nudges gently at my feet, still more timid than Peanut when it comes to claiming my attention but gaining in confidence by the day. When I first got him from the rescue charity, he spent most of his time hiding beneath furniture, terrified of all humans. Peanut gave him confidence though, and slowly, slowly, Treacle is coming to trust me.
I pick him up and set him next to Peanut on my lap. Then Pickwick’s internal cuddle sensor alerts him, and he trots over, demanding in his peculiar high-pitched woof to be picked up, too.
I plonk him up on my chest, having run out of lap space.
That’s when I hear it. An unearthly braying, shrieking noise. I peer over the hedge to see five donkeys being led into the adjacent field. I quickly rush back to the hooks just inside the kitchen door for the dog leads, determined not to end up spread eagled in a hedge for the second time today.
With the donkeys is a smiling brunette I assume must be Angeline. She waves at me as she makes her way around the field perimeter, inspecting fences and hedges. When she gets closer I head over to say hello, my hands clutching tightly to the leads as the dogs pull like a team of miniature huskies towards the funny braying creatures. Pickwick in particular sounds like he’s about to expire from excitement.
“Bonjour.” I smile a welcome, determined to make a better impression for my next neighbour encounter.
“Bonjour.” The woman beams and leans over the hedge to hug and kiss me, taking me by surprise.
It’s only now I realise just how much I needed a hug. Some of the tension drains out of me and I blink back tears.
“So, you’re the English girl?” She declares in faultless English once she’s released me.
“I’m English, yes, my name’s Poppy. Am I famous already?”
“It is village life.” She shrugs. “Not much changes, so when it does, it’s big news.”
“And you are Angeline, the vet?” I ask, still bowled over by the genuine warmth Angeline exudes and not sure how I feel about being “big news.”
“See, you are a villager already.” Angeline touches my arm lightly. “Do not worry. We have Dutch and English living here. I am half Belgian, so I am a foreigner, too in the eyes of the villagers.”
“And these donkeys are yours?” I eye up the donkeys prancing about the field. One has picked up a field bucket and is charging around the field with it, chasing the others who don’t seem too impressed about being butted in the hind quarters with a bucket.
“Yes, all mine.” Angeline beams. At that moment they decide to start up a loud honking braying, possibly answering the dogs back. “I move them around from field to field. They’re in demand for keeping down the grass. And are these little ones yours?”
The dogs are leaping about trying to see Angeline, so I lift them up. She makes a fuss of them. Even Treacle doesn’t shrink away. It seems we’re all enamoured with Angeline. It bodes well, given that our previous vet in England didn’t like chihuahuas and saw their fearful wriggling as bad behaviour, not fear fostered by the abuse of their previous owners.
Our last trip to the vet for booster jabs left all of us traumatised. Peanut hit the ceiling, literally. I sometimes think she must be part baby kangaroo, part flea as she can jump to incredible heights. I ended up with a scratched neck and almost had to get immunised myself. When I went to pay, the receptionist joked that it sounded like someone was being murdered in the consultation room.
Angeline’s eyes fall onto Pickwick. I catch her assessment of his crooked front legs and the too-long tongue that pokes out of his mouth on a semi-permanent basis.
I wait to see if I’ll get the “you’ve got a duffer here” comment both Gran and I have been treated to in the past from self-appointed dog experts. I might have known Angeline wouldn’t say anything of the sort. She gives him a tickle under the chin, and he preens.
To me he’s beautiful. He’s the product of bad breeders, that’s indisputable, but why should he be loved any less for his accident of birth? His differences don’t hold him back, and he bounds along like he’s got springs for paws.
“If you like, you can pop into the surgery one day and get them registered. Then I can give them all a quick once over?” Angeline asks, almost bashfully, as though worried she’ll come across as pushy, touting for business.
“Definitely.” I smile back, extremely glad I have an alternative to seeing Leo. Not that I doubt he’s a good vet, but it would definitely be awkward. The knot in my stomach twists when I think about him. I look down at the dogs, all straining to get in amongst the donkeys. “I’m going to have to do something about the fence at the bottom of the hedge. I’m worried the dogs will get in with the donkeys. It might be donkey-proof, but it’s not tiny dog-proof.”
I bite my lip as I wonder just how much it might cost to chihuahua proof all the boundaries of the property. Maybe I can do something myself with chicken wire and tent pegs. As an idea, it’s rather overwhelming.
Angeline must see something in my expression, because she lays a hand on my arm and squeezes. “It will all be okay Poppy. Do not worry.”
I get the feeling the warmth in her hazelnut brown eyes is trying to reassure me about more than just the hedge. The sun catches the natural highlights in her brunette curls. If I had to guess I’d assume she’s not much older than me, but right now she feels like the only grown up out of the two of us.
“Peanut escaped earlier,” I blurt out, needing to tell someone what’s eating at me. “She was chasing Maxi.”
“Leo’s dog?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Yes. He knocked on my door first thing this morning, front and back. He scared me half to death.”
“Ah.” Angeline nods sagely without a flicker of incredulity creasing her features.
“I mean Maxi did, not Leo,” I clarify, needing external reassurance that I’m not going mad.
“I’m not surprised.” Angeline’s smile is sad now. The emotion doesn’t seem to suit her naturally smiley face.
“Does Maxi, er, do that often?” I ask, putting the wriggling dogs back on the ground, wondering if I’m doomed to be woken at six a.m. every morning and baffled by the brevity of Angeline’s responses.
“It is not my story to tell.” Angeline’s tone is gentle. “It is complicated.”
“I’m worried I was rude to Leo. I’d had a really bad night and had only just got to sleep when Maxi woke me up.” I’m anxious Angeline will think badly of me if Leo talks to her. After all, they are colleagues.
Pete’s betrayal must have really dented my confidence. I’m not usually so concerned that everyone likes me.
“I expect he was rude to you, too.” She shrugs. I love the French shrug. It says so much so eloquently. “Don’t worry, Poppy.”
“Okay,” I reply, not convincing either of us. “He seemed really angry when I accused his dog of being like a wolf.”
“Ah,” Angeline responds, a wealth of eloquence.
“Ah,
