Mutts and Mistletoe

by Natalie Cox

  But not for me, I think, rolling over with a sigh. I came of age in the era of Internet dating, and I decided years ago that online chat rooms were not my scene. During the past few years my single friends in the city have all become obsessed with Tinder and Grindr, but the whole idea of casually swiping left or right like St. Gabriel strikes me as just plain ill-mannered. When you meet someone for the first time in person, you’re forced to engage in social pleasantries out of politeness. You smile and nod and maybe write them off in your head, but you don’t banish them with the flick of a finger. I find it all so calculating. Not to mention callous. Maybe I’m a twenty-first-century coward, but I don’t have the stomach for it. It doesn’t stop me envying Jez, though.

  * * *

  The next morning, when I get downstairs, Jez is in full throttle, sorting out travel plans and making arrangements for the dogs. She has some errands to run, so I offer to exercise Slab, Hulk, and Peggy in the paddock. I find an old tennis ball in the boot room, but after a few minutes I realize I needn’t have bothered. I’m fairly positive Slab cannot see or smell the ball, much less retrieve it. And when I throw the ball for Peggy, the beagle simply collapses onto her stomach with a loud grunt, as if the effort of watching me throw it has been too much for her. Finally, I turn to Hulk, holding out the ball. “What do you reckon?” I ask. Hulk tiptoes forward, sniffs the ball, then sneezes. I toss it a few yards away, and the Pomeranian looks at me as if I’m out of my mind.

  When we come in from the paddock, Peggy heads straight to the sofa and resumes her customary spot, making it obvious that she’s done me a massive favor by accompanying me on the walk. I’m just filling the kettle when I hear a knock at the kitchen door. I turn to see Bovine Cal and his ridiculously blue eyes at the backdoor wearing a brown-plaid flannel shirt. I cross to the door and open it. Irritatingly, he is more good-looking than I’d remembered. Cal nods at the side of my head.

  “How’s the battle scar?”

  I raise my hand to my ear. “Fine, I think. I’m not really sure. But I can definitely still hear you. So that’s something.”

  “I should probably take a look. As your attending physician.” He nods at me expectantly, as if awaiting my permission.

  Seriously?

  “Um. OK.” I step a little closer and turn to one side, raising a hand to lift my hair out of the way. Cal leans forward until he is only an inch or so away; with one hand he reaches up to gently pull the outer rim of my ear forward, peering at it intently.

  Is this really necessary?

  For a moment he doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his breath stirring the hair on the back of my neck.

  “How is it?” I ask.

  “Fine,” he murmurs. “But I’m not really an expert. Funnily enough, dog ears are quite different from a human’s,” he remarks, bending my ear forward slightly. “They’re softer, for one thing,” he says. “And more flexible. Not to mention furry. Plus, they hear much better than we do.”

  “So what you’re saying is that my ears are pretty crap by comparison?”

  “Yep.”

  “I wouldn’t object to dog ears,” I say. “Think I’d go for . . . basset hound.”

  He pulls back and regards me with surprise. “Basset hound?”

  “Why have little tiny Chihuahua ears when you could have great big lovely droopy ones?”

  He looks at me doubtfully. Clearly, he thinks I’m mad. “Your ear looks fine,” he says.

  “No permanent scarring?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Vets don’t really get called ‘doctor’ around here. We don’t go in for fancy titles in the country.”

  “OK,” I say. “What should I call you?” Bovine Cal? I think. He hesitates, as if he can hear what I’m thinking.

  “Just Cal is fine.”

  “OK. Cal.”

  “So, I see you haven’t fled back to the great metropolis,” he says.

  “Nope. I’m still here,” I say breezily. “Haven’t experienced all the delights that rural Devon has to offer,” I add.

  “And what would those be?” He leans against the doorway and raises a quizzical eyebrow, forcing me to enumerate.

  “Oh, you know. Clotted cream, scrumpy . . .” I hesitate, desperately trying to remember what else Devon is famous for.

  “Red Rubies?” he offers.

  “Those, too,” I nod. I have no idea whether you eat Red Rubies or wear them, but I’m not averse to the color.

  “Don’t try them raw,” he advises.

  “I like mine deep-fried,” I say a little rashly. Bovine Cal gives a smug smile, as if to say: Is that so? I feel the color rise in my face and instantly regret my comment. Cal peers over my shoulder.

  “Where’s Jez, anyway?”

  “She’s out.”

  “I promised to stop by with these.” He hands me a small brown bag. “Tell her to keep them in the fridge.”

  I peer inside the bag, thinking it might be food. Inside are a dozen tiny white plastic rockets. I look up at him.

  “Suppositories,” he says.

  “Ah.” I must look a little perplexed.

  “They’re for the dogs.”

  “I knew that,” I say.

  “Of course you did,” he says. “So, how long you here for?”

  “Not sure. A few more days?”

  He nods. “Maybe see you around.”

  I watch as Bovine Cal gets in his car and drives off, once again without a wave. His manners are truly lamentable, I decide. And I’d be better off if I never saw him again.

  * * *

  “Was that Cal’s car?” asks Jez a few minutes later when she comes in.

  “Yep.” I hand her the bag. “He left these—said to keep them in the fridge.”

  Jez peers inside and nods.

  “By the way, what are Red Rubies?” I ask.

  Jez looks up. “Why?”

  “He warned me not to eat them raw.”

  “Red Rubies are cows, Charlie.”

  I give a rictus smile. “Of course they are.”

  * * *

  I settle myself on the kitchen sofa with an Agatha Christie novel for the afternoon, resisting the temptation to watch MasterChef on my phone. I discover, to my horror, that Jez does not even own a television. Though she does have a fairly up-to-date computer in the office. But I’ve promised my mum that I’ll avoid LCD screens at least for a few days, so I’ll have to seek old-fashioned solace in the printed word. I doze off after two chapters (who knew reading real paper books was so tiring?). When I wake I hear Jez remonstrating on the phone in the office, the tone of her voice becoming increasingly more pleading and insistent. Eventually, I hear the receiver slam down and, after a moment, Jez appears in the doorway looking sheepish.

  “Did you just hang up on someone?”

  Jez runs her fingers through her hair. “I’m not sure. Maybe?” She flings herself down in a chair with a sigh.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I had five different people in mind to look after the kennels. But not a single one of them can do it! It turns out that everyone on the planet already has plans over the holidays. Where are all the cash-strapped millennials when you need them?”

  Uh-oh, I think. A loud siren starts to blare at the back of my brain.

  “Christ! It’s not as if it’s difficult! A five-year-old could manage it,” Jez mutters to herself. Suddenly she looks up at me with a frown. “How long did you say you were staying?”

  I stare at her. “Not long enough,” I reply.

  “But I’ll only be gone twelve days.”

  “Jez, I’ve got to work. Remember?”

  “But it’s the holidays! Everyone takes time off over the holidays!”

  “Not me.” Technically speaking, this is a lie
: I am currently booked in for a week’s holiday between Christmas and New Year’s. Which I am determined to spend in my flat curled up with Audrey Hepburn, Gregory Peck, and Rock Hudson. Is that selfish? Then call me selfish.

  “Tell your boss you’re having headaches!”

  “He won’t care. Besides, I’m a terrible liar,” I lie. A terrible, selfish liar. Surely she can find someone else?

  “What if we got you signed off by a doctor?”

  “Are you mad? Look at me. I’m perfectly fine. No doctor in their right mind would sign me off! Because I’m not unwell,” I point out.

  Jez frowns. “Someone who owes me a big favor might sign you off,” she says slowly. I look at her askance.

  “Jez, no one owes you that big a favor.”

  She smiles. “You might be surprised.”

  * * *

  “Absolutely not!” Bovine Cal has the look of a raging bull. I honestly think that steam might come out of his ears. It is the next morning and we are standing in the examination room of his small surgery. In order to gain access we have had to ever so slightly bully his receptionist: a plump, middle-aged woman wearing red-and-green earrings in the shape of Christmas wreaths that were obviously homemade. Perhaps this is what people do for fun in the country?

  Cal is tightly holding on to a tabby cat being prepped for surgery. The cat has already had its abdomen shaved, leaving a loose sack of wrinkled pale pink skin horribly exposed; not surprisingly, it looks suitably mortified. I’m not a big fan of cats, either, but can’t help throwing it a sympathetic glance.

  Hairless isn’t a good look for any of us, honey.

  “Come on, Cal, you owe me,” says Jez pleadingly.

  “Not that much,” says Cal. “Besides, it wouldn’t work.”

  “Why not? You’re a physician, aren’t you? You write notes, don’t you?” says Jez. “How difficult can it be to write a letter to someone two hundred miles away whom you will never, ever meet?”

  Cal turns and thrusts the cat into a small crate in the corner, then goes to the sink to wash his hands, lathering them aggressively with antibacterial soap, which he punches out from a dispenser hanging on the wall. Once again, I can’t help noticing his ridiculously muscular forearms. When did I develop such a thing for forearms? He finishes drying his hands and turns back to us.

  “Look, the point is it’s fraudulent and unethical. Remember a little something called the Hippocratic Oath? Once upon a time I took the veterinary equivalent of it.”

  Absolutely, I think. Bovine Cal would never break an oath. In fact, I only agreed to come along on this lark because I was positive he’d refuse. And because I wanted to see his forearms.

  “Besides,” he says. “Leaving the dogs with someone like her is just . . . irresponsible.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” says Jez. “Charlie’s perfectly capable.”

  “With all due respect, your cousin doesn’t have a clue about animals. And on top of that she’s—” He breaks off suddenly and shoots me a look.

  What? I think, aggrieved. I’m what?

  “Reckless,” he says. For an instant his eyes lock onto mine and an image of the dog wheel flies into my head. Fair point.

  “Cal, you don’t even know her!” Jez is clearly offended on my behalf.

  Cal flashes me a look that says: Do you want to tell her or shall I?

  “I know that she’s not qualified to look after the kennels,” he says instead. “Come on, Jez, the dogs deserve better.”

  Hang on! The dogs deserve better? I may be reckless and clueless and unqualified, but I know an insult when I hear one. I draw myself up, affronted.

  “For God’s sake,” says Jez. “They’re dogs, not prizewinning Thoroughbreds. They eat, they sleep, they crap. I think she can handle it.”

  Cal crosses his muscular forearms and turns to me expectantly.

  “Well?” he says in a belligerent tone. “Can you?”

  For the briefest instant I do not answer. Not because I don’t think I’m equal to the task, but because I suddenly see my extended holiday with Audrey evaporating before my eyes. And while I definitely do not want to spend Christmas scooping dog shit, Bovine Cal has just thrown down the biggest, fattest gauntlet I have ever seen.

  “I expect I can manage,” I say coolly.

  “Fine,” he says. “But don’t come running to me if you can’t.”

  chapter

  7

  My loathsome boss is not pleased. Once back at Cozy Canine I ring Carl and tell him that I cannot possibly return to work until after the holidays.

  “Seriously, Charlie? What about the deadline on the Acorn contract?” He sounds deeply irritated. And not a little suspicious. Acorn is a six-month contract for the London council of Bromley, and from the outset the job has been beleaguered by politics and infighting: it is underfunded, understaffed, and well-nigh impossible to achieve in the time frame and we all know it. Last month I suggested that the project moniker be changed from Acorn to Hemlock; Carl was not amused.

  “I’ve just come from the doctor’s office,” I say. “He’s worried I may be developing PCS.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Post-concussion syndrome. It’s a chemical imbalance triggered by the injury,” I say, reading from the paper in front of me. “If I’m not careful now, the symptoms can linger for months.” After all his complaining, Bovine Cal went a bit overboard on the letter—I think he was overcompensating. It runs to nearly two pages and details, among other things, the symptoms, likely causes, and long-term risks of PCS. I had to resist the urge to compliment him when he finally handed it over: Fraudulence suits you!

  Now Carl sighs dramatically on the other end of the line.

  “Fine,” he snaps. “But I’ll need a doctor’s note.”

  “I’ve got one,” I say quickly. “I’ll e-mail it to you.”

  “And if your condition improves, I want you straight back here. We are truly up a creek with this contract, Charlie. And your absence has not been helpful.”

  “I know that, Carl. And I really am sorry.”

  Which is true, I decide after I hang up. I really am sorry. Because owing to my stupid pride, I’ve now forfeited any chance of spending Christmas the way I’d planned. More fool me.

  But then I hear Jez talking on the phone in the office and this time her tone is so delighted I start to relent. She is obviously speaking to Eloise and they are both so utterly over the moon at her impending visit that I cannot begrudge them a little happiness. Jez deserves her romantic moment in the tundra, I think. And like it or not, I will spend Christmas shacked up with Peggy.

  A few minutes later, I’m reading the newspaper at the kitchen table when Jez comes back into the kitchen and settles herself opposite me. “By the way, Eloise sends her thanks,” she says.

  “My pleasure,” I say. Munificence suits me.

  “And I’ve managed to persuade the owner of the third dog that was due in for the holidays to use a rival outfit.”

  “Great,” I say, not really paying attention. One dog or four, I think. They all have bad breath and poor table manners.

  “So that only leaves Hulk and Slab in the kennels,” says Jez. “And Peggy in the house.” She pauses for a few moments. “Oh, and the twins, of course,” she adds. I’m engrossed in a newspaper item about how selfie accidents kill more people now than sharks, when her words slowly filter through to me. Actually, it isn’t her words really—it’s her tone, which is decidedly off-key.

  I look up and Jez flashes me a mollifying smile.

  Once again, alarm bells begin to toll.

  “What twins?” I ask.

  * * *

  It turns out they are housed in a special run of their own behind the barn. This smacks to me of concealment, though Jez assures me it’s not. As we round the corner, I stop short, my feet ro
oted to the ground. Behind the house there is a fifty-foot-long wire cage that has been festooned with tiny white outdoor Christmas lights. These do not even begin to conceal the run’s occupants, who lounge casually, as if taking in the evening air.

  “Jesus, Jez! You didn’t tell me you kept wolves!”

  Jez laughs a little awkwardly. “Relax. They’re only a teeny-weeny bit wolf.”

  “How teeny? And which bit?” I ask.

  “Um. Not really sure. But what I can tell you is: these dogs are about as much wolf as a Chihuahua is.”

  “They bloody well don’t look like Chihuahuas.”

  As we approach the cage, both dogs leap to their feet and fix us with an intense stare. They are starkly beautiful, in a feral canine sort of way, with almond-shaped eyes, dense charcoal coats, and snow-white tails that curve up and over their bodies in luxurious plumes. On top of that, they have perfect posture, I think. But then, so do wolves.

  “The thing is, all dogs are almost indistinguishable from wolves genetically. But these two are no more wolf than Peggy is, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “It really doesn’t.”

  “Although they are a little bit feral,” admits Jez with a laugh. “Aren’t you, boys?” Both dogs continue to stare in silence as we approach the cage.

  “What are they?”

  “Alaskan malamutes. Sled dogs. Bred for strength and endurance.”

  “No kidding.” The dogs stand tall and broad, with deep chests and muscular shoulders: the canine equivalent of small JCBs.

  “Hello, you two,” says Jez affectionately. She unlatches the cage and I feel my mouth go dry.

  “Are they safe?”

  “Safe as houses.”