by Matt Haig
‘Love, are you . . . OK ?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve missed the news.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m making a Horlicks, if you’d like one.’
‘No, no. It’s OK. I’m fine.’
rescuers
As I lay in my basket that night I remembered how it was, in the beginning.
When they chose me, when they decided to become rescuers, that day in the dog house, amid the barking and the chaos, I was not the only one putting on a show. I was not the only one who wanted help. I should have sniffed it from the start. I should have realised.
The Family.
The perfect Family.
Husband, wife. Sister, brother. All smiles, all love. All lies. I was fooled, just as they were by me. But, looking back, I see that Adam nearly gave the game away. The way he held his arm around Kate. Awkward, unnatural. Panic not far beneath his eyes as he looked straight at me, then down at his carrier bag. Kate seemed uncomfortable too, now I really think about it. The smile on her face seemed to involve too many muscles for it to have happened of its own accord. There was, there must have been, even then, tension between them, Adam and Kate. She wore his arm like an itchy collar.
But taken together, with no background knowledge, the four of them looked waggingly promising. A Labrador’s wet dream. Millions of happy run-and-chase adventures were implied within the tight contours of each child’s face. Indeed, the scent of unease which must have been issuing from Adam and Kate was masked by the sweet smell of childish enthusiasm.
So instead of chewing my testicles abstractedly, as I had when every other sorry prospect walked past, I sat up and made an effort. The perfect dog for the perfect Family. I wanted them to have me. I wanted them to recognise that I was the missing piece in their Family jigsaw. The fireside companion they had always dreamt about.
But as I’ve suggested, this wasn’t a one-way audition. They needed me as much as I needed them. They had an equal desire to erase, to rewrite, to start again. To get out of the dog house. And I held the key. I might be overstating my case, but knowing what I know now I don’t think so. I know I was what Charlotte had been years earlier. I was a last chance. A last last chance.
‘Oh, look at him.’
‘Oh, children, look.’
‘Isn’t he sweet?’
As I play the scene back in my head I see it as it really was. The Hunters: four giant, overlapping heads, viewed behind a grid of wire. The awkward smiles could have been ventriloquising a plea for help. I was a rescuer, that is the point. I may have been little more than a pup, but I chose to rescue them as much as they chose to rescue me. We rescued each other. Only we were doing so under false pretences.
When the door opened, when I jumped up and licked their faces, when they hugged me, I felt relief, but what I didn’t realise then was that they too must have felt relieved. They too had gained another chance for freedom. Another chance to be a happy Family.
But even before those first slobbery dog kisses were wiped away, even as we drove away from the dog house, they must have felt that chance begin to fade. They must have realised it had been left behind, somewhere in an empty iron cage.
missy
Grandma Margaret wasn’t the outside danger, but she didn’t make things any easier. There is no doubt about that.
From the moment she arrived, with her carrier bags and her thousand smells, the whole atmosphere of the house changed. I think it was mainly because she brought with her the memory of Grandpa Bill. And his memory turned out to be a far more formidable force than the frail old man himself had been. Every meal, every television programme, every sentence to come out of any Family member’s mouth would spark off a remembrance. And likewise, every smile or laugh would be viewed as a mark of disrespect.
On the evening of her arrival she joined Hal in the television room, where he was watching his favourite programme. She started to make her presence felt slowly, by embarking on a series of long and deliberately heavy sighs. Hal tried his best to ignore her, and succeeded. Until, that is, the sighs became punctuated with a series of carefully timed and clearly disapproving tuts.
‘Nan, are you all right?’
She responded with a quiet, baffled sigh. Hal turned back to the television. Then, moments later, she said: ‘Is this meant to be music?’
Now it was Hal’s turn to sigh. ‘It is music.’
Another baffled sigh. ‘Well it doesn’t sound like it. It’s just shouting.’
‘It’s not shouting, it’s rapping. It’s called hip-hop. It’s the most important form of popular music to have appeared over the last thirty years.’
This time the baffled sigh was accompanied by a baffled shaking of the head. ‘But can you honestly understand a word he is saying?’
‘She.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a woman.’
‘A woman?’ She even smelled baffled by this point.
‘Yeah. Missy Elliot.’
‘Mrs Elliot?’
‘No, Missy. Missy Elliot. She’s the most successful female rap performer in the world.’
‘I used to know a Mrs Elliot.’
‘Missy.’
‘But she didn’t used to wear things like that.’
‘God.’
‘And she wasn’t coloured.’
This statement caused Hal’s thumb to bounce aggressively off his bottom lip.
‘No, and she liked proper songs. John Denver, that sort of thing. Or was that her husband? Yes, that’s right. He worked with Bill at the brewery. Only he was on the management side, you know. But your grandpa always got on really well with him, shared his sense of humour, just like you did . . .’
Hal looked away from the television and his mouth softened into a reluctant, but sympathetic smile. He stroked my head.
And then, prompted by some unspoken memory, Grandma Margaret began to cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m disturbing your programme.’
‘It’s all right, Nan. It’s all right. I’ll get you a tissue.’
And he went and did exactly that, placing a supportive hand on her shoulder when he returned. It was a loving, if awkward gesture.
‘You’re a good boy,’ she said, gently mopping her cheek. ‘Such a good boy. Bill was always so proud of you.’
chop
It was Adam who found this new arrangement the hardest to deal with. You see, although he couldn’t say anything at the time, Adam had never wanted Grandma Margaret to come.
He had once suggested, before Grandpa Bill died, that they might be more comfortable in an Old People’s Home. I don’t know what an Old People’s Home is like but if it is anything like a Dog’s Home I can see why Kate objected. Grandma Margaret never would have been able to fit into one of those cages.
But anyway, Adam wasn’t happy from the start. It wasn’t the way she smelt; no one seemed to notice that. It wasn’t even that she was constantly on the look-out for an unprovoked outburst of happiness, ready to transform it into guilt. It was something else. There was something about her presence, in the corner of the room, which irritated Adam profoundly. Every time she would express one of her Controversial Opinions Adam would roll his eyes and say something like ‘Times have changed’, or ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers’ or even, in extreme cases, ‘Margaret, you can’t say those sorts of things.’ But she could, and she kept on saying them, even though she’d always get interrupted halfway through. After all, she was grieving.
‘I think everyone’s gone too far down this multicultural wotsit . . .’
‘Bill thought the only way you can make sure these shoplifters don’t do it again is to chop off their hands . . .’
‘As Enoch Powell used to say . . .’
‘Gay weddings, whatever next . . .’
‘I tell you Adam, these illegal immigrants . . .’
And, inevitably, Grandma Margaret’s Controversial Opinions became the subject
of various bedroom discussions, even on the first evening of her stay.
‘I’m sorry, Kate, but your mum says the most offensive things.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said, tidying one of Adam’s drawers. ‘But we’re not going to change her.’
‘But she’s a racist. She’s got the most horrible little mind sometimes, she really has.’
‘She’s my mother, Adam. And she’s in a state of grief.’
‘I know I know but -’
‘She didn’t have a nice-little-liberal-middle-class-holidays-to-the-south-of-France upbringing like you did, you know. She had it really tough when she was younger. And she’s having it really tough now -’
‘Well, that’s a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry, but that’s like saying Hitler couldn’t help it because it was the way he was brought up. And anyway, you managed to escape your upbringing, didn’t you?’
‘Escape? Do you realise just how arrogant you are sounding at this moment in time? I didn’t escape anything, and I’m not ashamed of my mother. If you cannot accept the fact that I can love someone, a member of my own family, regardless of whatever happens to pour out of their mouth then I’m afraid that’s your stupid problem.’
‘Fine, if that’s the way you want it -’ And on this particular occasion, Adam stood up to make his own escape. With me. To the park.
‘Come on, boy. Walkies.’
hard
As we walked down the street I tried to get Adam to be reasonable. Why had he been so hard on Kate? He was never like this. He was normally calm, reasonable.
I wagged my tail, I panted heavily, I made soft eyes. It seemed to have some effect because as we got closer to the park his stride lightened and he even started to whistle. But then I remembered.
The woman from yesterday. Emily.
She was there again, as Adam must have expected. Sitting on the bench watching Falstaff trot his way around the park. Again, I decided the best thing to do was to wait with Adam, to make sure he stayed protected.
‘Hello again,’ he said.
‘Hello, and hello, gorgeous,’ Emily said as she stroked my head.
‘You’re not wearing any shoes.’
She smiled, her head dropping to one side. ‘No. I try not to. Well, as much as possible. I like to feel the earth under my feet, I feel like I’m sort of at one with nature and stuff. You know, the vibrations.’ Her head lifted, to look at Adam. ‘You probably think I’m mad.’
‘No, not at all. Not at all. I could do with feeling at one with anything right now, to tell you the honest truth.’
Emily’s face crinkled with exaggerated concern, although her scent remained unchanged. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. You poor thing. Have you had a hard day at the office?’
‘At the classroom, actually. I’m a teacher.’
Exaggerated concern switched to exaggerated surprise. ‘A teacher? Wow, that must be amazing!’
Adam paused, never having received that reaction before. ‘Well, it has its moments. What about you?’
Emily looked confused.
‘Your job? Do you work?’
‘Oh yes, yes. Sorry. Yes. I’m an aromatherapist.’
‘I’m fascinated by aromatherapy,’ said Adam, for what had to be the first time in his life.
‘Really? So many people, especially men, they’re still, you know, what’s the word?’
‘Sceptical?’
‘Yes, they’re sceptical about alternative forms of health and medicinal, you know, practices. But I believe that what we smell has a massive impact on our general well-being, but it must be the most underrated of all the senses.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m trying to branch out into other areas as well - reflexology, crystalology, astrology, numerology . . .’
‘Numerology?’
‘Yes, it’s the idea that your whole life is governed by number patterns, which form part of, like, an overall cosmic plan.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘It’s to do with, you know, vibrations. Every number has its own cosmic vibration.’
‘That’s fascinating.’
By this point both of them were stroking my head, their hands occasionally making slight contact. Prediction equals protection. I decided it would be safer to stand up and sniff around the bench, but still to keep a close ear on the action.
‘Yes,’ Emily said. ‘It is. And everyone always thinks it is for people, you know, who are a bit loopy and New Age and not quite there, but it’s actually really Old Age. It started millions and millions of years ago, not long after the dinosaurs, you know, it was that man who invented the triangle. Pie-something-or-other . . .’
‘Pythagoras?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The man who started numerology - was he called Pythagoras?’
There was a long pause during which I looked up to check on the whereabouts of Falstaff. He was nowhere to be seen and his scent had become lost among the smells of the park, and Emily’s feet.
‘I don’t know,’ Emily said eventually. ‘But, anyway, he was the first to realise that you can tell a lot about a person from their numbers. You see, I was born on the seventh of July 1975 which means I have three sevens in my personal chart. And the number seven has a lot of psychic qualities and, like, that is so me because I’m just always thinking of things and stuff that other people are thinking of.’
I sensed Adam was uncomfortable, perhaps worried that Emily could work out what he was thinking at that moment as he stared into her wide, Dachshund eyes.
‘What year were you born?’ she asked him.
‘Oh, 1963,’ he said. ‘The year sexual intercourse was invented.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. It’s from a poem. I teach English. Anyway, I was born on the third of June 1963.’
Emily’s jaw fell so far that it seemed, for a worrying second, she was about to swallow Adam whole.
Her hand clamped his forearm. ‘No! You are joking!’
‘No. Um, no. I’m afraid not, that’s my birthday. Third of the sixth sixty-three.’
‘But that’s incredible! Three. Six. Six. Three. My God! You know, I felt it yesterday. Just sitting next to you, you had this like intense cosmic energy. This hardly ever happens. Wow! My God! Let’s think, so, OK, you’ve got the three, all right, so that’s creativity and independence. You like language, you’re very imaginative, you’ve got, like, a free spirit. But then there’s the six. Wow, this is really weird. You see the six and the three are opposites. The six is about duty, about responsibility, about caring, the family, that sort of thing. Wow! So you’ve got this powerful, like, tension within you, between being responsible and doing what you think is right and this other wild force which makes you want to be wild and follow your instincts. My God, you know, I can feel it now. You’ve got this aura . . .’
Emily was right. There was some conflict going on here, for Adam, and the battle lines were now marked on his face. Duty, Adam. Remember your duty.
sniff
OK, I thought. Enough’s enough. I had to do something. I had to stop them from getting any closer. But just as I was about to start barking I was interrupted.
‘Well, well, madwag. Well, well.’
I turned around to see Falstaff sniffing my behind. ‘My name’s Prince.’
‘Sorry, madwag, no offence.’ Falstaff removed his nose from my rear end and came around to face me. He was fatter and uglier than I had remembered. And older too, with white beardy whiskers. ‘You liked my trick yesterday, didn’t you, eh? Getting out of my collar like that. It’s simple. A neck-twist to the left, like that, move back slowly with your head in line with your neck and then out. It’s as easy as that. Now that’s a good trick to know. It could come in handy someday.’
‘I doubt that very much.’
‘Yes, of course you do, madwag. Course you do. You’re a Labrador, aren’t you, eh? A Labrabore, eh? Slipping leads just isn’t your thing, is it? But that’s OK. That’s fine. Resist the Spri
ngers. But you see, I’m only half Springer, aren’t I? So I’ve got no breed loyalties. None at all. Or rather, I’ve got so many of them they’ve cancelled each other out. The whole dog kingdom is in my blood, madwag, it really is. I’ve even got a bit of Labrador in me somewhere. Yes, my great-great-great grandmother, on my mother’s side, she was a Labrador so the story goes. Anyway, madwag, enough about me, let’s walk.’ He gestured over towards the back of the park.
I hesitated. Adam and Emily were still talking. Or rather, Emily was still talking while Adam sat, entranced, unable to take his eyes off the feast before him.
‘I don’t think I should,’ I said. ‘I think I should wait here.’
Falstaff wasn’t having any of it. ‘I’ve got something to tell you, madwag old chap.’
‘Tell me?’
‘About my mistress.’ He pointed his nose toward Emily. ‘But if you’re not interested . . .’
He jogged off, heading beyond the oak trees towards the composting mass of debris at the back of the park. Wanting to know more about Emily, I had little choice but to follow.
‘Have you sniffed here before?’ he said, before pushing his head under a loose heap of dirt and dead leaves. The weird thing was I had never seen or smelt this heap, even though I had trodden over the composted waste land a thousand times.
‘About Emily -’
He lifted his head up out of the heap, a leaf dangling from his ear. ‘That’s some good shit, madwag. Good shit. Have a sniff.’
Now this was a dilemma. You see, pleasure-sniffing has always been strictly frowned upon by the Labrador population as a result of Guru Oscar’s teachings.
Sure, we sniff all the time. But only scent trails. We sniff out of duty, to attain information. And we always keep our heads above ground. Pleasure-sniffing, on the other paw, requires you to completely submerge your nose, and maybe your entire head, into a smell-heap such as the one I was now presented with. It is the most intense sniffing experience possible, and serves no other function than to get you high. As mentioned specifically in the Pact, pleasure-sniffing has long been considered irresponsible and even dangerous. Indeed, some dogs spend their entire park time with their nose under cover, and pass the rest of the day neglecting any sense of Family duty they might once have felt.
