By Editor Samantha Brick
Turning over in my luxurious Vispring bed, I snuggled up to Barney who sighed contentedly.
Elsewhere on my king size mattress, I heard the soft snores of Ambrose, the other handsome chap I shared my life with. While this may sound like a ménage à trois (and technically, it was one of sorts), I was in fact cosied up in my cottage in Kew, west London, with two old English sheepdogs.
The year was 2004 and they were the great loves of my life after a painful divorce from my first husband. I met my second husband, Pascal, three years later but there was a merry-go-round of unsuitable men in the interim. The main reason so many didn’t fit the bill? My beloved boys didn’t like them.
Indeed, the pecking order was clear – Barney and Ambrose always came first and if any man was ever foolish enough to say ‘it’s me or the dogs’ then I’d suggest they quietly close the front door on their way out of my life.
I happen to think dogs are an excellent judge of character, so while I’ve been happily married to Pascal, 64, for 17 years now, he too had to audition for their affection. I insisted he fly over to the UK from his home in France to meet them and was enormously relieved to see they got on famously.
Equally, when he invited me to live in rural France with him, it was strictly on the proviso that I would be arriving with my entourage in tow.
Ambrose, used to London life, tolerated the countryside, while Barney thrived, falling in love with Pascal’s terrier Elsea.
Yet if things hadn’t worked out between them, if my boys had balked at Pascal for an instant, our romance would have been dead in the water. You may think that casts me as a crackers dog obsessive, but I’m very definitely not an outlier.
A survey published earlier this year found that 42 per cent of owners would end a romantic relationship if their pet disapproved of their partner.
A third of respondents also said their pet brought them more joy than their partner.
And according to a separate study, nearly 60 per cent of single women would choose to stick with their dog over their date. My response – only 60 per cent?
During those three years of glorious singledom, countless men failed to pass the canine litmus test.
Initially, the three of us were living in LA for my work. You’ll hear many women bleat on about LA being a wasteland for dating. Not true. Take Pete, who I was seeing for two months before the dogs arrived out of quarantine. We met in a book store and everything was going well… until I collected the boys from cargo at LAX airport.
By now, I had relocated to a house in dog-friendly Topanga Canyon just outside the city. An open-plan home with no internal doors, Ambrose and Barney got free run.
But Pete was clearly horrified that they were allowed upstairs – he swore he adored dogs but I had my doubts – and, when we went to bed, they shot up the stairs before he did.
When he started moaning about the dogs sleeping beside the bed (already downgraded! I did try for him), I’d had enough, dumping him on the spot. He was astonished, curling his lip and calling me a crazy Brit.
Look, I do get it. It’s hard to be intimate with a snoring dog in your eye-line or another one breaking wind. But Pete was clearly not a dog lover and they were my non-negotiables. As hot as he was, ‘we’ weren’t going anywhere. A year later, I moved back to the UK and met Chris, who was practically perfect in every way.
He never flinched when the dogs jumped up at him to say hello when he arrived in his pricey bespoke suit straight from work (although I did note he’d turn up with a lint roller).
He would even take the dogs out for me. A bit obsessive about exercise, he would run along the Thames towpath with them every morning after staying over.
There was a problem though. The boys love exercise as much as the next dog, but running? It’s not in the nature of old English sheepdogs to sprint endlessly greyhound-style. Chris sulked when I put a stop to the runs because of Ambrose’s hip issues and opted out of ‘just’ walking them. Talk about selfish!
Things came to a head one morning when Barney, an expert kitchen counter surfer, snaffled Chris’s lunch. He’d carefully prepared it, then left it on the side while showering. Barney liberated the lot. I understand how annoying that must have been, but Chris’s reaction was OTT.
He repeatedly shouted at Barney calling him ‘greedy’ among other unprintable words. My poor boy! Barney promptly did a stress wee and shot behind me when I entered the kitchen. I’m afraid I saw red and told Chris to leave his key on the way out.
Then there was Steve, who I met at a Notting Hill private members’ club. When he came back to mine after a third date, Ambrose and Barney were already asleep on my bed so I suggested we go to one of my guest rooms.
He jokingly said I should shoo them off and pointed out their baskets downstairs – advice I ignored because that sort of bedroom set-up was a non-starter for me and my sweet boys.
The following morning, I asked him to let them outside to do their business, but his face contorted in disgust. I watched from a window as Steve sat grumpily in my garden, zero interaction with the dogs – and knew he wasn’t the man for me. Ambrose and Barney knew a dog hater when they met one, each party eyeing the other with utter hostility.
At one point, Ambrose did try for a rapprochement, nudging his favourite ball towards Steve, his head cocking to one side suggesting playtime. How could Steve not see this? My heart melted, yet his didn’t. He took one look at the ball and went back to his phone. It was then it dawned on me… sayonara, Steve. That morning, as I waved him off in a taxi, I deleted his number.
Another man dumped me because my dogs couldn’t stand him and the feeling was mutual.
Ambrose and Barney lived until they were seven and 12 respectively. I’d had them both as puppies; they adored me and I loved them back.
Today, I live in a French farmhouse and every day I see Barney’s tree, a hornbeam under the shade of which all my beloved dogs are buried.
Besides Barney and Ambrose, there is Ego, my magnificent and handsome Breton spaniel who lived until the grand old age of 16. And who could forget Bebe, my current dog Godzilla’s mum? She was greeted at the vets as a superstar because she’d survived so many against-the-odds surgeries. Each one – much missed – has offered me love, loyalty, affection and endless cuddles.
Even now, life still involves a ménage à trois at bedtime. That’s Pascal, me and Godzilla. His terrier lordship always snuggles down on my side. Dogs still make me smile far more than any man (sorry, Pascal).
It’s no coincidence my marriage has lasted so long because of our mutual love of dogs. It’s why I have always vowed if my husband dies before me, I’ll never marry again. I will instead acquire (many) more dogs.
Men come and go… whereas dogs? They really are for life.