My Childhood Home Was A Dog Haven
It’s what happens when your mother is addicted to them…
The house we lived in in Hungary was an old bungalow with a decent-sized garden. My parents had bought it to escape a flat in a ten-floor apartment building with vinyl flooring.
“We wouldn’t stand a chance if it caught fire,” Mum would fret. With two young children, they were desperate to find a place where we could have space outside and no stairs to climb.
So, we moved out of the block building into the old bungalow, which had more issues than we bargained for, but it did have one advantage: it didn’t have vinyl flooring.
The house came with a dog, Ursula. I know, an unusual name. Her owners had left her behind when she no longer suited their living arrangements.
It could’ve been a sob story, but Ursula made it easy.
She was sweet and easy to fall in love with, but we had to play by the rules — her rules, to be precise.
That meant no stroking around the muzzle and tail area, or there would be consequences — namely, tooth marks on our hands.
Also, she was a free spirit and would occasionally jump over the fence to go for a stroll in town. We could never catch her on time.
“Is Ursula home yet?” one day, Mr. George, a friendly neighbour with a remarkably mean wife, would ask. “I saw her in town earlier,” he added. She was getting on a bus.”
It was a common occurrence.
Ursula often lurked around shops in the hope of getting some food. Sometimes neighbours complained that she’d sit by the entrance of their homes and growl at them when they tried to open the door.
Events like this were a constant supply of amusement as our dog didn’t look scary at all. On the contrary. Ursula never did anything that a piece of sausage couldn’t have settled nicely.
What’s wrong with a dog living life on her terms?
After she passed away from old age, a new pattern emerged, and stray/needy pets started to fill the house and our garden.
I still remember twelve years old me walking toward the garden gate to let Chrissy in. My friend, who couldn’t see me but must’ve heard my footsteps from a distance, shouted:
“Ana, there’s a dog here. You don’t have to take him in!”
I could see the black paws in the ground clearance beneath the gate, covered in soft fur, like tiny boots.
It was Snuggles, one of our latest rescues. Like Ursula, he liked popping into town and returned just as Chrissy decided to stop by.
He happily scampered in when I opened the gate, his tail wagging. He showed off in front of my friend, looking at her with gleaming eyes. “Hey, I don’t need taking in. I’m family.”
Mum had found him one day when she (ironically) worked at an abattoir. My animal-loving mum, who would fight for every wounded and abandoned four-legged furball, worked there as a bookkeeper, religiously keeping away from the building where the actual slaughtering took place.
Snuggles would wander outside the office building, hoping to find some leftovers by the bins. Or a piece of something accidentally dropped on the ground.
Some days he’d eat, some days he’d go hungry.
Mum’s heart went out to him every time he showed up. “I can’t see him like that for much longer” — she said when she returned from work.
So, she’d start to hatch a plan, and we already knew how that would end.
Dad and I were in the kitchen one day when we heard a commotion.
“Come on, this way. Don’t be afraid!” Mum chimed in a high-pitched tone as if she was speaking to a child, while she led the way to the new arrival with a piece of sausage.
We stood on the patio and watched the events unfold, taking in the view of a medium-sized dog — a black mix of numerous breeds with hair sticking in every direction.
Mum, with sufficient sausage supply in her hands, walked ahead, and Snuggles followed. Instinctively like he knew this place was safe, no one would hurt him anymore.
“Okay, he may not be the most beautiful dog I’ve ever seen,” Mum said, “But he’s ours now”. And just like that, Snuggles became a part of the household.
We got into a routine with him, and he was well-liked by our cats. Of course, he was, the felines did not see him as a threat.
Lucifer the tuxedo cat, Cili the tabby, and her daughter Camouflage (she was tricoloured) valued nothing more than peace.
And peace they got until one day Mum came home with a puppy from the farmers market, infested with fleas. “They found her brother a home. I couldn’t just leave her there,” she reasoned. So, we bathed the already chunky German Shepherd, while also becoming infested with fleas.
Dorka did not receive the warm welcome Snuggles enjoyed by the cats. They sniffed danger early on. They knew their peaceful days were coming to an end.
As Dorka started to grow, so did our problems. And the fact that she saw herself as a leader did not go down well with the rest.
Like toddlers, they’d fight day and night over the silliest things on Earth.
“This is my tree. You can’t lay here” or “Get away from my water bowl”. Trying to stop the fights between the two while keeping the cats safe started to wear us out fast.
A couple of months later, a neighbour rang the bell. “My Dachshund mix just had puppies. Would you like one?” “Sure,” my mum replied.
As we didn’t have enough trouble already, solving conflicts between Dorka and Snuggles daily.
Let’s do this.
So, when I returned home from a residential trip, I found my family cooing over a sausage dog with silky, golden fur, quivering in Mum’s hands.
We named him Tiny, and — pandemonium or not — he’d soon become the love of our lives.
He enchanted us with his silky being and doe eyes, his sturdy, little body covered in the lightest hue of brown hair.
Our home slowly started to resemble a shelter for pets. We now had three dogs and numerous cats.
Some of them just came and went, hanging out for a few days before leaving to beg for food elsewhere.
Thinking back, it was for the best, as our household was running at full capacity by now.
Eventually, we stopped welcoming more animals and focused on the ones we kept tripping over daily. That was a juggling act in itself. But we managed rather well despite the occasional dramas between Dorka and Snuggles.
Mostly, there was peace, and the daily acts of love and gratitude we got from our rescues kept melting our hearts.
As the years went on, our fur babies would gradually pass. One by one, taking a piece of us with them. And our garden, like a makeshift cemetery, would become a reminder of love. Oh, so much love.
Tiny, the Dachshund mix was the last one from the crew. The centre of my Mum’s life. The most painful loss of all.
Dad was visiting us in England when he passed away. I can still hear his sobs today as he sat on the bed, his phone next to him. My funny, kind-hearted dad, who looked after them like they were his children, heaved in pain. I put my arms around him as we quietly said our goodbyes hoping he’d be with others who left before.
The universe has its ways, though. And one day — after Tiny’s death — a small dog joined my parents while in town. Surprise, surprise — he was also a Dachshund mix. The small dog seemed lost rather than stray. Well-kept, but without a collar.
He looked like Tiny, and Mum fell in love. Again. “We can’t just leave him here,” she told my dad. And guess what. …
She started to hatch a plan.
Mini, creatively baptized after Tiny, walked home with my parents, who attempted to find his owners but were happy that their search yielded no results. They had another dog to love. Another little life to be “saved”.
Mini had lived with my parents for thirteen years. He was loved, spoilt, and had a dog bed, a blanket, and countless squeaky toys. He was their companion in their retirement years.
The day he crossed the rainbow bridge, my parents were inconsolable. The pain was too much to bear, and grief like a storm cloud on a summer day had darkened their world.
“We don’t want any more pets,” Mum squirmed, her lips quivering.
My heart sank as her once unshakeable belief — “A life without dogs is a life not worth living” — had suddenly wavered.
They stuck to their words and didn’t adopt another dog. For a few months.
“We’re going to the dog shelter next week,” Mum announced one evening while speaking on Skype. Nonchalantly, like it was nothing earth-shattering. Like she never made a promise choking on her words.
I smiled at her with a knowing face. “One more dog,” she said, “for the last time.”
A few days later, my parents returned from the rescue centre with “Zoe” in tow. She was a medium-sized black-and-white mix of terriers, found in a flat a few weeks prior next to her deceased owner.
To survive, she’d chewed through the water pipe, causing a major leak in the apartment below. Extensive damage, but it saved her bacon. The neighbour had a complaint to make, but it was only Zoe to answer the angry knock on the door.
She’s a sweet and well-behaved girl, but she shrinks to half her size when we make sudden movements. Tail between her legs, waiting for the blow…
Cuddles reassure her that her past is not her present. But they all have a story, just like we do.
Bad memories and injuries are all part of them. No love can change that, but care and patience can help them fade.
That’s what we’d done over the years, though we never put it into words. Mum is still committed to this mission, “the last one”, as she says at the age of 75.
When Dad passed away four years ago, Zoe would sit by the garden gate for weeks. She’d wag her tail whenever someone walked past, thinking, hoping it may be Dad.
She’s now accepted the unchangeable, though she doesn’t understand death.
There’s something about rescue pets that makes them special — something that isn’t quite tangible, yet is so obvious.
The gratitude in their eyes. The way they celebrate the tiniest human kindness.
Their unconditional loyalty will never wobble, and people who adopt pets know this too well.
Just like Mum, she’s addicted to dogs.
