I have been avoiding the park for more than a week. I cannot imagine making the usual clockwise circuit without the old dog, and having to explain what happened over and over again. Once I tell people the old dog died , no one is going to want to talk about the weather.
Also, I have never really had any sort of identity of my own in the park; I was just ‘The Man With The Old Dog That Everybody Likes’. People would nod sternly at me when we crossed paths, and then bend down to launch into a long conversation with the old dog, often picking up where they left off last time.
I’m not ready to face my diminished status, to be thought of only as The Man With The Little Dog That Barks At My Dog For No Reason.
I figure I’ll let my wife walk the little dog for a week or so, to spread the word and soak up all the commiseration. It’s a simple matter of being otherwise engaged at the two main dog-walking times, preferably with headphones on.
On Saturday, Kelly and Hayley, the hairdressing twins, arrive for our quarterly family haircut, plus half a head of highlights for my wife.
I don’t appear downstairs for the first hour, because I’m busy effecting minor household repairs, and because I wish to avoid the initial conversation about the old dog.
Also, I’ve already had my hair cut elsewhere.
When I finally go into the kitchen to rummage through the tool cupboard, the middle one is in the chair, his head half shorn. My wife’s hair is a shiny helmet of foil flaps.
“Hello,” I say.
“There he is,” my wife says. “Look – I told you he had his hair cut by someone else. Traitor.”
“It was an emergency,” I say.
“Shameful,” Kelly says. Or Hayley.
“How’s it going?” my wife asks.
“I don’t have the right screws,” I say.
“He doesn’t have the right screws,” my wife says to Kelly and Hayley.
I imagine Kelly and Hayley shaking their heads in disapproval, but I don’t look up.
“I may have to go to the shops,” I say.
“You could take the dog with you,” my wife says.
“No,” I say. “I don’t do that.”
When I wake up the next morning, my wife is already dressed and deep in conversation with the little dog.
“Do I need to take you out?” she says. “Shall we go out?”
This, I think, is my chance. “I’ll come,” I say.
My wife regards me with undisguised suspicion. “Fine,” she says.
Never say never
The park is sunny and cold, the playground equipment lightly dusted with snow. No sooner have we set off than we meet a man coming the other way: a former old dog owner, out with his new dog.
“Just the one today?” he says.
“Yes,” my wife explains. “The old dog died last week.”
“Oh dear,” says the man. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, she was 16,” my wife says.
“Sixteen, eh? A good run, then.”
“Yes,” my wife says.
We all stare into the middle distance for a bit.
“You going to get another one?” the man asks.
“We’ve still got one left,” my wife says, “but, you know, never say never!”
We wave and walk on.
I can’t imagine how my wife retains her apparent enthusiasm for this sort of exchange, given how many times it must have happened over the week.
Her ability to engage with the world is, as always, both instructive and a little shaming.
“Wait,” I say. “Did you just say, ‘Never say never’?”
“Never say never!” my wife shouts as the little dog runs up ahead to bark at someone else’s dog for no reason.
— Guardian News & Media Ltd
