by Deb Hunt
We opened the back door of CC’s treasured new Subaru and I scooted across, holding fast to the frayed length of rope. The man in shorts encouraged Maggie to follow. ‘She loves going for a drive,’ he said. ‘Come on Magsy, hup!’ The red dog turned her head to look back at the open ute she was clearly used to travelling in, then turned to me, sitting primly in the back of a Subaru with leather upholstery and tinted windows. No contest. In the end, the man in shorts hoisted her up and she scrabbled in beside me. Suddenly the back seat was full of dog, a big bulky mass of agitated dog, heavy and unhappy, with me on the end of a rope tied to her collar. She was so big she could barely turn around. What if her fear turned to anger at being cooped up in the back of a strange car? I was nervous about reaching across to comfort her in case she turned on me. Her slack jaws hung open at the same height as my face and she was panting in distress, her tongue hanging out. I pictured rabid fangs sinking into the flesh of my arm and a powerful head shaking from side to side as a strange dog tried to rip my arm out of its socket.
‘Open the window,’ said CC.
I nervously reached across, pressed the button and Maggie was transformed from a potential killer into a family pet. She poked her head out of the open window, her face turned to the wind, and sniffed joyfully at the breeze. I took a deep breath and only then realised how shallow my breathing had been. Clumps of red hair came out in handfuls when I reached across to pat her greasy coat and my fingers were quickly smeared with dirt.
‘She’s filthy.’
‘Nothing a good wash won’t cure.’
We were home in ten minutes and Maggie jumped down from the car, leaving behind an alarming amount of dirt and oily hair on the back seat. ‘Don’t worry, we can clean it up,’ CC said. Finding dirt on the back seat of his brand new car was the equivalent of me realising I’d spilt wine on my laptop, then remembering it had been weeks since the last backup. (Let me tell you, I didn’t laugh.) I put Benson inside, snuggling his warm body that already smelt so familiar, and CC led Maggie into the garden.
I felt a bit like the chooks must have felt when Bertie was thrust into their cage. I didn’t want another dog – we already had one. I walked into the centre of the lawn, subconsciously claiming my territory, and Maggie followed. She sat at my feet, then looked up with eyes full of trust. There was something so obvious in her expression it made my heart jump. She was asking to stay, appealing to me. I reached down to stroke her and she sank to the grass and rolled over. Ten minutes later we were still there, Maggie lying on her back, me rubbing her tummy.
‘Leave her alone, see what she does,’ said CC, calmly sitting under the pergola reading the paper. I sat down next to him and Maggie followed, then lay at my feet. ‘She’s taken to you,’ he said.
I got up and walked onto the lawn. ‘Maggie,’ I called. She came straightaway, lay down and thumped her tail on the grass.
My heart constricted and I felt like crying. I thought the decision had been made. We were keeping Benson, the boisterous but practically perfect puppy in every way, and now there was Maggie, the placid, calm hair-shedding red heeler.
‘What shall we do?’ I asked, desperate for CC to make the decision.
‘It’s up to you.’
‘But what do you think?’
‘Maggie’s the better dog.’
‘What do you mean, better?’
He put down his paper and we ran through the pros and cons, contrasting the youth and energy of Benson the beagle with the placid temperament of an older dog. Maggie came when she was called and did what she was told. No one else wanted her and if we didn’t take her, who would? Something told me to make the decision quickly so I let my instincts take over and I opened my mouth to speak, not knowing what would come out, not letting reason get in the way.
‘We’ll take Benson back,’ I said, my voice wavering.
‘Sure?’ CC asked.
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else. The fact that CC didn’t try to talk me out of it told me Benson was never going to be the right dog for us. Sure, CC would have accepted Benson if I’d insisted, but we both had to be happy with the dog we adopted.
‘I’ll take him back,’ he said. ‘You stay with Maggie.’
He wanted to spare me the unhappy task because he knew how hard I would find it but I couldn’t let him do that. I chose Benson and I had to take him back.
‘Seriously, I’m happy to do it,’ he said and I shook my head, feeling tears prickle behind my eyes. If I said anything else I knew I would start crying.
I went inside and Benson put his paws up at the child gate across the laundry door, looking at me with the same trust I saw in Maggie’s eyes. I wanted to reach out and hold him tight and never let him go. I stroked his soft coat, smoothed his long velvet ears and kissed the top of his head, then I picked him up and carried him out to the car. He sat on my lap the whole way, not struggling or protesting, and I drove one-handed, the other hand resting on the soft, warm skin of his back, sensing his youth and gentle nature. By the time we pulled into the yard of the RSPCA I was weeping openly.
I carried Benson in and the receptionist looked up from her paperwork. Her smile didn’t last long. ‘I’m bringing Benson back,’ I said, my voice choked with emotion. ‘We had him on trial over Christmas and it didn’t work out.’
She drew the microphone towards her without taking her eyes off me. ‘Reject in front reception,’ she said coldly, then went back to her paperwork. A door opened and the veterinary nurse who introduced me to Benson appeared. She knelt down beside us and Benson nestled his head into her lap, pressing against her as she stroked his soft ears. ‘Was there something wrong with him?’
‘No,’ I said, shedding more tears. ‘There was nothing wrong with him. He’s a lovely dog, he learnt to sit really quickly and I think he’s house-trained now, he didn’t chase the chooks and he’ll make a great pet for the right person.’ I could barely get the words out. ‘He wasn’t right for us, that’s all. He’s just not the right dog for us.’
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘At least we know he’s OK. We’ll find a good home for him, don’t worry.’
She picked Benson up and I rested my hand on his soft puppy head one last time, then I walked back out to the car, gulping back sobs. I’d done the right thing. Benson had been on trial over Christmas, he wasn’t permanent and it didn’t work out – wasn’t that what a trial was for? A dog had to be right for both of us and Benson wasn’t. I kept thinking about what CC had said, only half in jest, about Benson not being a proper dog, and I cried some more. He was a proper dog in my eyes.
I got home, sat on the sofa and howled. I couldn’t stop weeping and I wasn’t sure why. No one told me it would be this hard. I had no idea you could fall head over heels in love with a dog and the feeling of loss was so intense it reminded me of other times when I’ve walked away from someone I loved, knowing the relationship wasn’t right and yet longing to be with them at the same time.
‘You’ve made the right decision,’ said CC, coming to sit down next to me and patting my arm.
‘I know.’
‘We went through the pros and cons,’ he reminded me.
‘I know, but loving Benson wasn’t on the list. I loved him,’ I said, choking back the tears, my eyes streaming and my nose running. ‘I loved him,’ I wailed. CC looked alarmed. The sane, logical woman who left twenty minutes ago now couldn’t stop crying.
‘Have you made the wrong decision?’
‘No! I can’t change my mind now, I can’t! We’ve got Maggie and I have to accept that. I’m just upset, that’s all. I’ll learn to like her.’ What was I saying? I couldn’t even bring myself to say I might learn to love her.
‘Frosty, if you’ve made the wrong decision there’s no shame in reversing it.’
I shook my head, my nose was blocked by now, and the tears kept coming. ‘I’m jus
t grieving for Benson,’ I said, and the sound of his name set off a renewed fit of crying.
CC scanned my face to try to understand. ‘Let’s sleep on it,’ he said. ‘If you wake up tomorrow and you still feel the same way, we’ll go and get Benson back.’
I went to bed barely able to breath through a blocked nose, thinking all the time about Benson. He was such a loveable, adorable dog; why did I give him away? What was I doing swapping the beautiful Benson for a scruffy, smelly, arthritic dog who shed hair and wanted to sleep outdoors?
chapter twenty-eight
My waking thought was of Benson, alone in a cage with a concrete floor. The word ‘reject’ rang in my ears, a stinging indictment of failure.
I dressed without enthusiasm and went to join CC under the pergola. Maggie thumped her tail as I walked past. A slight breeze rustled the leaves on the lemon eucalypt as the early morning sun filtered through the grapevine, the chooks were happily scratching in the rose garden and the damp grass tickled my bare feet. It was a perfect summer morning but for one thing. Benson, the adorable and practically perfect three-month-old puppy, had been banished from our lives.
CC looked up from the paper. ‘You seem a bit calmer this morning,’ he said. I promptly burst into tears and slumped onto a garden chair.
‘Frosty, this is silly. If you feel that strongly about Benson, we can go and get him back. I just think he’ll give you a lot of trouble in the garden, that’s all.’
‘No-oh! I gave Benson up and I don’t deserve to have him back.’ Fuelled by guilt and self-pity, I didn’t know what I wanted anymore. I sounded like a petulant child.
‘Stop it,’ said CC, refusing to take part in the drama. He was the calm eye of the storm. ‘I’ll explain to Maggie’s owners that we made a mistake. It’s easily rectified.’
‘But you don’t want Benson,’ I howled, forcing the problem onto him. ‘You never wanted Benson. You said Benson wasn’t a proper dog!’
‘He’s not,’ said CC in reasonable, measured tones. ‘And it’s not that I don’t want him. I just think he’ll be a lot of trouble for you.’
‘See? You said he’d be trouble for me, you didn’t say us. You don’t want him.’
‘Are you saying it’s my fault?’ He looked shocked and I stared at the floor, my bottom lip quivering. ‘Did you send Benson back because of me? Is that why you got Maggie,’ he persisted. ‘Because of me?’
‘I got her because she’ll be a better dog for us.’ I mumbled, sounding sulky and unconvinced.
‘Then why are you still crying?’
Why was I still crying? Nobody made me take Benson back; it had been my decision, just like it had been my choice to point out there was an ad in the paper for a red heeler. Gut instinct made me take Benson back. I didn’t always listen to my instincts but when I did they’d always been proved reliable. Now I was so upset I couldn’t think straight. Why did I want to give up an adorable puppy? I loved him yet I took him back. Why? I didn’t understand what was happening and I didn’t trust myself to talk it through either; there was a danger I would blame CC (who was I kidding, it was an odds-on certainty).
‘Like I said before, it’s up to you,’ he said, turning to the financial section. ‘I’m happy to do a swap if you want to.’
‘You don’t want Benson, though, do you?’
He sighed. ‘I’ve told you I don’t mind. I think Maggie’s the better dog but if you want Benson back, we can go and get him.’
When you fall in love you don’t consider better or worse, you just go with the flow and follow your instincts; isn’t that how it’s meant to go? It was something I had never trusted myself to do since that first doomed love affair at fifteen and the catalogue of disasters that followed. I fell in love with Benson yet my instinct told me to take him back, so that’s what I did. But why was I talking about falling in love with a dog? What was wrong with me? It was tempting to go and get Benson back but I knew what would happen if I did. There would always be an unspoken ‘I told you so’ any time Benson escaped, chewed the furniture or crapped on the carpet. And I couldn’t keep changing my mind. How could I compound my error (if that’s what it was) by taking another dog back to the pound? Who else would take an elderly, arthritic, overweight red heeler? I hadn’t suggested we take Maggie on trial, I had just said let’s keep her. Instinct. The slight breeze that helped mitigate that morning’s heat had disappeared and the air felt sultry and heavy. My sweaty legs were stuck to the white plastic chair and I stared at half an inch of murky liquid swirling in the bottom of my coffee cup.
‘Well, here’s my plan,’ said CC, patiently folding his paper and getting up from the table. ‘I’m going to do some figure work on the computer, then I’m going to finish my filing. When I’ve done that we need to make some decisions.’ What a reasonable approach; how sensible and grown-up compared to the moody middle-aged brat sitting opposite with a red nose and blotchy face.
CC went in and Maggie watched him go from a shady spot under the tree, ears pricked, then she turned her head towards me. I looked away. Had I made a complete mess of the whole dog business after so much research and agonising over what breed to get? I tried to make sense of what had happened, searching for clues. I’d spent months preparing to get a dog and we’d had endless late-night discussions about dog breeds, dog behaviour, where a dog would sleep, what place a dog had in a family, the pros and cons of getting one now or waiting until CC retired, the pros and cons of getting one at all. We had navigated our way through a minefield of differences and somehow found compromises, something I never could have done in previous relationships (few of them lasted long enough for there to be much talking). After all that, I picked out Benson on my own. Sure I sent CC a text to check he didn’t mind having a dog on trial over Christmas but I didn’t involve him in the choice of dog. I chose Benson, just like I chose the staffy that killed Bertie and the unsuitable beagle puppy in Menindee. Maggie was the first dog we had gone to see together. Is that what made my instincts kick in?
*
I rummaged through torn sheets, light bulbs, batteries, boxes of tissues, cans of flyspray, bike helmets, mousetraps, inner tubes, extension cords and vacuum-cleaner bags, searching for the dog brush I knew I’d seen in the cupboard in the laundry. I found it hidden under a pile of plastic carrier bags, its wooden handle cracked with age.
Maggie wagged her tail as I knelt on the grass and her coat shed dirty clumps of slippery hair, which were taken by the wind and blown about the garden. The soothing, rhythmic brushing calmed me as much as it did Maggie and she rolled on her back, wriggling in the grass. As I brushed, her true colour slowly revealed itself, a rich golden ochre, the colour of desert sand. She was a paler version of the red earth that surrounded Broken Hill itself.
‘She could do with a bath,’ CC said, appearing beside me with a plastic baby bath in his hands.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘It used to be Boof’s. I kept it in the shed, just in case.’
He put the bath on the lawn in the shade of the gum tree and I kept brushing while CC fetched boiling water, a bucket and a bottle of dog shampoo, another treasure unearthed from the cupboard in the laundry. After pouring boiling water into the bath he topped it up with cold from the hose, testing the temperature as carefully as if Maggie was a newborn. This was a side of him I hadn’t seen before. He brought out a lead in case Maggie struggled but we needn’t have worried – she was as docile as a koala when we lifted her bulky weight into the bath.
‘There we go, old girl,’ CC said, with a tenderness that took me by surprise. Maggie stood in the bath, quietly compliant as we doused her grubby coat in warm water. She didn’t move or struggle as we lathered shampoo into her coat, working away at the ingrained dirt. More clumps of hair came loose in soggy bundles that floated on the murky surface as we worked together, quietly soothing Maggie with murmured words of encouragement. Aft
er a final rinse from a bucket of warm water, she clambered out of the bath and shook herself, with as much vigour as an elderly lady could muster. CC laid a hand on top of her head.
‘She’ll dry off in the sun,’ he said, his fondness for her evident in every gesture.
I took a towel to rub Maggie dry and she leant against my body, pressing her weight into me. Washed and brushed, she wasn’t as overweight as I’d thought. Her large pointed ears were darker than the rest of her coat and the patch of white fur at her throat was more noticeable now that she was clean. It matched her white socks and feet. The other thing I hadn’t noticed before was a tiny white tip on the end of her long, sweeping tail. I stroked the top of her head and realised she was a good-looking dog.
I spent the next hour gardening while CC was inside on his computer. When I looked up Maggie was never far away. Sometimes I could sense her watching me, sometimes I forgot she was there but always if I called her, Maggie was at my side in an instant. When the heat got too intense I sat down under the shade of the tree and stroked her warm coat. It was smooth and fresh smelling after the bath. Did I really want Benson back? I had asked to take him on trial and I’d sent him back at the end of that trial. Now here we were with Maggie, the red heeler cross who didn’t appear to have any of the famed red heeler aggression, nor any of the frenetic activity so prevalent in the kelpie she was supposedly crossed with. I had thought there was a touch of Labrador in her but now I wasn’t so sure – with her thin face and tall pointed ears she looked quite alien. I’d never met a dog like Maggie before, certainly not one that was so placid and happy to take so much stroking and cuddling, without once trying to struggle free. She was a lovely creature.