Author Tony Parsons never wanted a dog. Then Stan came into his life and taught him about companionship, happiness and the joy of living in the moment.
Stan and I set out for Hampstead Heath on the first day of spring. Stan was a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with fur the colour of Rita Hayworth’s hair. Stan and I had both celebrated significant birthdays during the long winter. Within weeks of each other, he had turned 12 and I had turned 70. Both our birthdays seemed impossible, inexplicable. Twelve! Seventy! Almost half my life was over! And yet neither of us had any complaints as we set off for the Heath on the first day of spring.
Stan had suffered a few health issues when he first hit those double digits. There were lumps and bumps in his fabulous red fur that were never there before – but thankfully the vet said they were all benign. And there had been a bad tooth that had to come out, despite my wife Yuriko cleaning Stan’s teeth every night.
Yes, there were aches and pains in his limbs that he took supplements to ease, like any ageing gentleman. But all things considered, Stan and I were both in pretty good nick. By that soft spring evening when the Heath was bursting with new life, I had been boxing with Fred at Fred’s gym on Heath Street for over 20 years, and I was fitter than I had been at 50.
And Stan had avoided the health issue that cruelly strikes so many of his beautiful breed – heart disease. Whenever Stan was taken to see a vet, the first thing they always did was listen to his heartbeat. And they were always astounded.
Because Stan had a heart like Usain Bolt. Still, the candles on your birthday cake don’t lie and there was no denying the passing of time. But as we reached the Heath it felt as if time was passing in a good way. We were joined by the red leather lead between us, although it was always held so loose in my hand that it did not need to be there at all. Stan and I were linked by something else – a bond so strong that it felt like it would never be broken.
I had been one of those selfish souls who did not want a dog. Thirteen years earlier, Yuriko and I had tried to fob our daughter Jasmine off with a rabbit. Jasmine was nine years old at the time, home from school and not very well at all, and the illness was dragging on longer than anyone expected.
We were willing to do just about anything to lift her spirits. Apart from the one thing that Jasmine really wanted us to do. Get her a dog. Yuriko and I were a lot like the man in that old Meat Loaf song. We would do anything for Jasmine – but we wouldn’t do that. I had been one of those who did not want a dog in their busy life. I did not want the responsibility of a dog.
There was not a dog-shaped space in my world, I had foolishly believed. But our nine-year-old daughter wanted a dog. I mean, she really wanted a dog! She craved, yearned, and ached for a dog. And so we said – ‘How about a rabbit, Jas? You know, a lovely, fluffy-eared bunny rabbit?’ Her face grew pale with outrage. I folded before Yuriko. Yuriko knew dogs. ‘Life is better with a dog,’ she said. ‘And easier without one.’
Jasmine – her fingers impatiently tapping pages 42 to 43 of her well thumbed copy of What Dog? – insisted there was only one candidate for our family: a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Loving, easy-going and small. Gentle and courteous. Flexible. Happy chilling out at home – but with an unexpected sporting ancestry. We looked around for a breeder.
Stan was a Ruby Cavalier and his official Kennel Club name was Enigmai Sir Strontian Turms (a messenger of the gods). Which was a very fancy name for a two-kilogram poo-and-pee machine. Stan sounded like somebody’s old uncle – and that’s what we always loved about his name.
He was eight weeks old and was clearly and quite obviously the most beautiful dog in the world. The breeder Trish cried as we were leaving Southampton for the long drive back to London, and she hugged Stan close.
Yuriko had grown up with dogs, but we saw now that those dogs were largely looked after by her parents, while Yuriko got to do the fun stuff, like dry Jane the Sheltie’s wet fur with a hairdryer. And I had had my dog – my long-lost Laddie – before I had even started school, so I had been too small to look after myself, let alone look after a dog. This time there was no mum and dad doing the hard yards.
Yuriko and I were like first-time dog owners, which is like being bewildered first-time parents. We were amazed at how hard we had to work. Yet despite all the work he created and the mess Stan produced when he was at peak puppy, there was a quiet joy he bestowed upon everyone he met. He made us smile all the time. The sound of him noisily drinking water. His snoring. The way he tilted his head to one side, and then the other, when contemplating some mystery of the universe that he could not quite solve.
He swiftly became part of our family. More than this, he became the family’s most popular member. Dogs bring you so much. We had been living in Hampstead for ten years but it was only when we got Stan that we really started to feel like part of the neighbourhood.
People suddenly talked to you if you had a dog. Age, race, gender – none of it mattered. You were suddenly part of an all-inclusive dog-loving fraternity. A man who looked just like Ricky Gervais stopped to compliment Stan on his beauty. And it was Ricky Gervais. Ricky, a long-term Hampstead resident, is in the end just a bloke from Reading who loves dogs.
From walking Jasmine to school to exploring a part of the Heath he had never seen before, to his Japanese lessons with Yuriko, to meeting his Golden Retriever friends on a Sunday morning, to dozing by my desk while I worked – Stan loved it all. Stan was always happy doing whatever he was doing – even if it was just enjoying the deep content of our still, silent days, where he napped while I worked; I wrote more than 10 books with him curled up beside me.
I would hear Stan’s snoring as I worked, and I knew that the last thing in his head was what may or may not happen at some point in the future. It was more than a love of life. It was a love of right here, right now – a love of the living moment. Stan had a genius for finding the bliss in every living experience.
That was his great gift – being present. And I knew I would be a much happier man if I could be a bit more like my dog. Stan also got me out of the house. Walking at daybreak, it was a good way to start a day. The best way to start the day. I guess I had seen a few sunrises before, but not like these.
Watching the sunrise with Stan was not the same as seeing the sunrise after you had stayed up all night with Thin Lizzy in Philadelphia. Stan got me out of indoors and into the world, and without me even thinking about it, he immersed me deep into nature in a way that I only vaguely remembered from my childhood. As a kid growing up, I had roamed the fields of Essex until it was time for tea.
A life built around ponds and fields and trees and spinneys. Weather that you could feel. Air that was clean enough to breathe. Stan reintroduced me to that natural world. I was watching the seasons unfurl only because of Stan. And when it rained, and the Heath turned to mud, and the bathing ponds were deserted, we still made our way to the fields and the woods and the hills we had come to love.
Stan was also constant in a way that humans can never be. We grow away from our parents and our children grow away from us. A dog does not grow away from you. Whatever the world thought I was worth, Stan was on my side. No matter how my stock rose and fell out in the working world, Stan was clearly sticking by me for the duration.
I was healthier, happier and calmer because of this red dog. I was a better man than I was 12-and-a-half years ago. And all of that because Stan was here.
Man & Dog: A Love Story, by Tony Parsons, RRP: £20
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