Cathy Hopkins - [Mates, Dates 04] by Dates Mates, Sleepover Secrets (Html) Read Free Book Online

up to different floors. Each corridor
had a different name: Oxford Street on the ground floor where the clinic was;
Bond Street and Bow Street on the first floor where the dogs were kept; Regent
Street and Baker Street on the second with dogs and cats and a private floor,
Fleet Street and Pall Mall on the top.
    ‘Here we go,’ said our
Rehomer, opening a door to a side ward. ‘I’ll leave you to look around. Take
your time, then, when you’ve decided, we’ll bring the dog to you for an
introduction and see if you get on. Takes about fifteen minutes. Then, if all
parties are happy, you can go.’
    Two things hit us as
soon as we entered the ward. The sound of barking. And the smell. Not a bad
smell, but distinctive nonetheless. Like wet hay mixed with dog food.
    ‘
Phworr
,’ I
said.
    ‘Aromatherapy of the canine
kind,’ laughed Dad, as we looked in to see the first hopeful face looking out
at us from behind bars.
    ‘It’s like they’re in
a prison cell,’ I said as a Jack Russell poked a paw through at us and barked
in friendly greeting.
    We spent the next hour
walking through all the wards on every floor. We must have seen about fifty
dogs. Each one had a little room in which was a blanket, water, a toy and
outside access to a corridor at the back.
    There were all sorts
of characters to choose from. Collies, Beagles, Jack Russells, mongrels of
every colour even a Samoyed, which Dad told me was a rare breed. He looked like
a big white teddy. At the side of each cage was a report with the dog’s
details: the breed, name, age, history and whether they liked cats or children.
Whether they needed an experienced owner and whether they were destructive or
not!
    At the end of their
report was a comment as though written by the dog. ‘I make a good companion.’
Or ‘I need commitment.’ Or one big dog whose comment said,‘I am a majestic
individual!’
    ‘That one sounds like
you, Dad,’ I said, pointing at the last one. With his tall stature and
silver-white hair, Dad did have a majestic air.
    ‘I don’t know what you
mean,’ he laughed, then pointed at one that said,‘ And there’s one that sounds
like you — “I have a strong will and need a lot of training”.’
    On one ward, a black
mongrel called Woodie was doing everything he could to get people’s attention.
All sorts of mad antics - bouncing off the walls, paws up against the bars. It
was as though he was saying ‘pick me,
pick me
, look what I can
do
…
back flips, jumping, bouncing!!!! Pick me.
Pick me
!
    Another old
brown-and-white collie sat looking at us with pleading eyes. She looked as
though she had a bad wig on.
    ‘This is
heartbreaking,’ said Dad, reading her report. ‘She’s called Kiki. She’s
thirteen.’
    Kiki put her paw
through the cage and even though there was a big sign saying not to touch the
dogs, Dad took her paw and stroked it. ‘Hello, girl.’ Then he turned to me and
I swear his eyes were misting over again. ‘Poor thing. At her age, she’s
probably here because her owner died or something. She looks as though she’s
been well looked after though. Shame, because a lot of people come here and
only want the young dogs. They see “thirteen years” and see the expense of
vet’s bills.’
    I was finding it
excruciatingly difficult. I wanted all of them. Every ward we went into, the
dogs would perk up and start wagging their tails as though Dad and I were their
best and oldest friends. So pleased to see us. It was like they were saying,
‘Oh
there
you are, hold on a mo, I’ll just get my stuff and we can
go.’ Then, as we walked past their cages, their faces would fall and their
tails would go down as if thinking, ‘Come back. Hey, where are you going? I
thought we were outta here?’
    ‘Can’t we hire a
coach, Dad, and come back with it and say right, everyone in? And then go and
buy a big house in the country…’
    ‘I wish,’ said Dad.
‘But, sadly, we can only have one. Have you made up your