotionally I was all over the place. So I told him I was only after sex and fun, and I wasn’t short of either thank you very much.

Patrick and I were old friends. Well not really, he was my client and for anyone else who works in an agency you’ll understand how shocking this would be for everyone else? It’s not really the done thing. We dated secretly for a while which led to quite a few cat and mouse chases around town as we attempted to meet up behind the back of the party crowd. Oh and plenty of private looks in important meetings that I can still giggle and blush about to this day.

I told him of my chinchilla musings and the first present he ever bought me was a book on their upkeep.  He was a big animal lover and had recently come out of a dog-owning relationship. Over our late night romancing he told me of the possibility of keeping one. Could it be true? Could people like me keep animals for real? Without them dying? I wanted to test the theory out, so for one of our very first dates that didn’t involve going to a bar, we decided to spend the day at Discover Dogs – a huge exhibition held annually by The Kennel Club which showcases every type of dog with a view to owning. (If you ever decide to go don’t wear high heels or black clothes)

You get to ask dog-owners important questions about the different breeds in order to make the best choice for you. My questions consisted of ‘
Are they ok with noise?’, ‘Do they need a lot of walking or grooming?’
and
‘Can they balance lemon slices on their nose while I do a tequila shot
?’ They were slightly concerned about us being responsible enough and we were slightly concerned by the helpful terrier owner who cheerfully informed us that his breed were lovely dogs because ‘
if you were having a bit of a knock about with the wife the dog would stand up for her’.
We moved swiftly on…

Seeing all of these animals did bring it home to me how much work would be involved, work and responsibility. Our lives would have to radically change. Was I ready to take the next step? I knew I wasn’t ready to do it alone, which means my relationship with Patrick came under the spotlight. We had to ask ourselves if we were really ready to commit, not just to a dog, but to each other?

I’ve had a varied love life and can mentally cross of most of the major milestones you feel you should experience. I’ve had my heart broken (spending the subsequent year drunk), broken a few hearts myself, met a stranger off the internet, had an affair, been with a bad boy, been swept off my feet, been a friend with benefits and been happily single.  But what did I want now? Did I really only want sex and fun? I had promised myself at least a year of doing nothing but dating and enjoying myself, being free of relationships and responsibility but here I was considering a new long term partner and a dog. I wanted to continue dining out in beautiful London restaurants, dressing up for industry parties and staying out late in Soho drinking dens. I didn’t want to have leave early to get home and feed the dog.

But Patrick was serious about me and he didn’t want to have just sex and fun. He wanted the whole thing. Could I risk losing him because I wanted the opportunity to have another year of being single? I knew I wasn’t getting any younger and chances like the one I was being offered didn’t come along every day.  He went to Cuba for a  few weeks to give me some time to think about things. But he left a present in my bedroom to help me make up my mind – the keys to his Porsche attached to a Tiffany bracelet. Smooth.

A very good friend of mine once gave me some wonderful advice, many years previously we had been bemoaning our single status and I confessed I was worried I would never find a guy willing to take on all of my baggage. Sagely she told me that one day I would meet someone who would not only take on all of my baggage but help me unpack it too, and that would be the guy I should hold onto. Well Patrick was that unpacker. I didn’t need to try and be interesting and exciting as I had in previous relationship, I didn’t need to try and be someone else. I decided to take the plunge.

Not without some regret I packed up my little single girl’s flat and we moved in together. However, we were based in Camden - not far from central London life – and were still partying pretty much every night and sleeping in late at the weekends. It wasn’t a home life conducive to owning a puppy.

It was time for a bit of an awakening. We realised that maybe we were getting a bit too old to go out as much as we were. Our hangovers were lasting longer and I noticed that the industry I worked in was getting younger and younger. My peers were pretty much all paired off: some were even considering (shock, horror) having a family!  I had a fear of becoming the oldest swinger in town. I had terrible visions of trying to squeeze my now over 30 body into the latest fashions and stay out as late as these twenty-something girls I now saw at every event I went to (when I obviously couldn’t do either as well as I used to).

I was reminded of a story concerning two women I used to work with. On entering the ladies toilet a friend of mine discovered our colleague admiring herself and her rather outrageous (far too young for her) outfit in the mirror. She was saying to herself “
Not bad for 45
”. My friend was incredulous and couldn’t help herself asking “
What? That outfit only cost 45 pounds
?”  Quick as a flash the pertinent response was: “
No,
I’m
45, this dress cost hundreds
”. Sadly we all knew that she probably wasn’t that young and the horrible dress certainly wasn’t worth more than £45 (even if it had cost a fortune). Would that be me in the future? Still trying to hang on to my youth and failing and making a fool of myself?

Maybe I did need a new focus? Patrick is nearly ten years older than me and I knew he felt that some settling down might be in order too. A dog would give us that focus, if we could look after a dog satisfactorily, learn to love it and look after it maybe we could see our way clear to being together forever and having our own family? Isn’t that what everyone else did when they met the right person?

The search for our very own dog was on…