When Rose opens a cupboard door, I smell wafts of joyful laughter, roses, ripe tomatoes and rich earthy smells. I wonder if this might have been Aunt Kay, as her scent is faint, and scents fade with time. However, the kitchen’s surfaces hold a lot of stories. From the scratched skirting boards I pick up a whiff of Legless the Dachshund, mostly washed away after many years of mopping. A farmhouse oak table has deep gouges and is marked with ink, from a time when this house was full of children. The only thing that seems new is the washing machine that’s winking its red light, stuffed full of clean washing waiting to be hung up to dry.
‘How much should I give you?’ Rose asks, peering into an open tin of meaty goodness. ‘Never had a dog as big as you, Monty.’
How much? All of it!
She looks down at me and I lick my lips. She shrugs.
‘All of it, I guess.’
We’re really bonding!
She scoops out the gooey yumminess into a bowl, adds a white tablet, then places the bowl on the floor. She is surprised when I wait for the command.
‘It’s okay. Eat it.’
I wolf down my meal fast because you never know when another dog will turn up. I then lick the bowl until I swear I can taste the ceramic glaze. Rose hangs her washing up on the garden line strung up between two trees and I help by stealing socks so she has to chase me to get them back. What fun! When the last sock is coerced from my mouth, Rose is breathless and laughing. She gets me in a playful head lock.
‘You’re naughty, but you’ve cheered me up no end.’
Glad to be of service!
Now to focus on her meal. She chops chicken breast and some vegetables. I breathe in the delicious sweet fleshiness of chicken sizzling in a wok and look up at her, eyes wide with hope. Her mobile rings just as I have her in my hypnotic gaze. Damn! I swear she was about to give me some.
Rose peers at the phone’s screen and looks relieved. At least it’s not the shouting man again. Instead, oinking noises are coming from the phone.
‘Mum, that’s never been funny,’ Rose sighs.
Is her mother a pig? Surely not?
‘Come on dear, what do you expect? You’ve joined the pigs.’ Another oink.
I haven’t seen Rose with a single pig so I have no idea what the crazy woman is talking about.
Rose’s voice falters. ‘Maybe not for much longer.’
‘That’s wonderful news! I can’t wait to tell your father.’
‘No it’s not, Mum! I love what I do. But I’ve ruined a surveillance operation and my boss thinks I’m a blithering idiot. Can’t say I blame him.’
Her heartbeat is up, her pale face flushed like sunburn. I nuzzle her leg.
‘Don’t you let those bastards bully you. I know what they’re capable of, remember. I’ve been on the receiving end of their brutality.’
Rose rolls her eyes. ‘Give it a rest, mum. You’ve never even been arrested.’
The succulent meaty smell is too much. Two long strands of my drool are competing to reach the floor first. But because I tilt my head, one stalactite of saliva lands on Rose’s knee.
‘Oh, Monty,’ she says, wiping it away with paper towel.
‘So you have a boyfriend? I was beginning to wonder if there was any hope.’
‘Monty’s a dog.’ She lets go of the spatula and strokes my head.
A big sigh from the pig. ‘Why aren’t I surprised! You know, Allen still asks after you.’
‘He has bad breath and doesn’t wear deodorant.’
‘Well, at least he has a conscience.’
The chicken is burning. This is terrible. I nudge her hand.
‘Mum, gotta go. Just serving dinner. I’ll call soon.’
She serves her meal and eats at the table. I lie at her feet and keep an eye out for any titbits she might drop by mistake. As we say, If it’s on the ground, it belongs to the hound. But Rose is a tidy eater. Next time I’ll be upping the cute factor and begging. Paddy always used to give me a little piece at the very end of his meal. Except when he ate curry. He used to say that curry made my farts smell like cow dung, which didn’t seem a problem to me but made Paddy screw up his nose and make Phwoar noises.
As Rose works at her laptop, I lie at her feet. I hear claws scratching wood and see a squirrel peering in through the kitchen window. It stretches out a claw and taps a Neighbourhood Watch sticker on the glass. I lift my head and it bolts. What a strange little fellow! Distracted, I almost miss a photo of my beloved Paddy in a scientific journal Rose is reading. He’s looking mighty fine in his best suit. I love the way his eyebrows and moustache are dark, but his beard and hair are almost white. I guess it’s the equivalent of a dog’s muzzle going white with age. The corners of his eyes are full of wrinkles because he smiles a lot and his eyes are a rich brown and welcoming like hot chocolate. I hear a whimper and realise it’s me. Rose looks down and strokes my head. It’s very soothing. The photo disappears from her screen but his face stays with me.
I imagine Paddy’s house all dark and lifeless, and my doggie duvet near the back door, complete with a very grubby, and therefore exactly-how-I-like-it, fluffy yellow duck. It pongs to perfection. Once, Paddy placed my manky friend in the washing machine. It was a front loader, so just in time I snatched it away and hid it behind some hollyhocks. Even worse, every now and again, Paddy would insist on washing my doggie duvet cover. We’d argue over it, as I held one end in my jaws and Paddy hung on to the other. Of course, Paddy was the boss so I’d let go eventually, but I could never understand why he’d want to wash away my blissful cocktail of stink. Let me explain.
My bed is an aromatic archive of my adventures, places I’ve been, animals and people I’ve met, and even old bones I’ve chewed. Ah, those bones! Most important of all, it’s a heady history of Paddy himself. Every time he touched my bed, he left his loving scent, as well as details of where he’d been, who he’d touched and what he’d eaten. My short-term memory is as sharp as a puppy’s canines. But, my long-term memory is as poor as a where-the-hell-did-I-put-my-nuts squirrel. So, my bed holds my long-term memories for me, which means I can revisit them whenever I wish. All it takes is a quick snuffle. Wash my bed and you wash away all those fond recollections – gone forever. The result? Olfactory amnesia. Very distressing. How I long to bury my nose in my doggie duvet and inhale all those happy times.
‘Goodnight, Monty,’ Rose says, startling me.
I open my eyes to find she has created a makeshift bed of cushions.
‘I’ll collect your old bed as soon as I can,’ she says. ‘This’ll have to do for now.’
I sniff the cushions and jerk my head back. Lavender, moth balls and sickness and … oh dear. Someone was once very ill in this house. And sad. Sadness has a scent too; it’s like decaying rose petals.
