Fiction: Canine Capers

As the taxi sputters away, Rosie totters on her high heels across the road to a wooden bench under a big beech tree. She sits gingerly on the edge of the wet bench, using her glossy magazine as a thin, makeshift cushion. Gazing around the sodden village, she watches and waits, the drizzle matting her hair against her face.

Could it be this simple? she wonders. To finally find the truth. The years of searching, the hopes, the letdowns, and even the smelly old taxi from the station would all be worth it. But what if it wasn’t what she expected? That might be worse.

Rosie looks again at the address on her mobile phone. That’s the pub, alright. It looks dark, but I guess it’ll be opening time soon. What an old-fashioned place this is with pubs closing during the day.

The gusting wind suddenly picks up, whistling through telephone wires. Funny how she had loved that eerie sound as a child – before it all went wrong. The tree suddenly shakes cold raindrops onto her pink, fluffy jacket. Shuddering, Rosie pulls the coat closer around herself and her companion. He burrows deeper into her warmth, his black fur still fluffy from the salon. His little woof touches her heart.

A random raindrop plops onto Rosie’s purple ankle boots. A hiss escapes her crimson-lipped mouth as she examines the wet blob and notices a ragged cut on one heel; the dog stirs at the sound, brown eyes wary. She murmurs soft, baby sounds to it, and it relaxes back into her body.

To her left, the lights of the village pub brighten through the encroaching twilight. Must be opening time. Gathering herself, Rosie totters up on her four-inch heels and puts the dog on the ground. She encourages him to walk alongside her, and starts walking, in an awkward fashion (these potholes!), towards the pub.

She notices smoke from the pub’s chimney. God, it must be old to have a proper fire. She walks as fast as she can in the boots. What was she thinking, wearing these things? Mind you, she didn’t know when she started out this morning that she’d end up here. It was only that text that finally gave her this direction. At least it’ll be warm in there.

From the other end of the road, Dora is rushing in the twilight, pulling a large dog on a ragged rope lead.

“C’mon muttface, ain’t you hungry, too? The best pie will be long gone at this rate!”

The dog increases to a loping stride alongside her, tongue lolling out of its wet mouth. A purple and pink bandana tied loosely around its neck relieves its shaggy brown fur. It echoes the colours of the woman’s knitted beret, pulled down over her long hair, turned lank in the drizzling rain.

Dora’s baggy black cardigan is also dotted with rain, and the black jeans are wet at the hem. Her feet are announced with crimson red sneakers.

The growing puddles on the rain-spotted road reflect the two women’s approaching passage. The wind-chased leaves tumble faster down the village street. Raindrops glint on the pavement, eerie flashes in the gloom.

Rosie focuses on the pub lights and walks as quickly as she can on the uneven ground. Suddenly, she sees a blue ball rolling along the gutter. Followed by a giant brown dog. A tattered rope flaps behind it.

“Oi! Idiot dog, leave it alone!” Dora’s low, smoke-ravaged voice is almost lost in the rising wind.

The dog turns, the ball firmly grasped in his laughing mouth, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He lopes back to her, stops in front of her and stands patiently, waiting. Dora bends down to pick up the wet rope; her cardigan gapes open, and a crumpled photograph flutters from a slumpy pocket. A gusting wind snatches it up and flings it along the road. Dora reaches for it, but the wind snatches it from her hand.

Dora’s photograph tumbles along the wet road, and she sees a little black dog scampering after it. A young woman in purple ankle boots totters in its wake, calling out against the wind.

“Hey, Pumpkin Pie, leave that alone!” Rosie’s clear voice carries across from the other side of the road. “Come back, sweetie pie, come to Mummy, there’s a good girl.”

The ‘good girl’ ignores her, snatching at the damp paper in her mouth until she finally manages to get hold of it. She trots back to her mistress, fluffy tail wagging furiously.

Rosie totters to a halt and bends toward the dog, hand outstretched for the photograph. “That’s a good girl. Bring it to Mummy. There. No, don’t chew it!”

She scoops up the wriggling dog and pulls the raggedy photo from its mouth. “That’s better,” Rosie croons. “Good Mummy’s girl, Pumpkin Pie.”

Dropping a kiss on the dog’s soft head, Rosie looks around to see an older woman watching her from the other side of the road. Along with an equally watchful, raggedy dog.

She gives her a brief wave and calls out: “Sorry about that. It’s OK. Pumpkin Pie has a very soft mouth. Hang on, I’ll come over to you.”

Wary of stumbling again, Rosie steps across the road towards Dora. As she gets nearer, she sees how ragged the older woman looks. That photo was probably the only thing she had in the world, apart from that bloody big hound. Rosie looks sideways at the tall, hairy mutt who’s now watching her with curiosity in its brown eyes.

“Er, he’s safe, right?” She hesitates. “Just that he’s so big..”

“Oh, him? He’s a big softy, aren’t you, Rex?” Dora pats the hound’s hairy head, earning a wag of the long tail.

“OK, then.”

Rosie decides that while Rex might be a ‘big softy’, she’s taking no chances. She tightens her hold on Pumpkin Pie and ventures closer.

“Here you go,” Rosie says, stretching to pass the photo to the other woman. She glances idly at it as she does so.

Dora grabs the photograph out of Rosie’s leather-clad hand. “Thanks. That’s precious, that is,” she says. “Glad your little tyke didn’t chew it – mind you, not big teeth on that one, not like my Rex.” She pats the dog’s head again. “Thanks again, love.”

Dora turns towards the pub, anticipating her now-late supper.

Rosie nods absently. “Sure, you’re welcome.”

As Dora reaches and opens the pub door, Rosie catches a glimpse of fire-lit warmth, local accents raised in talk, and glasses clinking. Then the door closes, and Rosie is left outside in the darkness and the rain.

Oh, this is silly. What are we doing here anyway, Pumpkin Pie? I don’t know about going to that pub anymore. They’ve probably all got great big dogs and dress like ancient crones. Anyway, she won’t be there. Not in that kind of place.

She should get back home. Or what passes for a home in the city. It was remote, anyway. How often have those worked out for her? Never, that’s how many.

Rosie snuffles into PP’s hair again, comforted by the animal’s warmth and love. She can feel the dog shivering.

“Oh, little one! You’re cold, aren’t you?” she says. “What a cruel Mummy I am. C’mon, Pumpkin. Last chance saloon and all that.”

Rosie turns again towards the pub. Inside, it’s smoky and dim, but she notices the warmth from the fire. And nobody is staring at her.

She goes up to the long wooden bar. This place really is old.

“What kind of ciders do you have?” she asks the lone barman.

“What types?” The barman laughs, mocking her gently. “There’s just the one, my love. Local, mind you. Tastes just like summer, it does. Just right for this cold day.”

He reaches towards the wooden pump. She looks at the label. Old Rosie Cider – huh! She often wonders about her old fashioned name. Guess it makes sense it’s local to here.

Taking the filled glass, she tentatively sips the golden liquid. Surprised, she says, “Yes, that is good. Thank you.”

Rosie looks around for a table to sit at and notices the dog. It’s that hound again. Still with that curious look, it watches her. Then the woman looks up.

“Oh, it’s you again, love. Lost are you? I wondered if you’d come in. There’s a seat by me if you want.”

Rosie can’t figure out how to say no, so she smiles and goes over. Rex sniffs at Pumpkin Pie, who wriggles in Rosie’s arms. Flustered, trying to juggle a full glass, a squirming dog and her purse, Rosie manages to put the glass on the table before dropping her bag and the dog.

“Oh, fine! Go on then, get yourself all dirty.”

Pumpkin Pie squirms in delight as she snuggles into Rex. He looks bemused at the perfumed creature below him before slowly lying down and accepting the fuss.

Rosie stoops to pick up her purse and gather its contents, including a small brass photo frame. She glances at the two people in the photo, takes a big gulp of cider, and then finally looks at Dora.

“Sorry, it’s been that kind of day, month, year.”

Horrified, she can feel tears coming.

“There, love, it’s OK. At least you’ve got your little dog. And some family by the look of that photo.”

Dora nods at the frame, still in Rosie’s hand.

“Oh, that, yes, it’s..  Oh, never mind.”

Rosie goes to put it away as Dora reaches across the table.

“Can I have a look? I love old family photos, I do.”

Dora slants the photo towards the dim wall light.

“You can’t see much in here, but they look nice, they do. Mum and daughter? It’s a nice summer day, too.”

Rosie looks at the frame in Dora’s hand.

“Yes. It was a long time ago. It was taken just…”

“Oh, I know this place,” interrupts Dora. It’s just down there by the river, down that lane where the telephone wires whistle with the wind on days like this. Can’t forget that sound! It’s properly eerie. In the summer, Rex likes to swim there on hot days – not that we get many of those these days.”

She breaks off as the barman comes across a small tea light in a glass lamp.

“There you go, ladies, a little light to see by!”

“Thanks!” Rosie reaches for the photo. She looks at it briefly, ready to put it away.

In the suddenly brighter light, she looks more closely at the woman sitting across from her.

“How did you know where it was taken?” she says. “It’s all overgrown now. I tried to go there today.”

“Oh, yes, now it is, although Rex here can barrel his way through to the water. But it was all open and lovely when I was a young girl. I had some lovely picnics there, just like in that photo of yours. Just me and my little girl.”

Dora stops. Rosie can finally see the older woman’s features by the candlelight. Her eyes widen, and her leather-clad hand goes up to her mouth.

“You’re not.. oh my God! Are you…? Is your name Dora?”

Rosie stretches out her hand.

“Mum?!”

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