By My Side by Alice Peterson

their owners’ laps. In other shots, the dogs sit by the wheelchairs, looking noble and proud, the owners wrapping an arm around them. I wheel myself down the line, reading the inscriptions beneath the photographs. ‘Rachel and Elvis’. Rachel is wearing a graduation gown and mortarboard and holds a degree certificate that Elvis also touches with one paw.
    On another wall, next to the bathroom, is a pinboard with press cuttings and more pictures of dogs reaching for tins and cereal packets in supermarkets. I hear music coming from one of the rooms; it’s The Black Eyed Peas. I glance at Mum. There’s no way we could have stumbled upon this place by chance, could we? Cautiously I wheel myself towards the door, before it gets flung open by a plump woman wearing jeans, trainers and a T-shirt, who sweeps past Mum and me without seeming to notice us. I peer into the room and my heart melts when I see golden and black puppies with floppy ears, wearing tiny purple bibs. One of the Labrador pups is jumping through a yellow hoop. ‘Wait wait … back … Good boy!’ says a busty woman in a purple T-shirt, as the puppy moves backwards through her legs. ‘Oh look at them,’ I sigh out loud.
    ‘Can I help you?’ says a voice. Mum and I turn and see a tall dark-haired man behind us, wearing a purple fleece.
    ‘Hello. We were just looking around,’ says Mum, as if we were browsing in a clothes shop.
    He shakes his head regretfully. ‘We’re in the middle of training. I’m afraid we don’t like people wandering about unless they’ve made an appointment.’
    ‘An appointment?’ Mum queries.
    ‘Yes. We’re a charity. Canine Partners.’ He gestures to the logo on his fleece of an abstract person in a wheelchair, a dog by their side. ‘We train our dogs to assist anyone with a disability. Are you interested?’ He repeats the question and I look up, surprised he’s directing it at me. Normally I am addressed via my mother, with comments like, ‘Doesn’t she look well!’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. Yes you are. Tell him you are, a voice urges.
    His face softens. ‘Stuart Harris. Chief Executive.’ He shakes Mum’s hand. ‘How do you do, Mrs … ?’
    ‘Brooks.’
    ‘And you are?’ he asks when I don’t think to say my name.
    ‘Cass,’ I mutter.
    ‘Sorry?’ He’s so tall he has to bend down to hear me. He gives his ear a tap. ‘Bit deaf in my old age.’
    He can only be about forty-five. ‘Cass,’ I repeat, my mouth as dry as straw.
    ‘Now look,’ Stuart says, leading us away from the door and across to the other side of the reception room. ‘This isn’t strictly allowed but if you promise to be quiet you can come in and observe the older pups.’ Gently he opens the door. ‘These little superstars are in their advanced training,’ says Stuart proudly. My heart melts again, this time at much bigger but just as bouncy puppies of all different colours, dressed in their purple coats. There are six dogs in this room, each with their own personal trainer.
    We position ourselves in the corner, where there’s a desk, computer and filing cabinet. It’s a simple room, with a grey floor and white walls.
    ‘We have to keep the room pretty basic,’ Stuart says. ‘We don’t want to distract our heroes. What are you doing?’ he whispers, watching Mum brushing the cushion on her chair, her gold bracelets causing a distraction.
    ‘Dog hairs,’ she says. ‘They make me come out in a rash.’
    ‘You’re allergic to dogs?’ Stuart asks in disbelief.
    ‘Sit down, Mum,’ I beg.
    She does one final sweep before tentatively planting her bottom on the chair, as though she were about to sit on a bed of hot spikes.
    Stuart leans towards me. ‘As you can see, most of our pups are retriever-type breeds but we do select some crosses between poodles, Labradors and retrievers too.’ He gestures to a black Labradoodle with bright eyes and curls to die for, picking up a set of keys and handing them back to