The one with the Nanny and the Bear 🐻

The Trials and Tribulations of Bear

Bear was never supposed to be here.

Then again, neither was Chestnut.

Chestnut was our first dog, and he arrived at a time when my daughter was struggling badly. I couldn’t think of anything that might help more than a therapy dog, so we got him. And what a dog he was. Chestnut was pure goodness in a furry coat. He was just a puppy, but he had the soul of an old man—serene, sleepy, calm. He was effortless to love, and being around him felt healing.

That experience was so good that I thought, well, maybe I need a little therapy too… And maybe my son did as well. So we brought Bear into our lives—my son’s dog, my dog, our dog.

Bear was gorgeous from day one: fluffy, fat, the kind of puppy you can’t take to the shops without someone stopping to coo over him. Chestnut was handsome too, but Bear was every child’s dream—big eyes, big paws, pure cuddly chaos. He was meant to be Chestnut’s companion and a little therapy for us.

But Bear… oh, Bear. He is the bane of my life. I say that with love, because I know Bear is also what will keep me young when old age starts creeping in. Still, he’s a bugger.

I started having children at 16, and I always imagined that by this age, my time would finally be my own. My children are grown now—adults, technically—but instead of enjoying Saturday morning lie-ins, I find myself sprinting around the garden at 6:30 a.m. in my dressing gown, tea towel in hand, trying not to wet myself while shushing Bear so he doesn’t wake the whole house.

The irony, of course, is that most of those “children” he wakes are adults who should be helping to walk the dog. After all, Bear belongs to me and my son. But here I am, Nanny to Bear, running after him like I’m raising toddlers all over again.

And yet, I know this much: when my children fly the nest, Bear will be the one who stays. He’ll keep me company. He’ll keep me busy. He’ll keep me young. He’s become my best friend, my confidant, and—though I don’t admit it often enough—probably my soulmate.

I spend whole days talking to him, and yes, sometimes in French. Neither of us is French, to my knowledge, but the neighbours must think I’ve lost my mind. Still, Bear listens. Always.

As autumn and winter roll in, so does the mud, and so does Bear—dragging the garden inside with him, turning my hard-won clean house into his playground. He’s not supposed to be on the sofa, but of course, he jumps up anyway. And there I am again, teaching him the rules, pretending to be strict while secretly smiling.

As a Muslim woman, I never imagined I’d have a dog at all—let alone a “dog grandchild.” But here I am. And though I like to make out that I don’t love him, the truth is this: Bear is my lesson. My work. My purpose.

I regret him daily.

I love him always.

And maybe that’s what having a pet Bear is all about.