Follow Me Home

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Wendy hastens over as Frosty growls and Phil steps back.

  ‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Everything’s cool. It’s just a silly misunderstanding.’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ I contradict at the same time. ‘Your expert can’t keep his hands to himself.’

  ‘I think you’d better leave, Zara,’ Wendy says.

  ‘Aren’t you going to do something?’

  Wendy glances towards Phil, a strange expression on her face, before turning back to me. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the class. Frosty is untrainable.’

  I’m confused. ‘I thought you said you could train any dog.’

  ‘Not this one.’ She shakes her head. ‘She’s a hopeless case.’

  ‘So you’re excluding her.’

  ‘That’s right. She’s expelled.’ I don’t argue as Wendy sees Frosty and me off the premises. ‘One thing,’ she adds as we reach the school gates, ‘you have to remember that men are very much like dogs. They aren’t always in control of their natural urges.’

  ‘You are hopelessly deluded,’ I counter.

  ‘Some people who come to dog training are grateful for some male attention.’

  ‘You are! I can see that, but I’m not coming here to listen to you insult my beautiful dog and be groped by a dirty old perv. Goodnight.’

  Back at home, Gran consoles us with tea and biscuits.

  ‘It’s funny how Frosty can sit now,’ I say ruefully. ‘She won’t listen to a word I say when we’re out and about.’

  ‘She’s a funny little thing,’ Gran says. ‘She doesn’t bark when there’s someone at the door, yet she barks at nothing in between times.’

  It’s beginning to sink in as the rain starts to pour down outside and the wind rattles at the windows that, by taking Frosty on, I may well have bitten off more than I can chew.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Being More Dog . . .

  Our experience at dog training makes me wonder about hanging up the lead for good, but when I sit down and flick through the television channels looking for something to watch on a Saturday morning (I’m off today), I become aware of a cold wet nose nudging at my hand.

  ‘Oh, do we have to?’ I say with a deep sigh. ‘I’m not sure I can stand the stress.’

  Frosty nudges me again and whines and I can see I’ll have no peace until I’ve taken her somewhere. The question is, where? We’re no longer welcome on the Green and, even if I did decide to brazen it out, I think I’d be too embarrassed because everyone knows she’s been expelled from dog training. I wonder about taking her to the beach, but there’ll be lots of other dogs there, and then it occurs to me that I could take the car to the farm, park at the bottom of the lane and walk Frosty through the fields. Emily said it was all right with her and Murray, as long as I kept her on the lead because of the sheep – and, who knows, I might run into Lewis.

  I feel a little awkward asking him for advice about training a delinquent dog, having turned down his offer of help before, thinking I could do it either by myself or with the assistance of Talyton’s dog-training club.

  I grab Frosty’s extending lead, a couple of bags and a few liver treats to put in my pocket, slip into my wellies and go, leaving Gran gossiping happily in the shop.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ I call.

  ‘You’ll need your coat. It’s mizzling out there.’ She gives me half a wave before returning to her conversation.

  It’s the beginning of April and the skies are overcast, the mist and drizzle drifting across the hills, but there is a hint of sunshine trying to break through. Frosty is car-sick on the way to the farm, but she soon cheers up when we get going. We skirt the hedgerow of the first field, where the sheep are huddled together with their lambs, and drop down the hill into the covert of beech and hazel via a stile where I get into a bit of a tangle with some thorny brambles.

  As I untangle Frosty’s lead from the embrace of the triffids, I hear a whistle through the trees. Is it Murray or Lewis? My heart skips a beat as I catch sight of a pair of collies following a very modern shepherd across the field, with the sun’s rays catching his hair, a crook in his hand and speaking on his mobile. The collies trot side by side with their heads lowered, their tongues out and the fur on their chests like rats’ tails, dripping with mud. They are heading towards us, but I don’t panic as I step out from the shade of the trees onto the grass. I let my lead go loopy as Wendy suggested at dog training and start to sing very quietly to help me relax so Frosty doesn’t get wound up.

  She’s fine.

  Until she spots the other dogs.

  A growl builds in her throat, but the collies’ keep coming, and when Mick’s a few feet away, Frosty lunges at him with a ferocious bark, at which Miley comes flying in and pounces on her, bowling her over and standing above her with her jaws around Frosty’s neck.

  Lewis lowers his mobile and whistles. Miley hesitates. He whistles again and Miley and Mick race across to him, turning and walking back towards us at his heels. I’m shaking and so is poor Frosty, but she doesn’t give up. As Lewis reaches us, she lunges again, and I have to drag her back, hauling on the lead. She’s strong and I haven’t got a lot of grip on the wet grass, and I end up sitting right on my bottom, with Frosty between my legs, as the rain starts to fall once more.

  Mick and Miley stare at us, Mick with his head tipped to one side as if he’s finding the situation as funny as his owner is, and Miley looking down her nose. Lewis is almost bent double, laughing.

  ‘It isn’t that funny,’ I say, taking his outstretched hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it isn’t often I have women falling at my feet. You know that’s the second time you’ve landed on your backside – anyone would think you were throwing yourself at me,’ he chuckles as he pulls me up and steadies me on the slope, grasping my arm at the same time.

  ‘What if I am?’ I say, taking advantage of the fact that he’s maintaining his grip on me, and responding to his raised eyebrow with, ‘Throwing myself at you, I mean?’

  ‘Are you?’ he says, with mock surprise, which suggests he knows very well how I feel about him.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I thought you of all people would know their own mind. I mean, you’re clever, confident and very attractive – the complete package, in fact.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say so,’ I say lightly.

  ‘Are you and Frosty all right?’

  ‘We’re okay, thanks.’ I’m not sure which is more bruised, my pride or my bottom. ‘I thought dog walking was supposed to be good for you.’

  ‘It wasn’t all Frosty’s fault. Miley shouldn’t have gone in to her like that. I don’t know what got into her. She knows better.’

  ‘Frosty wasn’t exactly being friendly,’ I say, feeling defeated.

  ‘What are you doing up this way, anyway?! wasn’t expecting to meet anyone.’ Lewis holds my gaze and I can’t help blushing. Does he realise that I came up here half hoping I’d see him? Does he see me as some crazy stalker? As I stand there, I become aware of the poo bag swinging from my fingers. It isn’t a good look!

  ‘I thought I’d go somewhere quiet. There are always too many dogs on the Green and down by the river.’ I bite my lip. It’s time I fessed up because I can’t go on like this. ‘Actually, this isn’t working out between me and Frosty.’

  I’ve heard a few stories.’

  ‘I can’t manage her. I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. I thought watching a couple of episodes of It’s Me or the Dog would be enough, but she’s too much for me. She’s too energetic and naughty, and she just won’t listen.’ I start to cry because the idea of letting Frosty down, having gained her trust, is devastating. In fact, I can’t help thinking it’s worse breaking up with a dog than it is with a husband. ‘I love her to pieces, but I can’t keep her.’

  ‘Hey, please don’t cry.’ Lewis reaches out and touches my face, wiping the tear from my cheek with a trailing finger. ‘
That’s better. Why don’t we go and sit in the pick-up? I have a flask of coffee.’

  ‘What about the dogs?’

  ‘The collies can mooch about. Frosty can sit in the cab with us.’

  ‘She’s muddy.’

  Lewis grins. ‘What’s a little bit of mud between friends? Come on.’

  A couple of minutes later and we’re sitting in the front of the pick-up with the rain pouring down the windscreen. Frosty perches on an old coat on the seat between us. Lewis hands me a cup of coffee from a flask. I sip at it. It tastes metallic, but it’s hot and vaguely comforting.

  ‘I heard the dog training didn’t go too well,’ Lewis begins.

  ‘Who told you that? Oh, don’t tell me. Emily. She was in hysterics when I talked to her about it.’

  ‘Well, it is quite funny. There can’t be many dogs that get expelled from class. What did Frosty do, or not do, as the case may be?’

  ‘I’m not sure whether it was me or the dog, actually, but Frosty kept distracting the other dogs and growling at them, and she wouldn’t listen to any instructions, and then she grabbed the Chihuahua, the tiniest dog in the class: I assume it was because she didn’t like its tutu.’

  ‘I’m sorry, you’ve got me there.’ Lewis scratches his head.

  ‘The people at dog training are completely barking, so to speak. This dog was dressed in a pink tutu, can you believe it?’

  ‘I don’t understand it. I like my dogs to be dogs, if you know what I mean. My ex-girlfriend put a ribbon around Mick’s neck once. Fie hated it. He was so embarrassed, he slunk away and hid under the bed.’

  I find I don’t like to think of Lewis, an ex-girlfriend and a bed in the same image. He’s warm and disarmingly friendly, making me feel as if I could tell him everything – I correct myself, almost anything.

  ‘A couple of days after, Wendy came into the shop and offered us a place on their remedial course, but the trainer is a right perv who kept staring at my . . .’ My voice trails off, my face on fire.

  ‘I can kind of understand where he’s coming from,’ Lewis says, amused. ‘Not that I’m a pervert.’

  ‘Anyway, Frosty didn’t like him either, and he seems to be a bit of a bully.’

  Lewis is scathing. ‘It sounds like he practises the old-school style of dog training. Why don’t you let me have a go?’

  ‘I’m not sure that it’s good for her – she gets stressed out. Why do I need to train her anyway? She’s young yet.’

  Lewis nods. ‘She needs to be sociable and walk nicely on a lead, come to call, sit and stay. Mind you, I wonder if she’s really capable of even that when she’s pretty average, and definitely less able than the collies.’

  ‘Are you saying she’s thick?’ I feel hurt on Frosty’s behalf. Am I the only person in the world who has any faith in her?

  ‘She is a little lacking in the IQ department, but that’s not to say . . .’ Lewis stops abruptly. ‘I apologise. Being cutting about someone’s dog is worse than being rude about their child. She’ll have other qualities,’ he goes on, trying to make amends. ‘I’m sorry to have offended you. You’ll never speak to me again,’ he says glumly. ‘Can I make it up to you?’

  ‘It’s Frosty you’ll have to make it up to,’ I say sharply. ‘How can you judge her like that?’

  ‘I’m trying to help.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry too.’ I sit back with a sigh. ‘It isn’t just her behaviour out and about. It’s how she is at home as well. She’s so much like Poppy, out of control. She’s wrecking Gran’s flat. This morning, I had to hide a pair of her shoes because Frosty had chewed on the soles. Oh, it’s okay, she has quite a few others, so she won’t miss them in a hurry.’

  ‘You should have come and found me before,’ Lewis says softly. ‘Look, it isn’t raining as hard now. Why don’t we take her out and see what we can do?’

  We work with Frosty in the field while the collies watch from the back of the pick-up.

  ‘If you are a nervous dog,’ Lewis says, as I walk her up and down on the lead, ‘every other dog you meet must feel like a threat, so you have to lunge and get your bark in first.’

  ‘It’s such a shame. Why do you think she’s like this?’

  ‘Because she had a bad start as a puppy. She had the wrong sort of discipline when she was young, if she had any at all. She isn’t nasty.’ Lewis holds out his hand. Frosty sniffs it, cowers, and wees on his boots. Chuckling, he takes the lead from me, our fingers touching and sending a shock of electricity through my arm. This is going to be interesting, I tell myself.

  ‘It’s no use scolding her because that will make her even more fearful.’ Lewis walks along, and Frosty looks up at him. ‘Good girl. Sit.’ He pushes her bottom down gently and gives her a treat before walking on once more. Miley doesn’t like it. She starts barking, but Frosty ignores her.

  ‘I’m not trying to find excuses for Frosty’s behaviour, but I wonder if she might be deaf.’ Lewis stops alongside me. ‘She watches me, but she really doesn’t listen.’

  ‘Deaf?’ I hadn’t thought of that, but it makes sense. ‘How can we test that theory?’

  ‘We’ll have to go somewhere quiet,’ Lewis says, and I look away quickly, a flush of heat creeping up my neck and face. I wouldn’t mind going somewhere quiet with Lewis, but he doesn’t mean it in that way – at least I don’t think so.

  We walk back to the covert and in amongst the trees.

  I smile. Alone in the wood with a gorgeous young shepherd? Who knows what could happen next? I picture him taking me in his arms and pulling me close.

  ‘Right,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘You take Frosty over to that tree, stand on the other side, let her on a long lead and I’ll make some noise. We’ll see what she does.’

  At first Frosty doesn’t want to stand behind the tree, preferring to follow the scent trail of a rabbit or squirrel, perhaps. Eventually I manage to wind her back in on the lead and perch on a damp log to wait, wanting to laugh because this is one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever done: a hearing test for a dog.

  ‘Ready!’ calls Lewis.

  ‘Ready,’ I call back.

  First, Lewis calls Frosty by name, but she takes no notice.

  ‘Nothing!’ I shout back. When I thought she was answering to me calling her name, she must have been responding to other cues like my body language.

  Lewis whistles as he does to his dogs, but Frosty takes no notice of that either.

  Finally he rustles a plastic bag, the one I keep the liver treats in. If Frosty was going to hear something, she’d definitely hear that.

  ‘Anything?’ Lewis calls.

  ‘No, nothing at all.’ I straighten and walk back to join him, with Frosty tagging along behind. ‘I’m sure you’re right. She can’t hear a thing.’

  ‘Don’t be upset,’ Lewis says. ‘It doesn’t change anything. Frosty’s still the same . . . person.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You’ll have to change your expectations for her, and the way you approach her training.’ Lewis smiles and reaches out for my hand, taking it gently in his, giving it a gentle squeeze and letting it go again, a gesture that is both distracting and tantalising. ‘I don’t think it’ll affect your relationship with her one bit. Let me know how the appointment with the vet goes.’ He continues hesitantly, ‘Perhaps I could help you out with the dog training another time?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love that, thanks,’ I say.

  Lewis walks me back to the car and waits while I persuade Frosty to jump up onto the towel I’ve put across the back seat for her muddy paws, and clip her into her travel harness before I drive back to Talyton, hardly able to concentrate on the road. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t get Lewis out of my head.

  I make an appointment at Otter House vets where Maz, relying on a test very much like the one Lewis and I carried out, confirms that Frosty is deaf and that it isn’t the end of the world. She has another client with a deaf dog, a white Boxer, and
the owners have trained her to follow hand signals. There’s nothing that can be done, no canine cochlear implants or hearing aids, so I just have to accept I have a dog with special needs. I can’t let Frosty off the lead, although I can keep her on a long one, and Gran and I will have to put up with Frosty’s fits of random barking because she probably can’t hear herself. What’s more, it doesn’t matter which station we leave the radio on for her when she’s home alone – it will make no difference to her level of anxiety because she can’t hear it. And as for being a guard dog, she’ll never make it.

  A couple of days later, Lewis drops by the shop. ‘You didn’t call me and you haven’t been up to the farm,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve been at work. I do have a job, you know.’ I smile as he picks up a newspaper from the rack. ‘Since when did you start buying a paper?’

  He grins. ‘I thought I’d buy a lottery ticket too.’

  ‘You have to fill in a slip – they’re over there.’ I nod towards the Lotto stand. ‘Wait a minute – you’ll need one of these, too.’ I take a biro from the drawer under the counter. ‘People are always nicking the pens.’ I pass it over to him, my fingers brushing his, or is it his fingers that are brushing mine? My cheeks grow hot, but I don’t think he notices because he’s filling in his numbers.

  ‘You never know when you might get lucky.’ Lewis hands me the slip and grins again, doubling my discomfort.

  ‘Do you want one week or eight?’

  ‘I’ll have one week for now. I’d hope to get lucky before eight weeks are up.’

  ‘In that case, I’d recommend you look at the lonely hearts page in the Chronicle,’ I say cheekily, deciding to give as good as I get.

  ‘I’ve already got my eye on someone.’ He hands me the slip and I put it through the machine.

  ‘And have they got their eye on you?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  The doorbell jangles – sometimes I hate that sound, and this is one of those occasions . . .

  ‘Good morning, Zara.’

  ‘Hello, Paul,’ I say flatly.

  ‘I’ll catch you later,’ Lewis says. ‘Remember to call me to arrange a dog-training session. You will, won’t you?’