Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts (13 page)

‘A man about a dog. Bill’s getting a dog from that rescue place on the Hartley hill, and he wants us to come for a second opinion.’

‘But you’re the one who’s had a dog, not me.’ Natalie kicked off her shoes under the desk and wriggled her toes. One of the benefits of a corner office, with window. ‘I’ve only ever had a rabbit, and that was twenty years ago.’

‘I know, but he values your female intuition. I’m just there to tell him what kind of dog to get, you’re the one who’s supposed to guide him towards what
suits
him. You know what Bill’s like.’

‘Yes. I know what Bill’s like,’ said Natalie. ‘He likes a second opinion. And a third. And a fourth, if there’s someone else around.’

‘What time can you get away? By five?’

Natalie looked at her email inbox, already stacked up again from the thirty minutes she’d taken off to eat her lunch. And she had appointments all afternoon and a report to start compiling about whether ‘getting into the veg box market’ was working out for GreenPea’s shortbread range.

As if he could read her mind, Johnny added, ‘Come on, Nat, you worked late all last week. Can’t Selina give you a gold star?’

‘That’s it, though.’ Natalie dropped her voice. ‘I think Selina’s on the lookout for people who don’t have gold stars. It’s not a good time for me to be leaving early.’

‘But Nat, I thought we could see this dog, have some dinner and then, you know, still have time for us this evening?’

They both knew what that meant. At least I didn’t have to suggest it, Natalie thought, at least he knows. And cares.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said. ‘Listen, I’ve got a call coming through – I’ll see you there. Soon as I can after five?’

‘Soon as you can,’ said Johnny, dropping his voice so the kids around him couldn’t hear his husky Barry White impression. ‘Because I don’t want Bill Harper and his canine girlfriend replacement eating into our special Green Zone time together, OK?’

‘OK,’ said Natalie happily.

‘I still don’t think I should be doing the actual interview,’ said Rachel and pushed the clipboard back across the office desk towards Megan.

‘Why not? You need to start sometime.’ Megan pushed it back. ‘And it’s not that hard. All the questions are on there. Just tick yes or no. Simple as that.’

Rachel stared at the questionnaire, and tried not to think about how she was going to tell Megan that she had no intention of staying long enough to get experienced at dog matchmaking. It had been a bad afternoon. Lots of dogs, lots of barking, George Fenwick on her case about fleas, and the realisation that she’d never be able to walk into Topshop again without feeling like someone’s grandmother.

‘But it’s
not
as simple as that, is it?’ she whined. ‘What about picking the right dog? What about the magic “Dot” moment when man and mutt meet and it’s happy ever after? I can’t do that.’

‘Look, cross that bridge when you come to it. More than one no and he doesn’t even
get
a dog.’ Megan gazed at her over a huge mug of tea. The whole kennel seemed to run on tea, as far as Rachel could tell. ‘Freda’s done the hard part already – we know he’s got the right kind of house, and he’s not allergic to dogs.’

‘I don’t think Freda sees home checking as a hard part,’ said Rachel, flicking through the extensive – some might even say nosy – report on Bill Harper’s ‘very pleasant conservatory, no expense spared!’ and ‘lovely gardens, about the size of ours, but not quite as well-organised, border-wise’.

‘Well. Whatever. He’s got a decent garden, fenced in, with no kids – that’s the main thing. Just have a chat!’ Megan tried to look encouraging. ‘You’ve met all our dogs, you’ve had a walk with most of them now. You know what sort of owner they’d like, if they could talk to you.’

‘Do I?’ Rachel wrinkled her nose doubtfully.

Dot’s famous ‘dog whispering’ hung over the kennel like a Turin Shroud/Jesus in the toast legend. People would expect to be matched up with the dog of their dreams and while Megan could probably pull it off, thanks to her experience, Rachel didn’t believe for a second that she herself could.

Even though she and Gem were now coming to a sort of understanding, born out of their shared gloominess, she wasn’t sure she had much of a rapport with the others. She certainly hadn’t started talking to them, or imagining they could talk to her.

‘Just imagine them in the park,’ said Megan, helpfully. ‘Do they fit, if you know what I mean?’

‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘I don’t.’

The kennel doorbell jangled and made them both jump. It was an old-fashioned housemaid bell from the old kitchens, and was loud enough to be heard from the fenced area outside the kennels.

‘Right on time. That’s a good sign. We like punctuality in our new owners,’ said Megan as she pushed back her chair and went to let them in.

Rachel looked back at the form, trying to memorise the questions so they’d trip easily off her tongue. The goal, she told herself, is to have one less dog to worry about and one more kennel space to let out.

At the top of the form was a stern warning in bold italics:

We’re the only voice the dogs have! Please don’t be offended if we seem intrusive or picky – we just want what’s best for them. Some of our dogs have been badly let down by humans already, yet still want to trust us and give their love; we’d hate to see them back.

Rachel’s throat tightened, thinking of Bertie’s eager, wrinkled face and Chester’s anguished pacing every time someone walked past and wasn’t his runaway owner come to get him. Please don’t let me let them down, she thought, and raised her eyebrows in surprise at herself.

Megan’s voice floated through to the office. ‘Come in, come in.’

She looked up to see her ushering in Dr Harper, followed by a thirty-something couple who were looking round with great curiosity. The man was rubbing his hands excitedly, but the woman was more cautious, as if she was expecting the place to be overrun with slavering dogs.

‘Now, can I get you guys tea, or coffee?’ Megan was hovering. ‘This is Rachel, she’s going to guide you through the rehoming process!’

‘Lovely. Tea, please, two sugars. I’m parched. Hello, I’m Johnny Hodge,’ said the big man, extending his hand towards Rachel. He smiled, and crinkled up his friendly brown eyes. ‘And this is my wife, Natalie.’

‘Hello, Natalie.’ Rachel noted that Natalie was wearing non-dog work clothes too, and felt an immediate sympathy for her smart black pencil skirt and fitted jacket. ‘Come and sit over here,’ she said, pulling out a chair, ‘there’s less chance of you getting hairy. I know. I go through a whole lint roller every two days.’

‘So how does this work?’ Dr Bill was looking around. ‘I, er, thought you might have some dogs here?’

‘What, like
Blind Date
?’ joked Johnny. ‘Bill would like to meet an ambitious dog, under three, with a good sense of humour.’

‘We try not to let people see the dogs until we’ve had a chance to chat,’ explained Megan. ‘It can get rather over-emotional for everyone, seeing them in their runs, and them seeing you, coming to take them home. They all go a bit
X Factor
, trying to get your attention. But if you have specific ideas about what sort of dog you’d like, we can talk about that?’

‘Oh, Bill’s very specific about what he wants, aren’t you, Bill?’ Johnny turned to his friend. ‘That’s why he’s still single!’

‘Johnny . . .’ Natalie frowned.

‘I just like to know what I’m getting myself into.’ Bill shot an amiable sideways glance at Johnny. ‘I’m not that fussy really –
I’d like something trainable, something that doesn’t shed too much so I can take it into the surgery. And something with a bit of personality.’

‘Is that the dog or the girlfriend?’ asked Rachel.

Bill turned pink as Johnny leaned forward and said, ‘Both.’

‘Great! Shall we run through the questions?’ Rachel suggested and glanced down. ‘How often can you walk a dog, for a start?’

After twenty-five minutes Rachel had established that Bill could walk his dog about a mile to work and back, with a trot around the park at lunchtime; that he wanted something that came ‘up to his knee’ and was preferably black; that his mother had had a nippy Lakeland terrier and he definitely didn’t want one of those; that Johnny loved dogs, and would have a Labrador, a pointer, a springer spaniel or just a ‘fun little chap’; that Natalie hoped having a dog would get Bill out and about.

‘So,’ said Johnny, slapping his knees and looking at Bill. ‘Is this where you go behind the screen and bring out date number one?’

‘It is!’ Megan pushed back her chair. ‘If you guys want to help yourself to biscuits, be our guests. What happens now is that we’ll have a chat, bring out a dog or two so you can have a play, get to know each other, and we’ll take it from there. Come on, Rachel.’

Rachel glanced up from the paperwork. ‘Sorry?’

‘I need your expertise.’ She beamed confidently as she hauled Rachel to her feet. ‘’Scuse us!’

Outside the office, Rachel turned to protest, but Megan carried on pushing her gently towards the kennels. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Away you go. Pop in there with that questionnaire and find Bill a dog.’

Rachel stopped in her tracks. ‘No! Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Come on, you can do it.’

‘I can’t! You’re the kennel manager, not me! And you know
him
!’ Rachel waved her arms. ‘This isn’t a game, Megan. I don’t know enough about the dogs. It’s not my job! I don’t have that . . . knack.’

Megan put her small hands on Rachel’s upper arms. ‘There’s no knack. It’s logical. Just go in there, read the notes Dot left on the doors, and . . .’ She paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘Let the dogs talk to you. No, no! Before you say anything, I’m not being weird. Just let them . . . OK, maybe I am being weird. But keep really still. You’ll hear it, inside.’

Rachel looked at her as if she were mad, but Megan gave her a firm push.

‘Go on. If you bring out something totally wrong, I’ll tell you.’ Her face softened. ‘I know you’re not a dog person, Rachel. Don’t tell me again.’

Rachel bit her upper lip and went in through the heavy door. Immediately the sound of conversational yapping and Radio Four ramped up a few notches, and the smell of warm dog and oily coats and dry kibble rushed up to meet her.

‘It’s just me!’ she called out, without thinking. ‘Don’t go mad, come on, folks, calm down.’

Rachel walked slowly down the stone corridor between the pens, trying not to let her heart ache at the eager wagging and hopeful eyes that followed her. Instead she thought about the lanky doctor, and who would suit him, who would make a good companion? She passed by two collie sisters – trainable, but too energetic to sit in a basket. The Staffies, still barking up a storm at the sight of anyone who would play. Chester, the spaniel Bill had seen on the poster, was there, but he was bouncing around like he’d been bouncing since he woke up – that wouldn’t work in a surgery.

Or then there was Bertie. Rachel smiled, seeing Bertie’s tragic Basset hound eyes gazing up at her from his plastic bed, his long face wrinkling with hope.

‘I have no more supper, so you can stop with the cupboard love,’ she said aloud, but kindly. Bertie was gorgeous, but he wasn’t right for Bill.

She stopped, without quite knowing why, in front of Lulu the poodle. Megan had given Lulu a rudimentary clipping that afternoon, still muttering about George’s ‘bloody sarky’ instructions not to ‘do anything stupid’, and although Megan had just shaved off the knots, now Lulu’s neat legs and bright eyes were visible under the black fuzz that had made her look more like a lamb than a dog.

Lulu would be perfect, said a voice in Rachel’s head, before she had time to think. Bill wants a smart dog, who can be trained – according to the Dogs for Dummies book in the office, that’s a poodle. And she won’t shed her hairs over the surgery, and she’s so easy-going and quick to learn new things.

Lulu’s shiny black eyes fixed on hers and her tail, now almost a pompom, wagged for the first time.

But he wanted a big dog, she argued. A man’s dog.

Lulu’s the right one.

Rachel stood still as the dogs started to bark, curious as to what she was doing in there. She could hear the skitter of claws and then a warm body pressed itself up against her ankles. Absent-mindedly, Rachel bent and caressed Gem’s ear. Gem’s approval seemed to seal it, as near to Dot’s help as she could get.

Lulu was the one.

‘How about it, Gem?’ she asked the collie, now wriggling his head towards the kennel door. ‘Bill and Lulu?’

You’re talking to a dog, Rachel reminded herself. That’s not the slippery slope. That’s the actual black run.

She pulled back the bolt on the pen door and Lulu came tiptoeing out, curious to see what was going on. She still wasn’t perky, but since her trim she seemed to have regained some confidence. She certainly looked bigger than she had done when Rachel had first seen her, though that was more to do with her personality unfolding than the two good meals a day she was getting now.

‘Hello, Lulu,’ said Rachel, clipping the lead onto her collar. ‘I’ve got someone I think you’d like to meet.’