to have to get one of those boxes with the days marked out on them and fill it with Will’s medication - just like you do for old people. What would he do without me? I smile at him indulgently. Still, now that I’m not working I can afford the time to spoil him a bit more. That’s taking some adjusting to as well. I only get a pang of longing for my old job about ten times a day and have studiously avoided watching television as it only makes me worse. Plus the reception here is so rubbish that it’s like watching every show through a snowstorm.
‘The hot water’s probably just about to make an appearance,’ I tell him.
‘A nice long shower might liven me up.’ He squeezes me round the waist as he passes. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’
‘Love you,’ I say, as he disappears into the bathroom, but I don’t know if he hears me.
Chapter Fifteen
F astening on some diamond earrings, I head for the kitchen. Maya, being her efficient self, has - amid the packing boxes we haven’t yet got round to sorting - already laid the table for breakfast. I think she’s starting to settle in here now as I only catch her crying once a day now.
She comes out of the scullery, weeping.
‘Maya, what’s wrong?’ Our newly acquired dog, Hamish, is at her heels and is wagging his tail furiously, clearly very pleased with himself. He comes over to me and brushes against my legs, depositing hair and slobber on my dress. His tail thumps against me and it’s like being repeatedly hit by a mallet.
‘He has tried to eat all of underwear again,’ she tells me tremulously. ‘He has opened tumble dryer all by himself and has ruined it completely.’
‘No,’ I laugh. ‘He can’t have.’
‘He has. He is very naughty dog, Amy.’
Already, I know this. Hamish has been the bane of my life since the day he arrived. He’s enormous - way too big, even for a house this size. He’s full of energy, full of mischief and now, it seems, full of our underwear. Even in the short time he’s been here we’ve got used to putting anything edible out of his range. He’s had Will’s breakfast off his plate more than once. My husband finds this trait for snaffling other people’s food charming. Dish cloths are a thing of the past. As is anything involving sponge - a particular doggy favourite, it appears.
Now Hamish has apparently moved onto more expensive inedible materials to eat and has learned how to open the tumble dryer. For a dog that dense, I doubt it.
I go through to the scullery, still not quite believing Maya’s assessment of the situation. But, sure enough, the tumble dryer door is ajar and there’s a pile of suspiciously shredded underwear on the floor. ‘Hamish,’ I shout. ‘Get here! Did you do this?’
But my anger falls on deaf ears and Hamish, quite sensibly, doesn’t appear to answer for his crime. This dog can never hear his name being called, no matter how loud, but can recognise the sound of a biscuit tin being opened from the bottom of the garden.
‘I think some is missing.’ Maya starts to clear up the mess. ‘Maybe he has eaten it.’
‘Bloody dog,’ I grumble - at which point Will arrives in the kitchen. I bolt from the scullery and greet my husband by waving a shred of black lace at him.
‘What’s that?’
‘The remains of my favourite knickers. He’s had a go at all of yours too.’
‘Oh, Hamish,’Will says indulgently to the dog who is currently hiding behind his legs. ‘Have you been naughty?’ Hamish goes into throes of ecstasy and hurls himself to the floor, tummy up, legs akimbo.
Never in my lifeplan did I imagine getting a full-frontal view of canine genitalia before breakfast. ‘Where exactly did you get this dog from?’ I want to know.
‘He’s a rescue dog,’ he says cagily. ‘I told you. He came from a place over near Malhead. He’d been there ages. No one wanted him. Did they, woofer?’
Hamish, on cue, woofs.
‘Did you ever question why that might
‘The hot water’s probably just about to make an appearance,’ I tell him.
‘A nice long shower might liven me up.’ He squeezes me round the waist as he passes. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’
‘Love you,’ I say, as he disappears into the bathroom, but I don’t know if he hears me.
Chapter Fifteen
F astening on some diamond earrings, I head for the kitchen. Maya, being her efficient self, has - amid the packing boxes we haven’t yet got round to sorting - already laid the table for breakfast. I think she’s starting to settle in here now as I only catch her crying once a day now.
She comes out of the scullery, weeping.
‘Maya, what’s wrong?’ Our newly acquired dog, Hamish, is at her heels and is wagging his tail furiously, clearly very pleased with himself. He comes over to me and brushes against my legs, depositing hair and slobber on my dress. His tail thumps against me and it’s like being repeatedly hit by a mallet.
‘He has tried to eat all of underwear again,’ she tells me tremulously. ‘He has opened tumble dryer all by himself and has ruined it completely.’
‘No,’ I laugh. ‘He can’t have.’
‘He has. He is very naughty dog, Amy.’
Already, I know this. Hamish has been the bane of my life since the day he arrived. He’s enormous - way too big, even for a house this size. He’s full of energy, full of mischief and now, it seems, full of our underwear. Even in the short time he’s been here we’ve got used to putting anything edible out of his range. He’s had Will’s breakfast off his plate more than once. My husband finds this trait for snaffling other people’s food charming. Dish cloths are a thing of the past. As is anything involving sponge - a particular doggy favourite, it appears.
Now Hamish has apparently moved onto more expensive inedible materials to eat and has learned how to open the tumble dryer. For a dog that dense, I doubt it.
I go through to the scullery, still not quite believing Maya’s assessment of the situation. But, sure enough, the tumble dryer door is ajar and there’s a pile of suspiciously shredded underwear on the floor. ‘Hamish,’ I shout. ‘Get here! Did you do this?’
But my anger falls on deaf ears and Hamish, quite sensibly, doesn’t appear to answer for his crime. This dog can never hear his name being called, no matter how loud, but can recognise the sound of a biscuit tin being opened from the bottom of the garden.
‘I think some is missing.’ Maya starts to clear up the mess. ‘Maybe he has eaten it.’
‘Bloody dog,’ I grumble - at which point Will arrives in the kitchen. I bolt from the scullery and greet my husband by waving a shred of black lace at him.
‘What’s that?’
‘The remains of my favourite knickers. He’s had a go at all of yours too.’
‘Oh, Hamish,’Will says indulgently to the dog who is currently hiding behind his legs. ‘Have you been naughty?’ Hamish goes into throes of ecstasy and hurls himself to the floor, tummy up, legs akimbo.
Never in my lifeplan did I imagine getting a full-frontal view of canine genitalia before breakfast. ‘Where exactly did you get this dog from?’ I want to know.
‘He’s a rescue dog,’ he says cagily. ‘I told you. He came from a place over near Malhead. He’d been there ages. No one wanted him. Did they, woofer?’
Hamish, on cue, woofs.
‘Did you ever question why that might
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