At the moment, it doesn’t appear to bother her because she’s playing with a piece of screwed-up paper, skedaddling sideways across the cage with her tail stuck up in the air like a bottle brush before crouching, ready to pounce and kill.
‘Or it could become an honorary pony if we penned it in alongside Dolly,’ Libby goes on, warming to the theme. ‘What kind of dog is it?’
‘It’s a mini chihuahua, what the Americans call a teacup dog.’
‘Ah, that sounds very sweet.’ Libby pauses. ‘Couldn’t you keep it with you, Buster and Tia?’
‘I’ve already thought of that. No, Buster couldn’t cope with another male in the house.’
‘That could be inconvenient in the future to say the least, unless you’re talking about male dogs in particular, rather than males in general. Buster’s presence could have dire consequences for your love life.’
‘I haven’t got a love life,’ I say quickly. ‘Really, I haven’t, and I don’t want one.’
‘Methinks you protest too much.’ Libby tilts her head, a bit like Tia does when she’s expecting you to give her a biscuit. ‘It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’ve been spending a lot of quality time with my big brother recently, swanning about with him, so to speak.’
‘Very funny.’ I shouldn’t encourage her. I return to the problem of the dog. It might be the size of a teacup, but it’s still a dog, and it needs somewhere to live, and I can’t double it up with another of our canine guests in case they play too rough with it. ‘I’m going to call Wendy to see if she can possibly foster another dog.’
It is a phone call I look forward to with some trepidation because Wendy and I haven’t spoken since our silly fall-out over her entitlement to the donations of dog food from the box that Libby set up by the till in the Co-op. I have no quarrel with any of the committee. In fact, I can see only too clearly where they are coming from. It should have been a joint majority decision to take me on to work here, not Fifi acting alone.
‘I’m sorry, Tessa, but you understand my position,’ Wendy says when I explain my request.
‘Can’t we put our differences aside for the sake of the dog?’ I ask quietly.
‘Oh, those aren’t the issues. I’m up to my quota. There is no room at the inn, and it’s all I can do to cope with the ones I already have. I rehomed one last week, but as soon as she went, another came in.’
‘You haven’t space for just one more?’ I beg. ‘He’s the tiniest chihuahua.’
‘A big dog inside a little one,’ Wendy observes. ‘I don’t think so, Tessa.’ I can tell from the tone of her voice that, as a true dog-lover, she’s beginning to weaken. ‘Can’t you wait a week or two until one of the others has gone?’
‘I don’t think so, not when the husband is telling us that he will hold us to blame if the dog eats their baby before I can find someone to take it in.’
‘How ridiculous is that!’
‘I know, but I think he’s genuinely upset and ashamed at having to get rid of the dog. He’s probably very fond of it.’
‘I suppose it won’t require much food, or space on the sofa, and I won’t have to walk it far with those little legs.’
‘So, you’ll take him?’
There’s a long pause.
‘I haven’t said that exactly.’ I can tell that she’s smiling as she utters a self-mocking sigh. ‘I’m such a soft touch, aren’t I? Tessa, tell them that if they can wait until next week, that will be perfect. If not, then I’ll squeeze him in.’
‘I’ll see if I can put them off for a few days,’ I say, thanking her. ‘What would I do without you, Wendy?’
‘I’m sorry to have been a pain,’ she says. ‘I’ve had enough of all the petty arguments and bitching that have been going on. You’re doing a great job and it’s time we all stopped taking sides and worked together for the sake of the animals.’
‘That’s lovely to hear. Thank you.’
‘Unfortunately, there are still some on the committee, and I’m not naming names’ – although I can guess, I think wryly as Wendy continues – ‘who cannot be persuaded to change their minds.’
‘Well, I wish everyone could agree,’ I say. ‘I’ll be in touch about the dog very soon.’
It is too late to put the owners off. According to the wife, as the baby screams in the background, the husband is on his way to the Sanctuary with the dog, known as Mad Max. I cut the call and phone Wendy back to arrange to take him over to her later.
The dog, dressed in a T-shirt with a Mucky Pup logo, comes with a wardrobe complete with clothes on hangers, two pairs of bootees and three bling-encrusted collars and leads. When the husband drops him off, he’s crying.
‘I don’t want to do this. It feels like the worst kind of betrayal, but my wife is adamant, and she’s right really … It’s for the best,’ he repeats, as though he’s trying to convince himself. ‘The baby is up every night with colic and we’re both exhausted.’ He kisses the dog several times, and by the time he can bring himself to leave him, I’m in tears too.
I take Max to Wendy’s after I’ve dropped Libby home in the afternoon. I drive the van because Jack is away on a training course, and Max whines all the way. When I pass the church in Talyton St George, I find that although I think of the wedding and Nathan, it’s not with the same pain as before.
Wendy’s home, an impressive pebble-dashed Edwardian house, is in one of the roads in the older part of town, and I can tell before I walk up the drive with Max in my arms that I’m at the right place as a cacophony of barking dogs assault my ears.
Wendy opens the front door a couple of centimetres.
‘Get back, dogs. Oh, do please be quiet! How many times do I have to tell you it isn’t the postman?’
The door closes and reopens to let me in. Wendy, dressed in summery dog-walking clothes – a saggy blouse and floral cotton trousers – shows me through to the living room at the front of the house. It’s decidedly shabby and an odour of bad eggs pervades the air. There are dogs everywhere, every single one perched on the furniture, including a snooty-looking Afghan hound, two Labrador crosses, a Dobermann and three terriers. There are blankets and throws draped over the sofa and chairs, and various rubber toys and bones scattered across the threadbare carpet.
‘Take a pew, if you can find one. Off dogs. Off!’ Wendy flaps her arms. The Dobermann comes trotting over to investigate, but the rest remain where they are. Wendy picks up one terrier and plonks it gently on the floor. It makes to jump back up.
‘No, Gary!’ she shouts, but it doesn’t take any notice, resuming its place.
‘Don’t worry. I can’t stop for long. Where do you want him?’ I say, nodding towards the dog that cowers in my arms, shivering and showing the whites of his eyes.
‘Pop him down on the floor – I expect he can stand up for himself.’
I put him down and he stays there, his body low to the ground and his tail tucked tight between his legs.
‘I’m afraid he’s been rather spoiled,’ I observe. ‘I have his wardrobe in the back of the van.’
‘Dogs should be allowed to be dogs. I don’t hold with all this dressing up and treating dogs like surrogate children, but lots of doggies do have coats nowadays.’
‘No, I mean a wardrobe: a box with doors and a hanging rail for his clothes. I’ll bring it in for you.’ I look around at the dogs on the sofa and chairs and smile to myself. Wendy spoils her canine foster family too, just in a different way.
‘Take that T-shirt off him, Tessa,’ she says. ‘He’s embarrassed.’
I remove it, aware that I’m squatting on the floor in a sea of hair, before stepping back to see what Max will do. He does nothing until the Dobermann, a massive black and tan dog with eyes sunk deep into its skull, comes forward to sniff at him, when he utters a low growl. The Dobermann continues to take liberties, sniffing first one ear then the other, at which Max, unable to contain himself any longer, lets out a furious yap and attaches himself by his teeth
to the end of the Dobermann’s nose. The Dobermann shakes his head violently, flinging Max off onto the rug by the fireplace. Undaunted, Max goes back in for more.
‘No, Max,’ I say, imagining carnage and yet another costly trip to the vet.
‘It’s all right.’ Wendy touches my arm. ‘Let them decide who’s boss.’ She chuckles as the Dobermann yelps and jumps back and Max stands feet square, head and tail up, facing him with his teeth bared. ‘I reckon he can take care of himself, don’t you?’
It seems that he can, for he proceeds to patrol the room, examining his new surroundings while the other dogs watch him with interest and from a respectful distance.
‘He’s going to be all right,’ says Wendy. ‘There’ll be queues of people lining up to adopt him. He won’t be here for long.’
I think of Buster and Tia, and wish I could say the same for them, but when I get back to the Sanctuary, my aunt, who has turned up for a couple of hours, is showing a couple around the kennels. She introduces them as Mr and Mrs Nelson. Mr Nelson is in his late fifties while Mrs Nelson is a few years younger. Some of our visitors struggle to choose a dog – big dog or little dog? Pedigree or mongrel? Puppy or adult? – but the Nelsons know exactly what they are looking for: a small terrier-type dog, preferably a Jack Russell. However, it’s Buster who catches their eye.
‘Can we go in with him?’ Mrs Nelson asks.
‘Let me get him out for you,’ I say, not wanting to risk a confrontation between Buster and the husband over Buster’s territory. I hand him over, watching him sniff at their hands before they take him for a stroll in the copse. I wait for them to return, crossing my fingers in the hope that this will be Buster’s lucky break.
‘We love him,’ says Mrs Nelson. ‘He isn’t quite what we were looking for, but he’s adorable.’
‘I’m very fond of him,’ I say, biting back a sudden pang of regret at the thought that I’m putting my baby up for adoption.
‘Will he fit in the back of the car?’ says the husband. ‘That’s my only reservation.’
‘Of course he will,’ Mrs Nelson says, giving him a look that means, Shut up, I want this dog.
‘He isn’t all that big,’ I point out.
‘Can we try him in it?’ says the husband.
‘Of course.’ I frown. It seems a strange request, but if it helps Buster find a good home …
It turns out that Buster does fit into the back of their car and, therefore, Mr Nelson agrees that he will fit in with their lifestyle. They enjoy walking and cycling, and evenings in, and they seem perfect – too perfect, I wonder, or am I just looking for an excuse to keep him?
I arrange a home visit with them for the following week, and stifling my doubts, I return Buster to his kennel, stopping to stroke his silky coat as he gazes up at me, hopeful that I’m going to come back for him when I retire to the bungalow later. Could I keep him? I wonder briefly. I can’t afford to keep myself, let alone a dog, and if I took Buster on because I’ve become attached to him, what would stop me taking on others? I could end up with a menagerie, like some of the nurses I used to work with in practice.
‘I think you’ll be happy with the Nelsons,’ I tell him. ‘Your future now depends on the outcome of the home visit, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you have everything you could possibly want and more, a special home for a very special dog.’
I glance into Tia’s kennel, where she’s lying curled up in her bed with her nose buried in her fluffy tail. Visitors constantly reject Tia because of her age and her health problems, and I can understand their worry that they’ll grow to love her and lose her soon after. It’s like adopting a granny: it isn’t a great long-term prospect. She’ll end up spending the rest of her life here, and what kind of existence is that? I try to remain optimistic. It looks as though Buster has found himself a wonderful forever home. Hopefully, there will be someone out there for Tia.
Chapter Twelve
Top Dog
I FIND THAT clearing the droppings from the paddock is always a good time to take stock. I work in the bright sun, my skin prickling with heat and perspiration even though I’m dressed in only a vest top, shorts and wellies. I use a scraper and a scoop, and a wheelbarrow with a wobbly wheel. Like the mountain of droppings balanced on the wheelbarrow, my position at the Sanctuary is precarious.
DJ has moved on, out of pocket. Diane and Wendy have apparently abandoned their principles and, in spite of what Wendy said when I dropped Max off with her, they show no sign of returning to volunteer on a regular basis. Fifi and the committee are at loggerheads. I have invoices from both of Talyton’s vet practices awaiting payment with interest, and I know for a fact that Jack paid for the last purchase of dog food from Overdown Farmers, and my aunt has been bringing supplies of coffee, tea and milk from the coffee shop at the garden centre. Towie, the kitten, is sitting in the cage in the office, as if she’s on Death Row, awaiting a decision on whether I can justify the expense of removing an eye from a feral kitten, who might make a great pet, or might not. You could argue, on a practical rather than an emotional level, that there are many more feral kittens out there, in spite of our trap, neuter and release policy, and the charity’s money – if and when it comes – would be better spent on neutering.
I don’t know what to do. I am working all hours because there are more animals here than Libby and I can cope with, and on top of that, I have a ball to organise and admin to deal with.
And then there’s the problem of what to do about Jack. Now that is a more intriguing challenge. There is no doubt that we are growing closer again, but this time it is different. I don’t think I can honestly say we’re ‘just friends’.
I push the loaded wheelbarrow over to the corner of the paddock where we are creating a muck heap of extraordinary dimensions for a single pony, run the barrow up the plank to the top and tip out the muck. I survey the scene from my vantage point, watching the buzzard that soars in the sky over Longdogs Copse, one of the ferals that is patrolling the hedgerow among the cow parsley, brambles and nettles, and a vehicle, the postman’s red van, which is heading this way on the lane.
Not Jack then, I muse. I check my watch. I haven’t seen or heard from him in all of four hours. I must stop thinking – no, obsessing about him – because if the committee have their way, I could be moving on very soon to who knows where without him.
‘Letter for you, Tessa.’ Ash brings an envelope over to me.
‘Thanks,’ I call from the top of the heap.
‘I’ll leave it here.’ He balances the letter on the gatepost, and with the next breath of a summer breeze, it floats down and settles on top of the water in the trough. ‘Oh dear, you didn’t see that happen, did you?’
‘If it’s another bill, then no, I didn’t,’ I say grinning as he flicks the water from the envelope and brings it over to the muck heap, stopping halfway along the plank to place it directly in my hands.
‘How’s it going?’ he says.
‘Great, thanks. Would you like to offer a home to one of our residents? We’re running short on space.’
‘I’d love to have a dog one day.’
‘What kind of dog?’ I say, wondering if I can tempt him to consider adoption in the more immediate future.
‘One that doesn’t bite the postman, obviously,’ he chuckles. ‘It won’t be for a while though.’ He pauses, colour rising in his cheeks. ‘Is Libby here today?’
‘I’m afraid not. She’ll be sorry she missed you,’ I go on, grabbing the opportunity to play Cupid, and perhaps sell a couple more tickets for the ball. ‘Are you coming to the ball? You must have seen the flyers.’ I’ve posted hundreds, probably more items than Ash posts through letterboxes in a week. ‘You should ask Libby – she’s always talking about you,’ I say, planting the idea in his head.
Blushing furiously, he tells me he’d better get on, before he walks sideways down the plank, attempts the leap over the puddle at the base of the heap and lands with one foot up to his ank
le in foul black liquid manure. ‘Oh, shit,’ he swears.
‘You’re right – that’s exactly what it is,’ I say brightly. ‘You’re a country postie – you should be wearing wellies.’
‘Too late,’ he says, with a rueful grimace. ‘I’m going to feel a right idiot, going around smelling of muck all day.’
‘You can wash it off before you leave – there’s soap by the hose outside the barn.’ I give him a wave. ‘Bye.’
While Ash is driving away into the hills towards the moor, I open the soggy letter and read it with a sinking heart. The Talyton Animal Rescue Committee is calling an extraordinary general meeting and specifically requests my attendance tomorrow night at 7.30 at Wendy’s house. This is it. This is the end. Diane and her cronies have decided to terminate my term at the Sanctuary because Fifi’s contract isn’t valid. I assume the worst.
The following day I turn up at the meeting, filled with trepidation. Diane sits at the head of the table in Wendy’s dining room, pouring tea and carving slices from a caraway cake before the formal proceedings can begin. Wendy is present, of course, along with Frances, the receptionist from the Otter House vet practice, dressed in a psychedelic tunic top and trademark ash-blonde wig that reminds me of candyfloss twirled around a stick, and four other ladies from Talyton St George. There are hairs in the tea and hairs in the cake, and Max the teacup dog jumps up on my lap for a cuddle, moulting a few more hairs onto my black trousers for good measure.
‘I have someone interested in taking Max,’ Wendy says, noticing his head pop up over the top of the table. ‘Hopefully, he’ll be gone by the end of the week. The others will be relieved to see the back of him – he’s definitely top dog, a bit of a bully, in fact.’
Diane calls everyone’s attention by banging an auctioneer’s gavel against the table.
‘Welcome to what is only the third extraordinary meeting of our illustrious organisation’s history,’ she says, before running through the list of those present and those who have sent their apologies. ‘Fifi Green … Where is she?’
The Village Vet Page 19
