‘I’ll train him.’ Regan wasn’t easily deterred. ‘Elvis. Not Beanstalk.’
‘You’ll be working on the market. I’ll be at the station. You can’t leave him shut in here all day; he’d trash the place.’
There was a pause while they both thought. Inspiration struck, and Regan raised her hands. ‘In the day I’ll take him to the market.’ She was bobbing up and down on her heels.
‘What, and leave him here at night? Sorry, Reg, I know you’re trying to help, but taking on a large dog right now isn’t a good idea for you, me or Elvis.’
She stared at him trying hard not to pout. ‘I disagree. Who else is going to take on a giant, untrained, hair-shedding mutt like him?’
‘You’re not really selling him.’ He smiled, but she didn’t.
‘He has no-one else now that Kevin’s gone.’ She pulled back her shoulders. ‘I won’t let him down.’ Charlie kept quiet and sipped his coffee. ‘Right. Thanks for nothing.’
‘Come on, Reg. I’m—’
She didn’t hear anything else, because she marched out of the house and slammed the door. She hoped he’d be out later when she came back to make jam, or it might be slightly awkward.
Regan was thrilled to find that Elvis had not yet been collected by the rescue centre because they had just taken in a load of dogs from a recently discovered puppy farm. After a heartfelt plea from Regan, Deborah conceded that she clearly cared a lot about the dog, so she exercised her discretion and agreed Regan could take him. She felt she could argue that if Regan had said he was hers at the start there’d be no question about her taking him now. Regan made a donation to the veterinary hospital for as much as she could spare. Deborah gave her a run-through of his wound care and medication and handed over his vaccination and microchip records, and before she knew it, Elvis was officially hers.
Regan gave the records a brief scan.Breed: Irish wolfhound? Not a giant mongrel werewolf after all. She thanked everyone at the vet’s and left with the dog plodding behind her on a second-hand lead that Deborah had conjured up from somewhere. Regan wasn’t sure taking on Elvis was the smartest decision she’d ever made, but she was certain it was the right one. Although seeing him wearing his medical collar, looking like he’d speared a lampshade, did give her some doubts.
Elvis had his tail between his legs and his head down. ‘Come on, Elvis. It’ll be fun, you and me against the world,’ she said, negotiating herself, the lead and him out of the vet’s through the double-door affair. Elvis kept his head low – it wasn’t a good sign. They stepped outside, and a fragrant breeze ruffled his fur. The change in Elvis was instant. Once his nose caught a whiff of fresh air, it was as if it breathed life into him. His head shot up, his ears pricked and his tail gave a cursory flick. The prisoner was now a free man.
‘Elvis has left the building.’ She gave a light tug on thelead and he trotted after her; then he tried to gallop past, magnificently pulling her over and dragging her along the gravel. ‘ELVIS!’ she shouted, and he halted, turned and looked at her with a tilt of his head, which seemed to say, ‘Why are you lying down?’
Regan dusted herself off and opened the passenger door of her car. Elvis sniffed inside, groaned and lay down on the gravel. She took off his medical recovery collar so negotiating getting inside would be easier for him, but he still refused to get in.
A woman with a French bulldog on a pink harness strolled over to the large, sleek Audi next to Regan’s little Fiesta. The woman opened the Audi’s back door. The dog hopped in and sat down without a word of command.
‘That’ll be us next week,’ said Regan, with a confident nod. Elvis put his head between his paws – he didn’t seem to agree.
Forty minutes later, Deborah was leaving for the day. She looked surprised to see Regan trying to drag Elvis into the back of the car.
‘Having problems?’
Why did people ask bloody obvious questions? ‘Just a bit,’ said Regan, through a mouthful of fur. She spat it out.
Deborah came over, walked to the other side of the car, opened the other back door and held out a dog treat. Elvis trampled Regan in his attempt to get to the small morsel.
‘Ow!’ she rubbed at her chest. Right boob, direct hit – ouch. But the key thing was – Elvis was in the car. They shut the doors in unison. ‘That was smart.’
‘I always carry treats. Take care, now,’ said Deborah, with a jolly wave.
Regan slumped against the car door, exhausted. Asudden bang on the glass made her take off. Elvis barked his protest from the driver’s seat and then leaned his paw on the horn. The elongated honk made the nurse look as she drove away, and Regan waved serenely like everything was completely normal.
It took a while to convince Elvis that he wasn’t driving and eventually settle him in the back of the car. Well, part of him was in the back; his front half was wedged between the front seats, where he kept trying to chew the gear knob, despite Regan telling him repeatedly that it wasn’t a ball on a stick. Twice she tried to change gear with his nose.
Getting him out of the car was far easier; he was keen to investigate new smells. Steering him in the right direction was somewhat trickier – Regan imagined it to be a lot like water-skiing on the pavement. She didn’t want to let him off the lead in case he wandered off, but it would have been a whole lot easier than hanging on to it. She opened the door to the studio, and while she keyed in the alarm code Elvis trotted in to investigate.
Within seconds there was a crash, which was followed by what sounded like a helicopter in a box. She shut the door quickly. Elvis was humping her mattress with his head completely through a painted canvas. His face was now precisely where a nipple had once been. He was an actual right tit. Cleo was going to kill her and then feed her remains to the seagulls – and who could blame her?
Elvis tried to have a scratch and managed to make the canvas spin around his neck, hit an easel, which toppled and knocked over another canvas, which, in turn, clattered onto her stacked jam jars and knocked them to the floor. ‘No, no, no!’ Regan watched the domino effect in horror.How could he do so much damage in under thirty seconds?
A text message popped up from Cleo.Oscar rang me. Can you believe his cheek? Said he thought he’d had some sort of breakdown but was now fully recovered! He was surprised I was still in Japan. He must have been desperate to get hold of me because he said he’d been to the studio. He was so full of b*llshit.
It made Regan smile that Cleo didn’t even swear in text messages.
What did he want?Regan texted back.
