Puppy Love

by Smith, L. T.

  I grinned again.

  “Do you like Poppy, Aunty Wellie?”

  “She’s an angel, Lil.”

  “No she ain’t. She’s a dog.”

  Kids. Gotta love ’em.

  After dinner, Rob had a football game was calling his name, and he scuttled off to the living room, taking a sleepy Lily with him. She loved to curl up next to him on the sofa when he was watching TV, though I doubted she would get much sleep with all his shouting “Are you blind?” at the ref.

  I helped Abbie clear away the pots and was the drier to her washing up. I knew she wanted to talk about something, and I knew what that “something” was going to be.

  “Emily’s nice, isn’t she?”

  I continued to dry.

  “She has a good reputation as a developer.”

  I slipped another dry plate onto the stack.

  “And she’s gay.”

  Smash.

  “Watch my plates, sis.”

  I knelt down and started to collect the pieces of what had so recently been one of Abbie’s dinner plates. Without looking up, I asked, “And I suppose that just came up in conversation, did it?”

  Abbie joined me on the floor, dustpan and brush in hand. “Not really, no. I observed many things that told me her preference leaned to the Sapphic side.” She paused whilst she chased a stubborn sliver of china around on the tile. “Her key ring for one—Stonewall. The sticker in the back window of her car—Stonewall. The ring on her pinkie finger—”

  “Was that Stonewall too?”

  Abbie stood and smacked me on the back of the head. “Git. No.”

  I rubbed the spot as I stood too, but she moved to throw the pieces away.

  “And the way she stared at you constantly when she thought you weren’t looking.”

  My heart banged dramatically inside my chest, as if it was auditioning for a new play called Hope. “That means nothing, Abbie. People look at each other all the time.”

  Abbie laughed. “True. But not in the panting ‘I want you’ kind of way.”

  “Pfffft!”

  “You can ‘pfffft’ all you want. It was totally obvious. Emily Carson wants you badly.”

  Green eyes met green, and I knew that Abbie wasn’t pulling my leg. She might be indulging in a bout of wishful thinking, but at that precise moment, she believed every word that she was saying.

  “I have to go. See you soon, okay?”

  Abbie tilted her head and looked at me.

  “Before you start matchmaking, remember that you promised me.”

  Abbie sighed and nodded.

  “And I really have to go. It seems as if I have to go take a look at Miller’s Farm tomorrow.”

  Before I left, I wished Rob a quiet goodbye, as Lily was snoring on the sofa next to him.

  I had just opened the door to my pickup when Abbie came up behind me. Her hands slipped around my waist and turned me around to give me a hug. Her soft voice whispered in my ear, “I know how much it hurt today. And how much you still miss Toby. We all do, sis.”

  A pressure swelled inside my chest, and I nodded against her shoulder.

  ”One day, eh?”

  A sniff, another nod, and a croaked, “Yes. One day.”

  When I arrived home, I went straight to the walk-in closet in my bedroom. On the shelf above the clothes rods were boxes full of memories—memories I wanted to forget, yet memories I wanted close to me. Boxes marked “Mum and Dad,” boxes marked “Family,” and a box marked “Toby.”

  I pulled the last box down and took it to the front room, where I settled myself on the beanbag and balanced the box on my thigh. When I lifted the lid, I was greeted by big brown eyes and a toothy grin, and my tears welled up. I lifted the picture closer and looked into my lad’s eyes. If I tried hard enough, I could just make out my reflection in his pupils. I’d been younger, happier, and smitten right back. I carefully laid the picture to one side and selected another. This time Toby was nine months old, racing around the garden chasing a cat that had decided my back garden was the perfect place to sunbathe. Not on Toby’s watch, it wasn’t. A thick snorting laugh shot out of my mouth, followed by a sob.

  Each picture was like the pleasure/pain theory. It hurt so much to see him, yet it soothed my soul to know that I had had someone so special to share my world with. Glossy prints of the best thirteen years of my life—every stage a reminder of what I’d had and what I had lost.

  It had been five years since I had said my farewell to him, and five years since I had last looked at his picture. I felt guilty, almost like I had abandoned his memory, but it had hurt so much to look, hurt so much to remember.

  Two hours later, I slipped all the photographs back into the box and closed the lid. Instead of putting it back on the shelf, I set it on the coffee table. It was time to move on…time to bring Toby out of the dark and me along with him. I would buy a photo album, buy some frames. I wanted to see him again. Time, as they say, was a great healer, and although the pain never truly goes away, it does get easier to deal with. My dad always said that pets were here to show us how to love, and although it seems cruel that they are taken from us too soon, their love carries on. Love is something we should treasure, not hide from. It was a pity that when it came to loving me, my dad couldn’t measure up to his own words.

  I had decided that I wasn’t going to hide anymore. Tomorrow I would go and see Charlie again. I knew Emily wanted to be his mum, but I thought, maybe, I could be that too.

  I guess it might have been a little underhanded for me to go to the Dogs Trust at nine o’clock the next morning when I knew Emily was going at twelve. Who cared? Not me. As I had looked into Charlie’s eyes, I’d felt something click into place, something I thought I would never feel again. If it turned out that the Trust decided Emily was the better parent, then so be it. I would take the rejection well. Maybe.

  A woman greeted me at the door, and then her face showed confusion as I asked to see Charlie.

  “Charlie has someone interested in adopting him.” Her voice quavered. “Just let me…” She toddled off to the reception desk and tapped a password into the computer which brought the screen to life.

  “Are you Emily Carson?”

  She knew I wasn’t Emily, but was politely informing me that the adoption of Charlie was underway. Why else have it all on the system?

  Turning, she gave me the traditional “I’m sorry” face before attempting to actually say the words.

  It was time to turn on what little charm I possessed, and that wasn’t a lot. “I just want to see him. He is so adorable, isn’t he?”

  The woman smiled and nodded. “That’s the problem. They all are.”

  I surreptitiously glanced at her name badge before smiling widely. “People like you, Ann, amaze me.”

  Her smile wavered. “People like me?” She paused momentarily before continuing. “Why would someone like me amaze anyone?”

  “Because if it wasn’t for people like you, where would our canine friends be? Who would look out for them?”

  Ann laughed. Loudly. “Nice try.”

  I scrunched up my face showing her I knew I’d been caught, which made her laugh again, and this time I joined her. After a moment, we fell silent, Ann’s eyes looking at me expectantly.

  “I know someone else wants to adopt him, but when I saw him yesterday, I didn’t get the chance to speak to anyone about adopting him myself.”

  Ann looked deeply into my eyes as if exacting a promise of sorts from me, then she sighed and nodded. “Come on then. Let’s make Charlie’s day.”

  As she moved past me, I wanted to pump the air with my fist and hiss “yes!” but decided that, for the moment, I should at least give the appearance of being mature enough to adopt a dog.

&
nbsp; As we walked through to the back, the mischievous side of me wanted to drop hints about seeing Emily yesterday and how she didn’t seem to connect with the pooch. But, nah…that wasn’t my style. Everything had to be fair and square.

  Who was I kidding? It had nothing to do with being fair and square. I couldn’t do that to Emily. God help me, I liked her. Was attracted to her. I mean, how many women had I known that had made me react the way I had reacted to her? I’d never felt an actual spark when touching someone. Never before needed to look at the colour of someone’s eyes so badly. And seeing her with Charlie… I sighed. I felt guilty about being at the kennel, but I also wanted to see the little man again. Just the once. Just to see if the connection I had with him was the same today as yesterday.

  Approaching his kennel, the same excitement welled up in me. I’d brought my own ball for him to chase, bought first thing that morning from the pet store. To say Charlie was happy to see me would have been an understatement. He was dozing in his basket when I arrived, his back to the bars, but he lifted his head and sniffed the air inquisitively. He turned, got up, and came to me, all in one fluid movement.

  “Hey, baby.”

  “Yap!” He was on his hind legs, his tail flapping wildly.

  “Want to play?”

  Charlie tilted his head back and made a mini howling noise, his paws scrabbling at the cage.

  Ann laughed. “It seems as if it will be okay to leave you two on your own. You can play in the yard.”

  Playing ball is such a simple thing. All you need is a ball and willing participants. It can last for as little or as long as you want—your call. Some people might think that throwing a ball, having it brought back, and then throwing it again is a waste of time. Those same people think that half an hour could be better spent, even if it is used for sorting out the niggling things that life can throw at you. Not me. Half an hour throwing the ball for Charlie was the best possible use of my time. Watching him chase it, pin it, growl at it as he pretended it was his prisoner, then trot back grinning for me to throw it again—that, to me, was fulfilling. Seeing him nudge it with his nose when I pretended I didn’t see it; hearing his impatient yap; being jumped on and thoroughly licked with happiness—definitely not a waste of time. And in this short thirty minutes, I knew, without the shadow of a doubt, I was in love.

  Saying goodbye to him was hard, but I had to go, as Emily would be arriving in just over an hour and a half. I wanted to speak to the volunteers about his adoption, wanted to find out why his owners had given up on such a gem as Charlie. I left him with a squeaky toy and a promise to visit him the next day.

  After speaking to Sharon, Charlie’s key worker, about why he was at the Trust, I realised that some people should be shot. I couldn’t help the tears that came when I found out about the neglect, the beatings, the abandonment Charlie had suffered at the hands of someone who probably classed him or herself as being superior to a dog.

  Charlie had been found at the beginning of October the previous year, scavenging through bins. He was painfully underweight, had injuries to his hind leg, and open wounds around his neck, probably caused by being tethered. Injuries of that extent should have made him wary of humans, should have made him fearful of trusting another person, but no. When the call came through from a concerned party about a dog looking like it needed help, members of the Trust had gone to save him. Instead of running or cowering, Charlie had wagged his tail and limped over to them, curling himself into a ball around Sharon’s feet. It was if he knew they were there to help him.

  He had needed immediate medical attention. Surgery on his hind leg treated a fracture and a ruptured cruciate; eighteen stitches were needed near his right ear, twenty-eight around his neck. They also found a wound at the back of his neck that suggested the owner had cut out the microchip that identified him with his owner. At that juncture, I wanted to use a very bad word that started with a C.

  Charlie’s adoption had been on hold until he was healed and feeling more secure about the world around him. Even though people could meet him now, it would be another month before he would be ready to go home with his new mummy because of all he had been through.

  Sharon gave me a form to fill out, once again making sure I knew that someone else was interested in Charlie.

  The image of Emily’s smiling face flitted into my mind, and I felt guilty all over again. It didn’t stop me from filling in the form, didn’t stop me from taking one of their small photographs of Charlie and slipping it inside my purse.

  All day, I thought of Charlie. Thought of the way he trusted, the way his tail wagged, the way he loved humans. How could that be? How could a dog who had so obviously been mistreated open himself up for anything? Countless times I slipped his photograph from my purse and stared at his sparkling eyes, his grinning mouth, and read the text at the side that introduced Charlie to the world as “Loveable, friendly, playful.”

  At three o’clock, I pulled into the driveway of Miller’s Farm. Seeing Emily dressed in cargo pants and a sweatshirt made my heart flip flop inside my chest. She was halfway up a ladder, sanding the window sill of one of the upstairs windows with an electric sander, her ears covered with sound reducing muffs. As she stretched, her sweatshirt lifted and exposed a very muscled back. I could tell she was strong by the way she manoeuvred herself, making the sander do her bidding.

  She was so beautiful, so captivating, so positively breath taking. Yet she was going to take Charlie away from me. Or I was going to take him from her. Guilt flooded through me. Here I was, her potential employee, stabbing her in the back when she wasn’t looking. Why was I doing that? Why was I contemplating sneaking something away from her when she, in fact, had seen Charlie first?

  I reached for my purse and then pulled out the picture again. God. That face. Those eyes. My grin spread like butter, and I nodded at the picture.

  BANG BANG BANG! Fuck!

  “When were you going to tell me you were planning on trying to steal my dog?”

  What the fuck? The surprise of seeing Emily standing next to the car window nearly made me pee my pants.

  “Sneaking over to the Trust. I know. They fucking told me.”

  I was glad my doors were locked. Judging by the look on her face, I could have been the next victim of her electric sander.

  “Charlie is not YOUR dog.”

  She gritted her teeth, tipped her head to the side, and clutched the sander more firmly, as if she wanted to batter me about the head with it.

  “By the way, your mobile doesn’t work.”

  Huh? Why bring that up now?

  “So I’ll tell you to your face—get the fuck off my land and stay away from my dog.”

  And there’s the answer.

  As an aside, I couldn’t help noticing that Emily Carson looked magnificent when she was angry. My smile sneaked up from nowhere. I didn’t do it to piss her off; it just reflected how I was feeling. Even when Emily was threatening me, hating me, it felt good being with her.

  “Go on. Look fucking smug. But I’m telling you now, Charlie is my dog.”

  “But I—”

  “But you nothing. Go!”

  Instead of me going, she did. She spun on her heel and marched inside her house, leaving me staring after her.

  I had two choices. One, go. Two, go after her. I chose the latter.

  I didn’t knock, didn’t announce I was there; I just went inside and looked for her. She was easy to find, as she was in what was going to be her living room, her hands resting on the mantelpiece, her head bowed. Even before I reached her, I knew she was crying. Those strong shoulders were shaking, and soft noises were escaping from the shroud of her hair.

  I gently laid my hand on her back and braced myself for a bollocking, but it didn’t come.

  Emily turned and wrapped her arms around me
, her sobs settling onto my shoulder.

  I felt so protective of her, like I could stop her crying and somehow make her feel better. The only thing I could think of to accomplish that was to promise I wouldn’t see Charlie again. I wanted to—God, I wanted to promise her that—but I couldn’t. So, I continued to hold her, stroking my hand up and down her back, comforting her with shushing sounds and small kisses sporadically placed on the top of her head. Her fingers dug into my back, holding me until her crying eased.

  “I’m sorry. I…don’t usually get angry.” A loud hiccough made her chest heave. “Or cry like this.”

  I remained silent. When Emily pulled away, I saw the utter anguish in her face. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were streaked, as the tears had made tracks through what I imagined was paint dust on her skin.

  “Why, Ellie?” Brown eyes searched my own, seeking an answer. “Why did you do it?”

  I shrugged and pulled away from her. I felt embarrassed, and not just about my actions. If Emily and I were ever going to salvage anything—be it friendship, a working relationship, or something more special—I had to explain.

  With my face turned away from her, I found the strength to start my story. “His name was Toby. A Border Terrier. He was my best friend at a time when I really needed one.” I walked over to the other side of the room and pretended to be interested in an old table, running my fingers over the distressed wood. “When I first got him, I was fifteen years old. I’d wanted a dog for years, but my parents had always said no.”

  I spilled each and every detail about my connection to Toby—why he was so damned important to me, so bloody special. “He stood by me when others didn’t, showed me that no matter who I chose to love, he still loved me exactly the same.” I turned my head so I could see her.