I woke up the morning after the party to find a snoring flatulent dog next to me.  I used to have a snoring flatulent boyfriend, Liam, and that’s a whole other story, but in my hungover reverie there was a horrible moment of déjà vu, because I don’t have a dog.

I would like another boyfriend, or a cat, but my landlord doesn’t allow pets. Apparently he tolerates the Burmese python belonging to the exotic dancer in the flat above, but I guess that’s a different other story.

In case you’re making a mental hair-of-the-dog observation, I should say I wasn’t completely legless. I hadn’t had nearly enough Casillo del Diblo, or whatever it’s called, to make me forget that someone brought a dog to my housewarming, but it was a fine night, the flat door was open, and he might just have wandered in.  Anyway, I had to go to work that morning, so I dragged myself upright, threw back the curtains, shielding my eyes from the sun, pulled on my ‘trackie’ bottoms and went through to forage for some breakfast.

Apart from his digestive tract the dog was personable enough, and quite clean.  He padded through behind me and enjoyed leftover falafels and pigs in blankets, while I reheated a slice of pizza and stuck a double espresso cartridge in the Lavazza.

He had no identity disc, so I posted a photo on the party’s Facebook group in hope that someone would claim him and meanwhile, for something more individual than “Dog” to call him, named him Dave.  Dave followed round the flat behind me, waited patiently outside the bathroom while I washed, and sat on the crumpled duvet at the foot of the bed while I dressed in pink tee, purple tights, non-matching legwarmers and my denim cut-off dungarees: the ones with the flower patches.

I couldn’t leave him in the flat, so I tied a bit of line to his collar, pulled on my roller boots and rainbow beanie, and we set off for the park where I litter pick every second day, and fill in assisting the pre-school playleader.

Dave seemed to know the way, so it was an exhilarating tow, red plaits flying in the wind, and ‘Deep Forest’ pumping through my headphones. Being downwind of a plume of falafel fuelled exhaust wasa bit distracting, so I was glad to tie Dave to a bench and fix my wind-streaked mascara before I set to, rolling round the park with my picker and bin liner.

It was a messy day.  I had to empty my bag twice before my first break, and my late start meant that elevenses was more like lunch time.  I grabbed a Jamaican vegan pattie from the ‘I and I Rastafari Trike’, by the park gates, and rolled back to share it with Dave.  He was not alone.

I slewed to a halt by a man who was talking to Dave and gently stroking his head while Dave, staring into his eyes, was so in love that he didn’t even notice me or the pattie.

“Oh, is this your dog?  I thought he’d been abandoned, no disc, tied up like he is.  It happens a lot round here.  Cost of living pressures, post-covid puppy, people chucking dogs out.  He seems sweet, so I’m glad he’s not alone.”

I sat on the bench.  The man stopped stroking, and offered me his hand to shake.  I took it, embarrassingly holding on for slightly too long, and Dave started nudging at our clasped hands with his nose for more attention.

“I’m David, most people call me Dave, but I prefer David.  I work at the animal shelter on the other side of the park.  I think I’ve seen you at the pre-school sometimes, when I’ve been dropping off my daughter. What’s your name?”

“Maggie” I said, “Margaret really, but I prefer Maggie.” 

“Spooky!  My ex-wife was called Margaret.  What’s your dog called?  By the way you really should get him an identity disc.”

I thought, “Oh God, I can’t tell him I called him Dave.”  I babbled. 

“He’s not mine really I just found him in my bed and I’m just looking after him for a bit in my flat but I’m not allowed to keep him ‘cos the landlord only likes snakes and he doesn’t have a name so I call him Dog, the dog that is not the landlord, the landlord has a name of course but I don’t know what it is ‘cos he never comes round and I’ve only just moved in without my boyfriend.”

I breathed, we both laughed, and I flushed like an idiotic schoolgirl, but it was nice.

“Well, if Dog is chipped, that should give you the last owner.  Why not bring him over to the shelter, we have a chip reader, let’s see if we can find his home.  And, by the way, I don’t think ethnic fast food is right for him.  It’ll probably make him fart big time.  I can advise on his feeding, but I have to get back just now so, tomorrow, Maggie.  Yes?”

And it was Yes,

and Yes,

and we did,

then “I do”. 

Dave the Dog became Lentil, but that’s a whole other story too.