Muggles is a wanted dog – will he be done for GBH?

It’s been a hell of a week. Lola is quarantining and Muggles is under police investigation. I have not been out for days because somebody in Lola’s class bubble has Covid. So when Alex’s sister turns up with her teenage daughter it is my chance to escape.

“Hiya!” I say – and dart out of the front door to let them look after Lola and Liberty while I take Muggles for a 10-minute walk, and try to clear my head. “Ah, the first taste of freedom is always the sweetest.” I breathe in the smell of mimosa and rain as Muggles drags me to a brown bag with disgusting remains of a Kentucky Fried Chicken.

He’s worse than ever today – what’s up with him? It’s like he’s half-starved. Has he got a tapeworm? Is he half-blind? He keeps pulling me into the road thinking a leaf is some food. Is his flailing eyesight why he might be more nose orientated? We arrive at the little park at the end of my road. I do a quick recce of the place: it’s 8pm, it’s spitting with rain and there is nobody eating – I let him off the lead. He gallops to the back of the tennis court and back to where I’m standing by a flower bed. I’m on the phone to my dad, who wants to give me another shopping list because he’s out of goose fat dripping, when I hear a commotion – like a child crying and women shouting.

“Oh my god, where is Muggles?” I run as fast as I can to the tables where I see a group of people fighting Muggles off; he’s trying to steal a ham sandwich. Everything goes into slow motion – even my speech: “I’m veeeeeeery soooooory. Muuuuugggles stooooop!” I hope desperately that I’m in a dream – but no such luck. This time he’s gone too far; it's a three-year-old’s supper. At first, I think he’s done them a favour when I see a Tupperware box of food on the table; it looks so disgusting – what is it? Or has Muggles been sick in it?

I’m aware it’s a shock for the little girl. If only they knew he’s like the tiger who came to tea – not a rottweiler about to shake her to death. “I’m so sorry,” I gasp. “He won’t hurt you but he’s terrible with food.” I explain I have a three-year-old and a five-year-old and he tries to take their food too. I grab Muggles and tell him off. It all seems calm and they say “thank you” for being honest and running so fast to stop him.

Two parks police walk past me as I lead Muggles away. And then I hear: “Hang on, come back.” I turn around and one of the women says: “The three-year-old says your dog bit her.” Boom. Is my life about to change forever? Is a hefty legal bill coming my way to defend my adorable mutt? It’s lucky golden retrievers aren’t profiled by police as a dangerous dog – it would be very different if he was a pit bull terrier. But I’m still having images of Muggles being seized and taken into custody and visiting him in a holding cell – if I’m allowed to – while he’s under investigation.

“They don’t come back the same dog,” my neighbour later tells me. She’s a lawyer. “If they even come back at all.” It sounds like an episode of The Handmaid’s Tale; I shudder. I say: “What? Show me where he bit her? He couldn’t hurt a fly. He has never bitten anybody in seven years!” The woman points to the child’s hand. “Look, what’s that?” I can’t see anything, certainly no bite, or teeth indentations, or fang marks, no redness – nothing.

“There is nothing wrong with her hand,” I say. But every time I say it, the situation escalates. “Are you telling me that my three-year-old is lying?” Right, well my three-old-told me this morning that she had flown to the moon. I give them my phone number and I take a photo of her hand just in case this is an attempt to sue me. Soon, she’s calling the police telling them I’m not cooperating – and adds I’m aggressive because I’m defending my dog.

“He’s a family dog – what are you trying to do – get him put down?” I cry. I get Muggles and leg it out of the park. I run for my life with both of us panting. I feel like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive. My instinct is to get back to my children before I’m arrested for something I haven’t done. As I arrive home, I think I’m going to have a heart attack. “Is everything okay?” asks Alex’s sister. “Don’t open the door, “I say, “Muggles is a wanted dog.”

What a start to a nice family reunion. The teenage daughter has gone out to Westfield and the children have gone insane from a sugar high from the chocolate Colin the Caterpillar she gave them. How will I sleep worrying about Muggles being wrongly accused of GBH? I feel paranoid – like I did in the depths of my addiction when I was always listening for that knock at my door – but to be on the run in recovery? It doesn’t feel right.

I don’t sleep a wink; thoughts of my family being torn apart over a ham sandwich don’t help ease me into a restful state of sleep. I’m on edge. The next day I get the phone call. “Hello Miss Cripps, I understand you have a golden retriever,” says a chirpy PC. My heart starts beating – I sit down. “Yes,” I say, giving his full name: “Muggles Flopsy Cripps Baxter – he’s a pedigree dog for god’s sake! His biological mother, Ruby, would be horrified at his behaviour – his father was a champion stud dog. Muggles is acting like a yob; he’s dragging the family heritage through the mud. The police continue: “Just to let you know, we rang the mother of the child and she doesn’t want to take this any further – and nor do we. I’ve spoken to our dog unit and without wanting to sound condescending, although we know goldies love food, please keep a better eye on your dog.”

“Thank you. Yes, of course, no problem,” I mumble with exhaustion. I didn’t think Muggles would get a rap on the knuckles. I had already bought a muzzle in case the police turned up. I hug Muggles. I'm convinced his big brown eyes are no longer haunted – he’s off the hook and he knows it. Sometimes you don’t know what you’ve got until it's nearly gone.