greyhound on the rug in front of the fireplace, a row of four terrier types sitting up, watching us from the sofa, a Labrador, I think, and another large brown dog of indeterminate breed, perched on the two armchairs. There are throws draped over the furniture and various rubber toys and bones scattered across the threadbare carpet.
‘Take a pew,’ Wendy says. Then, smiling, ‘If you can find one. Off, dogs. Off!’ She flaps her arms, sending a couple of them jumping down and trotting over to investigate us. She picks up one terrier under each arm and plonks them on the floor. One makes to jump back up. ‘No, Scruffy,’ she booms.
Sophie’s eyes widen with new-found respect.
‘You have to let them know who’s boss,’ Wendy says more gently. ‘I’m sorry, they do rather take over. Now, sit,’ she adds. ‘Sit,’ she repeats, and suddenly I realise she’s talking to us. ‘If you don’t sit down quick, you’ll lose your places.’
I sit down on the sofa. Georgia leans against the armand Sophie perches on my lap. Adam takes one of the chairs, Wendy the other.
‘Right, I have to ask you a few questions first, then I’ll introduce you to the dogs that might suit. We take great care to match our dogs with the right people.’
It’s how I imagine being cross-examined in court would be, I muse as Wendy asks about our home life, our family routines, even our holiday arrangements. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want us to have one of her dogs at all. ‘Our dogs have already been through hard times,’ she explains when she notices me wilting under the pressure. ‘We want them going to permanent, loving homes.’
She decides that she has three being fostered with her who might fit the bill.
‘Donald,’ she calls, and the large brown dog hauls himself up from where he’s taken himself off into the corner of the room. He pads across to Wendy, ignoring us. He fixes his eyes on her and stands with his mouth open, tongue lolling out. Long strings of drool start to drip from his mouth.
‘He’s lovely,’ says Georgia. ‘He’s just like Scooby Doo.’
‘Is he friendly?’ asks Adam.
‘He’s rather shy,’ says Wendy.
‘He’s too big and I wouldn’t like all that dribble around the house,’ I say, and Wendy looks offended, as if I’ve criticised one of her children. ‘I’m sure he’s a very nice dog,’ I go on. ‘But I was thinking of something smaller.’
Wendy proceeds to show us the Labrador who’s five and quite staid. The girls like her, but Adam is noncommittal.
‘I want to take them all,’ says Georgia. ‘I can’t choose – it’s too hard.’
‘That’s just how I feel,’ says Wendy. ‘Now, I have one left to show you. I’ll go and get him – he’s gone and got himself locked out in the garden again.’ She returns with a dog about the size of a Jack Russell in her arms. Dark eyes peer out through a fringe of grizzled grey and then the stringy tail starts wagging. ‘Meet Lucky,’ Wendy says, placing him on the floor.
For some reason, Lucky makes a beeline for Adam, jumps up on to his lap, stretches up, tail still wagging and licks Adam’s face.
‘Hi, Lucky,’ he says, beaming, and my heart melts.
‘What’s his story?’ I ask.
‘We know very little about him. We guess he’s about three years old and he’s been castrated.’
‘What’s that?’ says Sophie.
‘He’s had his nuts off,’ Adam says casually, ‘so he can’t be a dad.’
‘I’ll explain later,’ I tell Sophie as Wendy goes on, ‘He likes children – we’ve found out that much, but the rest of his history is unknown. He came in a couple of months ago – the police picked him up from the hard shoulder of the motorway. A driver reported seeing a dog being thrown out of a van.’
‘Why would someone do that?’ I say, appalled.
‘People do the most awful things.’ I notice Wendy’s eyes briefly shimmering with tears before she recovers her composure. ‘I can understand the
‘Take a pew,’ Wendy says. Then, smiling, ‘If you can find one. Off, dogs. Off!’ She flaps her arms, sending a couple of them jumping down and trotting over to investigate us. She picks up one terrier under each arm and plonks them on the floor. One makes to jump back up. ‘No, Scruffy,’ she booms.
Sophie’s eyes widen with new-found respect.
‘You have to let them know who’s boss,’ Wendy says more gently. ‘I’m sorry, they do rather take over. Now, sit,’ she adds. ‘Sit,’ she repeats, and suddenly I realise she’s talking to us. ‘If you don’t sit down quick, you’ll lose your places.’
I sit down on the sofa. Georgia leans against the armand Sophie perches on my lap. Adam takes one of the chairs, Wendy the other.
‘Right, I have to ask you a few questions first, then I’ll introduce you to the dogs that might suit. We take great care to match our dogs with the right people.’
It’s how I imagine being cross-examined in court would be, I muse as Wendy asks about our home life, our family routines, even our holiday arrangements. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want us to have one of her dogs at all. ‘Our dogs have already been through hard times,’ she explains when she notices me wilting under the pressure. ‘We want them going to permanent, loving homes.’
She decides that she has three being fostered with her who might fit the bill.
‘Donald,’ she calls, and the large brown dog hauls himself up from where he’s taken himself off into the corner of the room. He pads across to Wendy, ignoring us. He fixes his eyes on her and stands with his mouth open, tongue lolling out. Long strings of drool start to drip from his mouth.
‘He’s lovely,’ says Georgia. ‘He’s just like Scooby Doo.’
‘Is he friendly?’ asks Adam.
‘He’s rather shy,’ says Wendy.
‘He’s too big and I wouldn’t like all that dribble around the house,’ I say, and Wendy looks offended, as if I’ve criticised one of her children. ‘I’m sure he’s a very nice dog,’ I go on. ‘But I was thinking of something smaller.’
Wendy proceeds to show us the Labrador who’s five and quite staid. The girls like her, but Adam is noncommittal.
‘I want to take them all,’ says Georgia. ‘I can’t choose – it’s too hard.’
‘That’s just how I feel,’ says Wendy. ‘Now, I have one left to show you. I’ll go and get him – he’s gone and got himself locked out in the garden again.’ She returns with a dog about the size of a Jack Russell in her arms. Dark eyes peer out through a fringe of grizzled grey and then the stringy tail starts wagging. ‘Meet Lucky,’ Wendy says, placing him on the floor.
For some reason, Lucky makes a beeline for Adam, jumps up on to his lap, stretches up, tail still wagging and licks Adam’s face.
‘Hi, Lucky,’ he says, beaming, and my heart melts.
‘What’s his story?’ I ask.
‘We know very little about him. We guess he’s about three years old and he’s been castrated.’
‘What’s that?’ says Sophie.
‘He’s had his nuts off,’ Adam says casually, ‘so he can’t be a dad.’
‘I’ll explain later,’ I tell Sophie as Wendy goes on, ‘He likes children – we’ve found out that much, but the rest of his history is unknown. He came in a couple of months ago – the police picked him up from the hard shoulder of the motorway. A driver reported seeing a dog being thrown out of a van.’
‘Why would someone do that?’ I say, appalled.
‘People do the most awful things.’ I notice Wendy’s eyes briefly shimmering with tears before she recovers her composure. ‘I can understand the
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