Page 53 of The Good Boy

Aida lets her collie, Pip, off the lead, who races toward where Rory and a half dozen other dogs are rolling and wrestling, chasing one another. It’s good to see Rory laughing and smiling as he plays with his friends. For the first time since this whole thing happened he looks truly relaxed and like his doggy self again. More or less.

“Listen, mate, they left the bin open. What else were you going to do?” I hear him say as he jogs past, before throwing a ball which everyone chases after, including him.

“He’s a dog psychiatrist,” Sally says. “Not into girls.”

“How does he feel about women?” Aida says.

“Oh god, what’s all this show?” Pete Strange, the big-I-am dog-trainer in town, joins our group, hands on hips as he surveys the chaotic scene of romping man and dogs. His two beautiful German shepherds sit perfectly still, one on either side of him, waiting to be given permission to leave his side.

“My new lodger,” I say.

“Dog psychologist,” Sally says.

“Fancies fellers,” Aida adds.

“You know what, I could have worked all that out without any of you saying a word,” Pete says, squaring his shoulders. “That’s the trouble with the so-called dog owners of today. They forget that dogs aren’t pets.”

“Um, they sort of are?” I query, but Pete ignores me.

“They are wolves, descended from wolves. Apex predators with a killer instinct that could emerge at any moment. They need to be dominated, controlled, trained to obey every command. Psychology? It’s all about letting them know who’s the alpha.” Pete puffs out his chest. “Treating your dog like a ‘fur baby’—” He grimaces with disgust at the hated phrase. “It’s like having a deadly weapon and calling it Fluffy.”

“The only thing deadly about my Pip is his farts.” Aida chuckles.

“You laugh,” Pete says, “but if push came to shove any one of those dogs would eat your rotting corpse.”

Somehow Pete makes Miles feel safe to wander over toward us again.

“I hope not,” Sally says. “Rusty’s a vegan.”

“Hey, guys.” Rory trots up to us, his face flushed and beaming with pleasure. “Come and say hi to the guys! They’ve got a lot they want to say to you. Oh, hi, Sheba, Darth—it’s me!”

Sheba gives a high-pitched yelp.

“I know, itismental,” Rory says.

“Hi to the guys?” Pete shakes his head in disgust. “These are animals, my friend. You don’t say hi to them. You command them.”

“Talking of animals,” Aida says, “where’s your lovely boy today, Genie? I’ve just realized he’s not in the scrum. Odd to see you here without your dog.”

“I’m at the vet’s,” Rory says quickly. “By which I mean the dog is at the vet’s. I took him. Though I am not there myself. Right now. Phew.”

“Can you let Sheba and Darth off so they can come and play, please?” Rory asks Pete, who has already jerked Sheba back into heel.

“I’ll let them off when I’m ready,” Pete says. “The dogs follow me, not the other way round. Now, you run along, sunshine—go and do your soppy, touchy-feely, woke nonsense.”

I swear I just saw Sheba roll her eyes.

“Hey, Sheba,” Rory says, wiggling all five digits at the dog, “watch this!”

Within a matter of seconds Rory has unhooked both dogs from their leads and is racing away, calling for them to follow. Sheba looks up at Pete for permission.

“You stay right there,” Pete warns her.

“Oh, sod this,” I say. “Come on, Sheba, down with the patriarchy.”

As I race into the thick of the dog park Sheba is at my heels, and not far behind Darth follows, pouncing and bounding in the grass more like a lamb than an attack dog. Miles runs beside him, cheering Darth on. I know this is terrible behavior but right now I could not love him more. As we race toward the horizon Pete stands next to Aida and Sally, shouting in fury.

Aida is pissing herself.

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