While we were away, the middle one took the dog to its grooming appointment. When the dog returned shorn, the cat concluded, not for the first time, that this was a different dog altogether, and spent the next 24 hours living in a tree.
“But then it was fine,” the middle one says, the day after we get back.
“Stupid cat,” I say.
“How was Spain?” he says.
“Great,” I say. “I wish I was still there, like my luggage.”
“Have they not found it?” he says.
“No,” my wife says. “But I now have a Property Irregularity Report number.”
“One for each bag?” I say.
“No. One number, two bags.”
The dog wobbles in, sad-eyed and close-cropped, shaved ears drooping unevenly.
“You look like some kind of house elf,” I say. The dog snorts and loses its footing on the wooden floor.
“Don’t be mean,” my wife says. “I’m going out. Do you need anything?”
“Toothpaste,” I say. “And a toothbrush. Socks, underwear, shirts, trousers, the book I was reading …”
Later that afternoon I hear my wife making arrangements to see a litter of puppies in Wiltshire. I wait until she is off the phone to present myself.
“Their labrador was on heat, so they had it shut in the kitchen,” she says. “But then some kind of terrier got in through the cat flap.”
“It’s a story as old as time,” I say.
“So who knows how they’ll turn out,” she says, “but I’m to going see them next week.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“You disapprove,” she says.
“It’s just that our dog is still alive,” I say, pointing.
“It’s good to have an overlap,” my wife says.
“I was thinking more in terms of a healthy gap,” I say. “A year, or two.”
“Anyway,” she says, “a puppy will give her a new lease of life.”
“A new lease of life?” I say. “Is that advisable?”
“I’m just going to look,” she says. I know what this means: in the past I’ve heard it said about kittens, sofas, large decorative wall hangings and, on one regrettable occasion, a secondhand estate car of dubious provenance. It means we’re getting a puppy.
The next day I go to a longstanding hygienist’s appointment dressed in the sort of clothes one normally reserves for an overdue laundry day.
“How are things?” the hygienist asks. I’m about to tell her about my missing luggage, the puppy I’m getting, even the terrier getting through the cat flap, when I realise she means things gum-related.
“Fine,” I say.
As she sticks a prong between my upper left molars and sighs in a way that suggests things are far from fine gum-wise, I think about the future for the cat. An animal that is incapable of recognising a dog with a haircut is about to have its worst fears confirmed: an altogether different dog really is coming, possibly a giant terrier, or maybe a labrador that can fit through a cat flap.
I am still preoccupied by this when I realises the hygienist is admonishing me as I rinse.
“So, as we always say, only floss the ones you want to keep,” she says.
“OK, I’ll do those,” I say. “Oh, wait, I get it – all of them.”
“Yeah,” she says, not smiling.
When I get home I realise I don’t have my keys so I ring the bell. My wife opens the door. Behind her, at the foot of the stairs, is my bag, its airline tag still threaded through the handle.
“Oh great,” I say. “That was fast.” My wife raises an eyebrow and inclines her head slightly, to indicate that I am overlooking something.
“Ah,” I say. “It’s just my bag, not yours.” My wife nods.
“Your bag is still missing,” I say.
“They have no idea where it is,” she says.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I say, but I’m thinking: toothbrush, underwear, book-I’m-reading, socks.
The cat walks up to me and miaows. The dog, belatedly sensing my presence, runs from the kitchen into the hall and out the open front door. At the gate it turns, runs back in and hares through the kitchen into the back garden. From where I’m standing I can just see the dog turning again as it prepares to run back in my direction.
“A new lease of life,” I say. “No additional dog required.”
“I’m just going to look,” my wife says.
