With a small plastic bag full of poo in one hand and a limp, soggy lead in the other, Joe stood in the soul-sapping drizzle as the pink anoraked woman beside him droned on about her grandson.
“He’s a lovely boy, really,” insisted Mrs Duffield. “He just shouldn’t be allowed near knives. Or Spurs fans. Especially not at the same time.”
Joe bit his tongue and made as non-committal a noise as he could manage. This hadn’t been the plan. At his feet, Gertie was sniffing the bottom of Mrs Duffield’s labrador. Dogs were a bit like magnets, Joe always thought. Opposite ends attract.
“Oh look,” laughed Mrs Duffield. “Dirty Gertie.”
She always gave a raspy, gurgling laugh after saying Dirty Gertie, as if it were the first time she’d ever said it. Joe didn’t even bother smiling these days.
Withdrawing into the hood of his Parka to prevent any further engagement, Joe mumbled, “Must be be going,” dragged Gertie away from the labrador and splashed off down the muddy path.
Calling his waddling mutt Gertie had seemed like a good idea at the time – giving a bruiser of a dog such a girlie name would be cute, right? Women would love it, yeah?
Of course, the original plan had been to actually find a cute dog, not one that looked like a Tasmanian devil crossed with the Predator. That plan had fallen at the first hurdle when all the RSPCA home had to offer were about a hundred Staffies or associated crosses, a scabby collie and an lurcher with a leaky bladder. So a Staffie-cross it had to be. And Gertie had a certain charm.
“Look at those eager eyes,” cooed the young RSPCA volunteer. “They’re saying, ‘You look nice – please take me home!”
What they were actually saying, Joe realised a short time later, was, “You look like a sucker – please let me shred your £120 Nike Lunars to bits.”
But Joe persevered with his plan. His plan being that Gertie was his key to meeting girls. It was that or Tinder. He’d seen plenty of girls walking dogs in the park near his flat. They loved cooing over other people’s pooches. Gertie was going to be Joe’s ice-breaker.
The plan wasn’t working. Most of the women Joe met on his walks with Gertie would scoop up their designer dogs – pugs, chihuahuas, French bulldogs – as soon as they saw Gertie and hurriedly scurry past with suspicious looks in their eyes. Or just change direction.
A few of them had “proper” dogs, as Joe called them – collies, labs, lurchers; things that actually had snouts and in-proportion legs – who didn’t regard Gertie as the enemy. He tried his best to make eye contact with these owners, but rarely received more than a few civil nods in return.
Finally, one day, he thought he was making progress with a Polish-sounding lass with an excitable retriever that actually seemed to be getting along with Gertie.
They swapped funny stories about their dogs. The girl said Gertie had lovely markings. Joe said her dog was fast. She said her dog liked the wind in his nose. Joe said he wouldn’t like Gertie’s wind in his nose. She laughed. This was going well.
“Does he stick his nose out of the car window when you’re driving?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said the girl. “Why do dogs like that?”
“My theory,” said Joe, “is that because dogs have a super sensitive sense of smell, for them it’s like all the smells in the air being concentrated into one super rush up their noses – it’s like their version of crack cocaine.”
The girl looked at him very oddly. She called her dog over, mumbled goodbye and walked off.
Joe was telling he mates about this encounter in the pub a few nights later. They couldn’t understand what he’d said wrong either, though the general opinion was that Joe’s main problem was his aura of desperation. And that he never bought his round. This last bit was untrue but he took the hint.
Waiting at the bar, he was roused from his self-absorbed funk by an unexpected female voice. “I like your T-shirt.” Next to him at the bar was a dark-eyed girl with dyed blue hair and a gothy taste in clothes. Joe unhunched his shoulders.
“Um, it’s not a band,” he mumbled.
“I know,” she replied with an adorable grin. “Westworld. The sci-fi show. Maeve is the coolest.”
Did Joe just hear a click?
They laughed at each other’s jokes. They bonded over geeky films. They didn’t agree on music but she hated Coldplay so that wasn’t a deal-breaker. Joe began to wonder if he were dreaming. And then…
“Wanna to see a pic of my dog?” said Joe swiping away at this phone, then thrusting it into her face.
“Oh,” said the girl unenthusiastically. “She’s, um, nice…”
“Don’t you like dogs?” asked Joe.
“It’s not that,” she replied. “I’m allergic to them.”
“Er, well, she’s not my dog anyway,” improvised Joe hurriedly. “She’s my mate’s. She’ll be going back next week. And I never let her sleep in the bed so…” He trailed off, and died a little bit inside. Bed! Oh god, did he really say bed?
She laughed. A bit embarrassed. Crucially, though, she didn’t pack her bags.
Maybe she actually liked him.
They chatted a while longer. They swapped phone numbers. They took ages saying goodbye.
Joe spent the bus journey home looking at the new phone number on his phone, buzzing at the encounter, feeling like a teenager again. “Sorry Gertie,” he thought, “you’re going to have to go.”
When he opened the door to his house, a little furry bundle of energy barked a hearty welcome home. Her stumpy tail wagged so fast she looked like her backside was going to fall off. Two huge brown eyes peered eagerly up at him.
Later that night, with Gertie walked, fed and curled up beside him on the sofa, Joe idly scratched his dog between the ears with one hand and deleted the girl’s number from his phone with the other.
“He’s a lovely boy, really,” insisted Mrs Duffield. “He just shouldn’t be allowed near knives. Or Spurs fans. Especially not at the same time.”
Joe bit his tongue and made as non-committal a noise as he could manage. This hadn’t been the plan. At his feet, Gertie was sniffing the bottom of Mrs Duffield’s labrador. Dogs were a bit like magnets, Joe always thought. Opposite ends attract.
“Oh look,” laughed Mrs Duffield. “Dirty Gertie.”
She always gave a raspy, gurgling laugh after saying Dirty Gertie, as if it were the first time she’d ever said it. Joe didn’t even bother smiling these days.
Withdrawing into the hood of his Parka to prevent any further engagement, Joe mumbled, “Must be be going,” dragged Gertie away from the labrador and splashed off down the muddy path.
Calling his waddling mutt Gertie had seemed like a good idea at the time – giving a bruiser of a dog such a girlie name would be cute, right? Women would love it, yeah?
Of course, the original plan had been to actually find a cute dog, not one that looked like a Tasmanian devil crossed with the Predator. That plan had fallen at the first hurdle when all the RSPCA home had to offer were about a hundred Staffies or associated crosses, a scabby collie and an lurcher with a leaky bladder. So a Staffie-cross it had to be. And Gertie had a certain charm.
“Look at those eager eyes,” cooed the young RSPCA volunteer. “They’re saying, ‘You look nice – please take me home!”
What they were actually saying, Joe realised a short time later, was, “You look like a sucker – please let me shred your £120 Nike Lunars to bits.”
But Joe persevered with his plan. His plan being that Gertie was his key to meeting girls. It was that or Tinder. He’d seen plenty of girls walking dogs in the park near his flat. They loved cooing over other people’s pooches. Gertie was going to be Joe’s ice-breaker.
The plan wasn’t working. Most of the women Joe met on his walks with Gertie would scoop up their designer dogs – pugs, chihuahuas, French bulldogs – as soon as they saw Gertie and hurriedly scurry past with suspicious looks in their eyes. Or just change direction.
A few of them had “proper” dogs, as Joe called them – collies, labs, lurchers; things that actually had snouts and in-proportion legs – who didn’t regard Gertie as the enemy. He tried his best to make eye contact with these owners, but rarely received more than a few civil nods in return.
Finally, one day, he thought he was making progress with a Polish-sounding lass with an excitable retriever that actually seemed to be getting along with Gertie.
They swapped funny stories about their dogs. The girl said Gertie had lovely markings. Joe said her dog was fast. She said her dog liked the wind in his nose. Joe said he wouldn’t like Gertie’s wind in his nose. She laughed. This was going well.
“Does he stick his nose out of the car window when you’re driving?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said the girl. “Why do dogs like that?”
“My theory,” said Joe, “is that because dogs have a super sensitive sense of smell, for them it’s like all the smells in the air being concentrated into one super rush up their noses – it’s like their version of crack cocaine.”
The girl looked at him very oddly. She called her dog over, mumbled goodbye and walked off.
Joe was telling he mates about this encounter in the pub a few nights later. They couldn’t understand what he’d said wrong either, though the general opinion was that Joe’s main problem was his aura of desperation. And that he never bought his round. This last bit was untrue but he took the hint.
Waiting at the bar, he was roused from his self-absorbed funk by an unexpected female voice. “I like your T-shirt.” Next to him at the bar was a dark-eyed girl with dyed blue hair and a gothy taste in clothes. Joe unhunched his shoulders.
“Um, it’s not a band,” he mumbled.
“I know,” she replied with an adorable grin. “Westworld. The sci-fi show. Maeve is the coolest.”
Did Joe just hear a click?
They laughed at each other’s jokes. They bonded over geeky films. They didn’t agree on music but she hated Coldplay so that wasn’t a deal-breaker. Joe began to wonder if he were dreaming. And then…
“Wanna to see a pic of my dog?” said Joe swiping away at this phone, then thrusting it into her face.
“Oh,” said the girl unenthusiastically. “She’s, um, nice…”
“Don’t you like dogs?” asked Joe.
“It’s not that,” she replied. “I’m allergic to them.”
“Er, well, she’s not my dog anyway,” improvised Joe hurriedly. “She’s my mate’s. She’ll be going back next week. And I never let her sleep in the bed so…” He trailed off, and died a little bit inside. Bed! Oh god, did he really say bed?
She laughed. A bit embarrassed. Crucially, though, she didn’t pack her bags.
Maybe she actually liked him.
They chatted a while longer. They swapped phone numbers. They took ages saying goodbye.
Joe spent the bus journey home looking at the new phone number on his phone, buzzing at the encounter, feeling like a teenager again. “Sorry Gertie,” he thought, “you’re going to have to go.”
When he opened the door to his house, a little furry bundle of energy barked a hearty welcome home. Her stumpy tail wagged so fast she looked like her backside was going to fall off. Two huge brown eyes peered eagerly up at him.
Later that night, with Gertie walked, fed and curled up beside him on the sofa, Joe idly scratched his dog between the ears with one hand and deleted the girl’s number from his phone with the other.