Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts (11 page)

Zoe made herself remember how heartbreaking Toffee had been when she’d woken up in the watery morning light to find him nuzzled into the crook of her shoulder, his hot breath huffing into her ear and one paw pressed against her chest, as if she was his lost mum. They were both on the sofa, after his pitiful crying had dragged her downstairs. He was so vulnerable and soft, she’d forgiven him the puddle on the carpet.

He
was
adorable, she thought, stuffing the receipt into her bag without looking at it and pushing the trolley towards the exit. And how hard could it be to train a Labrador? They worked as guide dogs and turned off kettles for deaf people, didn’t they? It was just going to take some organisation.

The alarm on Zoe’s phone went off. The hour was almost up.

‘Ah! New puppy?’ asked the Australian girl standing by the noticeboards, five or six dogs clustered around her feet. They weren’t playing up, despite being surrounded by treats and food.

Zoe stared at her pile of stuff. ‘Actually, it’s a hamster. With ambitions.’

The girl laughed, and the tall woman she was with finished sticking pins in her notice. It featured a photograph of a red- and-white Basset hound wearing a tragic expression on its wrinkly, hound-dog face. It
would
have been tragic, had it not also been wearing a Santa hat.

‘
Is there room in your fridge for me
?’ read Zoe, unable to resist. ‘Aw! Shouldn’t that be “isn’t there room by your fireside” ’?

‘No, Bertie’s priority is the fridge. Whoever his new mum and dad are, they’re going to need to get a lock on it.’ The Australian girl smiled. ‘But I bet you could train him to do just about anything with half a bag of sausage – he’s not stupid at all! They’re the sweetest dogs, Bassets, brilliant with kids, really calm . . . I don’t suppose your puppy needs a friend?’

Zoe laughed, and it came out rather manic. ‘No! I’ve only had this one a day and already he’s running rings around me.’

‘Lovely! What is he? How old?’ She sounded genuinely interested.

‘Toffee’s an Andrex puppy. I don’t know exactly how old, actually,’ Zoe confessed, ‘he was a present.’

The two women glanced at each other, and Zoe thought the blonde girl’s forehead flickered with exasperation.

She glanced at the poster’s logo again, and realised that they must be from the rescue centre up on the Rosehill road – either Rachel or Megan, going by the phone numbers. The phrase ‘Dogs deserve a future – don’t give them as a present’ was actually printed on the bottom of the page.

‘No!’ she said hastily. ‘No,
I
didn’t get him as a present, my husband . . . my ex gave him to the kids. I had no idea, I mean, now Toffee’s here we absolutely adore him, I just wasn’t quite prepared for not being able to leave the house for more than ten minutes.’

Zoe’s voice trailed off. This wasn’t making her look any better. Now she’d started reading, she couldn’t take her eyes off the poster.
My first owners bought me as a Christmas present, but soon got bored of me and threw me out to look after myself
, she read.
I’ve got lots of love to give, in return for walks, food and the best sofa in the house, so I’m crossing my paws that you might have room for a little one. OK, quite a big one. Love, Bertie.

‘I’m going to take good care of him,’ she heard herself say. ‘That’s why I’m here, buying up half the shop!’

‘Of course you are,’ said the dark-haired woman. She seemed quite brisk, and she had a folder full of notices ready to stick up. ‘Megan just sees a lot of Christmas puppies around this time of year! I’m sure you’re not going to be adding to our numbers. I mean,’ she added, ‘we’re on a bit of a drive to rehome what we’ve already got. So we can make room for some paying customers in our boarding kennels. Aren’t we, Megan?’

‘Totally.’ Megan sighed, and gave Zoe a friendly but firm look. ‘The thing is, it’s not the stuff so much as the constant attention, with a puppy. Has he been vaccinated? Have you got a number to ring the breeder, so she can tell you how old he is, and if he’s had the right jabs?’

‘Um . . . jabs?’

Megan looked worried. ‘Toffee’s not on his own right now, is he?’

‘Um . . . yes?’ Zoe glanced between them, registering Megan’s disapproval and Rachel’s amazing trendy bag. ‘He’s in the kitchen, it’s totally baby-proof, I mean, I’m a single mum, I’ve had to leave him to get all this stuff, but what are you supposed to do with dogs? Get a babysitter?’

‘Yes,’ said Megan.

‘You’re joking, right?’ Zoe asked hopefully.

‘Would you leave your baby on his own while you went to the shops? Do you know how sharp his teeth are? They can chew through doors, cables . . .’

The reality of what David had landed on her began to sink in and Zoe felt the old panic rise up her, like an over-filling bath. ‘Oh God,’ she said.

‘Look, she’s got a crate,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘And a puppy book. And chewy stuff. Come on, Megan. Be positive. It’s not like she’s left him to play with matches.’

‘Do you do training classes?’ Zoe asked in a small voice. ‘For owners?’

Megan’s stern expression lightened. ‘Yeah. We do, actually. Come up on Saturday and we’ll talk you through the basics. I can give you the name of a vet too, get Toffee registered.’ She scrabbled in her bag for a pen. ‘Give us a leaflet, Rachel? George Fenwick, the clinic down by the fire station. Toffee’s going to need shots and a microchip.’

‘And if you want to come and do some volunteer walking, or help us with some fundraising, that would be great!’ said Rachel, segueing effortlessly into sales patter. ‘We’re always looking for helpers. And donations. And if you need to board him for a few days, we have top-quality facilities.’

Zoe took the leaflet and tucked it into her trolley of supplies. She had a feeling she’d be sticking it on the fridge, right next to the phone.

‘I think that went well,’ said Megan, nudging her dogs back onto the bridle-path behind the industrial estate. ‘That’s the supermarkets, the precinct, and both pet shops. Just one more stop and we’re done. And those are the highlights of Longhampton, as I’m sure you’ve realised!’

‘So long as we’re reaching every single possible new owner,’ said Rachel. Her dogs weren’t quite as well controlled, although Gem was doing his best to herd the smaller dogs into line for her. ‘What did George say? You need to shunt ten non-paying dogs out and get ten dogs in before the end of the month, so he can get his bill paid?’

George’s advice had been blunt, but free, and delivered over a pot of tea in Dot’s kitchen. It had also revealed to Rachel that she wasn’t the only one with dire cash-flow problems: Dot’s money had run out, and so had the kennels’. Even if Rachel wanted to sell up, it would take a while to sort out the legalities, and in the meantime, the dogs needed feeding and suppliers, George in particular, needed paying.

He’d looked at her over the table with a sort of challenge in his blue eyes, as if he half-expected her to write a cheque and flounce away from the problem. Rachel hadn’t told him that she didn’t have any choice in the matter; with no job and no old life, it wasn’t a matter of ‘honouring Dot’s legacy’ – this
was
her job now. Until she sorted something else out.

‘That’s about the size of it. He speaks his mind, George.’ Megan flicked through the clear plastic envelope of posters. ‘Ah, we’ve saved the best for last – Chester. Look at that sad face! People’ll be sobbing all over the surgery. I love these posters, by the way. You’ve really got a way with words.’

Rachel didn’t tell Megan she’d spent the last six months working on a million-pound PR campaign for a new music download website; already that seemed like a different life. Instead, she allowed herself a wonky smile, and said, ‘Thanks. To be honest, they made me cry a bit. Which I guess means they’re working.’

The posters, made on the kitchen table the previous night, weren’t flashy, but they were effective: handwritten ‘wanted: new owner’ headlines, with Polaroids of the dogs, and pleas from them, partly nicked from Dot’s tags. Rachel had used every shameless PR trick she could think of to pluck at Longhampton’s heartstrings.

‘And you’re going to do us a website?’ Megan went on, excited.

‘I can’t believe you don’t have one already,’ said Rachel. ‘I can find someone who’ll do that very cheap. It’ll help with the boarding too.’

‘You know, you’re amazing, especially considering you’ve just come out of a bad relationship breakdown,’ started Megan, but Rachel stopped her, embarrassed.

‘Look, I really haven’t done anything yet. Where next?’ she asked, letting Gem off the lead so she could throw a ball for him, as a reward for his good behaviour.

‘The surgery,’ said Megan. ‘I’ve put posters in there before – we have a cake stall in the foyer, once a month. And Dr Carthy, who’s in charge, he’s a big dog lover. Used to tell Dot that whenever an old racing greyhound came in, she was to call him. He’s got two now. Used to have six. One used to sleep in a corner of his consulting room!’

‘Wow,’ said Rachel. Gem dropped the ball at her feet, pausing to pant at her, and she hurled it away again.

Her right arm was getting sore but, masochistically, she didn’t mind. The look on Gem’s face, just as eager every time, made up for it. Rachel couldn’t communicate with Gem like Dot probably had, but this was a tiny way of offering something to their very unequal relationship, a small return for the patient nights he’d spent already, waiting by the door, listening to her broken sleep and making her feel a little less alone in the strange new life she’d found herself in.

Longhampton Park Surgery was a modern building with ramps and big windows and neat concrete boxes of red geraniums on every available flat surface. As Megan and Rachel approached, they saw a lanky girl in a white receptionist’s uniform helping a wheelchair-bound lady down the ramp, bending over her like a mother hen.

Or a mother heron, Rachel corrected herself. She was all long arms and tanned legs.

‘Oh, look at the lovely dogs!’ the girl said cheerily, pushing back a long blonde ponytail. ‘You had one of those Jack Russells, didn’t you, Ida?’

‘Till I moved into the home, I did.’ The old lady stretched out her hand towards Bonham, the short-legged terrier who’d been dragging Rachel all round the park. He shied back, tucking his tail downwards. ‘Hello, chap.’

Rachel felt awkward, as if he was a child showing her up in a supermarket. ‘Bonham,’ she said, ‘don’t be rude. I’m sorry, he’s a bit grumpy.’

‘Oh, he’s fine, he just needs to have a sniff,’ said the old lady, leaving her crooked fingers dangling, and sure enough Bonham began to edge forward, approaching her chair with tiny steps, until he was near enough for her to scratch behind the ears. ‘There. Good lad.’

Rachel felt a lump in her throat at the way the lady’s hunched shoulders seemed to relax at Bonham’s wagging tail. Stop it, she told herself. It’ll be a poobag belt next.

‘He never does that for me,’ she admitted.

‘It’s a knack,’ said the old lady happily. ‘Isn’t it, Bonham lad?’

‘Do you want to keep him?’ Rachel joked. ‘He’s going spare.’

The sadness in the sigh was audible. ‘Oh, I wish.’

‘You know, Megan,’ said the receptionist – Lauren, according
to the badge on her chest, ‘you should start bringing your doggies in for our oldies to play with. They’d really cheer up the Evergreens, wouldn’t they, Ida?’

‘Ah!’ Megan reached into her bag and pulled out a poster. ‘Funny you should mention that. We’re on a dog mission as it happens.’

‘Hang on,’ said Lauren as a Ford Fiesta drew up next to the ramp. ‘Here’s your lift, Ida. Let’s just get Mrs Harris here into her car. Ida, you’re going to have to say goodbye to Bonham, sorry.’ With a neat movement, she rolled the old lady down to her waiting lift, and helped the carer unload her, keeping up a stream of reassuring chat. Rachel had to resist the temptation to pop the Jack Russell into the back seat with Ida – Bonham himself seemed perfectly happy about stowing away.

‘Lauren runs the surgery,’ Megan whispered under her breath. ‘She knows everything that’s going on round here. She’s the one who sells our cakes and does the book stall.’

‘Does she want a dog?’ Rachel whispered.

‘Lauren!’ A young man stretched his head out of the surgery doors, keeping his body inside in the warm. From the stethoscope round his neck, Rachel assumed he was a doctor, and from the dishevelled look of his brown curls and his anxious expression, she guessed there was a problem with something. ‘Lauren, can you come and sort out the computer?’

Lauren straightened up and rolled her eyes at Rachel and Megan. ‘You’d think doctors would be able to manage a simple computer, wouldn’t you? But no! Just getting Mrs Harris away!’ she called over the car.

‘That’s Dr Harper,’ Megan whispered. ‘You know I said you had to start fancying older men round here? Well, he’s the exception. I mean, he’s older for me, but not for you, I guess.’ She went pink. ‘Sorry, that came out ruder than I meant.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Rachel started to whisper, then shook herself. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said in a normal voice. ‘I prefer older men, anyway. Ted’s the one for me.’

‘Right now, how can I help you two lovely ladies?’ Lauren said, marching back towards them, ponytail swinging. ‘And you lovely puppies?’ she added, bending down to scratch some ears.