The Week at Mon Repose (10 page)

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

It was love at first sight.

I felt myself falter and go weak at the knees as soon as our eyes met. He had beautiful soft brown eyes, intelligent, loving, caring eyes. I gravitated towards him. He tipped his head on one side and watched me. I knew that what I felt so instantly for him was mutual by the way he looked at me.

“Simone Henderby,” Mr. Townsend blared. “Haven't you finished hosing out those pens yet?”

“Just finished,” I reported.

I had this job as a kennel maid at the local animal shelter for six hours a week. Having thrifty parents, I needed spending money. Every Saturday morning, I plaited my hair tightly, pulled on my gumboots and oldest jeans and slaved for six hours. I liked animals so I coped all right with being treated like a serf by old Townsend.

Ebon Harris, my best friend, had managed to edge me into the job when the last kennel maid--that is what all us serfs at the kennels were called--up and told old Townsend where to get off.

Ebon is badly named. She is so fair, she looks like an albino, but someone said she was born with black hair and got christened Ebony, by which time the black hair had rubbed off and her fine silver-white hair had come through.

Ebon was blow-drying a poodle and grinned as I trudged over. The animal shelter was actually boarding kennels and a Cattery, a hospital section for sick animals, and a pen for the strays, either up for adoption or death row.

Despite the fact we had to work so hard, it was a terrific job if you liked animals. I felt sorry for all my unfortunate friends who had to peel spuds, iron, weed or wash cars to get their pocket money.

“Where did the gorgeous pup come from?” I asked out of the side of my mouth. Mr. Townsend didn't like us talking to each other on his time.

“Dumped stray,” Ebon whispered back. “Cross Shepherd Labrador. It's an uncool combination for its chances of acquiring a new owner!”

“How old?” I whispered.

Ebon sometimes worked in the office, and didn't miss much.

“Ten weeks,” she reported.

I upended my bucket and rinsed out the scrubbing brushes. One thing about working at the animal shelter, I learned about how much dogs should eat, and Shepherd cross combinations need a kilo of meat a day. Nobody wanted a household pet you had to work two jobs to feed.

It was only coincidence of course that I spent that whole day near him. After I swept, hosed and cleaned the vacant pens, I was ordered to rake the gravel over the paths, and then repaint the stones edging the path. I felt his eyes on me the whole time. To myself, I called him Pete. He sort of looked like a Pete.

Every time I sneaked a look at him, his tail thumped with pleasure. As I said, it was love at first sight. By the time I finished at four o'clock that afternoon, I was practically drooling. Pete was the most beautiful pup I had ever seen.

I thought I was hardened against cute pups that ended up at the animal shelter, but he was extra special cute. His plump healthy little body was covered in the softest fur and you could see how responsive and alert he was to whatever was going on. He was shorthaired, with the typical black and gold markings of a proper Shepherd. He had the long ears of a Shepherd only they flopped over, giving him a vaguely spaniel look. With the blunt muzzle of a Labrador and the broad-domed intelligent head of a Shepherd, and of course the most soulful brown eyes he won my heart.

Beautiful as he was, Pete was still sitting in the strays' pen when I turned up for work the following Saturday. His plump back-quarters wriggled like a sausage trying to do the hula when he recognized me. I went over to say hello and patted him.

“Thought he would've been gone by this week,” I said to Mr. Townsend.

“With those feet?” Mr. Townsend scoffed. “He's going to end up the size of a pony and have an appetite to match. I don't know why people let animals breed so wastefully.”

My heart plummeted. This oft-repeated grumble meant that the beautiful pup was destined for death row if he didn't find an owner by the end of the weekend.

“He's only been in here a week,” I protested.

“Eight days,” he said shortly. “If people can feed themselves and their kids these days it's something. No one's got spare money for a big breed of dog.” He changed the subject. “Those long-haired Persians in the Cattery need to be brushed, and after that, exercise the boarding dogs around the compound.”

I didn't see Ebon until our lunch break. She had been cleaning out the hospital section. It was a sunny day, and we sprawled under a tree and ate sandwiches. I kept thinking about Pete. He might have been in the shelter eight days, but he was so gorgeous! Why wasn't Mr. Townsend allowing a bit more time for someone to take him?

“Mr. Townsend doesn't approve of cross breeds,” Ebon said as if she had been reading my thoughts. “He would prefer to put them down rather than risk them multiplying.”

“He sure is beautiful,” I sighed. “Wish I could have him?”

“He wouldn't fit in too well with your mum's allergies to animals and your dad's prize layers,” Ebon reminded me.

“Mum thinks that fresh hen eggs are important,” I agreed gloomily.

I finished my sandwiches and shared my fruitcake with Ebon. She had said it all and there was nothing left to discuss. Over the years, I had been allowed to have a pair of guinea pigs, a budgie and a white rabbit, but that was it. I had outgrown them years ago. They were little kid pets! I'd look a bit stupid exercising them down in the park.

Dad grew roses in between lectures in English. Mum worked two days a week typing at the university. My older sister Serena alleged she was allergic to animals as well, and floated around in a sterile environment that contained only her succession of boyfriends.

If only someone had turned up before we finished that afternoon and took Pete, or old Townsend had changed his mind about him being destined for death row immediately, the incident—or was it an accident?— wouldn't have happened.

All the animals had been fed, brushed, and exercised, and all the pens were spotless. It was a slow week, and we didn't have more than two or three dogs and cats boarding.

Because I had a few minutes leisure before I officially finished, I decided to give Pete a quick walk around the compound. He had watched me exercise all the other dogs, his gaze following my movements as I worked so that I felt guilty.

Strays weren't allowed in the exercise yard in case they had something contagious, although anyone could see Pete was a nice, wholesome, healthy pup with nothing nasty in the way of parasites. I was in the office when he was brought in and our Vet had given him a clean and approving bill of health.

There was no sign of old Townsend around and Pete was so good when I let him out, my heart turned over. He lifted his head for me to loop a collar around his neck and scrambled along at my heels as if he had been doing it all his short life of ten weeks and didn't need a lead to control him.

I hadn't realized until Mr. Townsend sauntered around the corner of the yard that he was walking the big white Persian cat on its own lead. Everything sort of happened at once.

Pete pulled the lead from my slack grip and hurtled over to play with the Persian, which enlarged like a white balloon, spat, and climbed the highest thing in sight: Mr. Townsend's bald head.

“Gee, sorry!” I gasped.

Mr. Townsend didn't lose his cool despite the blood trickling down the side of his face. He glared at me and snapped his fingers. It was the most sinister sound I had ever heard. I started to feel physically sick and my heart pounded as if I might have a heart attack.

The white-coated vet, a very nice guy named Tim, came over, gave me an apologetic look, picked up Pete and turned to go back to the hospital section. Pete drooped and gave me a pleading stare. The pain in my heart got worse.

“You're sacked, young Simone. If the kennel inmates have gotten infected by a stray, we'd have to close down,” old Townsend said coldly. “Pick up your wages on the way out, and don't bother to hang around.”

“I want to buy the pup anyway,” I heard myself say. “He doesn't belong in death row.”

Tim paused and waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ebon's jaw drop. She knew what my parents would say when they found out, but at that moment, it wasn't important. What
was
important was the trusting way Pete was watching me. I just couldn't let him down.

“One hundred and one dollars,” Mr. Townsend said immediately. This was what the strays were sold for, so he certainly wasn't giving me a staff discount. He lifted the hysterical Persian cat off his head and patted it until it settled down. “Deducting today's wages will bring it down to forty. Collect the animal Monday afternoon. He'll have his injections and be thoroughly checked over by then.”

He turned and walked away with the cat. Tim nodded, shifted Pete more comfortably into his arms and went back inside. Pete would spend the weekend in one of the small wire pens.

Ebon and I walked home together. She kept sneaking glances at me, the slightest frown on her face. The surge of love and protectiveness that had caused me to make such an impulsive offer to buy Pete had evaporated, leaving me scared. My parents fancied themselves as the reasonable, rational sort, but I had good cause to know how quickly they could both get very unreasonable and irrational.

“I thought your parents wouldn't let you have a dog?” she asked at last.

“They won't,” I said grimly.

I began to have real bad vibes about how to break the news about my latest acquisition to my parents.

 

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