by Natalie Cox
“Um . . . I’ve yet to share that with her.”
“I’ll bet the dogs know. Animals can be very intuitive.”
“Well, they don’t seem very keen on me, either.”
“No wonder. Still, maybe you’ll have a change of heart while you’re there.”
I glance over at Peggy, who is busy burrowing into her private parts with the enthusiasm of a truffle hunter.
“Unlikely.”
* * *
It’s true. I do hate dogs. Which is not something I often admit to in public. Among the British, it’s a little like saying you hate chocolate. Or sunshine. Or world peace. In a roundabout way, I blame my mother. For a brief period when I was six years old, not long after she’d ditched my father, she was married to a short, balding guy from the Midlands called Russell, whom she met and married in less time than it takes to grow salad cress. Hamlet would have been appalled. I know I was, although she pretended not to notice at the time.
Russell owned his own bathroom fittings company, which meant that he was basically a glorified plumber, though my mother insisted on referring to him in company as an entrepreneur. He also owned two sexually deranged pugs, Pickle and Pepper, who would hump anything that remained stationary for more than three seconds, including me.
I’d had no prior experience with dogs and at the age of six I was fairly indifferent to them. Sure, I’d read about them in books, seen them on TV, even owned a few cuddly toy versions, but to my six-year-old mind, they were mythic rather than real—like dragons or unicorns. None of our neighbors had one and none of my school friends and no one in our extended family were dog owners. When we passed people walking their dogs on the street, my mother refused to stop, pulling me sharply to one side until they passed. And any suggestion of a pet in our house was swiftly and comprehensively curtailed.
So I was a little taken aback when Russell and his canine wards came to live with us. Russell, too, had been married once before, but, unlike my mother, he had no children. Instead, he had Pickle and Pepper. Not surprisingly, he was granted full custody; apparently his ex-wife got the Jacuzzi, and he got the dogs. Each time he pulled up outside our flat in his white van, I saw them perched on the dashboard like oversized hood ornaments, their dark eyes bulging, their tiny pink tongues flapping in the wind. They were stubby, black, and barrel-shaped, because he insisted on overfeeding them, and they actually had to be lifted in and out of the van.
For about a nanosecond they were interesting. At first, I tried playing with them, but they showed no interest in or facility with balls, ropes, or even squeaky toys. Their chief hobbies appeared to be eating, sneezing, gagging, and sleeping. Russell was their deity, and on the rare occasions when he left them behind, you could see the terror in their mashed little faces. They would spin round and round with anxiety, sometimes making themselves sick in the process. Often, he would be forced to relent and scoop them up, carrying one under each arm like a rugby player as he left the house.
I tolerated them for the first few weeks until their almost-continuous wheezing, together with the annoying scrabble of their claws on the lino, the scratchy bristle of their fur against my bare shins, and their vaguely rancid smell, put me off. Unaccountably, Russell adored them. And for a brief period, my mother, too, became dog-obsessed—though, really, I think it was the accessories she fell in love with. She went through a phase of acquiring ludicrous canine fashion items (plaid coats, rhinestone collars, fur-lined mitts for their paws) not to mention pug-themed homewares (mugs, cushions, tea towels). She also urged me to bond with my new stepsiblings, even though they were asthmatic and offered zero play value. She even tried to persuade me to let them sleep on my bed, which I point-blank refused, on the grounds that they snored.
But it wasn’t until the pugs chewed the limbs off my doll collection that I really began to hate them. After a few months I ended up with a ragged assortment of quadriplegic Barbies and headless Kens. My mother was unsympathetic. “You can still play with them, darling,” she insisted when I complained. “Use your imagination: pretend they still have arms and legs.” That night I stole her favorite cashmere sweater and lined their dog bed with it and in the morning they’d gnawed off part of the sleeves. You can still wear it, I thought with satisfaction. Pretend it still has sleeves.
She was speechless with anger, and I like to think this small act of defiance spelt the beginning of the end for Russell and his four-footed offspring. Somehow it destabilized the household. Not long afterward, I heard my mother berating Russell through the bedroom door for failing to clean up after them and within a month she’d ejected both Russell and his dogs from the conjugal bed. They were the first and last pets we ever had.
* * *
After I hang up from Sian I realize I need to find Jez, so I pull on my coat and some old wellies and wander outside. The yard is quiet, though the Land Rover is still there, and next to it is parked an old dark blue Volvo station wagon. I call out for Jez but there’s no answer, so I poke my head into the first outbuilding, a large, modern, corrugated iron barn.
Inside there’s a bare cement floor, several breezeblock stalls, and a half dozen large metal crates along the wall. An elaborate black hose with a complicated pistol-shaped nozzle dangles like a deadly anaconda from a hook near the stalls. Beneath it, a series of circular metal drains studs the floor. I walk over to the snake contraption, which appears to be some kind of high-powered doggy hygiene unit, and can’t resist grabbing the nozzle off the hook. It really does look like a semiautomatic weapon, and I take aim at a nearby wall. A powerful jet of water shoots out and the nozzle flies out of my hands, coiling back on me like an angry serpent, splattering me with ice-cold water.
I emerge damp from the barn and walk across the yard toward the kennels. They’re housed in a long, low bungalow lined with a series of doors, each with a square glass window. I peek inside the first window and see a miniature four-poster bed complete with a ruffled canopy in a pale, insipid blue. A sign on the wall reads COZY CANINE ROYAL SUITE and I snort. The area around the bed is carpeted with bright green artificial turf, and a plastic hatch on the opposite wall leads to a paddock outside. I peer around, but the suite appears to be empty. Maybe corgis are in short supply these days. I try the door handle and it’s open, so I step inside. The suite may be intended for royalty, but it still smells of wet dog. I test the mattress and am relieved to find that it is nothing more than plastic-covered hard foam. Maybe Jez isn’t bonkers, after all.
I leave the row of suites and circle back to another outbuilding, located behind the first, stepping through a large open door. The floor inside is covered with straw and the room is strewn with brightly colored canine exercise equipment. There’s a cloth tunnel, a small stepladder, a seesaw, a long wooden plank, and a series of balls in various sizes, all painted in primary colors. Aren’t dogs supposed to be color blind? In one corner sits a rectangular plastic Jacuzzi, and in the other is a giant metal exercise wheel. Oh please, I think, walking over to it. The wheel is taller than I am and sits squarely on an enormous triangular steel frame, like a massive industrial fan without blades. Inside it’s lined with thick, black rubber matting. I peer at a small plastic sign embedded in the frame: Caution! Not suitable for large breeds over 70 kg! What sort of giant mutant dog weighs more than 70 kg, I wonder.
Do I qualify as a large breed? Surely not. So I place one foot tentatively on the black rubber mat and step inside. The structure seems to hold my weight and the mat feels vaguely springy underfoot. With one hand I grab on to the central axle of the frame, then take a tentative step. The wheel slides easily beneath me and I pitch forward. I steady myself and take a few more steps, the wheel moving smoothly under my feet. I relax and begin walking at a normal pace, deciding that the wheel is really rather pleasant; it almost makes me envy hamsters. As I carry on walking, the wheel seems to stealthily gather speed, and soon I’m forced to quicken my pace. The problem is t
hat, apart from jumping off—which I really don’t fancy while the thing is moving—I don’t quite know how to make it stop. I look around for a brake of some sort, but there’s nothing obvious, and the faster I walk, the faster the wheel turns. I’m quickly forced into a sort of slow jog, my hands thrust out in front of me to keep my balance. I’m just beginning to contemplate a sideways lunge when suddenly I stumble, my feet flying out behind me and my hands splaying against the mat in front. The wheel carries on spinning and I brace myself, my entire body tipping upside down. I scream, and my arms give way; in the next instant I tumble sideways onto the floor, banging the side of my head hard on the wheel’s edge.
I land facedown on the floor, the consultant’s words ringing in my ears: No contact sports, no dangerous activities, nothing that will put you at risk of a further fall. Next to me the empty wheel carries on spinning happily. Slowly, I roll over with a groan. Clearly, it’s an instrument of torture. And, clearly, I’m an idiot for getting on it in the first place. I reach up to my ear, which stings like hell, and feel something wet. Oops.
“The thing is, it’s not really designed for bipeds,” says a male voice behind me. I turn my head to see a tall, thirtysomething, dark-haired man wearing faded jeans, a plaid shirt, and a burgundy-colored down vest standing in the doorway, his arms crossed against his chest. His expression is one of mild bemusement, but his tone is vaguely patronizing. Even sideways I can see that he is fetching in a rough-shaven sort of way: wavy hair, strong jawline, nice forearms. Not perfect by any means, but definitely what Sian would call man candy.
“You need four legs,” he says. “Otherwise the centrifugal force tends to work against you.”
I stand up sheepishly, dusting bits of hay off my clothes, and glance at my fingertips, where two tiny spots of blood have bloomed from my ear. “Physics was never my best subject at school,” I say, curling my hand into a fist so the blood doesn’t show. The man candy walks over to me. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Presumably Health and Safety wasn’t your forte, either,” he says. “Or maybe you just missed the class on common sense?”
Whoa. The guy is practically radiating scorn. I lift my chin stubbornly. “I had no idea it wasn’t intended for humans,” I say a little defensively.
“Really,” he remarks. “Were you planning to try those next?” He nods toward a series of giant plastic hoops mounted on elevated wooden stands. I give him my coolest smile.
“I never jump through hoops.” We have a sort of standoff, during which I can’t help noticing that his eyes are a ridiculous shade of blue.
“You’re lucky you didn’t crack your skull open,” he says.
Me and my darn luck!
“Aren’t I, though.” Actually, I suspect I have cracked my ear open and it hurts like hell. Hopefully my hair covers it.
“You better let me take a look.” He slings the backpack to the ground and steps forward suddenly. Before I can object he reaches for my chin, turning it slightly and frowning at the bruises from the explosion. “Wow,” he says. “Are these new?” He is clearly more than a little puzzled.
“Um . . . no. I had those already. I’m sure I’m fine,” I say, just as he lifts my hair.
“Ah,” he says. “You’ve lacerated your ear. It’s not deep, but it’ll need to be dressed,” he goes on in a manner that seems overly competent. He bends down and unzips the backpack, rummages around inside, then withdraws a couple of plastic packages and a small bottle of saline solution. He stands up again and reaches for my chin, tilting my head sharply to one side.
“You’re not in one of the caring professions, are you?” I mumble a little suspiciously.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” he says quietly. His fingertips lightly brush my neck and I feel a small stir of warmth from his breath, which is like a cattle prod to my nervous system. But in the next instant I feel the cold jet of saline solution on the cut, which burns like mad.
“Ouch!” I say, pulling away slightly. The liquid dribbles across my cheek and down my chin. He frowns and tilts my head again.
“Hold still for a second,” he says. “I need to clean the wound.” It’s not a request; more like an order. He dabs at my ear repeatedly with a bit of cotton wool, then breaks open a package of sterile strips and applies them to the cut. “I’m not going to ask how you got those earlier contusions,” he murmurs while he does this, his tone just this side of schoolmaster.
Then don’t! Because I have no intention of explaining. But he is clearly expecting some sort of answer, and the silence stretches awkwardly between us. “Just a small household accident,” I say.
“Huh.” I can tell from his tone that man candy doesn’t believe me.
Who is he anyway?
“I’m Cal, by the way,” he says. “I’m the vet.”
Good grief. I’d forgotten about the vet’s visit. “So . . . you must be Bovine Cal.” He frowns.
“That’s not what it says on my business card.” He finishes and stuffs his kit back into the backpack, shouldering it.
“Sorry. It’s just that Jez told me you were into cows.”
“I treat cows. If that’s what you mean. Along with many other types of animals.” Maybe it’s my imagination but Bovine Cal seems a little peeved.
“A Cal who treats cows,” I say, trying to lighten the moment. “Nice alliteration.” He gives me a look.
“It’s not why I chose my profession.”
Yeesh, I think. Bovine Cal isn’t even smiling. “I’m Charlie, Jez’s cousin,” I say. “I’m just visiting for a few days.”
“From?”
“London.”
He nods—a little too knowingly, I think. As if he’s already got me typecast as some gormless urbanite. “Come to experience the delights of the countryside?” he asks in a vaguely mocking tone. I briefly consider telling him about the explosion, then decide I do not want his sympathy.
“Something like that.” It sounds pathetic, but I’m really not inclined to explain.
“Well, don’t overdo it,” he says, glancing around. “The countryside is full of hidden dangers.” Now he is definitely mocking me.
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” I say. “We city types are very resourceful.”
“So they say,” he replies. “I guess I should let you get on with it,” he adds, glancing over at the wheel.
I feel my cheeks redden. What am I supposed to say? It looked like fun? “Actually, I was just looking for Jez.”
“She’s out in the paddock,” says Cal.
Then he turns and walks out of the barn, leaving me to stare after him.
chapter
4
I wait a few moments, gathering myself, then follow him outside. By then he’s already started the Volvo and is backing out of the yard. I watch as he drives off without so much as a wave, and I realize that Bovine Cal is definitely not a fresh prospect. Most likely he’s married. Or gay. Or both. More to the point, he isn’t exactly what Jane Austen would call amiable. Who needs a man who can’t be bothered with the barest of civilities, such as waving good-bye? I hear footsteps and turn to see Jez coming around the corner carrying a small, gray poodle. “Sorry, I meant to introduce you to him before he left,” Jez says, nodding after the departed car.
“We met.”
“Did you ask him to look you over?”
“Um. Sort of.”
“And?”
“All good.”
“Excellent. Then you can help me with the chores,” Jez says.
“Sure,” I reply a little half-heartedly. Aren’t I meant to be convalescing? “Who’s this?” I ask, nodding at the poodle.
“This is Sebastian. But I call him Slab.”
I look at her askance and Jez shrugs.
“Well, he’s basically immobile.” She sets the poodle down very gingerly on the grou
nd, as if it were a china statue, and I realize that the dog is so old it can barely stand. Both its legs are bandy with age, and one eye is almost entirely clouded over with cataracts. The poodle stares up at Jez anxiously with his one good eye, as if being required to stand is more than should be expected of him. After a moment his legs begin to quiver slightly.
“Wow. He looks a little past it.”
“Yeah. He’s hanging in there. Sixteen and counting. Aren’t you, Slab?”
“Wouldn’t it be kinder to just . . . put him out of his misery?”
“Oh, he’s got some life in him yet. Besides, Slab likes it here. We spoil him rotten. And to be honest, he’s a bit of a cash cow.”
“How long’s he here for?”
“Well, he’s sort of permanent. His owners boarded him about a year ago for a fortnight, and they just keep extending. I don’t think they plan to have him back.” Jez shrugs.
“That’s heartless.”
“It would be, if they weren’t so good about paying their bills.” Jez grins.
“What sort of people name a dog Sebastian, anyway?”
“Posh people.”
“Really? What’s wrong with Rover? Or Spike?”
“It’s a time-honored tradition: posh people name their children after their dogs, and their dogs after their children.”
“That’s just disrespectful,” I say. “To the dogs.”
“Yep,” says Jez, scooping up the poodle. “But it makes the children easier to remember.” She carries Slab over to one of the smaller suites, deposits him inside, then closes the door. “Right,” she says, turning back to me. “Ready for some chores?’
“What sort of chores?”
“Don’t worry. Nothing too strenuous.”
The way she says strenuous makes me suspicious.
* * *
As it turns out, flea combing isn’t strenuous. It’s even sort of satisfying. For a hefty fee, Cozy Canine offers an organic flea treatment service, which basically means that Jez eschews napalm in favor of traditional household remedies and old-fashioned elbow grease: hand-culling the nasty little blighters with a long-tooth comb. Only this morning an elderly client dropped off a two-year-old Pomeranian for the holidays and the dog is basically a giant hairball.