‘Right, hop it. Literally.’ He tugs on Elvis’s collar and the dog eventually wiggles to the end of the bed, circling twice before flopping down with a definite grumpy huff. He props his big head on his crossed paws. ‘And you can stop glaring at me, you big faker.’
‘You’re not very nice to him.’
‘I am nice to him,’ he replies touchily. ‘In fact, I’m very nice considering that miscreant, last summer alone, ate a pair of brand-new Paul Smith shoes, chewed the corner of an antique Persian carpet, and stole the sandwich out of a toddler’s hand while he sat with his family in Weavers Fields, minding his own business and having a quiet picnic.’ At this, one of Elvis’s triangle shaped ears twitches and I swear he sighs as Archer carries on. ‘He’d eaten half their food before I’d gotten to him. And don’t get me started on Christmas because you don’t need to know how he tried to wear my poor neighbour’s turkey as a hat.’
‘How did he get into your neighbour’s?’ Something tells me I’m about to be told the tale of a wall chewing dog.
‘Two days a week I pay the kid that lives down the hall to sit with him after school. I walk him before work, a dog walker comes for him at eleven, back for one, and the kid is back to watch TV with him at three. I pay for the privilege, of course. At Christmas, the kid thought it might be a good idea to take Elvis to his. Elvis in a non-Elvis proofed house was less than ideal.
‘What happens on the other days you’re working?’
‘He goes to doggy day-care.’
It seems I’m revising my opinions of Archer all the time. It’s one thing to find he actually does own a dog, but another to find what a devoted owner he is, despite his attempts at proving otherwise. You can’t fool me, Archer Powell. You’re more than a little devoted to this mutt.
‘That’s a very London thing, isn’t it? Day care for dogs, I mean.’
‘It’s not as though I can open the door and let him wander through the streets while I’m at work, is it? And it stops him chewing stuff. Plus, socialisation is very important.’
Devoted, see?
‘But despite all that, he thinks he has abandonment issues.’
‘You mean you think he has?’
‘No, I think he’s just a bit stupid because he seems to forget that when I goout, I always come backin.’
‘But that’s the crux of abandonment issues, isn’t it? He’s been rejected before, so he fears he’s not loveable. And because he’s not loveable he doesn’t trust that you will come back.’
‘You’re missing the point, because the point is, I do come back. He’s just forgetful.’
‘You must love him very much,’ I say, sensing Archer isn’t going to agree. As I twist my head over my shoulder, he seems miles away, his gaze still on the end of the bed, his mind someplace else. ‘And he loves you.’
‘He loves expensive shoe leather and peanut butter.’
‘Admit it—you love him.’
‘Well, he’s a pain in the arse, but he’s my pain in the arse. And he’s bloody expensive to keep, so I suppose I must love him, mustn’t it?’ He glances my way, his smile taking on a boyish edge as he tries to suppress it. ‘That seems to surprise you.’
‘No, it’s just.’ I look down at the sheet that I appear to be twisting in my fingertips, because yes it does surprise me but to say so would hardly be compliment. Why wouldn’t Archer Powell love? ‘We never had a dog when I was growing up, just a temperamental cat. I suppose you hear of dogs being so hard to look after and so many of them get abandoned.’
‘Doesn’t mean it’s right. He’s already been in kennels once.’
‘You took him there?’
‘No, that’s where I got him. I couldn’t take him back there. Not after he channelled Scooby Doo to get me to take him home with me.’
‘That’s who he reminds me of!’ I suddenly realise. Different colouring but the same large head and dopey smile. Yes, it would seem that dogs do smile.
‘He wasn’t in the local council kennels but was with a charity with a partiality to rehabilitating the Boxer breed.’
‘Is that what he is?’
‘Maybe one part of him. The other fifty-six parts belongs to Heinz. You know, Heinz fifty-seven varieties? He’s a mutt. He was in one of their kennels with another couple of dogs and when they opened it, he bowled me over. Literally—swept my feet from under me, plonked himself on my legs and wouldn’t get off. It wasn’t until I’d signed the paperwork that I saw the sign on the kennel door.
Elvis, a mixed breed who believes he is Pekinese. Likes hugs, long walks in the park, running away from you on long walks in the park, staring into your soul in order to get all the hugs. Dislikes trance music, not getting all the hugs, and peeing where he’s supposed to.He had issues written all over him.’
‘But you still took him home anyway?’
