For years, John Dolan had been living rough, trying his best to get by. Born and bred on the estates of east London, his early life was marked by neglect and abuse, and his childhood gift for drawing was stamped out by the tough realities outside his front door. As he grew older, he turned to petty crime to support himself and ended up in prison. On coming out, he soon found himself on the streets, surviving day-by-day, living hand-to-mouth. It wasn’t until he met George, a homeless Staffy puppy, that his life changed for the better. To begin with, George was a handful: he had been abused himself and was scared of human contact. Soon, John and George became inseparable. It was then that John decided to pick up his long-forgotten gift for drawing, sitting on the sidewalk for hours at a time, sketching pictures of George that he would sell to passers-by. With his best friend by his side, and a pencil in his hand, John suddenly found his life’s calling. “This truly is one of the most remarkable rescue stories of all times...Heartwarming.” - Hudson Booksellers John Dolan is a critically acclaimed artist living and working in Shoreditch, east London. For the past three years he and his dog George have sat out on Shoreditch High Street, while John sketched the world around him. Some of his sketches formed part of John's first solo show, George the Dog, John the Artist, which was a sell-out in September 2013. George the Dog, John the Artist A Rescue Story By John Dolan Abrams Books Copyright © 2014 John Dolan All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4683-1120-4 CHAPTER 1 It was the winter of 2009 when George came into my life, and I was living alone in a temporary council bedsit above a newsagent's on Royal Mint Street, down the road from the Tower of London. I'd been fortunate enough to have been there for two years on and off, which was about the only good thing I had going for me. I was struggling in just about every way a person could struggle: I had no job, I had no income, and I had no control over my drug problem. The one thing I did have was the house, and I'd been homeless and slept rough often enough over the years to know how lucky I was to have any kind of roof over my head. As my mum, Dot, had shown me growing up, charity starts at home, and if I met people on the streets less fortunate than myself, I'd sometimes offer to put them up for a night or two. That's how I came to meet Becky and Sam. I met them outside Tower Hill tube station. They were a nice young couple in their early twenties who were sat begging for change. They, like most other homeless people with their hands out, looked fed up and in need of a break. They had a sheepdog with them who reminded me a bit of a dog I used to look after in my youth, and that's how we first got talking. Over a period of a month or so I got to know Becky and Sam quite well because, as ashamed as I am to admit it, I was begging too; I didn't know what else to do. I used to say to people that I was 'financially embarrassed' but it was much worse than that. I was really struggling to look after myself. I was penniless, and I felt I had no other option but to go cap in hand, asking passers-by if they could spare a bit of change for a hopeless bastard like me. Anyway, whenever I saw Becky and Sam, we'd try to cheer each other up, fetching the odd cup of tea for each other to keep out the cold, or swapping stories about what the punters said to us. 'That fella told me I had a nice smile, gave me a fiver and said I deserved some luck,' Becky would say. 'That geezer told me I was a disgrace to the human race and should throw myself under a double-decker bus,' I'd joke. It wasn't far from the truth, but the only way to deal with it was to laugh it off or you'd just give up. It was coming up to December and the cold was really starting to set in. I knew from experience what a depressing time that is to be on the streets, so I told Becky and Sam they could stay with me for a while if they wanted. They'd been sleeping rough for two years and unsurprisingly, they jumped at the chance, even though I warned them my bedsit was definitely not the Ritz. It was damp, cold and cramped, with just enough room for my sofa bed, but they were really grateful and happily squashed in, sleeping huddled together with their sheepdog beside them. They told me they'd rescued the dog from a homeless shelter after seeing someone kicking the living daylights out of him, which really got to me. I'd witnessed plenty of acts of senseless abuse and violence over the years, and I'd taken plenty of knocks myself when I'd been down. 'You've done a really good thing,' I said to Becky. 'That's what life's all about.' A couple of days into their stay, Becky ran up the stairs to the flat looking hassled. Breathless, she asked me if it would be ok to bring another dog in. I was slightly taken aback. When you're homeless, it's important you don't take on too much responsibility. It's difficult