Wellies and Westies. Cressida McLaughlin

Cat said quietly, unexpelled emotion rising in her throat. ‘No, he won’t let me. He’s got a cat, so no dogs allowed, apparently. I’m sure if we found the right one they’d get along fine, but he’s adamant.’

      ‘He’s always seemed like a very pleasant young man to me, and I know people can be sensitive about their pets – often rightly – but I’m surprised he won’t let you have a dog.’

      ‘Sometimes he’s nice, but most of the time he’s a grumpy sod. But I love living with Polly, and I love being here, on Primrose Terrace, and I want to stay.’

      ‘Oh, chin up, don’t get all teary.’

      ‘I’m not.’ Cat swallowed and blinked. ‘It just seems like when one thing goes wrong, it magnifies all the other little niggles into giant, immovable barriers.’ Her voice wavered at the end.

      ‘That’s why you need to be proactive. Keep moving forward, and have another biscuit.’

      Cat looked at the plate, now swimming in tea. She shrugged and popped one in her mouth before it covered her hand in chocolate. ‘At least I can see Disco and Chalky, and I’ll still take them out twice a day while you’re getting back on your feet.’

      ‘That’s the spirit!’

      ‘Lots of spring sunshine and your two perfect pooches is exactly what I need while I’m working out a plan.’ Cat clicked her fingers and Disco bounced across the carpet and started licking her wrist. Cat laughed as the dog’s whiskers tickled her hand.

      ‘You might be right.’ Elsie drummed her fingers against her lips, her gaze fixed on the thick verge of grass outside the window, where the primroses were just starting to peek through. ‘I think, Cat, that you may have come up with your own perfect solution.’

       Chapter 2

      ‘Dog walking? As a job?’

      ‘Yes, Polly. Taking other people’s dogs for walks. It’s a growing market – people who work all day, busy families, people like Elsie who might be temporarily unable to take their pets out. I bet there are loads of dog-owners out there who don’t even know it’s an option. Now it will be, because of me.’

      They were sitting on the over-squashy, faded blue sofas in the living room of number nine Primrose Terrace, sharing a bottle of wine. Polly had come back late from Fairview vet’s, where she was doing the work placement for her veterinary nursing degree, and had changed into blue cotton pyjamas, her bare feet up on the coffee table.

      ‘And you’re sure Alison won’t have you back at the nursery, even if you grovel?’

      ‘I wouldn’t go back, even if she grovelled. I don’t think it’s the right job for me, not in a conventional nursery, anyway. Elsie’s right, this is perfect. Between the beach and the park this must be a prime doggy neighbourhood, and I can’t think of anything I’d like more than spending time walking other people’s dogs.’

      Polly scrutinized her, her wide blue eyes unblinking in a way that Cat had almost got used to, despite the effect, along with her long blonde hair, being a bit Midwich Cuckoos. ‘I’m sure you can do it,’ she said slowly, ‘but there are lots of things to consider. Lots. How much you’ll charge, how many dogs you can walk at a time. Do the owners let their dogs have treats? If so, what kind and how often? Will you pick them all up from their houses? Will they get on with each other? And think of all the poo you’ll have to pick up. It won’t be a walk in the park.’

      ‘Ha ha.’

      ‘What, I – oh!’ Polly grinned. ‘It’s true though. I know you’ll think things through, but you can be…’

      ‘Impulsive, spontaneous?’

      ‘Excitable, a bit like a dog.’

      Cat threw a cushion at her. ‘I get that I need to think about it like a business, but I’m excited, Pol. As excited as I was about moving here, finally getting to live with you. I think I can do this, and at the very least I can test the water, see if anyone nearby would be interested in a dog walker – other than Elsie, of course.’

      ‘You won’t charge her, will you?’

      ‘I said I wouldn’t, but she insists on it. She’ll be my first client and I’ll give her a special OAP rate.’ Cat sipped her wine and beamed, feeling a swell of something like accomplishment, even though all they’d really done was come up with an idea, and the hard work was all ahead of her.

      ‘Well, I think it’s pretty inventive,’ Polly said. ‘Inspirational, almost.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes. You may not have intended to leave your job today—’

      ‘Get booted out, you mean?’

      ‘But,’ Polly continued, holding up a finger, ‘this could be better. And you’ll have a nearly-trained veterinary nurse on hand, should anything go hideously wrong.’

      ‘What’s going to go hideously wrong?’ Joe sloped into the room, sat next to Polly and poured himself a glass of red wine. He was in his usual work outfit of jeans and a hoody, the current one navy with an orange goldfish on the front, his short hair sticking up in unruly tufts as if his day had involved a lot of head scratching.

      ‘There’s a tsunami heading towards Fairview beach. Think of the carnage it’s going to cause.’

      Joe sat up, almost spilling his wine. ‘What? Who said anything about a tsunami?’

      ‘Calm down,’ Polly said, pushing gently against his chest. ‘Cat was having you on. No tsunami.’

      ‘Right.’ Joe glared at Cat and she grinned. Joe and Polly could almost be twins. They were both blonde haired and blue eyed, Polly’s frame almost as slender as a boy’s, but Joe’s blond was more strawberry than ash, and Cat had never found him unnerving, only annoying. ‘So what’s going to go wrong?’ he asked.

      ‘Cat’s new business venture – except it’s not, but if it does, then I’ll be on hand.’

      ‘To offer moral support?’ Joe noticed Polly’s feet up on the coffee table, and gently nudged them onto the floor.

      ‘To provide medical assistance.’

      ‘Are we going back to the tsunami? Why would you need medical assistance? Do your techniques work on people as well as animals?’ Joe rubbed his forehead.

      ‘Not for the people, silly,’ Polly said, ‘for the dogs.’

      ‘Dogs?’ Joe sat up again, this time keeping careful control of his wine. ‘What dogs?’ There was an edge of panic in his voice that Cat might have found amusing, except that it was his aversion to dogs that was stopping her from having one of her own at Primrose Terrace.

      ‘All dogs.’ Cat threw her arms up. ‘I’m going to walk the dogs of Fairview. I’m going to look after them all, from Chihuahuas to Great Danes, give them exercise and love and the freedom they deserve, and I’m going to get paid for it!’

      Joe took a sip of wine, his movements slow and measured. Cat had, in the two months she’d been living there, discovered this meant he was formulating an argument, considering his point carefully before he expressed it. Spontaneity was not Joe’s thing. Cat was expecting a carefully crafted attack on all things canine. It didn’t come.

      ‘So your time at the nursery,’ he said softly, ‘it’s…come to an end?’

      ‘How did you know?’

      ‘I didn’t. But…it seemed slightly inevitable.’

      ‘Why?’

      Joe