Do Billy and Barnaby find their way home?

A story about the role of assistance dogs in their owners’ lives, and the impact of the growing problem of dog-napping.

Billy and Barnaby

At the last minute, Julie decided that she did not want to be interviewed. She refused point-blank to let them through the front door.

I found myself on the pavement outside her bungalow.

I was surrounded by a camera crew; an officious looking director was striding about looking for the best shot angles.  We were joined by a glamorous presenter.  She tottered down the pavement in her stiletto heels. Her suit shouted designer label. She looked at me, dressed in my three-day-old dog walking clothes and my hair standing on end. I wondered what she was thinking. None of this boded well.

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What is Bob’s occupation? A tongue-in-cheek peek into the world of the doggie-mad.

Bob’s Job

There was consternation at the Canine Society committee meeting.

Bob’s annual application for a trade stand space had arrived – again.

As usual, they deliberated long and hard over his forms, looking for any loophole.

They concluded that there was no question of turning down his application. He had all the required certificates, he’d applied in good time, paid up front, he’d been coming reliably for years whilst other traders came and went.

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With lack of any written wishes a daughter does her best to organise a funeral she thinks her mother would have wanted - only to find the plans increasingly hi-jacked by a sense of the ridiculous.

Do Daisies Grow on Clouds?

I picked up the note from under the metal bed frame. Written in a shaky hand, it ended in smear of blue biro ink.

Even in her last few moments, Mum hadn’t lost her sense of comedy.

She’d had the temerity to be ill in August. Just when her GP was on holiday – as were most of the specialists she needed. Most of the available staff were newly qualified. After days of watching her suffer, a tired looking doctor appeared with the results of the tests they had run.

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This story and the characters are entirely fictional.

However, the descriptions of the disaster occurring at the end, and the factual elements surrounding such an event, are based on the author’s first-hand experience. (Thankfully there were no fatalities in her case.)

Heating the House

‘This is the one.’ Rory says.

I look more closely at it; there are many wood-burning stoves in the shop.

‘I suppose it’s quite decorative,’ I say, ‘I like the Victorian style windows in the door. They match the house, but I don’t know.’ I glance at the label, ‘It’s so expensive, and there’s something about it I don’t like.’

‘It’s made of cast iron, indestructible. Lots of the others are flimsy tin. It’ll last forever this will, just like us.’ He grins at me, then he reads the technical blurb. ‘Look at the heating output. It’s massive.’

‘I can’t explain.’ I search for the right words, ‘I’ve just got a bad feeling about it.’

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ALL AUTHOR ROYALTIES FROM THIS STORY GO TO CHARITY

Senses heightened by the death of her mother, unexplained memories fall into place for Lottie as she relives her childhood.

Royalties from this story go to a leading appropriate charity that the author has been supporting for many years.

Moonbaby

‘Darling Lottie,’ Mum smiles at me, a last lingering lopsided smile. I hold her hand, the skin is so thin, so fragile. She reaches up and touches my cheek for a final time.

‘Find her. I don’t know where she is. I don’t know what happened to her.’

‘Who d’you mean, Mum? Who d’you want me to find for you?’

She grips my hand with urgency, a last strength.

Her faded hazel eyes look at me, pleading.

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Purdy took some time to find her true vocation in life.

She eventually made it to the biggest dog show in the world, and she did it in style.

Purdy Goes to Crufts

We negotiate a rutted track to somewhere called Goatacre House. The tyres of Malcolm’s car crunch over weed-infested gravel. We park by a kennel block, doors hang half open and a lonely ivy covered wheelbarrow leans against the wall.

I begin to have misgivings. The whole place has a dilapidated air.

‘Malcolm, I know Mrs Swan-Smith sounded ok on the phone, but this place – look at it. It’s important that we get a puppy from the right place.’

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Who knows what is hidden beneath the waters of a reservoir?

A weekend watching her son windsurf helps Carrie to come to terms with her past.

Under the Surface

We pull up by the water sports centre. The old farmhouse refurbished.

Alex’s eyes are drawn to the water.

‘Oh Mum, it’s huge. There’s loads of wind. There’s Geoff, he’s coaching this weekend.’ His gaze wanders to his friends. They’re practising their latest craze, bits of coloured plastic fly into the air.

‘Oh yuk, Revolting Rich is here.’

My heart sinks. Not Sarah, this weekend of all weekends.

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