‘Bloody hell, Scott. That’s a big dog.’
I’m holding a bag of cheese cubes. Greyhounds that come straight from the race track struggle with stairs. Stinky treats are recommended to lure them up.
A volunteer from the charity walks over to greet us. She’s wearing a raincoat, despite the dry day. ‘This is Abbey.’ She hands Scott the rainbow-coloured lead. Abbey’s fur is light brown with black tiger stripes. ‘Here’s her muzzle and raincoat.’ She passes them to me. ‘Her food.’ She dumps a bag of kibble by our feet. ‘Okay, that’s youse. Cheery bye.’
‘Wait, what? What if we can’t get her up the stairs?’ The woman is already back in her car, buckling her seatbelt.
‘Um, treats?’ And she’s gone.
There are 52 steps up to our flat.
Abbey’s dragging Scott around, exploring with her long snout. Near a patch of forget-me-nots, she squats down to pee, her thin legs protruding awkwardly. Each paw has a white splodge of fur.
She really is a big dog.
‘Best get it over with.’ Scott opens the tenement door. Abbey trots past us. Her chest is muscular. She’s gently wagging her tail. One flight, two flights. She leads us upstairs. Then she’s outside our front door, waiting to be let in. We laugh in disbelief.
We’d only agreed to foster Abbey. It was a challenge as she transitioned from living in a kennel to a home. Grudgingly, my mornings now begin at 5am. I still intended to join the failed fosterer club, though.
Scott comes into the lounge, zipping up his coat. ‘That’s me. Enjoy your girls night in.’ He leans down and kisses me. ‘Good luck bribing her onto the sofa.’
Nestled amongst duvets and cushions in our hallway, Abbey’s tail is tap, tap, tapping the floor as she sleeps.
The delivery driver buzzes and wakes Abbey. She sniffs. The flat smells like my Chinese food.
This is my moment.
I settle onto the sofa and hold out a prawn cracker. Desperate for the seafood snack she comes into the lounge, climbs onto the sofa and settles down. Success. Before she can escape I wrap her in a tartan blanket. Alert, her small eyes keep darting between the bag of crackers and me.
I massage behind Abbey’s ears. Groaning, she pushes her head against my fingers for more. Abbey loves ear rubs, I report back to the rehoming charity. Abbey’s forever home should know this.
The next day we’re running late. ‘Scott, she’s crying!’ I’m standing outside our front door. Soft whines come from inside.
‘Why are you smiling?’ Scott was already heading downstairs.
‘Because she misses us.’ My eyes begin to water. ‘You know that greyhound on YouTube I obsess over? He had separation anxiety. I know exactly what we need to do.’
I explain how we have to ignore her whenever we leave and return home. ‘She needs to learn that us coming and going isn’t a big deal.’
When we arrive back that afternoon, Abbey is a blur of brindle, dancing between me and Scott. I catch glimpses of the faded tattoos inside her ears. A permanent reminder of her brutal background on the race track. I want to rub behind her ears.
‘Don’t pet her!’ Scott says. I roll my eyes, but I was close.
Later that evening Abbey comes and leans against my legs. She turns her head to stare back at me. Her eyes are deep walnut and unblinking. We stay there, eyes locked.
I’d read that when a dog leans against you it means they’re hugging you. At the time, I’d scoffed. Now, I hope it’s true.
A month later the charity ask if we want to keep Abbey. I say we’re still undecided.
‘Look out the window!’ Scott’s shouting down the phone. I put my book down and walk over to the window. There’s an old car driving up our street. It’s so faded I can’t tell what colour it is. Even from this height I can see the rust.
‘It’s for Abbey!’
When I get downstairs, Scott’s poking around the engine, a giant grin across his face. ‘It was really cheap. The backseat has a massive tear in the fabric, so it doesn’t matter if Abbey rips it.’ He’s very excited.
‘Scott, it looks like a gangster car from a bad 80s movie.’
‘I know, right.’ He laughs. ‘She’ll have so much space.’ He’s climbing into the backseat, lying horizontally to demonstrate all the room.
‘Does this mean we’re adopting Abbey?’
Over four years we found our rhythm. She no longer lunges at every squirrel and mornings now begin at 10am, by her choice. Whenever I order a takeaway alone, Abbey will patiently sit on the sofa for her prawn cracker.
Come look, I message Scott. I’m in bed and put a finger to my lips when he comes in. Abbey’s slender body is against mine. My thigh is her pillow.
‘Remember when she’d get off the bed if I got on at the same time? Ridiculous.’ I trace the now-greying stripes around her ears. Her lips flutter with each deep breath.
‘Love you, pumpkin.’ She snores.
When a photographer comes to get shots for my business, Abbey crashes the photoshoot. Of the finished photographs, the two with Abbey are my favourite. I’ve crouched down beside her, secateurs and hellebores in one hand, the other scratching her ear. My mouth is wide with laughter.
The lilacs were in bloom when Abbey died. The vets found a mass on her liver. She survived surgery, but never came home. In the recovery room we held her close, whispering our love into her silky ears as she fell asleep.
Outside the vets the M8 roared, tiny tin cars, as insignificant as ants, passed whilst I howled into Scott’s arms.
Her five beds still furnish our flat. The rainbow-striped lead hangs on its hook.
We have to choose an urn.
‘That one?’ Scott points at a greyhound-shaped urn. It’s 40cm.
‘Bloody hell, that's massive. Let’s get it.’