by Matt Dunn
Julie reels back from this woman—though she could just be temporarily overcome by the amount of perfume Alexa’s evidently doused herself in because I certainly am—and smiles a nervous hello in return. Then Alexa squats down, grabs me just behind my front legs, and hoists me up to her face height. “And who’s this handsome beast?” she says, pulling me close and planting a sloppy kiss on my nose.
“This is Doug,” says Julie, smirking as I sneeze violently and coat Alexa with a fine mist of snot.
“He’s delightful,” exclaims Alexa. “Aren’t you, Doug?”
I give Julie a desperate, sideways look, willing her to save me from quite possibly the scariest woman I’ve ever met. But thankfully, before I become asphyxiated by Alexa’s perfume cloud, she places me gently back down on the floor, then returns to the reception desk, peers down at the appointments book, licks her finger, and flicks through the pages.
“Here we are. Julie and Doug Newman. You’re here for the dual makeover, yes?”
“Um, yes,” says Julie, nervously. “Though when you say makeover, what exactly...?” Her voice trails off as Alexa reaches over the desk to grab a lock of Julie’s hair, inspecting it as if it’s something she’s just pulled out of her shower drain.
“Listen, hon,” Alexa says. “Did someone buy you this voucher?”
“My friend Priya,” says Julie. “For Doug’s birthday.”
“Doug’s birthday?”
“That’s right.”
“Hmm.” Alexa leans in and peers at her. “And why do you suppose this Priya bought you a makeover?”
“Well, technically, she bought it for Doug...”
“Oh-kay.” Alexa folds her arms. “But why a makeover?”
“Pardon?”
“Why not something else. Like a...” Alexa waves a scarily-manicured hand in the air. “New collar. Or a chew toy.”
“Well, because...”
Alexa raises an eyebrow. “Mmm-hmm?”
“Because she thought it might be fun?” suggests Julie. “You know, for me and Doug. To...”
“Julie, Julie, Julie.” Alexa takes Julie’s hand in one of hers, covering the back of it with her other. “Sometimes, we buy people presents because it’s something we think we might like. Other times it’s because we feel it’s something they might like. And then...”
“Then?” asks Julie, although she looks like she doesn’t really want to know what the answer is.
“Sometimes, people buy presents because they think it’s what the other person needs.”
“I...I don’t...” stutters Julie, then she stops talking because all of a sudden, it’s evident that maybe Alexa is right.
“Been through a breakup recently, have we? Or maybe single for a while?”
“Well, yes. I mean, no, but...”
“I’m no psychiatrist,” says Alexa, in a tone that suggests she actually thinks she is. “But my guess is your friend bought this voucher for you, not Doug, and probably because she felt you could do with a change. And the fact that you’ve come along to cash it in straightaway suggests that you feel you do too. Am I right, or am I right?”
“Well...”
Alexa clicks her fingers so scarily loud that it makes me jump, and almost instantly, a young woman appears and hands a glass of something fizzy to Julie.
“That’s what we do here, Julie. You’ve been dumped, you come in here and we’ll get you to a place where you show him what he’s missing.”
I almost can’t take my eyes off Alexa, so fascinated I am with her performance. Even I’d be moved by what she’s saying, and there’s nothing I want to change about myself.
Then I hear a sound I’ve heard all too often recently, so I spin round and nuzzle Julie’s leg in an attempt to stop her tears.
“That’s right.” Alexa takes Julie’s glass, sets it carefully down on the reception counter, then leans over and envelops her in another huge Sumo-hug. “Let it all out.”
As Julie does as instructed and bawls at the top of her voice, Alexa strokes the small of her back until the worst of the sobs have subsided. Then she hands Julie’s glass back to her.
“Now, you drink that down, and leave everything else to us,” she says.
So that’s exactly what Julie does.
* * *
I’ve been shampooed, conditioned, blow-dried, and combed to within an inch of my life, had any wayward hairs snipped, my nails clipped, and even had my teeth cleaned, and I’m waiting back in reception, slurping my way through a huge bowl of something called “Evian” when there’s a loud “Ta-daa!” from Alexa, presumably for my benefit, as there’s no one else here. Then she all but pushes Julie into the room.
For a second, I don’t believe what I’m seeing. Her hair is shorter, shinier and neater, her skin’s positively glowing, her nails are manicured and gleam with a vivid dark polish, in contrast to her almost blindingly-white teeth. All in all, she’s the female human equivalent of me. And what’s more, I can tell she’s pleased with the result.
“Doug, you look...” Julie hoists me up and holds me in front of the full-length mirror so I can inspect myself.
“Doesn’t he?” says Alexa, and Julie beams at me, then studies her own reflection.
“And you,” Alexa continues. “You look like a million dollars!”
“I don’t know, I...”
“Of course you do!” Alexa mock-punches her on the shoulder. “Doesn’t she, Doug?”
I snort appropriately, and Alexa turns her attention to Julie’s mirror-image. “Now, remember what I told you about that new skin regime. And your hair’s a low-maintenance style, so you can pretty much just wash and go. All in all, you should be set up pretty nicely for you know what!” Alexa winks at her. “And if Doug’s got his eye on any lady dogs in the park...”
“Oh, he’s been fixed.”
“Really?” Alexa fixes me with a sympathetic eye. “Shame. Still, it’s the thought that counts. Isn’t it, Doug!” She bursts out laughing, which is perhaps a little mean given what she’s laughing about. “And you remember what I told you about that man of yours too!”
I prick my ears up at this.
“I’m not sure, Alexa.”
“You mark my words! A famous philosopher once said... Or it might have been Dolly Parton. I don’t remember.” She frowns. “Anyway, the gist of it was, the best way to get over a man is to get under another one. And it sounds like you and this Tom...”
Alexa nudges her, then winks down at me, but I’m still too stunned to respond. Julie’s obviously been opening her heart to Alexa, and unprompted she’s apparently brought Tom up. What’s more, it sounds like Alexa’s told her exactly what she probably needed to hear—and while Julie probably doesn’t want to take it from Priya, or Julie’s dad, or even Sanj, maybe the fact that it’s come from someone without a vested interest means this time it might sink in.
“Maybe,” Julie says, in a way that suggests she actually agrees. Then she hugs Alexa goodbye, clips my leash back onto my collar, and—a spring in her step—leads me out of the salon.
20
“Come on, Doug,” says Julie, in the kind of artificially cheerful voice that’s often meant to disguise some sort of not-fun activity like a trip to the V-E-T.
She’s still looking like a million dollars, perhaps partly because she didn’t consume her usual bottle of wine last night, plus she’s traded her jogging-pants-and-loose-sweatshirt look of the past few days for her Zumba outfit—perhaps not the most appropriate attire for our usual Sunday morning park outing. Still, whatever the motive is for the pretend enthusiasm or why we’re going out dressed like this, it’s a walk.
It’s a sunny morning, and there are lots of people milling around the park, but for some reason Julie won’t let me dawdle. Though that reason soon becomes clear as we make our way over to the opposite side t
o the café, and to where a group of half a dozen women are waiting, holding onto various dogs of their own, and dressed like they’re off to some high-fashion aerobics class too.
Before I can figure out what’s going on, there’s an excited murmur from the human contingent, and to my surprise, none other than a tracksuit-clad Tom appears through the park gates. It’s then I notice the pile of equipment in the corner, and everything falls into place: we’re at Barkrun. Julie’s obviously decided that in her quest to meet someone new, she could do with losing a bit of weight. And she’s decided to do it with Tom—or for Tom, perhaps, after what Alexa said yesterday.
Tom bounds over, takes up position in front of us all, then strips down to a tightly-fitted T-shirt and gym shorts combination and fixes a smile on his face. Out of his normal work clothes, he’s the human equivalent of a Weimaraner, or one of those other finely-muscled, boundlessly-energetic genetically-blessed dogs. A buzz of appreciation rises from the group.
“Thank you all for coming,” he says, oblivious to the drooling that’s coming not from the assembled dogs, but their owners. “As you know, fitness for our four-legged friends is very important. The less weight they’re carrying, the less strain on their joints, and on the most important muscle of all, which is...” His gaze flicks around the group, finally settling on Julie, who’s tentatively put her hand up, and he widens his eyes at her, perhaps in surprise at her attendance, though more likely in appreciation of her new look.
“The, um, heart?” she says, without the slightest bit of irony.
“That’s right!” Tom beams at her, and there’s a ripple of what appears to be jealousy from the rest of the women. “Remember, dogs are active by nature. They’re descended from wolves, who typically cover many miles every day in search of food, whereas some of this lot...” He grins. “Well, the only distance they cover is possibly from their beds to their bowls and back again. And not having any opportunity for what’s essentially a genetically-programmed activity level can lead to frustration, which may in turn lead to hyperactivity, excessive barking, digging, tail chasing, and even, in some extreme cases, home destruction.”
There’s a consensus of nodding and mumbled agreement from the group, though I can’t help wondering why Tom’s referring to the canine contingent, then it occurs to me that apart from one woman with an almost comically-fat Chihuahua, no human here looks like they’re at all on the portly side. And then it hits me—this group exercise isn’t for the benefit of our owners. It’s actually for us.
I begin whining in horror, and Julie nudges me with her foot. “It’s for your own good, Doug,” she says, apologetically, and I snort disdainfully.
“So, as you probably know, I’m Tom,” says Tom to the group, a statement that’s met with an adoring chorus of “Hi, Tom,” and he folds his arms self-consciously. “I see we have a few new faces this week, so why don’t we introduce ourselves? Starting...” He peers quickly at each of us, reaches Julie, then gives her a barely-disguised wink. “With you with the pug, if you don’t mind?”
Julie smiles back at him, then realizes she’s supposed to speak now. “Oh, er, hi. My name’s Julie.”
“Hi, Julie,” says Tom, followed by a seemingly resentful “hello” (and one, barely-audible “teacher’s pet”) from the rest of the group. “And...?”
“I’m sorry?”
“No need to apologize.” He flashes that smile again. “Who have you brought with you today?”
Tom’s nodded down at me, and I snort in embarrassment at Julie’s lack of manners.
“Oh. Right. This is Doug.”
“Doug the pug?” A woman standing next to us with a sausage dog named Frank who’s shaped more like a meatball, lets out a short laugh. “Really?” she says.
I sigh pointedly through my nostrils. Julie’s surname is Newman, and it rhymes with human, and no one ever seems to remark about that.
“My dad named him,” says Julie.
“Well, I think it suits him,” says Tom, and suddenly, I like him even more.
The rest of the newcomers introduce themselves without incident, except for a general eye-rolling at a Westie called Kanye. Then it’s evidently exercise time, as Tom tells everyone to begin jogging to the far side of the park and back.
I give Julie my best “seriously?” look. This is particularly unfair on us smaller dogs with our shorter legs, as borne out by the fact that it takes Frank and me almost twice as long as the others. Though when Frank’s owner wonders out loud why Tom hasn’t thought to introduce categories, like they do in the Paralympics, Tom assures us all it’s not a competition.
Next, he leads us over to the corner of the park next to the football pitch, where he’s set up a little obstacle course with jumps, tunnels, and some strange vertical sticks-in-a-line arrangement that we’re supposed to “weave” through speedily. Tom’s demonstration of how to do this makes some of the women pant almost as much as their dogs.
Fortunately, Julie’s not the fastest of humans, so it’s not too difficult to keep up with her. Actually, I’ve gone through worse chasing Santa out of our garden, so the course doesn’t prove too difficult. So far, Barkrun isn’t turning out to be the hour of torture I’d dreaded at the start. And apart from a slightly unsavory moment when Tom tells Kanye’s owner off after she tries to tempt Kanye over a particularly tricky jump with a biscuit—apparently, it kind of defeats the purpose of being here—at the end of the hour, I feel fine. Most of us have taken it in our stride, even if some of our strides are a lot shorter than others. Julie, however, is looking a little flushed. And as the group begins to head off in the direction of the café, Tom, who still looks as fresh as a daisy, jogs over to us.
“How was it?”
“It was...fun,” says Julie, looking like she’s surprised by her own answer.
Tom squats down next to me on the grass. “And for you, Doug?” he says, so I collapse down onto the grass and roll on my back, to pretend the session’s done me in.
“He enjoyed it too, I think,” says Julie.
“Great!” Tom gives me a quick chest rub, then leaps athletically back up to his feet, and flashes a smile at her. “So, just remember, no snacking between meals, cut back on the treats...”
“Is that me or Doug you’re referring to?”
“Doug, obviously,” says Tom, quickly. “You don’t need to lose... I mean, your figure’s...” He stops talking, having gone as dark in the face as Julie has after the exercise session. “So, will I see you again?” he says, and I hold my breath.
This could be it, I think, righting myself quickly. Julie might be about to ask Tom out, and then all our troubles will be over.
“Well, actually...” she says, perhaps a little hesitantly, though then the worst thing happens, and Tom evidently interprets her nervousness as reluctance. And whether it’s to save face—his or hers—he quickly holds a hand up.
“Next week,” he says, though it’s a little difficult to interpret his expression. “Here. At Barkr... I mean, Pets-ercise.”
“Oh. Right. I guess so,” says Julie, noncommittally.
“Okay with you, Doug?” says Tom, so I snort approvingly up at him.
“But if you fancy a coffee...”
Julie’s eyes widen, and I mentally chase my tail in celebration. This is it! And I think Julie knows it too, because she takes a deep breath. But before she can get any more out than, “Tom, I’d...” he nods toward the rest of the group.
“We all usually go to Mum’s café after the class.”
“Oh. Right.” Julie’s face falls so quickly, it’s a wonder the momentum doesn’t send her sprawling onto the grass. How have I got this so wrong? I can tell she’s thinking, and to be honest, I’m wondering exactly the same thing. “Um, no, thanks. I have to, I mean, we...”
Tom grins, though there’s not a lot of humor behind it. “Not a problem,” he s
ays, even though it quite plainly is. “So. I’ll see you...?”
“Not if I see you first!” says Julie, then she looks like she wants to face-palm herself. “Sorry. You meant next week, didn’t you?”
“Oh. Yeah. Next week.” Tom nods. “For, you know, Doug’s sake.”
“For Doug’s sake.”
Tom gives a wistful smile, then he bounds off after the others, and I collapse down onto my back again. Next week it’ll have to be. And every week after that, until the two of them realize they’re perfect for each other. The upside, of course, is that I’ve now got an excuse to overeat all week.
And while I could do without the exercise part, to be honest, if that’s what it takes to get him and Julie together, I’ll just have to put up with it.
21
Despite what’s just happened, there’s a post-class buzz about Julie as we make our way home via the town center, so much so that she seems to be attracting admiring glances from almost every man we pass. While that may simply be because the leggings she’s wearing are rather see-through from behind, I can tell she’s flattered by the attention. But when a female voice calls her name from the other side of the street, the glow in her cheeks disappears as if a switch has been flicked.
I look up from where I’ve been sniffing a particularly aromatic lamppost, just in time to see a frantically-waving Sarah waddling across the street toward us. She’s dragging a reluctant Luke behind her like a child on his way to the dentist, and given the look on Julie’s face, I can tell she feels the same way about their meeting.
“How are you?” Sarah hesitates for a moment, then envelops Julie in a hug. “And, Doug—you must be pleased to be finally rid of that horrible thing.”
I snort appropriately, assuming she means my cone, rather than either Luke or Santa, although the answer’s a resounding yes! to all of those things.
