When we mentioned we would soon be welcoming a new addition to the household, we were generally met with one of three responses: silence;  suggestions of bravery; declarations of stupidity. Rare were the squeals of delight and outpourings of emotion we’d received four months previously when we announced I was pregnant with a baby expected in late October, instead we were issued with warnings of bad timing and a ridiculously heavy workload. ‘Can’t you wait?’ they asked us. ‘Do you really think that’s wise?’ The honest answer to both questions is most likely the same: no.

Getting a puppy four weeks before my due date probably isn’t the most sensible thing P and I have done, but the way we go about things hasn’t ever been about taking the easy road. It took us three years, several false starts, copious letters and a move across the channel to finally realise we were indeed meant to be more than just good friends. But once that decision was made, we moved in together within two months and were engaged within ten. So it seems our timing is as conventional as our behaviour is shrewd. That said, while the road our relationship took might not be one many would want to travel, its final destination is by far the best place I’ve been, and our marriage the achievement of which I’m most proud. My point is, then, that sometimes what seems like bad timing - be it procrastination or whirlwind - can, despite all well meaning cautions, be exactly what we need to make us happy.

That’s not to say I haven’t had my doubts. Despite its imminence, I’m only just acclimatising to the idea of motherhood; adding a puppy into the mix isn’t without its concerns. I spent several nights restlessly moving from one room to another, for once unable to blame my insomnia on the baby’s love of weighing heavily on my bladder. I lay awake with visions of a vicious canine baring its teeth at our newborn before squatting and laying its own little welcome gift that would forever leave its mark (and scent) on the floor. I panicked that time - which I’ve been advised will already be precious once the baby arrives - will be even more strained, as I struggle to juggle the needs of two youngsters in a household which has, hitherto, catered only for self-sufficient grown-ups. P was more optimistic. ‘It will be fine,’ he said, and just as I did when he at long last declared his love for me, I believed him.

Perhaps my agreement came as a result not only of P’s positive thinking. As is no doubt the case for most parents-to-be, when we’ve shared the good news of my pregnancy with friends, family and anyone else who’ll listen, much of the ensuing conversation has centred on what we will call the baby. While many of our options have been received with a similar response to the announcement of our puppy purchase (“Really?”), none has elicited as much shock and derision as P’s firm favourite: Rambo Blaze. Yes, you read it correctly: Rambo Blaze.

It started as a joke, a late-night over-tired contribution to a name game we were playing as we drove through Italy in a nippy Cinqacento (this game seemed preferable to its alternative: let’s see how much we can make the tyres squeak as we hurtle around tight corners). Somehow, while all the other offerings were forgotten amid the blur of Chianti and Pecorino (I should note this trip was taken before I was with child), Rambo Blaze stuck, and once I did become pregnant, P consistently referred to our unborn as that troubled Vietnam war veteran whose party trick is guerilla warfare. Nice.

My fear was that if we did have a boy, even if I was able to get another name on the birth certificate, P would forever nickname his poor son Rambo. And so, when the question of the dog’s name surfaced and P suggested the puppy assume action-movie status instead of the baby, a pet suddenly seemed like a fantastic idea.

We went to Essex to see him, then, still under the proviso that if I had any doubts about his mother’s nature, the plan would be scrapped. Let’s face it, though, I’m soppy at the best of times, let alone at 34 weeks pregnant; the sight of seven Airedale puppies was always - hormonal or not - going to send my maternal instinct bonkers. And so, low and behold, I couldn’t say no.

Rambo Blaze arrived in all his glory Friday 24 September 2010.

We were warned at our NCT group that on becoming parents we would develop an obsession with pooh: its colour; its consistency; its frequency; its smell. With Rambo making his appearance before the baby, however, our fixation is already forming. Having seriously contemplated using one of the newborn nappies awaiting use in the nursery, I (perhaps in a moment of more sensible thinking) instead opted to take a blanket for the dog to sit on for the duration of his journey home. Doubled over in case of accidents, the blanket was placed on my lap but proved unnecessary. Our angelic puppy, despite his anxious whines and obvious upset at being separated from his mum and siblings, refrained from weeing or poohing until we stopped for fresh air. Oh how proud we were as he squatted in the service station car park. ‘Good boy,’ we squealed over and over. ‘Look at you doing a pooh outside. Who’s our clever boy?’

While we’ve remained equally as adoring, Rambo’s toilet habits have proved less consistent and, as time passes and the kitchen floor suffers at the fate of his bladder, the nappies are looking like an attractive proposition. I guess this is something I need to get used to, for while the dog trainer assures us we can train Rambo out of it soon enough, the baby will take a little longer to learn where is and where isn’t an appropriate place to pee. For the foreseeable future, my world is a wet one, and while I’m happy looking at it through rose tinted spectacles, rose-scented it’s not.

It has been hard work, but Rambo’s position with the T household is, in its own way, preparing us for the challenges that await us as new parents. The most important lesson I’ve learnt so far is that no matter how prepared you think you are, there will always be something you’ve left uncovered. In readiness for the baby, I’ve scoured the books, attended the classes, decorated the nursery, lost myself in the hypnosis and wobbled my way through the yoga. That’s everything, right? I would have thought so. But then came Rambo. We read the books, spoke at length with the dog trainer and kitted out the house and the garden to ensure various areas were secure and puppy friendly. As with our child, we truly believed we were sorted. He came, he sniffed, and he was happy. And then we left him for the first time to meet the first of our NCT babies confident in the knowledge that even if he was a little distressed at being alone, he would - at the very least - be safe in the confines of the utility room. The child gate would keep him out of the kitchen but, should he wish to stretch his legs, there was room to run. Alas, that room was obviously as insufficient as the cat flap was tempting. Ah yes, the cat flap. Did I not mention that?

If you’re to call a dog Rambo, I guess you have to expect a little rambunctiousness. As I stepped out of the car on our arrival home, I suggested to P that I’d heard a dog-like yelp. He blamed the birds overhead; despite his burgeoning vocal abilities, P assured me, Rambo’s call couldn’t yet penetrate bricks and mortar. Thanks to our puppy’s cunning and guile, however, it needed no such strength. On approaching the back gate, I saw two fat paws protruding suspiciously through its upper gap followed by a wet-nosed snout ready to greet me with an enthusiastic lick. Rambo, it seemed, had decided the confines of the house were not for him and, in a bid for a fresh-air adventure, had squeezed himself through the hole designed for his breed’s arch enemy, the nemesis he’s not yet encountered.

Let’s just say, given the theatrics Rambo has already performed, I think we, along with the neighbourhood cats, might well be in for several action-filled sequels.

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