Making my Way Back to You

Making my way back to you

‘Shut the Door.’

How many times had she yelled that over the last two weeks? She smiled as the two boisterous nine year olds came hurtling into the house.

‘Can we have a snack and a drink please, Mum, we're starving,’ it was Mark’s, usual greeting.

‘Um,’ Carl backed up ‘My mum won’t give us owt and ses we've eaten her out of house `an home’

She grinned at the lads as she busied herself making a future pile of washing up before she’d even started on the evening meal. It's true what they say, she mused, lads do only stop eating long enough to give cheek.

She was thrilled that Mark had found a friend. They’d been here for four months and the natives were luke warm at best. Mark had met Carl two weeks ago when he’d been walking Jinny. The two lads had become inseparable and Sally had made friends with Val, Carl's mum.

But, sod’s law saw things going well and intervened. That weekend Val and Carl were moving house and going half way across the country.
The pair of lovable reprobates wolfed down their roast chicken and sweet corn sandwiches—vegetables disguised in thick bread and mayonnaise, one point to Mum—munched happily on melting chocolate biscuits and guzzled half a litre of juice. They scraped their chairs back from the table and Mark announced, at jacked decibel level, that they were going out.

‘Not before you wash your hands and faces you're not.’

The lads swapped that long-suffering, Oh, why were we inflicted with a nasty rash of mothers, look and grudgingly slouched over to the sink. Their aversion to soap and water apparent as they fell into competition to see who could become clean enough to satisfy Attilla the Mum, while actually using the least amount of soap and remaining as dry as possible.

The water not only didn't dampen their faces, but it left their spirits untouched, too and soon they were battling for position as they ran headlong down the hall to the front door.

‘Shut the door behind you, please, boys.’

The bellow, like a cow in labour, was almost a reflex action. They lived on a main road, the garden improperly fenced until the funds could be found to get the work done. Mark had been coached over the months to shut the door behind him to keep the dog from making an untimely bid for freedom.

She winced as she heard the resounding slam of the door as they blasted down the drive. She turned to the minor mountain of pots in the sink.

Footsteps pounded back down the hall.

‘Mark ses, can we have the Super Soaker out, please, Sue.’ Carl had been sent in to ask, figuring that they were more likely to get a positive response for him.

Later, Sue recalled the next two minutes in a series of bullet points.

Mark’s face at the patio doors.

Smiling.

Carl grabbing the water gun and yelling to Mark before he even got outside.

Two boys bustling and shoving as they went down the back garden to Carl's house.

The were gone.

A sickening screech of brakes.

Tyres, screeching, braced for traction on the busy main road.

Standing in the dining room...Knowing.
A numb second.

The last moment of quiet.

A second of wishing she didn't have to go, didn't have to move, didn't have to leave this calming silence.

Running.

Running full pelt through the house.

Down the drive.

Straight into the road.

The man standing by the open car door shaking his head.

‘It just came from nowhere.’

The lady with him already weeping loud tears, hiding her face in her hands.

Kneeling to pick up my soft, sleek, bundle. Got to get rid of them these murdering, apologetic, innocent, strangers. Got to make them go.

‘I'm a nurse,’ Sue said.

Small, mirthless laugh.

‘She’s fine. It’s not serious. She's just in shock. Few minor bumps. I'll get the vet. No please don't feel ... It was entirely my fault. Please don't worry. She'll be okay, now.’

Spouting rubbish to get rid of them.

Half way back up the drive with the floppy body in my arms.

Forced to take their phone number. Promise to ring later.

‘Yes, I promise, yes, yes, of course I'll let you know.’

Now just fuck off and let me grieve.

Sanctuary.

Don’t have to pretend anymore.

Laying the dying dog gently on the bed in the downstairs bedroom.

Staring at the blood dripping from her soiled hands. Ring the vet.

Blood stained receiver.

‘Please hurry.’

Lying on the bed. Cradling the dog. Respiration's so weak. Head loose, held steady against her breast.

Respiration still.

‘No, oh please God. No.’

Laying her flat on the bed. Head to the dogs breast, watch for a rising chest. Listen for the slightest wheeze of air. Face to snout. Waiting to feel the coolness of air.

Nothing.

Tilting the head, pulling forward the protruding tongue. finger swipe of the mouth.

Blood, so much blood.

Turn her head to the side. Intake of air. Cover the whole of Jinny's snout and mouth with her own mouth. A deep, steady exhalation into the dog. Breathe Oxygen into Jinny, feel the lungs inflate. Spit a mouthful of blood onto the cream bedroom carpet. Move from the dead mouth. Place her left hand, palm down, over the right and lacing her fingers. Where? Where the hell to compress.
Just below the sternum, come on girl, think, think, not too hard, easy as if she were a child, not too much force.

Hands entwined on the still-warm, silky, underside of her limp dog.

Fifteen rapid compressions and then back the mouth for one steady respiration.

Stop.

Look.

Listen.

Repeat.

Five minutes.

Six.

The heart isn't going to start. Doesn't matter. Don't worry. Just keep oxygen flowing to the brain. Keep the body working.

Where’s the bloody vet.

Blue shirt, stethoscope. Cough, sorry, cough, heavy traffic, got here as soon as I could.

Shaking head.

‘ She’s gone. Forty eight pounds, please. Sorry for your loss,’

Tempted to drop the money to the floor and watch the parasite scramble for it. He never even touched Jinny. Never even tried.

Dinner burned black

House smells of charred remains. Jinny wrapped in a sheet in the shed.

Mark had been through such a difficult couple of years, the divorce, being abandoned by his father. Always moving house.

Moving.

Moving.

Moving.

Trying to settle, trying to find home.

Too much for him to cope with. Can't tell him the truth but never lied to him before.

The lads pound in.

‘Wheres Jinny?’

Truth. Lie. Tick Tock.

Truth. Lie. Tick Tock.

Too long a pause. Answer him. Answer him dammit.

Can hardly stand to look at Carl. So innocent so unaware. Feel the anger welling up, rising like bile in her throat. Swallow it down. Only a child.
He's only a child.

‘Mum,’fear whining through the word. Need reassurance.

‘Mum, where’s Jinny.’

Holding his hand. Guiding him to the stairs. Sitting pulling him into the protective circle of her arm. Carl flanking her on the other side and leans in to be cuddled, too. Sensing something bad. Two scared little boys.

Wanting to push the other child away. Stamps down hard on the urge. Just a child. Stop blaming him.

Wrapping an arm round each of them and drawing Carl down onto the stairs beside her, too.

Adopting silly voice.

‘Well lads, that Jinny's been a silly billy, she's had a right adventure. You'll never believe what she's gone and done. I left the front door open, didn't I?’

Fighting back tears, keep smiling for Mark.

‘Oh, Mum’

‘I know, I'm a Dunderklunken….,’ our made up word.

Two pairs of nine year old eyes, still frightened, but hopeful, trusting, it was going to be okay, Mum goofing around so it can't be serious.

‘...Anyway she ran out into the road, thought she was Super Dog, and she ran into a car outside. It’s nothing to worry about, just a sore leg but she's had to go to the vets, and she'll be staying for a day or two until she's better.’

A little tear or two from Mark, and then a big watery smile, after more assurances that she’d be all right.

‘She'll be all right.’ Carl the voice of experience. ‘My dad stood on my dogs foot `an she didn't die, or nuffink, come on lets play dustbin men.’

Enough to take on board for now. In a few days after he’d coped with losing Carl, that would be soon enough to tell him about the plans to re-home
Jinny for her own safety. How she'd be going to a farm with lots of fields and open places to play.

Doggie heaven… just a little slice of Doggie heaven on earth.

Pseudo Party atmosphere.

A second meal thrown together in shock.

Laughing too loudly.

Swallowing down the glob of emotion.

Laughing loud.

Trying not to think about the blood on her bed, staining the bedroom carpet.

Wanting to slide down a wall and let out the force of emotion that was suffocating her.

Mark asleep.

Said a prayer to get Jinny better soon. Catholic education.

Cool in the garden, the moon bearing witness.

She's stiff and unyielding as Sue lays her beneath the roses.

Sitting at the dining table. Collar smelling of leather and Jinny, Name tag proclaiming the beloved name.

Half a bottle of Vodka, its level receding as tears increase.

Sunday night, lying in bed.

Tossing and turning.

Mark upset his new friend gone.

Too many times asking when Jinny would be home.
Tomorrow, after school, she'd tell him Jinny’s gone to the farm.

A scratch at the door.

Another, urgent, insistent, scrabbling to get in.
A yap.

Dreaming. Just dreaming.

Moving in a trance to the door. Knowing who was at the other side.

She came in thinner, collarless and hungry.

For the rest of her days she walked with a limp but she was the same old Jinny. Still went mad if you said, ‘Risk it for a biscuit,’ or, ‘Ta ta's,’ Still gave high fives with the grace and elegance of a ballerina. Still deigned to give Sue three inches of the bed as she lay beside her. The only difference was the grudging respect she had gained for the road outside the house, realizing, that she’s not Super Dog.

Sue had laid her in the ground herself. Could a little boy’s prayer mean so much to a hard God?

Years later they talked about digging up the Rose beds. Mark said he'd do it in summer break from college, build a conservatory there. Sal said that she liked the roses, but maybe it's just that she was scared of what she'd find under there..

Or perhaps what she wouldn't find.