Page 26 of The Good Boy

I don’t normally drink that much anymore, except for birthdays and impossible dog-to-human transformations. Not since I was a kid myself and could shrug off a hangover like it was nothing. She wasn’t around long, that wild, carefree version of me who didn’t mind being noticed. I think about her sometimes. As if she still exists in a parallel universe somewhere, living my best life.

But I woke up thinking about Miles’s list and how I have always done pretty much the opposite of everything on it. It’s almost like I know how to be happy and just decide not to be. Something about everything that’s happened in the last couple of days has got me wondering, Why? Why in a universe where dogs sometimes turn into men have I just given up hoping for a happy ending?

Back then I needed to protect myself from hurt and love, and so I did. Except when it comes to dogs. But is it possible that maybe, just maybe, that time is over? It’s too scary to think about. Besides, I have a huge man-dog who doesn’t understand the concept of dwelling and wants his breakfast.

“Rory, it’s Sunday,” I groan at him, opening my bedroom door, which he has been knocking on quietly but consistently for thelast fifteen minutes. “We don’t have to get up this early on a Sunday.”

“Well, you say that, Genie, but I am pretty hungry and I think if you don’t feed me soon there is a pretty good chance I could die,” he tells me sincerely. “Also, my head hurts and I did an orange poop and I think that could be a sign I need bacon.”

“But I showed you how to use the toaster,” I grumble.

“Yes, you did,” he says. “We’ve run out of toast.”

“Right, if I make you bacon and eggs, will you let me go back to bed for a couple of hours?”

Rory ventures into the room and peers at me, his face very close to mine. He looks confused.

“But the sun is out, Genie. I bet the sea looks like Princess Dolly Daydream’s collar, all sparkly and pretty, and I think the tide is out right now so the sand will be all firm and a bit wet and perfect for racing on.”

“Hmm, well,” I mutter, hauling myself out of bed and shuffling into the kitchen. “Maybe later. Right now I need sleep.”

“But what if you die when you are asleep and never get to race on the firm wet sand under a blue sky and next to the sparkling sea again?” Rory asks as he follows me. “It could happen. Jeff from the park went to sleep one day and never woke up.”

“Jeff was a bulldog and he was fourteen,” I say. “He was like, old—really old.”

“But you’re really old,” Rory points out.

“I’m willing to risk it.”

I do feel a bit bad when I slink back into bed, leaving Rory sitting on the sofa looking out the front window into our narrow little street, where the nearest thing to action is a lost blackbird stopping by to get its bearings. On the other hand I need to be in full possession of my brain to face today’s activity. So I take paracetamol, set the alarm clock for eleven, and pull my duvet over my head.

Approximately twelve minutes later I am up, dressed, and ready to go to Whitby. It seems human Rory is much better at making his feelings known than dog Rory. By singing. Outside my door. Over and over again. In imaginary Korean.

“Are you ready, Miles?” Rory calls through Miles’s letter box when Miles neglects to open his door five seconds after I ring the bell. “Are you ready? Shut the cat in a box and hurry up!”

“Rory,” I say, “calm down.”

“I feel all wriggly and full of energy,” he says. “When I was a dog you would have taken me out for a walk ages ago, but just because I am human now you neglect me. I would call the RSPCA if it wouldn’t be so awkward.”

“We aren’t quite there yet,” I assure him. “And yes, any other Sunday I would have taken you down to the park ages ago, but today I just wasn’t quite up to it. “

“And I’m not even going for a walk now,” Rory complains. “Instead it’s more cars, more talking, more unresolved sexual tension.”

“What?” I guffaw in his face. “What did I miss in the club?”

“Nothing! I mean you and Miles!” Rory says, as if he is declaring the most obvious thing to happen in the history of creation.

“You are way off on this one, mate,” I tell him. “Miles and I are friends, that’s it. That’s how it has always been, and how it will always be.”

“That is because you only think with your mind,” Rory says, pityingly. “I think with my nose, and I know when I smell attraction. It is in the air. It’s been in the air so long, it’s going a bit stale, to be honest.”

“Shut up,” I tell him firmly just as Miles opens the door. “Youthink anything smells great—literally anything. Don’t forget you once rolled in a dead hedgehog.”

“May he rest in peace.” Rory nods. “And?”

“Sorry for the delay,” Miles says. “I had to unhook Matilda from my arm.”

“Ow,” I say, looking at the scratches on his arm, “What did you do to piss her off?”

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