Page 86 of Pyg

“Don’t get your hopes up about that, Bernie. Let’s just be happy we’ve got our Pyg back.”

Bernard’s face fell, but seconds later, it lit up with a goofy grin. He ruffled his fingers in the dog’s greasy fur. “You’re so stinky, Pyg!”

“We’ll bathe her in the morning, but for now let’s get her some food. We can sneak her upstairs and I’ll explain everything to Ruth tomorrow.”

“What if she doesn’t let us keep her?”

“It’s not up to her,” I said with a confidence I wished I felt.

* * *

“And you’resure that your grandmother doesn’t mind a dog being in the house?” Ruth blinked at us through her thick glasses.

Bernard and I shook our heads in unison as if we’d rehearsed it.

“When we go to the hospital next time, I will check with her.” She sniffed. “And if you’re lying…”

“We’re not, Miss, promise,” blurted Bernard. I elbowed him in the ribs.

She narrowed her eyes. “Alright. Well, you better give it a bath. It smells putrid. And you can scrub the tub when you’re done. I don’t want to see a speck of dirt, you hear me?”

Ruth wasn’t wrong. The stench was the first thing that had struck me when I woke; musty and sour, like rotting garbage. I’d covered my nose and breathed into my blanket with a smile stretching across my face as Pyg’s tail thudded on the floorboards, where she’d slept.

“She must’ve been sleeping in the same bins she was eating out of,” said Bernard, screwing up his face.

We led Pyg into the washroom and filled the tub with cold water. I didn’t dare ask for some to be heated on the stove; that request was only grudgingly upheld for our own bath time. Pyg didn’t seem to mind. She jumped into the tub with a splash, panting as her eyes shone with excitement.

The harsh antiseptic smell of the red carbolic soap cut through Pyg’s stench as we lathered it up and massaged it through her thick fur. We rinsed her until the water ran clear and our laughter erupted when Pyg shook, spraying everything and soaking us.

“That doesn’t sound very much like washing the dog,” Ruth called through the door.

We giggled again, and Pyg wagged her tail, flicking water with every swish.

I ruffled an old towel over her, but although clean, her fur was badly matted.

Bernard disappeared, returning minutes later.

“I got this from Grandmother’s room. Do you think she’ll mind?” He produced a hairbrush from behind his back and I whooped a laugh.

“She’ll kill you if she finds out. But I’m not gonna tell.”

Bernard brushed out Pyg’s mats as best he could whilst I cleaned up. When we left the washroom, we were shivering in our damp clothes, so I offered to light the fire, which thankfully Ruth agreed was a good idea.

Not wanting to take our eyes or hands off Pyg for a moment, we sat beside her on the hearthrug. She curled into a tight ball between us and slept, drying in the warm glow of the fire.

The church had gifted us a stuffed goose, which Ruth roasted, and the house filled with a mouth-watering aroma. Come dinnertime we were famished, and after a drawn-out grace, during which our stomachs rumbled louder than Ruth’s chants, we stuffed ourselves as much as the goose, filling up on roast potatoes, carrots and parsnips, and feeding the pink tender goose meat under the table to Pyg when Ruth wasn’t looking.

“St. Mary’s sent us another treat, boys?—”

The shrill tone of the telephone in the hallway cut into Ruth’s sentence, leaving us hanging as she flitted off to answer it. Bernard shot me a wide-eyed look, and for a moment I allowed my own hopes to rise too.Could it be?

Ruth turned her back and spoke into the receiver. Mirroring Bernard, I tilted on my chair and listened in, my hopes dashed with every overheard word and soon replaced with a sickening swirl that wasn’t agreeing with the rich dinner.

“Yes, speaking…

Right, I see…

Oh, goodness, how awful…

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