by Matt Dunn
“Yes, but asking someone for a coffee has got...implications.”
“Asking someone in for a coffee, maybe. After you’ve been out. But...”
“Well, whatever, and I appreciate the offer, but the answer’s no. Sorry. I’m not...in a good place right now. And so it wouldn’t be...”
“Hey—I get it,” says Tom, holding up his hands as if warming them in front of a fire.
“Great,” says Julie, followed by a softer, “thank you.”
The two of them stand there awkwardly for a moment, before Julie says, “So?” and nods at me, and Tom seems to suddenly remember what he was right in the middle of.
“Right. Doug. Of course,” he says, lifting me up off the treatment table. “He might find where the stitches have been is a bit tender for a few days, but apart from that...” Tom narrows his eyes as he inspects me. “All looks good. Although...”
“Although?”
He gives Julie the side-eye. “Someone’s maybe a little on the heavy side.”
I hold my breath: The one time Luke commented on her weight, it didn’t go down particularly well, though to her credit Julie’s not looking all that offended.
“This isn’t going to be that joke, is it?” she says.
“What joke?”
“Where you say you’re going to have to put him down, and I get all worried, then you say, because your arms are getting tired...”
Tom looks at her for a moment, then he roars with laughter, and despite the antiseptic he’s been dabbing on my ear, his laugh’s evidently infectious, because Julie joins in.
“I must remember that one!” he says, once he’s regained his composure, which takes a while. “Seriously, though.”
“Really? Despite a walk to the park every day?”
“Even so,” Tom continues. “I do this thing in the park on Sunday mornings. It’s an exercise class. Kind of like Parkrun, but people bring their dogs.”
“So, Barkrun,” says Julie, dryly.
Tom does that slapping-himself-on-the-forehead thing people do when they’ve been stupid. “I should so call it that instead of ‘pets-ercise,’” he says. “But it might be a good idea if you and Doug came along? It starts at ten.”
“I’ll think about it,” says Julie, though in the manner of someone who probably won’t, and I can’t say I’m all that surprised. Her brief attempt at something called Zumba a few months ago, prompted by Luke’s comment that he liked “curvy” women as he’d grabbed her backside, didn’t last very long.
“Great!” says Tom, as if he’s forcing himself to be upbeat.
“Right.”
“Okay, then.”
“Well, thanks for, you know...” Julie peers at where I’m still in Tom’s arms, and Tom seems surprised to realize he’s still holding me, so he passes me across, and Julie gives me a cuddle, then lowers me to the floor, grunting a little with the effort, and Tom gives her a look.
“Most welcome,” he says, then he nods in the direction of the waiting room. “I ought to...”
“Sure.”
“You take care of that ear now.”
“What do I have to...?”
“I was talking to Doug,” says Tom, then he grins. “He’ll be fine, as long as he doesn’t pick a fight with anyone else. I’m sure he doesn’t want to have to go through this again. Do you, Doug?”
I hold his gaze for a moment, then do a top-to-bottom shake to say it was fine, really. In the overall scheme of things, I didn’t feel a thing.
Though my worry is, neither did Julie.
17
In stark contrast with Julie’s general apathy, Julie’s dad couldn’t be more wired when he arrives to walk me today, although it’s not until we get to the park that I realize what it is: nervous energy.
He’s also wearing a brand-new shirt—so brand-new, in fact, that it’s still bearing the creases from where it’s been folded in the packet—plus he’s liberally splashed himself with aftershave. Why he’s gone to all this effort, however, only becomes clear when we near the café, where he slows to a gradual stop, then peers down at me.
“How do I look?”
I give him a customary once-over and snort approvingly, adding a tail twitch or two for good measure. “Thanks, Doug,” he says, then he glances across to the café’s entrance, and puffs air out of his cheeks.
“Will you look at me?” he says, holding his hand out to show me how much it’s trembling. “My heart’s beating through my chest!”
I peer up at him, flicking my eyes repeatedly toward the café in an attempt to get him to move.
“Hang on, Douglas,” he says. “I just need to...” He takes a deep breath, glances up at the sky, mouths what I think is sorry, for some reason, then starts walking purposefully along the path.
I fall into step with him obediently, but I don’t notice Julie’s dad slowing down again, or that I’m overtaking him, and as I trot a leash-length past his legs, I’m suddenly jerked to an unceremonious stop.
“Sorry, Doug, I can’t... I mean, what if she...?”
Julie’s dad doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he does a complete one-eighty and heads off in the opposite direction. I try for a moment to dig my feet in, but despite having double the number that Julie’s dad does, find myself being dragged back along the path like a canine water-skier. It’s a little painful, and it’s not affecting the outcome, so I reluctantly segue into a trotting motion, and—more than a little puzzled—follow him. Then suddenly, I twig what’s going on: he’s been about to take Julie’s advice, and ask Dot for a date.
The behavior’s certainly similar to the early days of Julie and Luke, when Julie used to take ages getting ready for work, always making sure her makeup was immaculate, and I suddenly understand that this is important—not only for Julie’s dad’s future happiness, but also for Julie’s. After all, if she sees her dad with Dot, she might be inspired to get on with it with Tom.
Knowing I have to act, and quickly, and without a thought for my personal safety, I gather some slack in my leash, dart to my left, and quickly circle the lamppost next to the path, then dig my claws firmly into the grass in an attempt to bring Julie’s dad to a halt. Which it does. A little too abruptly.
“Doug, what the!” Julie’s dad rubs his shoulder. “What are you playing at, getting tangled round the lamppost like that? You could have dislocated my arm.”
I peer back over my shoulder toward the café, throwing in a whine for good measure, and Julie’s dad sighs.
“Are you that desperate for a muffin?”
I’m not, but I am desperate for Julie’s dad to ask Dot out and kick off a chain of events that should culminate in Julie and Tom getting together, so I increase the intensity of my whine. After a moment, Julie’s dad shakes his head exasperatedly.
“Fine,” he says, perhaps a little petulantly, as he untangles me, adding, “Anyone would have thought you did that on purpose,” as we make our way back along the path.
We reach the café, and Julie’s dad stops in front of the window, and I fear he’s about to lose his nerve again, but it’s only so he can check his reflection in the glass. As he smooths down a stray tuft of hair, I spot Dot watching him from inside, and she sees what he’s doing, and suddenly her expression changes, as if she knows exactly why he’s here, what he’s about to ask her, and the look on her face is priceless.
Julie’s dad’s obviously happy with what he sees, because he grins down at me and says, “Life in the old dog yet!” which I guess I’m supposed to take as a compliment. Then he says, “wish me luck,” so I give him a mental thumbs-up, and lead him inside to where a slightly flushed-looking Dot is waiting by the till.
As I watch them flirting—Dot smiling and touching her hair absentmindedly, Julie’s dad standing ramrod-straight and sucking his stomach in—it occurs to me that maybe Juli
e’s problem with Tom right now is the opposite of what her dad’s just demonstrated. She doesn’t feel good about herself, especially given the wringer that Luke’s been putting her through—and if that is the case, then it’s no wonder she can’t bring herself to flirt with Tom.
Fortunately, though, and not for the first time, Priya and I seem to be on the same wavelength. Because it turns out that—although it’s thanks to me—she’s the one who provides me with a solution to my problem.
18
It’s Friday night, and Priya’s around for her and Julie’s usual Game of Thrones session. She’s brought pizza, which Julie’s turned her nose up at due to her diet, though worryingly, she’s eschewed that for more of a liquid one recently.
“Poor Doug,” says Priya, picking me up and examining the shaved area where my stitches were, before attempting a kiss on the top of my head.
“No tongues, Doug,” says Julie, which sends the two of them into a spasm of laughter that lasts so long I worry we’ll miss the start of the program.
“He’s a better kisser than Sanj!” Priya wipes her lips on her sleeve. “And your ex, I’d imagine.”
Julie gives her a look, but I can tell she finds it funny.
“Speaking of which?” continues Priya, as she sets me down carefully on the rug.
Julie shrugs. “Haven’t been in to work, have I?”
Priya follows us along the hall and into the front room, wrinkling her nose at the state of the place. “All week?” she says, cracking open a window.
Julie shrugs again. “I pulled a sickie.”
“I’m pleased he’s out of your life now. Personally, at least.”
Julie gives her another look, and Priya suddenly seems a little concerned. “You haven’t actually been ill, have you?” she asks, and Julie shakes her head.
“I just haven’t felt...” Julie finishes the sentence prematurely, flops down on the sofa, and picks up a glass of wine from the side table—a glass that’s been there since yesterday, I realize, with a mixture of shock and disappointment. “Like seeing him.”
“You can just take the week off like that?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“And you’re not worried about Luke taking some sort of disciplinary action?”
Julie gives her another look, though this one appears to be to work out whether Priya’s being rude. “Nah,” she says. “What’s he going to do—fire me, and risk what I might say to HR at my exit interview?”
Priya grins. “Good for you,” she says, retrieving a bin bag from the drawer in the kitchen. “Though you can’t let him win, Jules.”
“How is he winning?”
“You love your job.” Priya circles the front room, collecting empties as she goes. “And your avoiding him is stopping you from doing it. Instead, you’re just moping around the house. Which isn’t helping anyone.”
“I just...” Julie drains the glass of wine, then grimaces. “How can I face him, P? I mean, I know it was me who rejected him, but I can’t help feeling the opposite is true.”
“Well, for starters, you can walk in there on Monday morning with your head held high. Show him he’s the loser, not you.”
“How? I hardly feel—or look—like that’s the case.”
“Oh, babes!” Priya sits down next to her, puts an arm around her shoulders, and gives her a squeeze. “Listen,” she says, rooting around in her handbag and retrieving an envelope. “I know it’s a little early, but I got this for you.” She reaches down and pets me briefly. “Well, for Doug, really, for his birthday next Sunday. But it’s really for the two of you.”
Julie stares at Priya’s gift. “What is it?”
“Well, customarily, the best way to find that out is to open it.”
“Now?”
Priya nods eagerly, though I don’t share her excitement. It’s obviously nothing to eat, plus I’m not really into celebrating my birthday—after all, who wants to be reminded they’re seven years older?
But Julie takes the envelope anyway, tears it open, then extracts a small printed card with the word voucher stamped on the back.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a voucher.”
Julie makes the “Duh!” face. “For?”
“Turn it over.”
Julie does as instructed. “Doggy Style? What on earth is that?”
Priya taps the card with her fingernail. “It’s that new pets-and-their-owners beauty salon on the High Street. They were advertising this makeover promotion thingy in the window, so I thought to myself, what do you get the dog who has everything? And this was it!”
“Pets and their owners,” says Julie, suspiciously.
“That’s right,” says Priya, excitedly. “You go there and have your hair and makeup and nails done, meanwhile they do the same for Doug. Minus the makeup part, I imagine.”
“Right,” says Julie, unenthusiastically, and Priya’s face falls.
“Don’t you like it?”
“No, I do, and it’s a lovely idea, P, but...” Julie stares miserably into her empty wineglass. “You know how I don’t like change.”
“It’s a voucher for a makeover, not gender reassignment surgery.”
“Yes, but... What’s the point?”
“So you can show him what he’s been missing!” She gives Julie another squeeze. “You’re going to have to go back to work at some point, and you can either go there looking like you do now...”
“Thanks a lot!”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant...” Priya sighs in a matter-of-fact way. “The better you look, the better you’ll feel. And the worse he will.”
“I’m not sure, P.”
“Why ever not? What’s the worst that could happen?”
Julie shrugs, and I freeze. Because the worst that could happen is that Julie ends up looking fabulous, Luke sees exactly what he’s been missing, and convinces her to give him another chance. And if that’s occurred to me, then it’s quite probably occurred to Julie. A suspicion I’m worried is confirmed when a strange look crosses her face.
“Fine,” she says.
All I can do is keep both sets of paws crossed that it will be.
19
Whatever her motivation, Priya’s pep talk yesterday has obviously had the desired effect, because Julie virtually leaps out of bed this morning, empties a generous helping of the usual into my bowl, then heads straight for the shower, and is on the phone and booking our makeover appointment almost before I’ve finished eating.
Ominously, they can fit us in first thing, so Julie starts to check the novelty pugs-in-stupid-costumes calendar on her kitchen wall that she got in last Christmas’s office Secret Santa to check what is on her agenda, then sees she’s got nothing else to do today and says, though not particularly enthusiastically, “Great.”
She may not be particularly keen to go given how she feels Luke’s rejected her and, to tell the truth, I can understand that. When you’re a rescue dog, you’ve been rejected too in a way, which means you’re naturally very suspicious of anyone who comes along to rescue you. Partly it’s the unsettled feeling—you’ve been in one place, then another, now you’re going to be taken to a third, with no guarantee you’re not going to be returned if things don’t work out. Also, it’s the worry that you might just be going to more of the same—after all, you don’t need qualifications to own a dog. Or a license. You can just...get one. And the same is true for relationships.
It took me months of living with Julie before I was sure I wasn’t going back to that place. Ages before I stopped thinking every trip in the car was the last one I’d be taking with her. The best part of a year until I could finally relax.
And this is why I identify with Julie, sympathize with her situation, feel for her dilemma—because I’d be exactly the same. Her concept of a rel
ationship has come from her time with Luke. She’s used to playing second fiddle. Always being an afterthought. Never being taken out for walks, if you like, because that just wasn’t an option. So she’s nervous.
Perhaps she’s even worried that this is just how relationships are—because that’s been her experience. Remarkably Luke has been her first steady boyfriend—if you consider him as such. And while it’s all very well to say that she should just look at the likes of Priya and Sanj in the same way I used to gaze out of the rescue home’s window at other dogs and see cared-for canines being walked regularly and believe that that’s how it was going to be for me, the reality is that sometimes that’s just too big a stretch. And so, like me back then as I cowered in my cage in the kennels, Julie is afraid to go take a chance with someone new in case it doesn’t work out. Again.
But the thing is, you’ve got to start over at some point. Take the odd leap of faith. And somewhere, deep down, I’m sure that Julie knows that.
There’s an old Chinese proverb, Qianlı zhı xíng, shıyú zú xià, which is something about the longest journey starting with a single step. And as Julie pulls on her jacket, clips on my leash, then leads me purposefully out through the front door, something tells me we’re both taking one this morning.
* * *
Doggy Style is at the far end of the High Street, and while from the outside it looks a little like a slightly less-threatening dentist’s, the moment we walk in, we’re treated like their best—albeit only—customers.
“Julie! Darling!” A large, heavily-made-up woman who could be anything from twenty to two hundred years old given the amount of foundation she’s wearing greets us effusively. She’s got a strange, asymmetrical haircut, with eyebrows that look like they’ve been drawn on with an indelible marker. And from what I can make out from my lowly position on the floor, a tattoo of a coiled snake disappears down between her cleavage. “I’m Alexa,” she announces. “Like the personal assistant! Though you don’t need to say my name every time you want me to do something. Especially if you’re a man!” Alexa roars with laughter at this, then envelops Julie in the kind of hug you might see in a bout of Sumo wrestling.