Dan Morris: Puppy power brings back some sparkle

To say the last two weeks have been a game of two halves packed with mountainous peaks and fathomless troughs would not be an understatement, but it might actually be almost apt. We’ll begin with the positive stuff, and oh how positive this little chap has turned out to be.

Fifteen days ago my old man made the decision to do something he had sworn he would do for months, though part of me wondered if he would have the heart to take the leap this side of Christmas.

After the loss of our dear family pooch, Dylan, during the summer, my father’s house had been missing the wonderful presence that only a canine companion can bring.

The bitter parting from his four-legged friend was not eclipsed, but cruelly compounded, by the loss of my mum, who passed away after a long and almighty battle with cancer only a few short weeks later (and I extend my deepest thanks and appreciation to all those who sent messages of condolence following my last column. Your support and kind words are cherished beyond measure. Thank you, sincerely, to you all).

Suffice to say, dad’s abode had felt different recently. Were he a lesser man, it would have felt empty.

But his outstanding strength of character ensured that plenty of life remained in the old Morris Manor, just not quite as much as before. I knew it, and I’m pleased he did too – it was time for this to change.

At around 11am in the morning I got the call, and welled up slightly – I must confess – to a particular twang in my dad’s voice that I hadn’t heard for a long time. Excitement.

It then became all too clear as to the reason for the ‘giddy girl guide’ nature of his timbre. “Hi son, I’ve found some!” ‘Some’, when coupled with this tone and my father’s seniority could mean only one thing. Puppies. And I suspected I knew what kind.

“Five Black Lab boys all for sale! What dya reckon?” he asked, his grin palpable through the phone’s receiver. “Like you even have to ask,” I replied, now growing a grin to rival his own. “Great! I’ll call them and come and get you when you’ve finished work and we can go and choose one together.”

Later, and almost at the very moment I laid my pen to rest for the day, my dad was at my door and bundling me into his car for a 50-mile road trip that would unite us with the newest member of our family.

Cute as a button, bold as brass and at least 80 per cent floppy skin, the beautiful brown-eyed boy I held in my hands when we reached our destination was one of us from the moment we held each other’s gaze.

And so, after filling in all of the requisite paperwork and gathering our brand-new, jet-black bundle of joy up and on to my lap in the passenger seat, we made the journey home with Frank, my dad’s brand new four-pawed pal, and a lad who has returned a bit of sparkle to our world just when it was most required.

I managed to enjoy four good days of visits with the new playful pooch before the proverbial came into contact with the metaphorical air conditioning unit, and the ‘second half’ of the fortnight’s game began in earnest. The day after my father’s birthday, I tested positive for Covid-19. I have been one of the very lucky ones. While not escaping the effects of the virus entirely, I have been fortunate not to have experienced much more than I remember from the last time I had a common cold.

I’m double-jabbed, and this, I firmly believe, will have played a huge part in stymieing the virus. I’ve been very fortunate – millions have not been. Though now as I write, I am deep in isolation at Chez Dan and will remain as such until early next week.

By the time I emerge from my carefully cultivated man-cave, I expect that Frank will have trebled in size and dear old dad will be well in need of a rest. I will happily take over puppy patrol, and spend plenty of joyful hours getting to know my father’s new little basket of trouble. Until then, this isolation station will be playing all the hits, throwing any fitness concerns promptly from the rooftop, and indulging in a pity feast of fried chicken washed down with a gaming revisit to Red Dead Redemption, and the movie-magic medicine of Quentin Tarantino’s back catalogue. Boo-yah. Boo-yah indeed.

The third part of the tumultuous tale? Ah, but of course! My affection for pirates, swashbuckling and the general shivering of timbers is well known, and thanks to my then-fresh bout of Covid I was forced last weekend to forego one of the few opportunities that has ever legitimately allowed me to plan to don my now famous ‘apparel à la Cap’n Jack’. What are the odds that the only time a pirate-themed party falls on the social calendar, I’d ironically be far too resemblant of a pasty-faced codfish to attend?

Still, just because you can’t leave the house doesn’t mean it can’t still be the pirate’s life for ye! I didn’t bother with the boots or the buccaneer’s belt (hence the ‘almost’), but the eye-liner and the hat were firmly fixed for a FaceTime session with Frank and the old fella. I suppose the little guy might as well know what he’s gotten into from day one...

Drink up me hearties, yo ho! As fortnights go, this one could have been a lot worse.