was in the garden with Adam.
On my side, in the middle of the grass, loving the sun and the warm breeze. With my ear to the ground I could pick up, deep below, the gentle pulse of the earth. Paa-dah. Paa-dah. Paa-dah.
Adam did not hear the sounds of the earth. He was in the middle of wrestling with a rosebush. And, even though he was armed with metal snippers, the rosebush clearly had the upper hand.
‘Agh. Shit. Jesus. Agh. Bloody. Christ,’ he said as thorned stems took the necessary defensive action. Eventually, although a few snips had been successful, he stood back and admitted defeat.
‘I don’t know, boy, I don’t know,’ he told me, drying his brow with the back of a gloved hand. One quick, squinted look towards the sun and then he was back, bending down and grappling with softer targets.
Snip, snip, snip.
Making sure Nature knew her place.
retrieval
Later, when the darkness came, Adam took me for my evening walk.
The park was full of teenage humans, sitting on the wall. They did this every week; they just came and sat.
Adam didn’t get too close. He had taught some of them at school and I think he preferred not to be recognised. So he stuck to the other side of the park, looking for sticks.
I saw one before he did, of suitable length, and used my nose to draw attention. He smiled, faintly, and stroked the back of my neck as he picked it up.
‘OK, Prince. OK.’
After a couple of dummy-throws, he swung his arm above his shoulder and released the stick. I started to run, fast, as it flew through the air, up towards the sky. As I ran, I watched it all the way, even when flowers hit my chest, watching, waiting for it to reach the highest point, where it paused, motionless, before heading back down – fast, faster – until it met the ground in front of me with an awkward bounce. Before it came to rest, the stick was between my teeth, and I was jogging back towards Adam, triumphant.
We then went through the cycle two more times. Throw. Catch. Retrieve. Throw. Catch. Retrieve. Both of us gaining equal pleasure in the activity. For me it was about the retrieval, the sense of satisfaction it gave me to bring things back. To be able to start again. The pattern of it. The repetition. For Adam, though, it was always about the throw itself. About letting go.
Midway through the fourth cycle, just as the stick bounced, someone shouted. I didn’t pick up the word at first, and neither did Adam, so we moved closer to the park wall.
Seeing us coming, one of the teenagers, a boy, stood up.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Adam. ‘I misheard. What did you just call me?’
‘Wanker. I called you a wanker.’ And then, after a quick, courage-fuelling glance at one of his friends, he added: ‘Sir’.
The teenagers laughed, their heads now angled towards the ground.
‘That’s very funny. I’m surprised the careers adviser didn’t tell you to become a stand-up comedian.’
‘Whatever.’ The boy sucked hard on his cigarette. ‘But that’s the thing, now I’m not at school I don’t have to put up with all your shit.’
‘Yes, I’m sure that must be very liberating for you.’
‘Fuck off, sir.’
He spat, marking his territory.
I went over to sniff him. He smelt of damaged skin. He was injured under his clothes.
‘Oh look, he’s set his dog on you,’ said another boy, from behind a cupped hand.
I growled.
‘Ooh, I’m shitting myself. Help! Help!’
More laughing.
‘Come here, Prince.’
I returned to Adam, on his command. He grabbed my collar and clipped on my lead, before walking me out of the park. As we started to cross the road I sensed something, behind.
I turned to see a bottle flying through the air. It smashed close to my paws, sending irretrievable splinters of glass in a thousand directions. Adam jumped, afraid.
Again, the teenagers laughed.
‘Wanker!’ the boy shouted one final time before we turned the corner.
‘It’s all right, boy,’ Adam assured me. ‘It’s all right.’
powder
Hal was pouring his white powder into a glass and filling it with water. He was in his pyjamas, as he had been for the past few days.
‘Mum’s still at the hospital,’ he told Adam, without being asked.
‘Oh,’ said Adam. ‘And Lottie?’
‘Yeah, she’s back. Sarah’s mum dropped her off. She’s upstairs.’
Adam started to tell Hal about the smashed bottle, but before he had time to complete the story, Hal leant forward clutching his stomach. He then turned, and moved quickly towards the downstairs bathroom. Ill-smells lingered.
Adam went to watch TV.
I followed him and, as Kate still wasn’t back, curled up by his side on the settee.
He stroked my head as he flicked through the channels, past dogs playing the piano and cats dancing.
Hal returned from the toilet, still clutching his stomach.
‘How was it?’ Adam asked him.
‘Still the same.’
‘Oh dear.’
Charlotte was coming down the stairs. She had left her bedroom door open, to let her music filter through. Adam and Hal didn’t say anything as she entered. Charlotte seemed to have a new look.
‘All right, shitpants?’ she said to her brother.
‘Don’t talk like that,’ said Adam.
‘Why? That’s what he is, isn’t it?’
‘He’s got diarrhoea. He feels very poorly. And what has happened to your face? You look like Death.’
‘It’s make-up.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ Hal said with mock-reassurance one hand still on his stomach. ‘She’s thirteen. She’s lost and confused. She needs to experiment with different identities. Last week Britney, this week Marilyn Manson. We should try and be there for –’ He clutched his stomach and made a sound to indicate he was in pain.
‘Piss
