Walking Back to Happiness (46 page)

After a while, Juliet’s arms started to ache pleasantly. The bedroom wasn’t big, but it was dominated by a lovely window, looking out onto the garden. The daylight seemed to linger longer, reflected in a ghostly sheen from the unbroken blanket of snow outside.

Juliet gave herself a break when it started to get dark. She felt she’d earned it.

All her daily things were now in the newly decorated spare room, and what she didn’t need, she’d put in the wardrobe, out of the way. The room was clean, a blank canvas for the new year.

Good, she thought, and went downstairs to make herself a pot of tea.

Juliet was engrossed in a star-studded Poirot murder-mystery and halfway through her second brownie when she realised that Minton wasn’t in his usual spot on the sofa.

Cosy television viewing wasn’t the same without him, so she put her plate down, out of Coco’s reach, and got up. ‘Minton? Minton!’

After a brief pause, there was a guilty scuttle of claws on bare wood from the landing upstairs. Juliet knew that scuttle. It was the Scuttle of Stealthy Stealing.

‘Minton, what have you got?’ she called out, prepared to forgive whatever he’d nicked. It was Christmas after all.

‘So long as it’s not poisonous,’ she added, jogging up the stairs to find him. ‘I’m not taking you to the vets on New Year’s Eve. I can’t afford you to be
that
ill. Where are you?’

She heard movements in her bedroom, and pounced inside. But when she saw what was hanging from his mouth, her good mood evaporated.

‘What have you done?’ Juliet stared at the remnants of cloth hanging out of Minton’s mouth.

It was Ben’s green checked shirt. His favourite one, the one she’d kept hidden in the wardrobe, so precious that she didn’t even use it for Grief Hour because, masochistically, she never wanted to get used to it. The green shirt was the one thing that she imagined still smelled, very faintly, of Ben; he’d worn it the day before he died, then thrown it in the laundry basket, too late for Juliet’s weekly wash. She’d slept with it for weeks, inhaling his familiar scent and crying into its over-washed softness. This was the last piece of clothing that had traces of Ben on it. And now it was ripped and covered in slobber and hanging from Minton’s jaws.

‘Oh, no,’ she breathed, and then, as she took in the room properly, the full impact of what Minton had done hit her.

She must have left the wardrobe door ajar when she put her stuff in, because he’d got the box of Ben’s belongings open and worked his way through like a crazed sales shopper, high on the smell of his master. He’d chewed the shaving brush she’d given Ben for Christmas. He’d had a go at his last pair of socks. Ben’s wallet was now perforated with teethmarks. But the shirt was the worst loss.

I’ll never be able to curl up in that again when I want to be near him, thought Juliet, and she felt sick.

Minton gazed up at her from the bed. His eyes were guilty, but he didn’t drop the shirt from his mouth.

‘Drop!’ Juliet commanded shrilly.

Minton didn’t respond. It was as if he couldn’t bring himself to let go of Ben’s smell now he’d found it after so long. He backed away slowly on the bed, shirt between his teeth, keeping his gaze fixed on her as his tail swept from side to side. The wag of shame.

There were shreds of shirt scattered over the dust-sheet already. One button was lying on the floor, where it had been chewed and spat out.

‘Minton! Drop! Drop it now! Now!’ repeated Juliet. Her voice was metallic, scary. It sounded harsh even to her own ears, and Minton looked terrified.

‘Give that to me!’ Juliet barely knew what she was doing, so powerful was the rage boiling inside her. She grabbed for the shirt and yanked so hard that the little terrier went flying off the bed. The force of her effort made her stumble backwards herself and she crashed against the chest of drawers, cracking her skull against the side.

Tears sprang to her eyes as the first sharp wave of physical pain hit her, closely followed by the duller pain of Ben’s ruined possessions. Juliet shoved her hands into her hair, praying she wouldn’t feel blood.

She closed her eyes and heard the rattle of claws as Minton scrabbled his way out of the room and down the stairs as fast as he could. Faster than was safe for him.

He’s running away from me, she thought, sick with shame. I’ve hurt Minton.

But then she looked down at the precious shirt, shredded and ruined beyond repair, and couldn’t stop herself crying.
Again
, she thought. When am I ever going to stop bloody weeping?

The tears poured out of her, and at some point in the sobs, Juliet became vaguely aware that this was crying in the same vein as throwing up, or passing out – it was her body reacting, not her. These tears were more about hurting her dog, and missing her mum and dad, and generally feeling flat after Christmas, and being alone for New Year, just when she’d got used to having mates next door. It was about more than some stupid shirt of Ben’s. There was room in her life to get upset about more than just Ben. Which was almost a good thing.

You’ve got other shirts, said the voice in her head. This one isn’t more important than poor
Minton
.

Juliet sobbed until there were no tears left and the light had gone completely from the room. She felt quite calm and cleansed, but sadness still hung around her. It was New Year, and she was on her own.

Minton hadn’t come up to find her. Neither had the other two.

They were probably hiding in a cupboard, she thought guiltily. Hiding from the evil dog-sitter and her inexplicable rage.

She turned the alarm clock round on the chest of drawers; it was a quarter to nine.

This time last year . . . Juliet started to think, then stopped herself.

Actually, she could barely remember last year. She’d been in a Xanax and sherry haze. Don’t turn into one of those women like Ben’s mum, she reminded herself. Wallowing in retrospective misery.

Still, a drink wasn’t a bad idea. And a peace offering for Minton.

Juliet stumbled downstairs in the dark and went into the kitchen. ‘Minton?’ she called out, in her most conciliatory tone. ‘I’m sorry. Minton?’

There was no sign of Minton, but Coco and Hector were curled up on the kitchen sofa, his bushy beard tucked protectively over her solid haunch. They looked at her anxiously, as if she might fly at them too.

‘It’s OK,’ sighed Juliet. ‘Drama’s over for tonight.’

She got a tumbler out of the cupboard and poured herself a big glass of the jewel-like sloe gin Emer had given her for Christmas. It smelled like medicine and Juliet took a big sip.

‘Ahh,’ she said, automatically. The sweet liqueur burned down her throat and spread out through her veins like purple velvet. ‘That is very good stuff. I should probably have something to eat,’ she went on, opening the fridge and inspecting the uninspiring contents. There were still cling-filmed dishes from Boxing Day, the remnants of various pies and trifles her mother had forced on her.

‘But to be honest with you, dogs,’ she finished, ‘I can’t be bothered.’

Juliet swung the fridge door shut and topped up her glass. Maybe Minton could have the leftover pie, as a treat. Now she’d calmed down, Juliet was haunted by the pathetic image of him going so mad with delight at finding his master’s long-lost smell, wanting to chew and lick and roll around in everything, that he simply forgot himself.

Minton was always so well behaved, so grateful for the second chance she and Ben had given him, that he was very careful not to do anything naughty. He’d never done anything wrong, for fear they’d tie him up and walk away from him too.

Juliet blinked hard. Stop it, she told herself. Getting maudlin at New Year’s for old people, not thirty-somethings. He’ll come out when he’s ready.

She turned on the kitchen radio and curled up on the sofa next to Coco’s comforting warmth, her glass and her phone within reach, but after half an hour, there was still no sign of the terrier.

‘What are we going to do?’ she asked Coco and Hector, ruffling their ears. ‘Cluedo? Charades?
Jools Holland’s Hootenanny
?’

Hector licked her hand and Coco slumped her head against her knee in answer. Juliet reached for her phone. No messages.

I could text Lorcan, she thought. Just to wish him happy New Year before the networks get clogged up at midnight. Her fingers hovered over the buttons.

She wondered where he was now. In a bar in Dublin probably, laughing his easy dark laugh, sinking pints of Guinness in his jeans and some 1970s-band T-shirt. Surrounded by other curly-haired, sexy, Irish builder types. Probably playing pool, and winking at pretty girls . . .

Juliet frowned. Wasn’t that just a Thin Lizzy video she was imagining? Anyway, Lorcan was at a gig, so chances were he’d be all sweaty and euphoric, bouncing up and down at the front playing air guitar.

I’ll text Emer instead, she thought, and spent twenty minutes composing a message that didn’t sound as if she was sitting on her own in an empty house with three dogs.

As soon as she pressed send, Juliet wondered if it had been a good idea to write,
Love from Minton, Hector and Coco
. Or refer to the sloe gin.

She rolled her eyes at herself. This wasn’t going to plan. But at least she wasn’t sobbing in a corner over her wedding album. Scaring the dogs, getting tipsy and starting to decorate the bedroom was a definite step up from that.

Juliet watched the
Glee
DVD Louise had given her for Christmas and grazed her way slowly through one of the boxes of chocolates she’d been given by grateful clients.

An hour later, Minton slunk in, his tail between his legs, and crawled under the sofa. He only ever went under there during thunderstorms, when he was scared. Juliet patted the space between her and Coco, and coaxed him to join them, but when she reached down to pick him up, he growled at her.

Chastened, Juliet pulled her hand away and left him alone.

Juliet had nodded off in a gin-soaked stupor, when she heard a noise. What was that?

She sat up slowly, her head feeling like it was wrapped in cotton wool.

A scary retching, hacking sound. Then Coco’s anxious bark.

Minton was on the kitchen floor, retching, his back arched in effort. There were four big pools of vomit on the rug, watery and full of partially digested shaving brush, dog food and, oh no, buttons. His lips were pulled back from his jaws in a horrible rictus, and Juliet saw to her horror that his gums were pale. Coco and Hector looked on anxiously.

‘Minton! Are you OK?’ She couldn’t stop herself. ‘Of course you’re not OK. Oh God. Oh God.’

She knelt down beside him and shoved her fingers into his mouth, trying to dislodge whatever was in there, but she couldn’t feel anything apart from his slippery tongue. Minton looked up at her, his eyes white and rolling. It looked as though he’d been trying for some time.

‘I’m sorry!’ she wailed. ‘I can’t get it!’

Juliet probed around some more, but all she succeeded in doing was temporarily cutting off Minton’s air.

She sat up. Her mind was thick and stupid with the sloe gin, and she struggled to clear it.

What were you meant to do with choking dogs? The book. Where was that book she’d got, the dog encyclopaedia that was meant to have first aid?

Juliet ran through to the sitting room, searching the boxes marked
Books.
Her hands were trembling as she yanked at the parcel tape, one eye still on Minton in the kitchen. He didn’t seem to be choking, just desperately trying to sick something up, but he looked weak and every effort seemed more feeble.

She opened box after box until she came to the right one. Her fingers wouldn’t flip through the pages properly, and she had to keep herself from dropping it.

’Hang on, Minton,’ she called out desperately, as she searched the index for ‘choking’. ‘Hang on. I’m going to sort it out.’

Finally, she found the page on retching. Her eyes scanned the possible causes – there were lots – but the advice was in bold. ‘Call the vet if your dog is vomiting repeatedly,’ it said in bold. ‘Internal blockages can be fatal, and dogs will quickly dehydrate trying to rid themselves of the obstruction.’

Juliet dialled the surgery number with wobbling fingers. In all the time she’d had Minton, she’d only ever been to the vet for routine boosters and checks. He was hardy, like Ben. Never needed the doctor. She didn’t even know whether there would be anyone there on New Year’s Eve at – she checked her watch – a quarter to ten.

Please pick up, please pick up, she prayed, chewing the hang nail on her spare hand until it stung. Please, please, please . . .

After ten agonising rings, someone answered. ‘Hello, Longhampton vet emergency line?’

Juliet recognised the voice – it was Megan, the Australian veterinary nurse. She worked at the rescue where Diane volunteered, and was the only person Diane knew who could make Coco roll over for a biscuit.

‘Please help me,’ she blurted out. ‘I think my dog’s eaten something. He’s retching, but I can’t feel anything blocking his throat. I don’t know what to do!’

‘OK, step one, calm down,’ said Megan. She was always very calm. ‘You’re not the first person to ring up with a dog who’s helped himself to the Christmas tree this week, and we haven’t lost any of them. So far. Step two, do you know what he’s eaten?’

‘No.’ Juliet glanced over at Minton. His eyes were shut and he was panting. Then he pulled back his lips and tried to vomit, but couldn’t. ‘He was chewing a load of stuff earlier – it could be a button; it could be a bit of shaving brush.’

She pushed away lurid images of what shards of plastic might be tearing Minton’s insides.

‘How long’s he been trying to throw up? Is there any vomit?’

‘Yes, there’s a lot. He . . . he went and hid when I shouted at him for chewing Ben’s things, and that was several hours ago . . .’ Juliet’s voice cracked, but she forced herself not to cry. She owed it to Minton not to lose it now.

‘Is that Juliet?’ asked Megan. ‘And Minton?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh,
no
.’ Megan sounded more concerned for her than Minton. ‘This is just what you don’t need on New Year’s Eve. Listen, Juliet, the best thing you can do is to bring him in right away. I’ll tell George you’re coming and he can check Minton over. He might be dehydrated, and that’s not good for a little guy his size.’ Megan sounded concerned. ‘And are
you
all right? I know it’s upsetting, but he’ll be fine.’