On his haunches outside the toilet, whimpering. Of course his mistress would return. But what if she stayed there for ever, studying the face she saw reflected in the tiny pool fixed on the wall above the sink?
Anxious? Indeed. He hadn’t forgotten his first eight years, had he? Living in a shed, Mr Phillips cursorily leaving him food, then ignoring him. Occasionally the house dogs, big as buses, would come out and get angry with him. ‘Outsider!’ they would snarl. ‘Stay out of our house. Not welcome!’ One of them, an Alsatian called Farage, the head on him the size of his shed, bit him once him on top of his skull. Mr Phillips had put a bit of rag over the cut, muttering, ‘Now what’ve you been up to? Flipping nuisance!’
He’d assumed Nuisance was his name – nuisance this, nuisance that – until his mistress had appeared. A thin woman, aromatic scent, colourful clothing different to Mr Phillips’ muddy scruffwear, she’d bent down and whispered, ‘Who’s a lovely boy then? We like you, Scottie, oh-we-do. I’ll take him, Mr Phillips. Now. Where’s his lead?’ Very firm she’d been with Mr Phillips, and he’d been astonished to see the morose man so compliant.
Was she still in the small room? What did she do in there? Oh he was very worried. If he never saw her again, what would happen? Back to the shed?
He loved his mistress’ flat, his kingdom. He played outside sometimes on the grassy bank by her front door. He shared a bed with her, electric blanket on in the winter, and loved it when she rolled over on top of him in her sleep. The pleasure of her long hairless body against his short terrier frame.
Each morning the same snuffling with pleasure routine: out for the paper, a poo on the green by the shops, back for breakfast, hers and his. Then she sat on the sofa doing the crossword. He was next to her, his head on the arm of the seat, one eye open, patrolling the big window which looked out on a busy road. He knew all his enemies, and when their owners walked by, growled or barked at them, and occasionally – he really couldn’t help himself – went apocalyptically dog-bonkers. Memories of that alsatian’s fangs: that was the reason.
Occasionally, there were bad mornings when she’d say, ‘I’ve got to go to the supermarket. You stay here and guard the house. Good boy.’ As the car’s ignition started up, he began to howl. His inner wolf echoed along the block of flats, calling to all the other wolves on the estate. He couldn’t help himself. Abandoned again! On her return, his joyful tail rotated like a helicopter blade.
The door was opening! There she was! ‘Who’s my brave boy, guarding me while I clean my teeth? Come on. Walkies.’ A chance to chase pigeons on the long lead and roll in fox poo? Oh, yes! Farewell shed-fear, hello gay abandon!
