reasons why people have to give up their dogs – redundancy, family break-ups – but I wish they’d come straight to us.’
I’m aware that Sophie reacts to the mention of family break-ups, reminding me that she is still feeling the pain of ours.
‘We’ll be all right then,’ says Adam, cuddling the dog. ‘Our family’s already broken up and Mum can’t be made redundant because she’s just set up her own business, selling cakes.’
‘Oh, that’s great,’ says Wendy, turning to me. ‘About the cakes … not the break-up, of course. I wonder if you’d be willing to donate one of your cakes to our cake sale – Talyton Animal Rescue are raising funds to maintain our existing rescues, and buy land where we can build a centre to house all our animals. Our last one burned down.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘Just let me know when you need it.’
‘Poor thing, was he hurt?’ asks Georgia, returning to the subject of Lucky’s history.
‘He was lucky – hence his name. He had a few cuts and bruises, that’s all. And he brought a few fleas with him, which we’ve treated him for.’ Wendy smiles. ‘He isn’t much of a looker, but he has a kind nature.’
There’s no question of us not having Lucky now. I fill in the adoption form, pay the donation and Lucky is ours.
‘You’ll need to get his vaccinations updated and have him microchipped,’ Wendy says, and I’m thinking that that sounds expensive. ‘That’s the best way to choose a dog,’ she adds as we’re leaving. ‘Let him choose you.’
‘That’s what I said this morning, wasn’t it?’ says Georgia.
‘You’re always so predictably, insufferably right, little sister,’ says Adam, clutching the dog to his chest.
‘I want you to remember that he’s a dog,’ I tell Adam, ‘so he doesn’t sleep on chairs or on your bed. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Adam sighs and rolls his eyes.
In the car on the way home via Overdown Farmers, a store selling country items for country people, to pick up dog food, a collar and tag, special shampoo and all the other paraphernalia a dog needs, I notice how Adam, every now and then, when he thinks no one is looking, presses his lips lovingly to the top of the dog’s head.
‘What do you call that?’ Guy calls through the kitchen window as the dog goes berserk, barking and jumping up and down.
‘Lucky,’ says Adam, getting up from his chair. He’s been Googling how to bathe a dog on his computer at the kitchen table while I wash up the empty cake boxes and make cheese and ham sandwiches for a very late lunch.
Guy grins. ‘What I mean is, what is it?’
‘It’s my new dog,’ says Adam. ‘Come here, Lucky.’ But Lucky isn’t listening. He dashes off across the kitchen floor, claws skittering across the stone, and starts barking at the front door.
‘It looks more like some kind of rodent.’ Guy retreats. ‘I think I’ll use the back door.’
If you don’t mind, Jennie? I think wryly. I don’t recall inviting him in.
‘You’d better grab the dog, Adam,’ I say.
‘I’m going to take him upstairs and put him in the bath,’ he says, heading out of the room.
‘Our bath?’
‘Where else?’
‘Well, you could use a bucket in the garden or dunk him in the pond …’ I begin, but Adam’s gone and I can hear the tread of his feet on the stairs.
‘Is it safe to come in now?’ Guy looks over the bottom part of the stable door, a rolled-up paper under his arm.
‘I didn’t think someone like you would be worried about a little dog,’ I say, smiling.
‘Once bitten, twice shy. We had a collie on the farm when I was a kid. It pinned me to the ground and bit me through the lip.’ He touches his mouth. ‘There.’
‘Where?’ I say, moving closer and catching sight of a tiny silvery scar that I haven’t noticed before above his upper lip.
‘It put me off dogs, large ones and small,’ Guy says. ‘I’m sorry you had to dash off after milking,’ he
I’m aware that Sophie reacts to the mention of family break-ups, reminding me that she is still feeling the pain of ours.
‘We’ll be all right then,’ says Adam, cuddling the dog. ‘Our family’s already broken up and Mum can’t be made redundant because she’s just set up her own business, selling cakes.’
‘Oh, that’s great,’ says Wendy, turning to me. ‘About the cakes … not the break-up, of course. I wonder if you’d be willing to donate one of your cakes to our cake sale – Talyton Animal Rescue are raising funds to maintain our existing rescues, and buy land where we can build a centre to house all our animals. Our last one burned down.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘Just let me know when you need it.’
‘Poor thing, was he hurt?’ asks Georgia, returning to the subject of Lucky’s history.
‘He was lucky – hence his name. He had a few cuts and bruises, that’s all. And he brought a few fleas with him, which we’ve treated him for.’ Wendy smiles. ‘He isn’t much of a looker, but he has a kind nature.’
There’s no question of us not having Lucky now. I fill in the adoption form, pay the donation and Lucky is ours.
‘You’ll need to get his vaccinations updated and have him microchipped,’ Wendy says, and I’m thinking that that sounds expensive. ‘That’s the best way to choose a dog,’ she adds as we’re leaving. ‘Let him choose you.’
‘That’s what I said this morning, wasn’t it?’ says Georgia.
‘You’re always so predictably, insufferably right, little sister,’ says Adam, clutching the dog to his chest.
‘I want you to remember that he’s a dog,’ I tell Adam, ‘so he doesn’t sleep on chairs or on your bed. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Adam sighs and rolls his eyes.
In the car on the way home via Overdown Farmers, a store selling country items for country people, to pick up dog food, a collar and tag, special shampoo and all the other paraphernalia a dog needs, I notice how Adam, every now and then, when he thinks no one is looking, presses his lips lovingly to the top of the dog’s head.
‘What do you call that?’ Guy calls through the kitchen window as the dog goes berserk, barking and jumping up and down.
‘Lucky,’ says Adam, getting up from his chair. He’s been Googling how to bathe a dog on his computer at the kitchen table while I wash up the empty cake boxes and make cheese and ham sandwiches for a very late lunch.
Guy grins. ‘What I mean is, what is it?’
‘It’s my new dog,’ says Adam. ‘Come here, Lucky.’ But Lucky isn’t listening. He dashes off across the kitchen floor, claws skittering across the stone, and starts barking at the front door.
‘It looks more like some kind of rodent.’ Guy retreats. ‘I think I’ll use the back door.’
If you don’t mind, Jennie? I think wryly. I don’t recall inviting him in.
‘You’d better grab the dog, Adam,’ I say.
‘I’m going to take him upstairs and put him in the bath,’ he says, heading out of the room.
‘Our bath?’
‘Where else?’
‘Well, you could use a bucket in the garden or dunk him in the pond …’ I begin, but Adam’s gone and I can hear the tread of his feet on the stairs.
‘Is it safe to come in now?’ Guy looks over the bottom part of the stable door, a rolled-up paper under his arm.
‘I didn’t think someone like you would be worried about a little dog,’ I say, smiling.
‘Once bitten, twice shy. We had a collie on the farm when I was a kid. It pinned me to the ground and bit me through the lip.’ He touches his mouth. ‘There.’
‘Where?’ I say, moving closer and catching sight of a tiny silvery scar that I haven’t noticed before above his upper lip.
‘It put me off dogs, large ones and small,’ Guy says. ‘I’m sorry you had to dash off after milking,’ he
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