So I sighed and rolled over, muttered a noncommittal “I suppose,” and tried to sleep.
* * *
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I was sneaking out of bed while Oliver was asleep. It was, honestly, kind of annoying how good at sleeping he was. I mean, even when I didn’t have a vocally miserable canine to contend with, my own brain had long ago decided that sleep was a privilege I didn’t always deserve. Of course, the fact that Oliver got up early, worked hard, went to the gym, ate fresh vegetables by choice, kept a regular schedule, and didn’t look at his phone in bed, while I did the opposite of those things, might have had something to do with it.
Anyway, I’d tried. I’d tried really hard. But I fought the puppy and the puppy won. I just wasn’t whatever-personality-trait-it-took-to-sleep-through-a-crying-dog enough to sleep through a crying dog.
The second I set foot in the study, Spud went from traumatised wailing to happy ruffing so fast that I couldn’t decide if I felt loved or faintly manipulated. Which, honestly, Oliver and my mum aside, was my general experience of relationships.
“I’m a fucking bellend,” I told Spud, who wagged his tail cheerily at me.
Fucking bellend that I was, I knelt down and opened his pen, and he rushed into my arms like a princess rescued from a castle. For whatever reason, while he’d coyly licked Oliver’s nose, he decided to lick my entire face. And, on the one hand, it was probably incredibly unhygienic, especially since he nearly got my eyeball. But on the other, I kind of felt like a real dog owner. Because you had to really care about your dog to be okay with his saliva literally on your face holes.
“I’m taking that as a compliment,” I said. “But I’m still wiping it off.”
Which I did, as quickly as I could, using the sleeve of my T-shirt.
Spud’s excitement at my return didn’t quite win out over his obvious tiredness, and after a few minutes of sniffing round me to make sure I was all there, he curled up in my lap and started making snuffly, sleeping noises.
“Okay.” I attempted a reassuring whisper. “You know we’re still here, and now you’re unconscious. So Daddy Luc”—oh my God, I couldn’t believe I’d just said that, although I also didn’t entirely hate it—“is going back to bed.”
I gently transferred my bundle of puppy back into the pen, clicked the door closed as quietly as possible, and then tiptoed out of the study. I got one foot over the threshold when I heard the first tragic “Arroou?”
Fuck. Why hadn’t I listened to Oliver?
Half turning, half out of my mind from sleep deprivation, I decided that the best plan was to reason with a dog. “It’s all right. I’ll just be upstairs. Oliver and I will be with you again in the morning.”
“Arroou?”
“I promise.” With hindsight, it was quite a nuanced cultural concept to expect Spud to understand. “Look,” I tried instead. “You just have to get used to this.”
Spud did not look like he wanted to get used to this.
“You’re not allowed to come into the bedroom because then I’ll never be able to have sex again.”
“Ruff!”
“No notruff.Arroou. Veryarroou.”
“Ruff!”
“Great,” I said. “Since you’re feeling soruff, I’m going to bed.”
“Arrooooooou.”
Double fuck. How-slash-why did I keep doing this to myself? I went back, opened the pen, and sat down next to Spud. “I’m only staying until you’re asleep.”
Spud smooshed right up against me.
I patted his little head, right between his little mismatched ears. “Just so you know, I wouldn’t rather be living the life of an eighties rock star than looking after you.”
“Mrrffhhh.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Even if I temporarily go somewhere.”
“Mrrffhhh.”
“Unless I die or something. Or Oliver dumps me. Because in that situation, the dog courts would one hundred percent give custody to him.”
