After a half-hour’s train ride from Waterloo Station, I arrived in Twickenham, about eleven miles southwest of London. The town name itself appealed to me. Twickenham. It sounded so British, but in this vague way, like it could either be a very posh town or a stereotypical working-class one where people actually said, “Pip pip, guvnah.” Once I disembarked and started walking, Twickenham appeared to me to be an affluent town that, despite the so-cyoot houses and buildings I passed on my walk from the train station, was also dreary under the gray skies.
I followed the directions I was given, walking to the end of a long street off the main road, then finding the tall tree with a sign posted on it that said dogs welcome. people tolerated. Next to the tree was a high wooden gate. I unlatched it and, as instructed, made sure to close it all the way once I was on the other side of it. Behind the gate was a modest two-story thatched house, to my disappointment. I’d hoped Narnia would be on the other side of the gate, not an ordinary English house that looked like so many of the others I’d passed on my walk. I went to the door and rang the bell, which spurred my favorite of all noises—a very loud and excited dog’s bark. From a partially open window near the front door I heard a lady’s voice call out, “We have company, Innis!”
It was a chirpy voice talking to the dog, so I was surprised when a dour-faced lady, probably in her sixties, with ginger hair streaked with gray, answered the door and said, very brusquely, “I’m Jane Douglas, Head of School. You must be Lily?”
“I’m Lily!”
Her face burrowed more deeply into disapproval. “You Americans always sound so cheerful. It’s so unnecessary.” She had what I thought was a Scottish accent, based on my many viewings of Outlander, and a stern demeanor that suggested treachery, an assumption also based on my many viewings of Outlander.
But her dog! A short-haired terrier, a gorgeous brindle of tan and white, about thirty pounds, with a sweet face rather like a pit bull’s, greeted me with licks of love. “This is Innis,” the lady said.
“What breed is she?” I bent down to greet the mush more properly.
“Staffordshire bull terrier.”
“I think she likes me.” I certainly liked Innis. Her human? Not so sure.
“Don’t take her affection personally. She’s like that with everybody. Her breed is exceptionally patient. Their tolerance with people and children has earned them the nickname—”
“—nanny dog!” I proclaimed, remembering what I’d read about the breed in a book about British dogs.
“I don’t care to be interrupted,” said Jane Douglas. “But correct. Very good. Come in.”
I followed her through the foyer into a living room with glass walls at the back of it, facing a huge yard with a garden and ample frolic space for a pup. The living room had a fireplace, several chairs strewn about, and two sofas that faced each other. “This is where I conduct most of the classes,” she said, gesturing for me to sit down.
“Here?” I didn’t want to offend her, but this living room was the famous Pembroke Canine Facilitator Institute?
She sat down opposite me, and Innis sat by her side on the floor. “People are always surprised by that. I don’t understand why. I only take twenty students per year, and it’s much more comfortable to lecture in my own home than at an administrative building.”
“But … isn’t there a facility where students actually get to work with dogs?”
“Of course there is. We partner with a local rescue facility a bit further out of town. They’re busy preparing to host the Canine Supporters World Education Conference after Christmas, so I’m not able to give you a tour there today. But as you can see, we have everything we need for learning right here.”
“We do?”
“We have a dog right here. We have a yard outside. And we have a rigorous curriculum I’ve designed myself. Dog behavior—body language and vocalizations. How dogs think and learn. Therapy dog training. Anatomy and first aid.”
Again, I said, “Here?” Did Jane Douglas realize we were in a living room?
She said, “The book-learning part of the program we do here. The hands-on dog part we do at the shelter.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say. This setup was so not what I expected from the “Harvard of dog schools.” I guess that’s what happens when you apply to a school you learned about from Reddit comments, one without a website or Instagram page, but with great reviews from British dog-walking enthusiasts. (A subject I became very interested in when Dash decided to go to Oxford.)
My parents would never agree to this over Barnard College of Columbia University in the city of New York. PCFI was only a one-year program so I could try to sell them on the idea that I’d go to college afterward, but it was going to be a very tough sell.
“What about housing?” I asked meekly.
“You’re on your own for that. Several of my students have found housing together, and they often pass down their rooms to the new students when they graduate. Or you may apply for the Pet Store Residency.”
“The what?”
“Let’s go for a walk and I’ll show you. It’s an apartment over a pet store in the town center. The shopkeeper offers free rent to one of my lucky students each term, in exchange for tending to the store pets when the store is closed. Let’s go, Innis.”
I didn’t know which option appealed less: going to Barnard but still living at home with my moody mother, or going to PCFI and being “in residence” over a pet store.
The light drizzle had turned to a steadier rain when we went outside, making Jane Douglas’s front yard appear even more lushly green, but also dreary. I don’t know why, but I loved that. I had this weird feeling like I might actually love a school in a living room—especially if Dash was a train ride away. As we walked back toward town, Jane Douglas handed me Innis’s lead.
“Let’s see your technique,” she said. I took the leash in my right hand so that Innis would walk on my left, with my arm at an angle and my leash hand close to my body with enough slack for Innis to move freely but not so much that she could get tangled. “Nicely done,” Jane Douglas acknowledged.
“I’m a professional dog-walker,” I told her.
“I know that. I read your application.”
“Are there other dogfluencers in the program?” I asked hopefully.
“What are dogfluencers?”
“Dog people with social media followings.”
“I certainly hope not. I want students who are here to service the animals. Not who are looking for the animals to service them.”
I didn’t know what to think. Was this the worst program ever, or possibly a genius learning institute in disguise? “What’s it like living in Twickenham?” I asked as we came closer to the main road.
“Some students enjoy the proximity to London. For others, it’s not close enough. Twickenham Stadium is the home of England Rugby, so on game days, expect eighty thousand drunk fans descending on the town. We’re directly underneath the Heathrow flight path, so also expect jet noise and transportation pollution.”
“So far it sounds amazing,” I said.