Three’s Company

By Janet Baldey

I have always loved the park and today, as I stroll along its meandering pathways, the sudden thought pops into my head that everyone must have a special lucky place and that this is mine.  This may sound fanciful to some but if it wasn’t for the park and Jill, of course, my life might be quite different.

         It’s almost a year ago, to the day, that I first met Jill.  I was sitting on a bench watching squirrels rustling around in last year’s dead leaves while couples were walking hand-in-hand and families picnicked on the grass. The sound of people enjoying themselves echoed all around me but, sitting alone, I felt remote. Everyone seemed to have someone and I was the odd one out; there seemed to be a wall of glass separating me from other folk.  Since Ted died, I often got that feeling.  I had spoken to my doctor about it. He had pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and looked at me, his eyes kind.

         “You’re suffering from post-bereavement depression, Emily.  You will get over it but it might take some time.  Try to develop some outside interests, something to get you out of the house.  In the meantime, you might like to try these,” he said, scribbling out a prescription.

         As I remembered the conversation, I closed my eyes willing away the tears that were always on the brink.  Suddenly, the bench lurched and creaked.  Opening my eyes again, I saw that a plump, red-faced lady had collapsed onto the seat beside me.

         “Hope, you don’t mind,” she gasped, “but this is the only spare seat in the park and I must have a rest.”

         I felt my eyes widening as I noticed that the woman was accompanied by a small sea of dogs that surged around her, panting happily.  Amazed, I counted five tails waving in the air.

         “Gracious,” I said faintly, “what a lot of dogs you’ve got.  You must live in a very big house.”

         She grinned.  “Oh, they’re not mine.  I dog walk for the local animal rescue centre.  We’re short-handed at the moment, that’s why I’ve got so many.  Marlon, do get your nose out of the lady’s bag.”

         I laughed and put out my hand to stroke the inquisitive pup.  I was rewarded by a big, sloppy lick and some of the ice around my heart began to melt.

         “I’ve always wanted to have a dog, but my late husband was allergic to their hair.”

         “I can’t have a dog either, my landlord won’t allow it. That’s why I do this. It’s the next best thing.  If you live nearby, you could always do the same. We’re a friendly crowd and we’re always short of volunteers.  I’m Jill, by the way.”

         It was nice to have someone to talk to, although as I remember it, it was Jill who did most of the talking.  As we sat enjoying the last of the evening sun, I became so involved in the tales she told of the Rescue Centre, that my own troubles slipped quietly into the background.

         “Don’t forget,” Jill called over her shoulder, as she was dragged about by her impatient hounds, “if you do decide to help, just say Jill sent you.  You’ll be welcomed with open arms.”

         So, the very next time I started to feel sorry for myself, instead of moping around, I plucked up enough courage to walk around to the Centre and volunteer my services.  Before long, my visits were the highlight of my day and gradually, I found my depression fading. The dogs were always delighted to see me, especially as I made a habit of smuggling in little treats for them and the other volunteers were so nice and made me feel so welcome.

         Among them was a gentleman called Harry.  He was tall, with kind blue eyes.  He was quiet and rather shy but he would listen to my chatter indulgently, all the while puffing gently on an old pipe.  Over the months we developed a special rapport and just the sight of his slightly stooped figure ambling towards me was enough to lift my spirits.  I began to feel that life was not so hopeless after all.

         We had our sad times at the Centre but whenever one of our charges was re-homed it was a real Red-Letter Day and everybody celebrated.  It was heart warming to see the dog strut proudly away, escorted by his new owners.   We were warned not to get emotionally involved with the animals but we all did and there was one particular dog that I always felt sorry for.  He was big and ungainly with only one eye, so of course we called him Nelson.  Nelson was loving and intelligent and always did his best to please.  At regular intervals we held ‘Open Days’ when the public was encouraged to visit the Centre.  Quite often, they fell in love with one of the dogs and went away with a new member of the family.  On these occasions, Nelson would press his body as close as he could to the wire and gaze hopefully into every face, his tail beating as if in time with his heart.  But no-one ever gave him a second glance.  After everyone had gone home, he would lie with his head on his paws and the mournful expression in his one good eye tugged at my heartstrings.  Against all advice, I began to give him extra fusses and began to regard him as my own special pooch.

         “I can’t think why no-one wants him,” I once complained to Harry.

         “He tries too hard,” Harry replied, ruffling the dogs’ ears.  At this sign of affection, Nelson went ballistic and raced around in circles, barking with delight.

         One morning, I arrived at the Centre and found Nelson’s pen empty.  I was puzzled.  All the other volunteers knew that I always walked Nelson.  I went over to the office to find out where he was.  Sue, the receptionist, was just coming on duty.  She hung up her coat and checked the register.  As she reached an entry, her finger stopped.

         “Oh!” she said, obviously surprised.  “He’s been re-homed.  He went yesterday evening.  How lovely.  I was beginning to think we had him for keeps.”

         She looked up and her smile faded as she saw my face. 

         “Cheer up.  It was best for him,” she said, patting my shoulder.

         I stood in silence, trying to take in the fact that I would never see my Nelson again.

         I took another dog out that day.  He was a nice enough little fellow but it wasn’t the same.  Harry didn’t turn up that morning and that made things even worse as I really needed someone to talk to and I knew that he was the only person who would understand.

         I went home at lunchtime and pushed some food around my plate.  My mind was in turmoil, I knew I should be glad that Nelson had found a home at last – after all it was what I had wanted for him – but inside, I felt bereft.

         I felt my depression returning as my thoughts chased themselves around.  If I became this upset every time a dog, I was fond of got re-homed, maybe this wasn’t the job for me.  Perhaps it would be better if I stopped going to the Centre.  But I knew I would miss my new-found friends and the thought that I wouldn’t see Harry again brought tears to my eyes.  Suddenly, as if on cue, the ‘phone rang.  It was Harry.  At the sound of his voice, relief flooded through me and my legs trembled so much, I had to sit down.

         “Would you like to come to tea this afternoon?”  There’s someone I want you to meet.”

         Of course, by now you will have guessed the rest.  As Harry explained to me afterwards: “I knew how much you liked Nelson, so I thought it was the best route to your  heart. Now I’ve got two for the price of one.

         He smiled and put an arm around my shoulders as we sat with Nelson a contented heap at our feet.

         So now you understand why the park will always have a special place in my heart. I come here often now but I’m not alone any more.  My hand slips into Harry’s as he whistles for Nelson and together, we three head for home.

Copyright Janet Baldey