Dogs on stilts – And barges – Hair colour & its uses – Things you can pick up at the Rehoming Centre – Silence of the Bagels – The List
Trudy, the woman in charge at the rehoming centre, has a streak of ice blue in her hair. I’m beginning to think it changes colour according to the person she’s talking to.
‘What do you mean – too big?’ she says, slapping the clipboard down.
‘Well. We’re not sure. He looks enormous next to Biscuit.’
‘Biscuit’s a terrier. Biscuit makes everyone look big.’
‘Yeah – but – Stan’s legs. It’s like he’s on stilts.’
‘He’s a lurcher.’
‘Anyway,’ she says, raising her eyebrows and sighing, as if she’s had too many years of exactly this sort of thing already and it’s not getting any easier, ‘Canal Boat Man has first dibs.’
To be fair, I think Stan would look great on a canal boat. Wearing a flat cap and neckerchief. One paw draped over the tiller. Mournfully whistling as the boat chugs through a tunnel.
What we don’t tell the woman is exactly why we think Stan is too big. The thing is, we’ve got a pet flap in the door for our existing lurcher, Lola. She’s actually quite small for a lurcher, and we’re not sure Stan will fit through. We shouldn’t feel shy mentioning this, but we do. It’s a practical detail, after all. It’s better for the dogs if they have access to an outside area. It’s just – well – it feels a little insensitive, somehow. Like going into an art gallery and asking for a painting to cover a hole.
‘Why don’t you take him for a walk?’ Trudy says.
‘Yeah – but if we take him for a walk we’ll only end up falling for him and it’ll be harder to say no.’
The blue in Trudy’s hair deepens.
I like this rehoming centre, though. An old thirties semi that looks like it was commandeered for the purpose sometime in the seventies, the kennels extending out back. I like the slightly ramshackle feel of it, the scruffy old reception, shelves of stuff for sale – bedding and cat carriers, feeding bowls and harnesses, shelves of dog-eared Jack Reacher thrillers, Aromatherapy for Cats. There’s a tall counter at one end separating the tiny admin area from the public parts. Today there’s a solid-looking pit bull called Mike helping out; he looks up at me with the serious expression of a lifer with library privileges. The other members of staff come and go, all of them bright and chipper.
The thing is, we’ve got history here. Twenty years ago when Kath and I got back from honeymoon, and moved into our new house, we thought: What this place needs is a dog! (in that sublimating way new couples have). We came to look around the centre and came away with a Patterdale-Lakeland cross tucked under our arms. Well – not immediately. They did visit to check the garden first. When we said we liked the look of Buzz but wanted to think about it, they said that he was a popular dog, he’d already attracted a lot of attention, and if we didn’t move fast he’d be gone. So we fell for the hard sell and took him on the spot. Looking back, it was one of the best decisions we ever made.
Ten years later we came back to adopt a second dog – Lola. She was a tiny lurcher puppy, malnourished, quivering in the pen with a ragged troupe of the same. We took her home, and after a few teething problems – like eating Kath’s mobile phone – she soon turned out to be another great addition to the family.
So it feels as if we’re orbiting this rehoming centre on a long, ten year loop, a domestic comet shaped like a people carrier, swooping into view every decade or so to pick up another rescue. And in a funny way, it’s quite reassuring to see that nothing much has changed. There’s a new roof on the kennels, a reptile facility, and – weirdly – a vegetable and fruit rack with an honesty box (today: mostly pineapples), but otherwise, it’s exactly the same.
We’d visited one other rehoming centre before this one. It was run completely differently, with a plush reception centre, smart boards playing videos of the residents on repeat, social media icons and contact details prominently displayed. It felt more like a professional matchmaking service. We were shown into an office, interviewed formally and at length, our details taken, requirements examined, expectations and experiences forensically tested, and then, after a great deal of pencil chewing and a few brisk calls on the radio, a name was picked from their list. I don’t know what it said about us, but the dog they picked was Bagel, a brindle-coloured lurcher too nervous to be introduced without a particular handler. And even then, we certainly wouldn’t be able to take him for a walk. It reminded me of that scene in Silence of the Lambs, where they wheel Anthony Hopkins out on a porter’s trolley, wearing a mask. But unfortunately, they said, Bagel’s handler was off sick, so nothing could happen that week. We said we were happy to wait, but after two weeks without any change, we reluctantly declined and said we’d be in touch.
‘So – what do you think?’ says Trudy after we give Stan back to the handler and walk past the pineapples back into reception.
‘He’s lovely,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll take him if Canal Boat Man can’t.’
‘Great,’ she says, smiling at me in a rather disconnected way and ticking a box on her clipboard. ‘We’ll put you on the list and give you a ring.’
And it may just be my relief at concluding the deal, but her hair seems to change again – just a little – to a lighter shade of turquoise.