Page 12 of Short Stack 3

Following the winding paths, I find myself outside a low-slung building painted in rainbow colours. I open the door and walk into a cacophony. Barking and excited whines fill the warm air, and I stand to the side as a couple walks past me, towing a rather excited poodle.

“Sorry,” the woman gasps. “He’s a bit excited.”

He’s a bit barmy, I think, looking at his rolling eyes but refraining from saying it out loud. Instead, I smile politely and hold the door open. The lady with them is wearing an overall embroidered with the name of the dog shelter. She smiles at me. “Oh, are you looking? I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Looking for what?” I ask, but she’s already hurrying up the path.

Shrugging, I take a right through a heavy door and find myself in a corridor that’s edged with big glass enclosures. The silence is stunning after the noise in the foyer, and I wander along, passing mostly empty cages. It’s like a canine Marie Celeste. Somewhere ahead of me, a radio is playing, and I can hear somebody whistling.

I pass a window and discover where the cage’s occupants have disappeared to. They’re all outside on a patch of snowy grass, and the shelter’s staff play with them enthusiastically.

I’ve just turned back, intending to find Mags, when a slight noise stops me in my tracks. In a nearby enclosure, I find someone who obviously wasn’t feeling the fun outside. I’d missed him earlier because he was tucked in his basket in a corner.

“Hello, mate,” I say softly, something making me crouch and look through the glass at him. He has a blue fleece blanket cuddled close, and his big, light brown eyes watch me cautiously. He’s obviously a few months old and some sort of mixed breed. His coat is grey with patches of white on his chest, and he has a long nose like an anteater. His whiskered face is solemn, and he’s shivering violently.

My heart clenches. “Poor boy,” I say quietly. “I wonder how you got here.”

“He was found on the side of the motorway,” a voice says from behind me. “He’s lucky to be alive.”

I straighten and turn to look at the man standing there. He has long blond hair, warm brown eyes, and a slim, rangy body. He’s gorgeous, although not as beautiful as my husband. He looks vaguely familiar, and I wonder if I’ve met him through Dylan at some point. He’s wearing a T-shirt advertising the shelter and carrying a broom, so he obviously works here.

“That’s bloody terrible,” I offer.

He nods, his expression sad. “There are a lot of horrible people around,” he says earnestly. “You should have to get a licence to own a dog. It’s a privilege, and you should pay for it, and anyone who mistreats them should go to prison.”

“You’re not wrong. I often think the world would be better if dogs ran it. They’d be a lot better behaved than the politicians.”

His whole face lights up, making me blink. “You’re so right. So, do you want to meet him?”

“Who?”

He gestures at the enclosure. “The little chap behind you. He’s a Bedlington whippet.”

“Bless you.”

He chuckles. “It’s a cross between a Bedlington terrier and a whippet. They make lovely pets.”

“Oh. Oh no, I’m not looking for a dog. I’m just waiting for a friend.”

“You’re not looking, but he is, and I think he’s chosen,” he says solemnly.

I spin around. The dog is now standing by the glass, looking at me with big, trusting eyes. “Ohshit,” I whisper.

“I really think the dog chooses the person, you know,” the man says chattily, tapping the monitor. A door swings open, and he eases his long body into the enclosure, talking gently to the dog, who watches him but doesn’t move from where he’s standing.

“Shit,” I whisper again. I open my mouth to tell him I’m not looking for a dog, but instead, I look down into the dog’s trusting eyes, and I find myself walking through the enclosure’s door. Instantly, the dog takes a few steps towards me and then stops.

I crouch and hold out my hand. “Hello,” I say gently.

He watches me somewhat dubiously, and then I inhale as, in two strides, he’s with me, perching his two front paws on my knees and looking at me in an assessing way.

“There you are,” the man says. “He’s chosen you.” I look at him, and he shrugs, giving me a deprecating smile. “What can you do?”

“Is this some sort of new diabolical selling tactic?” I ask.

He laughs. The sound is as beautiful as the rest of him. “Nah, mate. I just know destiny when I see it.”

“But I’m not looking for a dog,” I say despairingly. “I already have one.”

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