Poppy’s Tails: The puppy next door

The Hendersons next door got a puppy. I need to talk about this because nobody asked for my opinion beforehand, and I have several.

His name is Barney. He’s a Cockapoo. He’s approximately four months old, three kilos of curly-haired chaos, and he has made it his personal mission to become my best friend.

I did not agree to this.

The arrival

I knew something was happening before anyone told me. Dogs moved into Mrs Henderson’s car. I could hear the carrier being taken inside, the excited high-pitched chatter of the Henderson grandchildren, and then, from somewhere inside the house, a small, piercing yap.

I was in the garden at the time, enjoying a quiet moment in the afternoon sun, which is my favourite activity and one I take very seriously. The yap came through the fence. Then another. Then a third, followed by a scrabbling sound and the tip of a black nose appearing through a gap between the panels.

I walked over and sniffed. Puppy. Definitely puppy. That unmistakable smell of new fur, milk teeth, and unbridled stupidity.

I went back inside.

The fence meetings

The thing about puppies is they don’t understand boundaries. Not physical ones, not social ones, not the carefully maintained territorial boundaries that exist between neighbouring gardens and have been respected by all parties for over a decade.

Every time I went into the garden, Barney appeared at the fence. Every. Single. Time. It didn’t matter if it was 7am or 7pm. The moment my paws hit the patio, there he was, nose through the gap, tail going like a windscreen wiper, making noises that can only be described as what happens when excitement meets a mouth that hasn’t quite figured out how barking works yet.

He’d push his nose through. I’d sniff it once and walk away. He’d push it through again. I’d ignore him. He’d start yapping. I’d look at him with an expression I’d been perfecting for ten years, the one that says “I am old enough to be your grandmother and you will respect that.”

He did not respect that.

He stuck his entire head through the gap. His curly ears got caught on a splinter and he yelped. Mrs Henderson came out and untangled him. He did it again the next day.

The arranged introduction

Mum and Mrs Henderson decided we should meet “properly.” This is code for “let’s put them together in a controlled setting and hope for the best,” which in my experience is how most disasters begin.

They chose Mrs Henderson’s garden. Neutral ground, they said, though I’d argue that your neighbour’s garden is the opposite of neutral when you’ve spent years barking at their cat from the other side of the fence.

I was carried through the gate. Barney was sitting on the lawn, vibrating with anticipation. His entire body was trembling. His tail was going so fast it was practically a blur. He looked like someone had plugged a small, curly dog into the mains.

The moment I was put down, he launched himself at me. Full sprint. Four kilos of Cockapoo puppy, moving at a speed that suggested he’d been fired from a catapult.

I stood my ground. He bounced off me, rolled over, bounced back up, and came at me again. I gave him a growl. Not an aggressive growl. A teaching growl. The one that says “I am the adult here and you need to calm down immediately.”

He calmed down for approximately three seconds, during which he lay flat on his belly with his chin on the ground, looking up at me with huge brown eyes. Then he leapt up again and tried to chew my ear.

I gave him a look. He lay down. Got up. Tried to play. Got the look. Lay down. Got up. Tried to play. Got the look.

This went on for about fifteen minutes, which in Lhasa Apso patience terms is an extraordinary achievement.

The gradual thaw

Over the following weeks, something happened. I’m not comfortable talking about it, but in the interest of honesty, I’ll share.

I started looking for him.

Not deliberately. Not obviously. But when I went into the garden, I’d glance at the fence. Just a quick check. Professional interest. Was he there? Was he not? Had he learned to keep his head out of the gap?

He was always there. And gradually, incrementally, in a way that I will maintain until my dying day was entirely on my terms, I started to tolerate him.

The fence meetings changed. Instead of walking away after one sniff, I’d stay for two. Then three. Then I’d sit on my side of the fence while he sat on his, and we’d just be there. Together. Separately. A respectful distance maintained by a wooden panel and a carefully negotiated treaty of mutual sniffing.

Dad noticed. “I think she actually likes him,” he said to Mum.

I do not like him. I tolerate him. There’s a considerable difference.

The breakthrough

It happened on a Tuesday. I was in the garden, lying in my usual sun spot. Barney was at the fence, but he wasn’t yapping. He wasn’t pushing his nose through. He was just lying there, on his side, quiet for possibly the first time in his short, ridiculous life.

I looked at him through the gap. He looked at me. There was a moment, and I want to be careful how I describe this, because I have a reputation to maintain. There was a moment where he looked at me with something that wasn’t excitement or desperation or the manic energy of a puppy who’s just discovered that other dogs exist.

He looked at me like he was just happy I was there.

And I thought: fine. FINE. You can be my neighbour. But there are rules. No jumping. No ear-chewing. No full-sprint greetings. You wait until I come to the fence. You let me sniff first. And you absolutely, under no circumstances, ever try to follow me into my garden.

He seems to have understood most of this.

Where we are now

Barney is six months old now. He’s twice the size he was when he arrived and still approximately as intelligent as a potato, but he’s learning. He sits at the fence and waits. He doesn’t yap as much. When we have our garden meetings, he lies on his belly and lets me approach first.

He still gets overexcited sometimes. Last week he brought a toy to the fence and dropped it through the gap as if offering me a gift. It was a soggy stuffed duck with one eye missing. I sniffed it, assessed its quality (poor), and left it where it was.

But I appreciate the gesture.

Mrs Henderson says Barney’s calmed down since we started having regular fence chats. She thinks I’m a “good influence.” Mum thinks it’s “adorable.” Dad says I’ve finally found someone I can boss around who isn’t him.

None of these descriptions are accurate. What’s happened is that a young, undisciplined Cockapoo has been fortunate enough to live next door to a senior Lhasa Apso with the patience and wisdom to teach him some manners.

He’s still got a long way to go. But he’s trying.

And that soggy duck he left me? It’s still in the garden. I haven’t moved it. I’m not saying I’m keeping it.

I’m just saying it’s there.

Has your Lhasa befriended (or merely tolerated) a younger dog? Share the story in the comments. Bonus points for photos of them refusing to admit they like each other.