‘It does seem very fortuitous,’ Spectacles agreed. She placed her glasses on her face so she could peer at the card pinned to the empty kennel. ‘Ahh. I knew it was too good to be true. Blossom’s not very keen on men.’
Will was no stranger to rejection, but he didn’t think he’d ever been rejected quite so swiftly before.
‘I can’t help being a man,’ Will said in his defence, and Margs smiled at him weakly, like he could at least have tried not to be a man.
Meanwhile Dreadlocks and Spectacles were in a huddle. ‘It’s worth a try,’ Will heard one of them say. ‘She was all right with Randeep, once she’d got warmed up. Shall I go and get the treats?’
Dreadlocks emerged from the scrum and headed back the way they’d come. Will wished that he could go with her. He could; he was a fully functional grown-up. But then Dreadlocks turned round. ‘I’ll get the posh treats. The duck ones,’ she called out, hope ringing through every syllable. ‘She really likes those.’
While all this emotional blackmail, manipulation and strong-arming had been going on, Will hadn’t paid much attention to the dog at all, but when he looked at her now, she cowered from him, burrowing between the legs of her intended owner and the kennel staff to get away.
It was another punch right in his gut. He knew he had had problems establishing an emotional rapport with people. But Will wasn’t unkind. He wasn’t mean. He wasn’t nasty. He wasn’t violent. He didn’t possess any of those base qualities, which would make someone, this dog, shake with fear.
‘I don’t want to traumatise her,’ Will said.
‘I won’t let you traumatise her,’ Spectacles said resolutely and then Dreadlocks came back with a small metal bowl, which she handed to Will. It contained some shrivelled up meaty things, which smelled vile.
‘Freeze-dried duck giblets,’ he was told cheerfully. Obviously being a dog owner wasn’t for the faint-hearted . . . or vegans. ‘Now, take one, squat down and hold out your hand but keep your head averted.’
Will did as he was told. This was not how he’d imagined his visit would pan out. So low on the floor that he was practically on his belly, a freeze-dried duck heart in his palm as he kept his eyes trained on a spot on the floor where the corner of one tile had cracked.
‘Come on, Blossom,’ Dreadlocks said in a gentle voice as she moved nearer to Will and encouraged the dog to do the same. ‘Come on, good girl.’
Ten minutes later, Will was lying flat on the floor, his head at an awkward angle so as not to make eye contact. It was one of the most excruciating experiences of his recent memory. To have to put himself on display to four complete strangers, so they could witness his rejection, his humiliation, his abject failure to make this dog trust him. It was like a metaphor for his entire life.
But then, unbelievably, the dog crept close enough to Will that she could take the treat. Will thought she’d snatch it out of his palm, probably take the skin off with it, but instead she picked it up almost daintily and so swiftly that it didn’t even touch the sides as she gulped it down. Then she shuffled back but shuffled forward again quite quickly when another duck internal organ was placed in Will’s hand.
On the third go, the dog obviously decided that she was on to a good thing because instead of shuffling back, she decided to sit down in front of Will. ‘Just hold out your hand, with your fingers curled, and let her sniff you,’ he was ordered, and didn’t dare refuse.
His muscles were now screaming in protest, but Will forced himself to stay horizontal. His eyes flickered up to where Margs was gazing down at the dog, her expression intent, her bottom lip caught between her teeth until Blossom sniffed his hand. As the dog’s nostrils twitched, Margs relaxed, and when the dog let Will ever so carefully brush her cheek with one knuckle, she sighed. And when the dog lifted a paw and brought it down heavily on Will’s shoulder, she laughed.
‘I think she’s trying to tell you that she wants another treat, aren’t you, Blossom?’
Will was happy to oblige. Also happy to crouch rather than lay on the floor and feed the dog more treats. She even made eye contact with him and, for one fleeting moment, let Will caress the underside of her chin with one careful finger. Will looked into those wary brown eyes and acknowledged the pain and the sorrow that the dog had gone through in her past life. I see you, he wanted to say. I’ve been there too. It will get better, I promise. Blossom’s long pink tongue sneaked out of her mouth to lick Will’s finger and then she backed away to the safe refuge of the women who’d been watching this small, quiet exchange with their heads tilted, breath bated.
It had taken no more than ten seconds, but those ten seconds had warmed Will’s frozen heart. He’d got what he’d come here for; an emotional connection with another living being, and yet he was in no hurry to leave.
They always said that dogs were good judges of character and now Will felt validated. Looking after Blossom for a week, helping her with the transition from trauma to a happy, new life, rather than being a chore, a huge commitment, might actually be rewarding for Will. Make him think about someone other than himself. He’d never thought as much about himself as he had done during this past year in therapy and it was exhausting.
‘That went much better than I expected,’ Spectacles said with satisfaction. ‘A week ago, she was peeing in fear whenever a man approached her.’
Then again, the bar was set pretty low, but this wasn’t about Will and his feelings. It was about Blossom. No one should go through life feeling frightened, whether they were human, canine and everything in between.
‘So, when would be a good time for this home check?’ he queried, because apparently yes, he was going to foster a scared Staffordshire Bull Terrier for the next week.
‘Let’s go through to the office and get your details,’ Spectacles said, but before Will could move, Margs put her hand on his arm. She had capable hands, like they got the job done, her nails painted a chalky, pastel blue.
‘I’m Margot,’ she said, with another one of those sunny Sunday smiles. ‘Never Marge. Margot.’
‘Although you love it when people call you Margs,’ her friend pointed out with a nudge.
‘I merely tolerate it.’
‘Will,’ he said, and now they shook hands. Their eyes met and stayed met until Will dropped his gaze.
‘Thank you! Thank you so much for agreeing to do this,’ Margot said with all the fervour of a woman who believed in positive energy.
‘I might not pass the home check.’ Though Will could tell that short of living in a rat-infested hovel, which he didn’t, he was going to be responsible for keeping Blossom alive for the next week. Panic shot through him like a sudden fever.
‘We should swap numbers,’ Margot said, pulling her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, unaware that Will was silently and comprehensively having a crisis of confidence. ‘I expect hourly updates with picture attachments.’
Even in the depths of his crisis, Will could tell that she wasn’t joking.
Later that evening Blossom arrived at his flat. She still reeked of eau de kennel and came with half a bag of dog food and the cheery instruction that ‘she has a shy bladder. She might hold in her wee for the next couple of days’.