Behaving Badly. Isabel Wolff
I tidied the consulting room, then went round the corner—stopping to answer Russell the chiropractor’s polite enquiries about how I was settling in—and bought some biscuits and flowers. Then I put Herman in the kitchen—he doesn’t mix with the clients—and, at ten thirty, Fiona and Miles Green turned up. They were about my age, good-looking, well dressed and clearly successful judging from their smart address in Notting Hill Gate. I made them some coffee, then sat behind my desk, observing the dog, which did look rather dismal, while they sat side by side on the couch.
‘We’re both very busy people,’ Fiona explained as she nibbled on a chocolate oliver, ‘but you see Sinead’s our pride and joy…’ Sinead was lying on the rug with her head in her paws, ‘…and we felt it was important to get her some psychological support.’
‘She does seem rather dejected,’ I said, as I took notes. ‘Irish setters are normally incredibly lively. So when did this subdued behaviour first start?’
‘About three months ago,’ Mrs Green replied.
‘No, it’s not as long as that,’ her husband corrected her gently. ‘I’d say it was about six weeks actually.’
‘No, it wasn’t!’ she snapped. ‘It was three months. Do you think I wouldn’t notice something like that—my own dog?’ I discreetly wrote down ‘child substitute’ and ‘marital tension’.
‘Our dog,’ he said. Sinead lifted her head and looked at them anxiously.
‘It’s all right, baby,’ said Fiona, leaning forward to stroke her. ‘It’s all right. Mummy and Daddy aren’t cross.’
‘How old is she?’ I asked. ‘Two?’
‘Just under. We’ve had her for about a year and a half.’
‘And has she had any specific traumas? Did she get in a fight with another dog, for example? Or has she had a near miss with a car?’
‘No. Nothing like that,’ said Fiona. ‘I work at home, so I’m with her all day. All I know is she seems constantly depressed and she just lies in her basket. It’s heartbreaking,’ she added, her voice suddenly catching.
‘I don’t wish to be personal, Mr and Mrs Green, but are there any specific stresses in the, well, family dynamics, to which she might be reacting?’ This was a rhetorical question. There clearly were.
‘Well, no, not…really,’ Fiona replied, crossing her arms defensively.
I saw her husband roll his eyes. ‘C’mon, Fi,’ he said wearily. ‘You know there are. And I think it’s relevant. I’ve said so all along.’ He looked at me. ‘You see—’
‘I don’t want to discuss it!’ she hissed.
‘But it might be important,’ Miles protested.
‘But it’s private!’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Green,’ I interjected. ‘I’m not asking you to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I can assure you that I’m bound by a code of confidentiality which means that anything you do choose to tell me will go to my grave.’
‘Okay then,’ she sighed. She opened her bag and got out a tissue; her husband gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘We’ve been trying for a baby for four years,’ she explained quietly. ‘That’s why we got Sinead, actually, to distract us from the stress. This year we’ve had IVF, but our first two attempts have failed.’
‘Well, that would put a strain on any relationship, however happy,’ I said. They both nodded. ‘And dogs are incredibly sensitive to changes in atmosphere, and I think Sinead is simply picking up on that. So I think that you should try and protect her from emotional stress by having any sensitive discussions when she’s out of the room.’
‘But it’s not just that she’s depressed,’ said Fiona. ‘She’s been behaving in a peculiar way. For instance, she’s started stealing things.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Very odd things—Miles’s shirts out of the laundry basket, for example.’
‘She might find it comforting if he’s out.’
‘But she steals old egg-boxes too. And the other day she took five empty plastic flowerpots out of the garden, one by one, and put them in her bed. And she was arranging them so carefully, almost tenderly, as if she loved them. It was weird. We didn’t know what to think.’
Ah.
I got up and went over to Sinead, pushed her gently onto her side, and lifted up the feathery fur on her underside. Her tummy was slightly bloated and pink.
‘Has she been anywhere near a dog?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes—positive. And when she was last on heat we kept her in.’
‘Then she’s having a phantom pregnancy. That’s why she’s so subdued. Females that have never been mated can get very broody. They become listless, and they stay in their beds, which they carefully arrange, because basically they’re making a nest. Then they look for objects which they can put in their “nursery” and “mother”—hence the egg-boxes and flowerpots. They even show some of the symptoms of pregnancy, just as she’s doing. Look at her nipples.’
Fiona’s jaw slackened.
‘Good God.’
‘If she’d been smooth-haired you would have noticed it, but her long fur covers it up. That’s what it is. A phantom pregnancy. I used to see this when I was a vet.’
‘I see.’
‘So you don’t have to worry that she has psychological problems, or any kind of depression—she doesn’t. She just wants to be a mum.’
Mrs Green dabbed at her eyes. ‘Maybe she’s doing it in sympathy with me.’
‘We were going to have her spayed actually,’ said Miles.
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ They both nodded. ‘Don’t. Or, at least not yet. Why don’t you let her have puppies?’
‘Actually…that’s a very good idea,’ said Miles slowly. He suddenly smiled. ‘We hadn’t thought of that.’
‘No,’ Fiona agreed. She stroked the dog’s head. ‘We’ve been so caught up in ourselves.’
‘And it’s nice for girl dogs to be allowed to have at least one litter,’ I pointed out, ‘otherwise, well,’ I shrugged, ‘they can feel a bit sad.’
‘Oh,’ said Fiona. ‘I see. We could have puppies. That would be fun, wouldn’t it, darling?’ Miles nodded. ‘Maybe we won’t have a baby, but we’ll have some sweet little puppies.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s what I would do if I were you.’
‘Well, that’s very good advice,’ Fiona said as they stood up. ‘I feel quite overcome.’ She gave me a watery smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘Not at all.’ I felt slightly emotional myself.
Maybe Sinead was picking up on Fiona’s frustration, I thought, as I prepared to set off for Caroline Mulholland’s house half an hour later. Maybe she was even trying to have a baby for her, who knows. I mean, dogs do imitate us, because they love us—they want to do all the things that we do. We sit—they sit. We sing—they howl. We vacate the driver’s seat—they jump right in. We get broody—maybe they get broody…? That’s the thing about being a behaviourist: you have to work out what’s going