Bringing him home

It all went so well.  Following an adoption process so rigorous that we began doubting our own ability to look after a dog, we got him home.
Despite a shaky start, the journey was largely uneventful.  We'd tried to cover every eventuality.  Don't take the Landrover - he's come from Ireland and we have no history, so he might have negative feelings about an ageing County as he's a collie and presumably came from a farm.  Don't expect him to remain vomit, pee, diahorrea-free for the 40 minutes.  Don't give him negative attention by talking soothingly; rather sit quietly and relaxed to show him everything's ok.  This last of course is the most counter-intuitive part of all dog training.  We'd soothe a child, in fact I wittered ceaselessly to both mine, but we have to virtually ignore a dog.  Or appear to anyway.
We brought him out and for a fleeting moment I had that feeling of complete inadequacy, coupled with excitement that I'd had when I'd come home from hospital after having Fran.  But then we couldn't get him in the car.  He just froze and the more we coaxed, the more determined he became.  All four feet firmly planted, ears back, leaning at a 45 degree angle away from the open boot.  Swallowing our pride, we asked  one of the "Canine Carers" that we'd spent so long convincing we were old-hands at this rescue dog game, for help.  I had to sit on the back seat with the door open so that he could see an "escape route" and holding the lead so that if he did turn and snap when he was lifted in I could pull his head towards me.
After that it was as easy as...well driving a dog really.  He lay down and slept.  And now he's ours.