Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts

by Lucy Dillon

  ‘We’re going to have to get you to a training class,’ she said to his perfect wet nose. ‘And possibly your brothers as well. I reckon they need a bit of training too.’

  She stopped as Leo and Spencer barrelled into the kitchen, all tousled morning hair and toothpaste breath. In Leo’s case, most of the toothpaste was still round his mouth but at least it showed he’d tried.

  ‘Tofffeeee!’ squealed Spencer, making a grab for the dog and lifting him so his back legs dangled precariously, leaving the plump tummy exposed. ‘Can we take him to school with us, Mum? Please? Please?’

  ‘Yeah!’ Leo jumped up, trying to touch Toffee too, but Spencer lifted him out of his brother’s reach so only the wagging tail bounced in his face. ‘I want to show Mrs Barratt!’

  ‘You can’t take Toffee to school,’ said Zoe, reaching out to support Toffee’s dangling back end. He didn’t seem to mind, being busy covering Spencer’s scrunched-up face in adoring licks. ‘Hold his legs, Spencer, or else you’ll hurt him! He’ll be here when you get home.’

  ‘Oh, pleeeease!’ Spencer dragged his attention from the puppy and gave her an unsettling clear-eyed stare that reminded her of David at his most motivated. ‘Dad said it would be cool to show our class. We could do a talk on puppies.’

  ‘I suppose you’d be telling them all about the cleaning up and the feeding and so on?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Spencer. ‘Obviously.’

  Zoe was horrified at the new tone in his voice. It was cheeky, almost defiant. He’d always been the sweetest-tempered little boy, even with the baby brother who’d halved his attention time, but lately, since they’d been going off with David for weekends, there was a sharpness creeping into Spencer, as if he was testing her to see how far she’d let him go.

  ‘Hey!’ she said. ‘That’s enough of that. There’s a lot more to having a dog than just playing with him. Do you know how big he’s going to get? And how much walking he’s going to need every day? Did Dad tell you about that?’

  ‘I heard him crying last night,’ said Leo. ‘I think he should sleep with me.’

  ‘He’s lonely,’ said Spencer, the dog expert. ‘He misses his mum. Maybe we should get another one?’ he added, as if he’d just thought of it. ‘To keep him company?’

  ‘Yeah!’ said Leo. ‘Two puppies! Toffee and . . . Fudge!’

  ‘No!’ Zoe put her hands on her hips. It made her look more in charge even when she didn’t feel it. She could still smell puppy wee on her shoes. ‘I haven’t even said we’re definitely going to be able to keep Toffee. This is . . .’ Oh, God. She was such a pushover. ‘. . . just a trial.’

  ‘But Mum!’ The wheedling started at once, and Zoe felt herself caving in at the sight of Spencer and Leo’s pleading faces, not to mention Toffee’s chocolate-button eyes gazing up at her, his soft ears flopping onto his face. The dutiful, playful Labrador companion of a million kids’ books.

  Two boys and an Andrex puppy versus one harassed, guilty mother – it was hardly a fair fight.

  Zoe struggled to get a grip. What about all the great reasons you had for not getting Spencer a puppy in the first place, demanded a voice in her head. What happened to them? The time? The mess? The fact that you have a full-time job?

  As if he could read her mind – which he probably could – Spencer piped up, his attitude transformed from proto-teen to angelic boy-dog-owner. ‘I’ll look after him all evening,’ Spencer begged. ‘I’ll clean his box and everything. Please, Mum! Please!’

  The alarm Zoe set each morning to get them to school on time went off and she sprang into action.

  ‘We have to go,’ said Zoe, panicking that she’d be the last mum at the school gates again. Toffee would just have to stay in the kitchen with the door closed for an hour. How much damage could he do? All the plugs were still child-proofed. ‘Put Toffee in the box, please, Leo, no, don’t pick him up again. He needs to have a sleep after his breakfast. Shoes on? Coats on. Have you got your trainers for PE, Spencer?’

  Spencer went to get his bag, but Leo was still leaning into the box, kissing the dog, and mumbling something into its double-velvet ear.

  ‘Leo, come on.’ Zoe hunted for her keys. ‘We’re already late.’

  ‘I’m so happy, Mummy,’ he said.

  ‘Why, darling?’

  ‘Because we’ve got a dog!’ Leo looked up, his round face cherubic with delight. ‘Dad said you’d make us send it back, but you haven’t and I’m really excited! You’ll let him stay, won’t you?’

  Oh God, thought Zoe. Even Leo knows what a pushover I am. And he’s not even six.

  Zoe dropped the boys off at the school gate and raced – slumped in her seat while she drove past the Angel Hair and Heavenly Beauty salon – to the massive pet store on the industrial estate, her mind filling with visions of what Toffee might be destroying next. She was already one pair of FitFlops and a remote control down.

  She pulled into the first parking space and tried David’s mobile for the tenth time since the boys’ return, but he wasn’t answering. It didn’t surprise her; David had got quite selective of late about which calls he decided to pick up, and which he ignored because he was ‘in a meeting’. He’d always been like that, but now she was beginning to think he’d actually changed his phone.

  Zoe sank back and felt her stomach jangle with the first tremors of panic. Time was ticking away. What was she meant to do? Who could she ask for help? None of her friends had dogs, and anyway, this wasn’t about dogs, this was about her and David and the boys.

  Zoe made herself take three deep breaths to stop the hysteria that swamped her chest, threatening to close up her throat. It came and went more and more frequently now, as David’s desertion stopped feeling like some midlife crisis phase he’d wake up from, and hardened into stark reality, and it was getting harder to hide it from the boys. But she had to hide it. She had to look like she was coping as well as she’d done in the past.

  She pulled down her sun visor and stared at herself in the vanity mirror, as if she were looking at a friend. ‘Just get what you need for now,’ she told her half-crazed reflection. ‘Just enough to keep Toffee in one place, and happy. Then you can call David, tell him it’s too much for you to cope with, and . . .’

  She didn’t finish. I’ve got to stop talking to myself, she thought. The wide-set brown eyes in the mirror lost their mad expression, and stared back at her with something approaching sympathy. She and her reflection both knew there wasn’t going to be an ‘and’.

  The boys wanted the dog. It was unfair to uproot a puppy again. If she made David take it back, she’d look like Cruella de Vil. She’d just have to make the best of it.

  The first thing Zoe spotted when she pushed her trolley through the doors was a magazine with a ‘foolproof guide to Welcoming Your New Puppy’ – and, falling on the first useful piece of information she’d had since Toffee arrived, she set off round the store with it propped open, throwing in whatever it told her to: a collar and lead, puppy food, a basket, a cushion for the basket, a crate for toilet training, chews, toys, cute snuggly things to stop Toffee feeling so lonely at night.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was at the till, watching in awe at the amount a puppy cost, before you even took it to the vet’s. This makes the kids look like a bargain, she thought, wondering if she’d really needed the puppy sleeping bag after all. She realised with a sinking heart that she’d have to call David anyway, for more money to pay for it. If she could get hold of him.

  Zoe made herself remember how heartbreaking Toffee had been when she’d woken up in the watery morning light to find him nuzzled into the crook of her shoulder, his hot breath huffing into her ear and one paw pressed against her chest, as if she was his lost mum. They were both on the sofa, after his pitiful crying had dragged her downstairs. He was so vulnerable and soft, she’d forgiven him the puddle on the carpet.

  He was adorable, she thought, stuffing the receipt into her bag without looking at it and pushing the t
rolley towards the exit. And how hard could it be to train a Labrador? They worked as guide dogs and turned off kettles for deaf people, didn’t they? It was just going to take some organisation.

  The alarm on Zoe’s phone went off. The hour was almost up.

  ‘Ah! New puppy?’ asked the Australian girl standing by the noticeboards, five or six dogs clustered around her feet. They weren’t playing up, despite being surrounded by treats and food.

  Zoe stared at her pile of stuff. ‘Actually, it’s a hamster. With ambitions.’

  The girl laughed, and the tall woman she was with finished sticking pins in her notice. It featured a photograph of a red- and-white Basset hound wearing a tragic expression on its wrinkly, hound-dog face. It would have been tragic, had it not also been wearing a Santa hat.

  ‘Is there room in your fridge for me?’ read Zoe, unable to resist. ‘Aw! Shouldn’t that be “isn’t there room by your fireside” ’?

  ‘No, Bertie’s priority is the fridge. Whoever his new mum and dad are, they’re going to need to get a lock on it.’ The Australian girl smiled. ‘But I bet you could train him to do just about anything with half a bag of sausage – he’s not stupid at all! They’re the sweetest dogs, Bassets, brilliant with kids, really calm . . . I don’t suppose your puppy needs a friend?’

  Zoe laughed, and it came out rather manic. ‘No! I’ve only had this one a day and already he’s running rings around me.’

  ‘Lovely! What is he? How old?’ She sounded genuinely interested.

  ‘Toffee’s an Andrex puppy. I don’t know exactly how old, actually,’ Zoe confessed, ‘he was a present.’

  The two women glanced at each other, and Zoe thought the blonde girl’s forehead flickered with exasperation.

  She glanced at the poster’s logo again, and realised that they must be from the rescue centre up on the Rosehill road – either Rachel or Megan, going by the phone numbers. The phrase ‘Dogs deserve a future – don’t give them as a present’ was actually printed on the bottom of the page.

  ‘No!’ she said hastily. ‘No, I didn’t get him as a present, my husband . . . my ex gave him to the kids. I had no idea, I mean, now Toffee’s here we absolutely adore him, I just wasn’t quite prepared for not being able to leave the house for more than ten minutes.’

  Zoe’s voice trailed off. This wasn’t making her look any better. Now she’d started reading, she couldn’t take her eyes off the poster. My first owners bought me as a Christmas present, but soon got bored of me and threw me out to look after myself, she read. I’ve got lots of love to give, in return for walks, food and the best sofa in the house, so I’m crossing my paws that you might have room for a little one. OK, quite a big one. Love, Bertie.

  ‘I’m going to take good care of him,’ she heard herself say. ‘That’s why I’m here, buying up half the shop!’

  ‘Of course you are,’ said the dark-haired woman. She seemed quite brisk, and she had a folder full of notices ready to stick up. ‘Megan just sees a lot of Christmas puppies around this time of year! I’m sure you’re not going to be adding to our numbers. I mean,’ she added, ‘we’re on a bit of a drive to rehome what we’ve already got. So we can make room for some paying customers in our boarding kennels. Aren’t we, Megan?’

  ‘Totally.’ Megan sighed, and gave Zoe a friendly but firm look. ‘The thing is, it’s not the stuff so much as the constant attention, with a puppy. Has he been vaccinated? Have you got a number to ring the breeder, so she can tell you how old he is, and if he’s had the right jabs?’

  ‘Um . . . jabs?’

  Megan looked worried. ‘Toffee’s not on his own right now, is he?’

  ‘Um . . . yes?’ Zoe glanced between them, registering Megan’s disapproval and Rachel’s amazing trendy bag. ‘He’s in the kitchen, it’s totally baby-proof, I mean, I’m a single mum, I’ve had to leave him to get all this stuff, but what are you supposed to do with dogs? Get a babysitter?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Megan.

  ‘You’re joking, right?’ Zoe asked hopefully.

  ‘Would you leave your baby on his own while you went to the shops? Do you know how sharp his teeth are? They can chew through doors, cables . . .’

  The reality of what David had landed on her began to sink in and Zoe felt the old panic rise up her, like an over-filling bath. ‘Oh God,’ she said.

  ‘Look, she’s got a crate,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘And a puppy book. And chewy stuff. Come on, Megan. Be positive. It’s not like she’s left him to play with matches.’

  ‘Do you do training classes?’ Zoe asked in a small voice. ‘For owners?’

  Megan’s stern expression lightened. ‘Yeah. We do, actually. Come up on Saturday and we’ll talk you through the basics. I can give you the name of a vet too, get Toffee registered.’ She scrabbled in her bag for a pen. ‘Give us a leaflet, Rachel? George Fenwick, the clinic down by the fire station. Toffee’s going to need shots and a microchip.’

  ‘And if you want to come and do some volunteer walking, or help us with some fundraising, that would be great!’ said Rachel, segueing effortlessly into sales patter. ‘We’re always looking for helpers. And donations. And if you need to board him for a few days, we have top-quality facilities.’

  Zoe took the leaflet and tucked it into her trolley of supplies. She had a feeling she’d be sticking it on the fridge, right next to the phone.

  ‘I think that went well,’ said Megan, nudging her dogs back onto the bridle-path behind the industrial estate. ‘That’s the supermarkets, the precinct, and both pet shops. Just one more stop and we’re done. And those are the highlights of Longhampton, as I’m sure you’ve realised!’

  ‘So long as we’re reaching every single possible new owner,’ said Rachel. Her dogs weren’t quite as well controlled, although Gem was doing his best to herd the smaller dogs into line for her. ‘What did George say? You need to shunt ten non-paying dogs out and get ten dogs in before the end of the month, so he can get his bill paid?’

  George’s advice had been blunt, but free, and delivered over a pot of tea in Dot’s kitchen. It had also revealed to Rachel that she wasn’t the only one with dire cash-flow problems: Dot’s money had run out, and so had the kennels’. Even if Rachel wanted to sell up, it would take a while to sort out the legalities, and in the meantime, the dogs needed feeding and suppliers, George in particular, needed paying.

  He’d looked at her over the table with a sort of challenge in his blue eyes, as if he half-expected her to write a cheque and flounce away from the problem. Rachel hadn’t told him that she didn’t have any choice in the matter; with no job and no old life, it wasn’t a matter of ‘honouring Dot’s legacy’ – this was her job now. Until she sorted something else out.

  ‘That’s about the size of it. He speaks his mind, George.’ Megan flicked through the clear plastic envelope of posters. ‘Ah, we’ve saved the best for last – Chester. Look at that sad face! People’ll be sobbing all over the surgery. I love these posters, by the way. You’ve really got a way with words.’

  Rachel didn’t tell Megan she’d spent the last six months working on a million-pound PR campaign for a new music download website; already that seemed like a different life. Instead, she allowed herself a wonky smile, and said, ‘Thanks. To be honest, they made me cry a bit. Which I guess means they’re working.’

  The posters, made on the kitchen table the previous night, weren’t flashy, but they were effective: handwritten ‘wanted: new owner’ headlines, with Polaroids of the dogs, and pleas from them, partly nicked from Dot’s tags. Rachel had used every shameless PR trick she could think of to pluck at Longhampton’s heartstrings.

  ‘And you’re going to do us a website?’ Megan went on, excited.

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t have one already,’ said Rachel. ‘I can find someone who’ll do that very cheap. It’ll help with the boarding too.’

  ‘You know, you’re amazing, especially considering you’ve just come out of a bad relationship breakdown,�
� started Megan, but Rachel stopped her, embarrassed.

  ‘Look, I really haven’t done anything yet. Where next?’ she asked, letting Gem off the lead so she could throw a ball for him, as a reward for his good behaviour.

  ‘The surgery,’ said Megan. ‘I’ve put posters in there before – we have a cake stall in the foyer, once a month. And Dr Carthy, who’s in charge, he’s a big dog lover. Used to tell Dot that whenever an old racing greyhound came in, she was to call him. He’s got two now. Used to have six. One used to sleep in a corner of his consulting room!’

  ‘Wow,’ said Rachel. Gem dropped the ball at her feet, pausing to pant at her, and she hurled it away again.

  Her right arm was getting sore but, masochistically, she didn’t mind. The look on Gem’s face, just as eager every time, made up for it. Rachel couldn’t communicate with Gem like Dot probably had, but this was a tiny way of offering something to their very unequal relationship, a small return for the patient nights he’d spent already, waiting by the door, listening to her broken sleep and making her feel a little less alone in the strange new life she’d found herself in.

  Longhampton Park Surgery was a modern building with ramps and big windows and neat concrete boxes of red geraniums on every available flat surface. As Megan and Rachel approached, they saw a lanky girl in a white receptionist’s uniform helping a wheelchair-bound lady down the ramp, bending over her like a mother hen.

  Or a mother heron, Rachel corrected herself. She was all long arms and tanned legs.

  ‘Oh, look at the lovely dogs!’ the girl said cheerily, pushing back a long blonde ponytail. ‘You had one of those Jack Russells, didn’t you, Ida?’

  ‘Till I moved into the home, I did.’ The old lady stretched out her hand towards Bonham, the short-legged terrier who’d been dragging Rachel all round the park. He shied back, tucking his tail downwards. ‘Hello, chap.’