Waiting for Doggo by Mark Mills Read Free Book Online Page A

whatsoever. It’s something I’ve noted at the office over the past week or so. He holds himself like royalty, as though all eyes are on him and he can’t afford to slip up for fear of disappointing the adoring crowds. Kensington Gardens, with its better breed of person and dog, is definitely his kind of place. He’s at home here, in his element, so much so that I wonder if he doesn’t know it already. On reflection, I’m not sure he does. For all his haughty self-assurance, he seems uncertain of his environment.
    I’ve brought him here to stretch his legs, to let him run properly free for the first time since Clara left. He’s not interested. Yes, he wanders off to bury his snout in the base of a tree every so often, but he always keeps one eye on me. I’m touched by the little glances; they suggest a reliance on me that I haven’t felt before now (although it’s quite possible he imagines he’s the one in charge, and he’s simply checking to see that I’m not getting up to any mischief).
    It’s a glorious, sunny, windblown May day, and I decide to treat us to a spin round the Serpentine in a rowing boat. Doggo hops fearlessly aboard and plants himself in the prow, paws on the gunwales, surveying the water like a captain from his poop deck. He seems as surprised as I am by the shiver in his hind haunches and the little whimpers he emits every time we near some ducks. I’m not sure he likes to think of himself as subject to the baser instincts that make other dogs tick.
     
    Last night I came close to blowing out Sunday lunch with my sister. The moment she opens the door of her terraced house, I wish I had.
    ‘Oh God,’ she groans. ‘A dog.’
    I love Emma. Of course I do. She’s the one who held it together when Mum and Dad split, the one who filled in for them when it came to me. It’s just that I haven’t seen her for five years, not the real her, not the person who would once have smothered me in a hug and made a joke about the rubbish bottle of red wine I’ve brought with me. For some reason, everything now has to be ‘just so’ in her life. Her brother turning up with a dog is an unexpected irritation, a detail she’s struggling to factor in to the preordained vision of how the following few hours will unfold.
    ‘Don’t worry, he’s almost house-trained.’
    ‘Dan—’
    ‘Joke, Ems.’
    Emma and Duncan have two kids. Milo is a permanently disgruntled blob of a two-year-old, upstairs, sleeping, probably drugged with Calpol. Alice is six, downstairs and playing the piano in the kitchen cum dining room. She’s the real reason I didn’t blow out lunch.
    ‘Who’s making that God-awful racket? Oh, it’s you.’
    She spots me coming down the stairs. ‘Uncle Dan!’ She drops off the piano stool, scampers over and throws her arms around my waist. ‘What have you brung me?’
    ‘Brought,’ corrects Emma at my shoulder.
    ‘What makes you think I’ve brung you anything?’
    ‘’Cos you always do. You’re my godfather.’ Her eyes widen at the sight of Doggo on the landing above. ‘You brung me a dog!?’
    ‘Brought,’ says Emma. ‘And it’s Uncle Dan’s dog.’
    ‘He’s called Doggo, unless you can come up with a better name.’
    Alice thinks on it with a serious little face before deciding, ‘It’s a good name.’
    I wince suddenly. ‘Oof!’ I pat the back pocket of my jeans and pull out the wrapped package with a puzzled look. ‘What’s this doing here?’
    ‘It’s for me, it’s for me!’
    It’s a silver necklace.
    ‘That’s the symbol of peace,’ I explain.
    ‘Peace?’
    ‘Because there’s too much war and killing in the world.’
    ‘Maybe you can show her some photos of mass slaughter on the Web,’ calls Emma from the cooker.
    ‘I love it,’ beams Alice. ‘Put it on me.’
    Duncan is in the garden, flapping a bit of cardboard at the barbecue. ‘Bloody charcoal’s damp. It’s been in the shed all winter. Good to see you.’ He breaks off from his