other hand to rest on the dizzy dog’s other ear, and smoothed the fur down,
bringing her nose to the dog’s own. She wrapped her hands around the base of
each ear, and scratched firmly with her nails into the back of the dog’s skull.
She knew that Peyton loved it; his bum always fell to the floor sideways, and
his tail wagged so hard it beat a crescendo on the floor. Maman in the other room couldn’t hear this, however, for the floor was solid concrete
under the fancy blue tiles, and nothing made noise there like it did in the
rest of the house.
Her best friend looked wistfully at the kitchen door;
his need for the toilet had overcome his love for a good head scratch.
“Want a wee, Peyton?” Rowan asked him, to an answer of
faster wagging and an escapee tongue. Her beloved dog was grinning at her at
the idea of being let outside, if only to relieve himself.
She shouted through to the living room that she was
letting the dog out for a wee, so the stump would know who had opened the door.
Upon hearing a grunt of acknowledgement, she let her dog out, and stepped out
into the chilly autumn evening with him. He didn’t need accompanying; he knew
how to escape the garden but never would. He loved Rowan too much to try and
leave her. Rowan followed him into the back garden to watch him have a run
around and a ‘mad arf arr ’,
as her daddy-long-legs called it. She watched with a half-hearted smile as
Peyton picked up his favourite tennis ball and began
to run around in circles with it. Her smile turned to a beaming grin when he
bounded over to where she stood and proceeded to drop the slimy, slobbery
yellow fuzzball at her feet. With her thumb and
forefinger she picked up the ball and waved it in the air.
“Is there something you want, Puppy-Peyton?” She
cooed, mimicking her daddy-long-legs. ‘Daddy-long-legs’ was the private pet
name she had for her maman’s boyfriend, for he was
much taller than both her and her maman at over six
feet. She didn’t call him this out loud, however, so as to keep the peace; she
didn’t want to suffer her maman’s wrath for she knew
that the man wasn’t her daddy dearest, and it upset her to call him such. She
feared that if she lied too much, one day she’d believe it, and forget her own daddy.
Continuing to wave the mangy, slobbery ball around in
the air, she span in front of the dog, whose eyes followed it as though it were
a pork chop treat. Lowering it in front of his nose
for him to sniff, and snapping it away out of his grasp before he could snap
his jaws around it, she skipped in front of him. She turned away from him, her
back to the large yellow house in which she lived, and did her best cricket
bowl impression.
For a split second, Peyton made to chase the ball,
until he realised he’d been hounded, again, by the cruel
joke that she’d made. She’d not thrown the ball at all, and was looking at him
with a cheeky, childish grin on her face. Peyton sat down heavily, making to
sulk, and put his paw over his nose. This was all part of their game, and
they’d play it whenever he was let out to toilet by his faithful little madam.
She stepped calmly over the honey- coloured head; and
stage-crept up the garden path to the gate at the other end.
Leaning against the wooden gate, she paused. This gate
led to the woods behind her home, out to Horsforth and beyond, and somewhere at the other side of these woods lived the rest of
her family; her aunty and uncle with her two cousins, her other aunty and uncle
with the huge garden and bonfire dug-out. She absentmindedly picked at the peeling,
weatherproof blue paint on the gate as she waited for her puppy to get up and
start jumping around in circles, wanting the ball.
As if on cue, a golden head peeked over the
hiding-rangers at the front of the garden, and Peyton began to bounce. Rowan curled
her arm back behind her head, just as her daddy-long-legs had shown her, and
unfurled the ball from her arm with a flourish. A
bringing her nose to the dog’s own. She wrapped her hands around the base of
each ear, and scratched firmly with her nails into the back of the dog’s skull.
She knew that Peyton loved it; his bum always fell to the floor sideways, and
his tail wagged so hard it beat a crescendo on the floor. Maman in the other room couldn’t hear this, however, for the floor was solid concrete
under the fancy blue tiles, and nothing made noise there like it did in the
rest of the house.
Her best friend looked wistfully at the kitchen door;
his need for the toilet had overcome his love for a good head scratch.
“Want a wee, Peyton?” Rowan asked him, to an answer of
faster wagging and an escapee tongue. Her beloved dog was grinning at her at
the idea of being let outside, if only to relieve himself.
She shouted through to the living room that she was
letting the dog out for a wee, so the stump would know who had opened the door.
Upon hearing a grunt of acknowledgement, she let her dog out, and stepped out
into the chilly autumn evening with him. He didn’t need accompanying; he knew
how to escape the garden but never would. He loved Rowan too much to try and
leave her. Rowan followed him into the back garden to watch him have a run
around and a ‘mad arf arr ’,
as her daddy-long-legs called it. She watched with a half-hearted smile as
Peyton picked up his favourite tennis ball and began
to run around in circles with it. Her smile turned to a beaming grin when he
bounded over to where she stood and proceeded to drop the slimy, slobbery
yellow fuzzball at her feet. With her thumb and
forefinger she picked up the ball and waved it in the air.
“Is there something you want, Puppy-Peyton?” She
cooed, mimicking her daddy-long-legs. ‘Daddy-long-legs’ was the private pet
name she had for her maman’s boyfriend, for he was
much taller than both her and her maman at over six
feet. She didn’t call him this out loud, however, so as to keep the peace; she
didn’t want to suffer her maman’s wrath for she knew
that the man wasn’t her daddy dearest, and it upset her to call him such. She
feared that if she lied too much, one day she’d believe it, and forget her own daddy.
Continuing to wave the mangy, slobbery ball around in
the air, she span in front of the dog, whose eyes followed it as though it were
a pork chop treat. Lowering it in front of his nose
for him to sniff, and snapping it away out of his grasp before he could snap
his jaws around it, she skipped in front of him. She turned away from him, her
back to the large yellow house in which she lived, and did her best cricket
bowl impression.
For a split second, Peyton made to chase the ball,
until he realised he’d been hounded, again, by the cruel
joke that she’d made. She’d not thrown the ball at all, and was looking at him
with a cheeky, childish grin on her face. Peyton sat down heavily, making to
sulk, and put his paw over his nose. This was all part of their game, and
they’d play it whenever he was let out to toilet by his faithful little madam.
She stepped calmly over the honey- coloured head; and
stage-crept up the garden path to the gate at the other end.
Leaning against the wooden gate, she paused. This gate
led to the woods behind her home, out to Horsforth and beyond, and somewhere at the other side of these woods lived the rest of
her family; her aunty and uncle with her two cousins, her other aunty and uncle
with the huge garden and bonfire dug-out. She absentmindedly picked at the peeling,
weatherproof blue paint on the gate as she waited for her puppy to get up and
start jumping around in circles, wanting the ball.
As if on cue, a golden head peeked over the
hiding-rangers at the front of the garden, and Peyton began to bounce. Rowan curled
her arm back behind her head, just as her daddy-long-legs had shown her, and
unfurled the ball from her arm with a flourish. A
Similar Books
