Nicky Rennie: A very Rosie outlook

Puppy Rosie reopened Nicky Rennie's heart to love. Photo / Supplied

OPINION

I have found myself very annoying since birth.

That's the truth. My need, since I was little, to clean any environment I am in so I can think straight has shaped my life. I have no idea how it happened, but it did.

I think it's made me a mother who could have done better. I should have sat down with my girl and let chaos reign, but the whole time I played with her, I was thinking about cleaning up.

My personal favourites for raising anxiety levels were hut building where furniture was turned upside down and all the blankets would be pulled out of the linen cupboard, and any sort of foray into the kitchen to bake something magnificent. I just saw work. What normal mother does that? Me, that's who. Cue a psychologist to step in here. Except I've been there done that, and there is no hope. Well done for trying.

I say sorry if people arrive and anything is out of place; I apologise if there is fluff on the carpet; I apologise if there is a dish on the bench. I just apologise. I'm not sure to whom, because my lovely friends don't care. I go to my friends' homes and couldn't give a care in the world about their homes. I'm just lucky to see them, I don't even look at their home or any piece of fluff.

This constant need to keep everything clean meant I couldn't stand dog hair. We didn't grow up with dogs, we had cats. I didn't know that my mum (who was an only child) spent her whole life wanting a dog. I'm not too sure how old I was when they got their first dog, but I had left home and, when I went back to visit, had to navigate my way around dogs. I didn't know how to handle it, so it was just accepted that Nicky was someone who found dogs a problem. Mostly because of dog hair. Stick with me here, this story gets better, sort of.

I came back to Whanganui to live with my mum and dad because I had lived through massive trauma. My heart had shut up shop and wouldn't be trading for the foreseeable future. Nothing to see here, move along.

My mum asked me on a Friday night, "If you had another child, what would you call it?" I had an immediate answer. My girl had already taken my favourite name. Her Nana is Margaret, but she is christened Maggie. "Rosie," I said. I have loved that name since forever. It's just happy.

I didn't think anything more of it because the chance of me having another child was non-existent. I'm told it requires two people and, due to the fact that my heart (in fact anything) was now closed for business, meant I didn't really think anything of the question.

I got home from work the next afternoon and my mum and dad were hiding behind a wall. My mum had a teeny, tiny, wee puppy in her hands. My Rosie.

My family had worked together to give me a dog because they knew I needed to love something as much as I loved my daughter. That would not be possible, but my self-protective walls fell down in an instant. Maybe after a period of non-trading, my heart could in fact open again for business. That day I became a better person.

My family knew me better than I knew myself.

All bets were off. Nicky has a heart again. I loved my "Wosie Dog" - my name for her. It would be prudent to point out here that she was a Bichon/Maltese cross and she was never going to shed any dog hair, so I could kiss and cuddle her and take her to bed without worrying about waking up the next day covered in dog hair.

I learned that a whole new world of kind, interested people opens up to you when you own a dog. You automatically have something in common and everyone (including me) is genuinely interested in dog statistics and stories while you are out for your stroll carrying your little bag of dog poo. Gosh, I loved my dog.

Before you get too excited and think there may be a happy ending, that puppy Mum and Dad chose for me was very ill. We had her for a year, but she didn't thrive. I had to take her to the vet with my mum and make the gut-wrenching decision to have her put down. The best decision for her, but a horrific one for me.

When you are in labour, there is a sound you make that comes from the depths of your soul. It is raw, it is guttural and is something that you can't control. It is powerful. I had thought it was unique to having a baby, but that morning as I held my little heart-opener in my arms and felt her life slipping away, that noise came back to visit me.

Grief is the price you pay for love.

My heart shut up shop again but this time, thanks to Rosie, there was a small crack left open to let a little sunshine in.