Читать книгу Saving Missy - Beth Morrey - Страница 21

Walking Bob to the park the next morning, I felt awkward and self-conscious, as though I were an imposter. The dog seemed incongruous, trotting at my heels, and I worried that passers-by might see us and think I’d stolen her, or simply that we looked ridiculous together, like a goaty old man and his nubile girlfriend.

She was such a buoyant, unaffected presence, grinning up at me, constantly weaving off to sniff lampposts, urinate on leaves, or scratch herself at inconvenient moments. People are supposed to look like their dogs, and I imagined a dog of mine would be some sort of wolfhound – tall, grey and diffident. Not this perky, prancing thing, with her autumnal colours and sideways wink. She was the kind of dog Alicia Stewart would have had. Alicia, Leo’s sparkling, vivacious first love, who capered through life expecting everyone to make way for her.

Nevertheless, we made it to the park and dutifully began a circuit, remembering Angela’s lecture on the importance of exercise. The air was warmer now, with daffodils forcing their way through the cold dried mud of early spring. Looking up, I could see the delicate eruption of blossom – a brief but beautiful stage of the season. In Japan, the sakura – the cherry blossom – represents the transience of life, and they have festivals dedicated to watching it bloom; the bud is fragile and short-lived and thus one must come to terms with the inevitability of one’s death. How odd, though, to sit under a tree and actively contemplate one’s own demise.

My ruminations were interrupted by Bob, whining and pulling at her lead, dragging me in different directions. As we made our jagged progress around the park, we encountered another dog walker heading in the opposite direction. I didn’t like the look of him or his dogs, so discreetly gave them a wide berth. They were boxers; not a breed I’ve ever admired (if indeed I’ve admired any), and their owner looked something of a pugilist himself – shaven-headed, with a bulbous nose, army jacket collar pulled up around his face, cigarette smoke in a cloud around him. But of course, Bob, in her contrary way, developed an unaccountable fancy for his dogs, tugging me over and cavorting, rolling over on her back in supplication. I pulled on her lead irritably, ‘Come on!’

‘She wants off.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I couldn’t see his mouth move for collar and cigarette. Typical, on my first dog-walking day, to encounter some thuggish stranger and be drawn into conversation.

‘She wants off. The lead.’ He took the cigarette out of his mouth with black-nail-tipped sausage fingers, and pointed it at Bob. ‘She wants to play.’ He had a thick accent – Newcastle, or somewhere up there.

I looked at Bob, still capering and yapping. ‘She might run away.’

‘She won’t,’ he put the cigarette back in. ‘And if she does, she’ll come back.’

Reluctantly, I unhooked Bob’s lead, whereupon she immediately went into an orgy of romping with the boxers. There was much baring of teeth, but they all seemed to be enjoying themselves, and at least she was getting some exercise.

Enjoying the spectacle, my companion sucked away on his cigarette, then turned to me.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Er, Bob,’ I replied. It seemed we were expected to make polite small talk, in a tame mimicry of our dogs’ interaction. ‘Yours?’

‘That there’s Badger, and that there’s Barker,’ he pointed, though as with Sylvie’s dogs, I had no idea how he could tell the difference. ‘Bob’s a boy’s name,’ he continued, tapping his ash on the lid of a nearby bin.

‘It’s from Blackadder,’ I hazarded, hoping there would be no need to elaborate.

He frowned for a second, then chuckled. ‘Aye. Good name for a dog.’ I felt briefly gratified, as though it were my own achievement.

The dogs paused for breath and seizing this as my cue, I moved forwards to put Bob back on her lead, saying ‘well, it’s been nice to meet you …’ But the words died on my lips as Bob chose that moment to lift herself inelegantly onto her haunches and answer the call of nature. This was the moment I’d been dreading, and now I was going to have to deal with it with him there, watching me scrabbling in the mud.

Fumbling for the poo bags, I fished out of my pocket, took a deep breath and bent to do the deed. The smell was asphyxiating, steaming slightly in the spring chill. How did one use the bag? Could I slide it along the ground and flick in the mess with a stick? Dithering, I accidentally inhaled and immediately retched. This was horrifying. I would have to take Bob back to Angela’s; she’d have to go to the dog’s home. I would go back to checking the cupboards. Maybe I could save up for the alarm system. The bag fell from my shaking hands to the ground.

‘Want some help?’ He crouched down beside me, picking up the flimsy sack and putting it over his hand like a plastic puppet. He leant forward and deftly scooped up the excrement in one fluid movement, causing me to retch again. Tying a knot in the top, he presented it to me with a courtly flourish, like a little gift. I took it with the tips of my fingers, revolted and horribly embarrassed.