Adopting a Dog in Dire Need of a Home Was the Push I Needed to Write

How does one quiet, unassuming dog have so much impact?

This morning, as I felt Ginger’s eyes on me while I picked my laptop up from my desk and brought it to my bed, I wondered what was going through her mind.

Was she thinking “Here she goes again, always on that damn laptop,” or was she merely observing, with a quiet gratitude for the security of routine and the comfort of knowing she can happily cosy up for a bit longer before walkies?

And then I realised something else; I only began bringing my laptop to bed each morning after she came to live with me.

And she was the reason.

She was the reason for many changes in my life, but the laptop-in-bed thing — that was poignant. Already struggling to scrape a living as a single mother working around my kids and their many differing needs, I had been seriously unsure how I would navigate bringing a dog onboard my already hectic schedule.

To be clear, it wasn’t just that I was bringing my laptop to bed to do exactly the same work as I had previously been doing. It was me embracing a change in my lifestyle…and pivoting in my money-earning journey.

All through 2020 and early 2021, my life had been spent largely on Zoom, looking smart, and positioning myself close to the router to ensure a fast and uninterrupted connection. I had been working as a social media and mindset coach for a small coaching company but took leave and went independent after I realised I was burning out.

Simultaneously, I was invited to write a chapter for a collaboration book, which delighted me. I had always loved writing and, on and off since I was a child, had dreamed of the lifestyle of holing myself up away from people and just writing. My previous experience of writing a blog, as well as the chunks of time I set aside for writing this chapter, took me straight back to that dream and childhood moments of sitting at my ‘writing desk’, positioned in front of the window overlooking the garden and the countryside beyond, where I would write stories and dream of being a famous author.

Once the chapter-writing was completed, I longed for an excuse to just sit and write again. But that excuse wasn’t forthcoming. Until one day, I realised it had appeared in my life, just like that.

It was spring 2021 and, despite my sister being geographically closer to me than she had been in 23 years, I still felt the huge gap between her life and mine.

She had moved her family, her dogs, and the entire contents of her house in the Philippines to France the previous August. But France, for me, was still only accessible by the internet, not physically. So her news still arrived by WhatsApp. And, on that particular day, the WhatsApp news bulletin of the day wasn’t pleasant at all.

Her eldest dog — sweet, ex-street dog Ginger — had been badly attacked by her young German Shepherd bitch, and had to be rushed to the vet for stitches.

I may not have been much of a doggy person but I knew that once a dog tastes the blood of a certain human or animal, it will likely attack again. And she did. Three more times.

My sister did all she could to try to understand what had caused Meg to attack her beloved pack leader of four years since she’d arrived as a puppy. She consulted a friend and dog behaviouralist for help, and the conclusion, following hormone level checks, was that it was bitch aggression and that they simply couldn’t remedy it.

The only option was to rehome one of the dogs.

I never understood at the time why Ginger was the one chosen to be rehomed when she had been with the family the longest, and I knew how much my sister adored her. The answer to that, I learnt later, was because her husband wouldn’t have it any other way. One of the many times my sister’s voice was silenced by her domineering husband.

One evening, the WhatsApp news station came to life, asking if I knew anyone who would want to adopt Ginger. In her year in mostly locked-down France, and due to how isolated her property was, she hadn’t got to know anyone at all locally.

I said I would ask around, and I did.

I messaged many dog-loving friends and asked them to put the word out. I got a total of three leads, two of whom decided against adopting her and the third simply ghosted me.

Meanwhile, it was niggling me that Ginger was too sweet and too special to give away to another family. And now, with these interested parties shying off adopting her, it felt like the universe may be trying to tell me something.

But still, I resisted. I already had a full life and I really didn’t know how I would fit in time to care for a dog. Plus, after two years in our home, I’d finally settled the cats, who had been totally freaked out by passing cars and people after living in the countryside, surrounded by fields and moorland. I didn’t need a dog coming in and upsetting them again.

And yet, my daughter had begged me for a dog for years. The idea of managing a puppy had put me off. But, at the age of nine, Ginger was a mature dog with whom I wouldn’t have the young pup training challenges.

I mentioned my conflicting thoughts to different people. The sensible ones told me that I needed to forget the idea and let my sister deal with finding a home. The non-sensible ones thought that Ginger coming to live with us was a brilliant idea.

As for me, I simply couldn’t make up my mind.

With Ginger separated from the rest of the dogs and my sister becoming more fraught, I eventually told her that Ginger should come here for the time being and then I would find her a forever home.

There were severe Covid restrictions and quarantines in place and it wasn’t easy for my sister to bring her. Instead she booked a pet taxi. She drove for seven hours to reach the Channel Tunnel and, once there, bade farewell to Ginger as the befuddled dog was taken away in a van and onto a train under the sea.

By the time plans were laid for Ginger’s move to the UK, I knew I wouldn’t be passing her on to any other family. She would be staying forever.

I met the pet taxi at a motorway service station on the English side and we began our new life — Ginger in a strange new home, with a strange new family and two hostile cats, and me becoming devoted to daily walks, caring for a confused and recovering dog, and navigating how I would continue to manage my home and my business with the new addition.

Due to taking care of this traumatised old girl seemingly wanting to be in constant close proximity to her adopted human, I found myself unable to continue with the kind of online work I was doing. Committing to zoom calls and putting myself constantly in that external exposure state was beginning to feel impossible. Plus, the school summer holidays were looming and that posed, as ever, an even bigger obstacle to being able to keep up a consistent social media presence and my ability to commit to clients.

And so I did what any normal person would do. I said “to hell with it” and chucked it in, bar a few cherished clients who would keep me afloat financially for the moment.

But I didn’t, at that point, just sit around doing nothing. Oh no, I had a plan. I always have a plan. Planning is always a big part of the fun.

That plan was to write. Starting on Medium.

I’d previously read some articles that boasted about the amount of money you could make, and had decided to ignore them, because that’s what I do when people insinuate that utterly unrealistic achievements are possible. But I love writing. And I love reading. And if some income was possible then I was all in.

I had already been a non-paying Medium member for a few years and read the odd article that popped up in my Daily Digest. Now it was time to pay the meagre subscription and read a ton. Mostly, with it being summer and no plans to travel anywhere — Covid restrictions and now a new dog ensuring that — my reading was done outside on my phone app while in the park with a happy son and a contented Ginger.

My writing — that would be done in the early mornings, when the kids were still sleeping, and I could bring my laptop to bed while Ginger lay at my feet. I made the decision that I would write every day, no matter what, and simply explore how this could work for me.

Did I expect to make a ton of money from writing? Certainly not. But I figured I could give it my all to bring in enough to keep us afloat. I still had just enough coaching clients to cover costs for now and would aim to bring in enough to cover my back.

I never expected to be made rich in any way from writing but I was tired of battling against the odds and I wanted to do something that brought me joy.

I had no idea just how amazing the journey would become.

It’s now two years and three months since that moment I decided to commit to writing. For some time, I challenged myself to publish daily on Medium and found my way into editing with publications.

I simultaneously explored freelancing and, through a combination of existing connections and people finding me through my Medium portfolio, I began my ghost-writing service.

I’m still a long way from wealthy doing this. But, while the money is a necessary aspect for me to continue writing, it was never the sole motive, and could never be the sole reason.

And, while earning an income is vital for me to be able to continue everything I do here on Medium, it pales in comparison to everything else that has come from being here and committing to writing as my path.

A couple of days ago, I read an essay by Christopher Robin that echoed everything I had just written in an unpublished draft, in which I was expressing my gratitude for where the journey as a writer has taken me. In his piece, Chris said,

My writer friends get me. They understand me because of the things I share, the way we think as writers, and how we connect on an intimate level.

My writer friends know things about me that nobody else understands. We share pictures, artwork, memes, and dark humor with each other — and above all, our stories. Not our sugar-coated, social media-worthy stories, but our real stories. The beautiful, painful, realistic, heart-wrenching, lovely, amazing stories.

My own reflections from the draft I had been working on reflect these:

Yes, I do have family and friends whom I see in person and love spending time with. But they are not writers. They don’t share the same ridiculous jokes or understand the pleasure of throwing your thoughts onto a page with no idea where they will go or how they will be received. Nor do they understand the joy of seeing into the worlds of others through the nuances of each person’s writing.

As a creative, I need my community with whom I can share these things. Such subtle experiences are what make massive waves in our own ability to feel heard and understood, and to form powerful bonds.

Many of the writers I consider to have become strong connections are people I have never had a private conversation with, yet they are so open, warm, and supportive that I can’t help but feel a great kinship.

And then there are the ones with whom I do have off-Medium conversations, and who feel like some of the best friends I have in the world. Or, at the very least, as if they are in my corner. As if they understand me in ways others don’t.

And you know exactly who I have to thank for giving me the excuse…or the reason…to be here. Ginger.

Now, in late 2023, I can’t imagine my life without having found this place, these connections, and this community. I can’t imagine how sad and empty it may have felt had I not bitten the bullet, cleared my to-do list, and just thrown myself in on those early summer mornings, with my laptop in bed with me, and Ginger by my side.

Neither can I imagine my life without Ginger in it, for many more reasons than Medium. She has been the reason I took regular challenging walks on the moor and became fitter again. She was the conversation starter with many of the locals I had never previously met or had a reason to speak to before (not that you need to have a reason to say hi to anyone), some of whom have since become actual friends.

She’s super loving and absolutely hilarious; a delight to watch when she goes racing off into the distance, when she digs holes like a lunatic on the river beaches, and when she stands atop the granite tors with a gleam in her eye that seems to say, “Betcha can’t get up here as fast as I can!”

And you’re damn right, Ginger. I can’t. But you can! And that’s one of the things I love about you, girl!

There’s that old cliche about dogs being your best friends, and she is my bestie. We do everything together that we can.

But writing — that’s the one I still feel baffled over. The fact that I wouldn’t give myself permission to either write or adopt a dog, until I couldn’t resist one and the other simply followed.

So thank you, Ginger, from the bottom of my heart. You’re far more of a gem than you could ever realise.