by Matt Dunn
She makes a gesture with her hands that I imagine is supposed to symbolize Julie and Tom getting together, and Julie’s dad frowns. “And what—they’ll bond over their sob stories?”
“Stranger things have happened,” says Dot.
As she heads off to serve some other customers who’ve been waiting impatiently by the till, Julie’s dad reaches down to pat me. “What do you think, Doug?” he says.
I hesitate, because Tom is a V-E-T, then I remember this isn’t about me, so I wag my tail in approval.
“Worth a try, eh? Though I’m not so sure Julie will go for it,” he says. “Not while this thing is going on with Luke.”
At the sound of his name, I let out a frustrated yap, and Julie’s dad widens his eyes. “You don’t like him, do you? Luke, I mean.”
I yap again, following it up with a low growl, and Julie’s dad smiles. “Whereas Tom?”
I angle my head so far to one side I almost topple over, then snort at my own clumsiness, and Julie’s dad lets out a chuckle.
“What was that?” says Dot, who’s just reappeared at our table.
“Oh, I was just getting Doug’s input,” he says, and Dot’s mouth curls up in a smile, as if there’s something funny about the concept.
“And is he in favor?”
“He is.”
“Great.”
“And as to how we make it happen...?”
Dot mulls this over for a moment. “Julie usually walks Doug here on a Sunday morning, right?”
“Aye.”
“In that case, leave that to me.”
“Happy to,” says Julie’s dad, then he runs through a quick summary just to make sure he’s got Dot’s plan down correctly. “So, barbecue. Your house. Sunday evening. Six.”
“Correct,” says Dot.
“Address?”
“You can wear what you like!” says Dot, with a grin, then she jots her address down on her notepad, rips off the sheet of paper, and hands it to Julie’s dad. “But play dumb when Julie mentions it.”
“When Julie mentions it?”
Dot taps a finger against the side of her nose, so Julie’s dad does a little salute for some reason, before saying, “It’s a date.” Dot raises her eyebrows, and Julie’s dad smiles back at her, a smile which lasts until we’re almost back home before it begins to falter. Perhaps because he’s suddenly realized it might be a date of the “double” variety.
Quietly, he lets us back into the house, then puts a finger to his lips and makes a shh sound just in case Julie’s still sleeping off her hangover. He kneels down to my level to unclip my leash, and scratches me under my chin.
“So, fingers crossed for tomorrow night,” he says. “Though I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you.”
I think to myself, fine, because breathing’s tricky for me at the best of times given my compromised nostril layout.
“Oh, and not a word to Julie,” he adds, before hauling himself upright again, and slipping back out through the front door.
Silently, I pad into the living room, though I’ve barely had time to assume my usual position on the sofa when a looking-sorry-for-herself Julie appears in the doorway. I leap back down, skid to a halt on the wooden floor, and rush to meet her, though when even the most enthusiastic of welcomes can’t seem to bring more than the briefest of smiles to her face, I realize more than ever that—despite my misgivings—the Luke situation needs fixing, and fast.
And if it takes a V-E-T to fix it, then that’s just how it’ll have to be.
5
It’s Saturday evening, and we’re watching reruns of Frasier again. Julie’s still in last night’s pajamas, I’m sitting on her lap, and there’s a three-quarters-empty bottle of wine sitting on the table in front of us, when Priya phones. In stark contrast to how she’s faced the rest of the day, Julie seems happy to hear from Priya, especially when Priya opens with an apology. Sort of.
“It’s only because I care about you,” Priya says.
“I know, I know.”
“And I want you to be happy. We all do.”
“Me too!”
“So we’re friends again?”
“We never weren’t.”
I snort at Julie’s poor grammar, then there’s a pause, as if Priya’s thinking of launching into another anti-Luke diatribe, then she obviously thinks better of it.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Watching TV. With Doug.”
“Watching TV?”
“Well, Doug didn’t fancy Laser Quest or karaoke, so we...”
“I meant on a Saturday night?”
“It’s not just any Saturday, is it?”
“Huh?”
“Mum?” says Julie, then she does what she’s been doing on and off all day, and lets out a muted sob.
“Oh, Jules,” Priya says, tenderly. “Want me to come over?”
“No, I’m fine,” says Julie, reaching for a tissue from the box on the coffee table and blowing her nose loudly.
“Have you heard from Luke?”
Julie balls the discarded tissue up and adds it to the pile on the table, then helps herself to another one. “Yeah,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. “He popped round earlier with a huge bunch of flowers and an engagement ring. Said he’d finally left his wife. Didn’t know why it had taken him so long. Practically begged me to say yes.”
I peer quizzically up at Julie. Surely I’d have noticed that, seeing as I’ve been here all afternoon?
“Jules!” Priya laughs down the phone, so loudly that Julie has to move the handset a good six inches away from her ear, and she mouths “sorry” when I wince. “Would you?”
“Would I what?” says Julie, though all three of us know exactly what Priya means.
“Marry Luke. If he asked.”
“He’s hardly likely to leap out of one marriage and want to get straight into another.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Well, he’d have to ask very nicely.”
“Jules, you can’t be serious?”
Julie takes the phone away from her ear again, though this time it’s only to frown at it. “That’s easy for you to say, P,” she says, once she’s moved the handset back into position. “You’ve got a husband.”
“So have you. Unfortunately, he’s not yours.”
“Yes. Well. That’s because I’d be all on my own otherwise.”
I feel a little hurt at this but decide to let it go. Julie’s upset, and evidently going through something of a crisis of confidence.
“Split up with Luke and you won’t be for long. Gorgeous example of womanhood that you are.”
“Hardly, P. But thanks,” says Julie, her voice thick with emotion. “I just... I don’t know. It’s not like we’ve had a normal relationship, is it? So how can I possibly tell?” She reaches for her wineglass and gulps the contents down. “But what if...?”
“What?”
“Well, what if this is all I deserve...?”
“Hey!” says Priya, though “shouts” would be a better description. “Don’t for one minute think this is your fault. Or anything to do with you. Luke’s...” She hesitates, as if wary of breaking some sort of unwritten code, then she takes a deep breath. “A cheat. Pure and simple.”
“Priya!”
Priya sighs loudly. “All I’m saying is, men who behave like Luke does, they’re a type, aren’t they? Chances are they’ve done it before. And...” Priya stops talking, but the implication is clear.
“So you’re saying even if he does leave his wife, I’ll never be able to trust him, so I’m best out of there?”
“Well, you’re kind of putting words into my mouth,” says Priya, after a moment. “But they’re the right words.”
On the television, a woman is storming out of a bedroom, an
d a half-naked Frasier looks like he’s about to burst into tears. And he’s not the only one.
“But I love him, P,” sniffs Julie.
“Are you sure?” says Priya. “Or are you just in love with the idea of the life you might have with him if he ever left his wife and stopped being a cheating bastard? Because I’m afraid neither of those things are likely to happen.” Priya follows this last observation up with another burst of laughter, a little inappropriately if you ask me, perhaps in an attempt to lighten the mood a bit.
“What if he’s the one?” Julie says.
“He is. But like I said, someone else’s.”
“You can love more than one person, you know?”
“You can,” agrees Priya. “But you shouldn’t.”
“I won’t give up on him. On us. Not until I know.” Julie wedges her phone between her ear and her shoulder, takes me by the front legs, and adjusts my position in her lap. “Otherwise, I’m always going to think he’s the one who got away...”
“...with it?”
“Not funny, Priya.”
Priya thinks for a moment. “You know what you should do?” she says, and I prick my ears up for this. “Play him at his own game.”
“Huh?”
“Start seeing someone.”
“What?”
“I said, you should...”
“No, I heard you. But, um, why?”
“Well, for starters, if Luke sees you interested in someone else—or more importantly, someone else interested in you—it might help him make a decision, if you know what I mean?”
“P...” says Julie, wearily, and it’s evidently a tone Priya’s heard once too often.
“If you’re about to say ‘I can’t be bothered,’ I’m going to come round right now and...”
“I can’t. It’s too much hard work.”
“You said the same thing about getting Doug. And look how that’s worked out.”
“Maybe,” admits Julie.
“And worst-case scenario, if Luke’s decision doesn’t go the way you want, you might actually meet someone you like.”
The implication is “more than Luke,” but to my surprise—though perhaps it shouldn’t be because getting me has worked out splendidly—Julie seems at least amenable to the idea.
“You think?”
“It’s worth a try. And might help you get a little bit of the old Julie back.”
“The old Julie?”
“The one who was beating them off with a stick, rather than beating herself up all the time.”
“Okay, okay,” she says, though whether in double-agreement, or just to stop Priya going down that particular conversational dead end, I’m not sure.
“So you should totally keep an eye out for any opportunities,” Priya says.
“That’s a laugh!” says Julie, in a tone that suggests it isn’t. “For one thing, I never meet anyone,” she adds, miserably.
It takes all my self-control not to let out an excited bark. Because I can do something about that.
6
It’s the following morning, and we’re just heading out to the park, when a gruff voice from the adjacent garden makes me jump.
“He’s been barking at my Santa again!”
Julie stops in her tracks, rolls her eyes at me, then fixes a smile on her face. “Who has?” she says, sweetly.
Miss Harris, our next-door neighbor, glowers at me over the fence. “Who do you think?”
“He’s a dog, Mary. Barking at cats is kind of what they do. And the only reason he barks like that is because your cat...” She nods at Santa, who’s staring smugly at us from where she’s being clutched tightly in Miss Harris’s arms. “Keeps coming into our garden.”
“She’s a cat,” says Miss Harris. “It’s... Now, how did you put it? Kind of what they do?”
Julie looks like she’s doing her best to ignore both the sarcastic tone and smile. “Yes, well, she kind of keeps doing it. And peeing here too. She’s killed half my plants. Why can’t she go in your garden?”
I snort to myself. What’s actually killed most of Julie’s plants is the fact that Julie forgets to water them, and actually, Santa peeing on them is quite possibly the only liquid refreshment they get.
“That would be disgusting,” says Miss Harris, as if that’s a reasonable response. “Wouldn’t it, Santa?”
She’s addressed this last comment to Santa in a pathetic baby voice, proof if it were needed that this immoral feline manipulation works. As Santa mews pathetically back at her, it’s all I can do not to launch into a barking frenzy.
“Can’t you teach her not to?”
“Yes. Sure,” says Miss Harris, sarcastically. “Because you can train cats.”
As if on cue, Santa wriggles out from Miss Harris’s grasp and vaults agilely onto the fence, so I tense up like a coiled spring, ready to leap to our protection. Julie—perhaps sensing I’m ready to launch a merciless strike—grips tighter onto my leash.
“Anyway,” Julie says. “If Doug’s barking, at least he’s doing it inside my house and not in your garden.”
“I can still hear him. Through the wall.”
I look up at Julie as innocently as possible, though she doesn’t appear to be angry with me.
“I’m surprised. Given how loud you always have your television.”
“Do I, dear?” says Miss Harris, as innocently as possible, although the dear sounds more like an insult than a term of endearment.
“A little.”
“That’s only so I can hear it over the sound of barking.”
“Even when you go out?”
“I leave it on for Santa,” says Miss Harris, defensively. “It’s company for her when I’m not there. Isn’t it, darling?”
Santa mews again, then, with all the poise of an Olympic gymnast on the beam, begins parading along the top of the fence. I’d bump against the post in an attempt to knock her off if I didn’t think she’d just perform some sort of effortless midair flip and land on her feet to spite me, and even if she did land on our side, there’s no way I’d be able to catch her. Trust me, I’ve tried.
Miss Harris attempts to grab her, but instead, Santa just wriggles out of reach and gives her a “how dare you?” stare, and it’s about now I hope Julie can see how disobedient, untrustworthy, selfish, and disloyal a cat can be.
“Tell you what,” says Julie, and I can tell she’s considering giving Santa a less-than-playful shove the moment Miss Harris turns her back. “You keep Santa on your side of the fence, and I’ll make sure Doug keeps it down.”
Miss Harris frowns. “I told you. That’s impossible.”
Julie shrugs. “I’m afraid that’s the deal,” she says, as sweetly as possible. Then, with a “Come on, Doug,” we head out through the front gate.
“Well!” huffs Miss Harris, then, with a brusque “Come on, Santa!” she storms back toward her front door.
And I don’t need to look around to know Santa’s heading in the completely opposite direction.
* * *
It’s mayhem at the park this morning. Perhaps because it’s a sunny Sunday, children are there with footballs, and on those scooter things that their parents always seem to end up carrying. Mothers are pushing oversize four-by-four strollers while chatting distractedly on their cell phones. If you’re my size, it’s a pretty dangerous environment, and for a moment, I think about feigning exhaustion so Julie has to carry me.
On the plus side, though, this high level of park activity means a number of men are around, which also means that if I can work my magic, Julie’s problem will be sorted out by lunchtime, and there’ll be no need for her to hook up with a V-E-T.
We do our usual circuit round the perimeter path, me pausing to sniff every few meters, though in reality, it’s so I can check out what’s on of
fer. I’ve already set a few ground rules: No men who are already with women (to avoid a repeat of the Luke situation). No men with other men. And—most important—no men with children. I don’t want to be treated like some kind of plaything by a little human.
The trouble is, this narrows the field down to almost zero this morning, and I’m contemplating giving up when I spot a man around Julie’s age sitting on a bench a few yards along the path by the pond. What’s more, he’s actually reading a book, rather than just the more commonplace activity of sitting and staring at his phone.
On the pretext of a particularly interesting scent trail, I lead Julie across to where he’s sitting, then stop in front of the bench and peer up at him. He’s reading some novel with words on the front that I can’t quite make out, possibly because it’s “in foreign,” as Julie’s dad is fond of saying. After about five seconds, he lowers the book, and raises his eyebrows at me.
I snort accordingly, then glance back over my shoulder, expecting Julie to initiate a conversation, when I realize the first flaw in my plan. She’s lengthened my extendable leash to its maximum, and is therefore standing about twenty feet away from us, staring at her phone. Plaintively, I bark to get her attention, and she looks up distractedly.
“Doug,” calls Julie. “Stop bothering that man and come over here.”
“He’s not bothering me. You’re not bothering me, are you?” says the man—Arthur, according to the scrawl on the side of his coffee cup, though I’ve been into Starbucks often enough with Julie to know that might not actually be his name—as he reaches down to stroke me. “Are you?” he repeats, in a childish voice.
I forgive him speaking to me as if I’m a human toddler, and snort again, but sadly Julie doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she presses the button on the handle that retracts my leash, and attempts to reel me in like a fish.
I’ve got seconds to act, so I wait until the leash’s tension’s off, then put my front paws onto the bench, and—using it for leverage against the spring of the mechanism—leap up just far enough to nudge Arthur’s coffee cup over with my muzzle. Something that guarantees Julie’s full attention now.
