‘You called me down to the town early forthis?’ Finlay said. ‘You said it was urgent!’
‘You were coming down anyway for today’s garden project launch, and I thought, what’s a few minutes earlier—’ Murray began.
‘You thought I wanted to rehome adug?’ He said it like he was being strongarmed into adopting a rattlesnake.
‘Well…’ Murray realised he’d made a mistake. ‘Aye, I’d hoped you might.’
It had been a tough time for the poor mother dog, a black Labrador, who Livvie’s daughter, Shell, had decided to name Nell, and it had stuck. Nell had nursed her pups as well as she could but the vet suspected this wasn’t her first litter, or even her fifth, and probably she’d been dumped out of the back of someone’s car, an unscrupulous breeder’s perhaps, for some nefarious reason they’d likely never understand.
She was underweight and exhausted. The vet had guessed the pups were five or six weeks old and recommended top-ups of doggy formula, so Murray had devoted himself to late nights and early-morning feeds to keep the two pups growing and take the strain off the poor mother.
And growing they were, even accounting for their tough early days. Murray could swear they’d grown a little more each time they woke from a nap.
Murray stayed crouched over their pen in the mill house kitchen, hoping they’d take a little extra breakfast and that might knock them out for another long sleep, letting poor Nell rest and so Murray could get on with the launch of the garden project.
Nell had seen more than enough of motherhood and dragged herself to the spot in front of the Aga for a snooze. Murray wished he could join her. Is this how being a father felt?
Now he knew why his parents stopped at twins. Roz McIntyre always maintained that looking after newborn twins was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but when Murray had made a heartfelt expression of gratitude to his mum and dad over dinner the other night, saying how sorry he was, he’d had no idea what they’d been through until now, they’d looked at each other and burst out laughing.
‘Aye, son,’ McIntyre had said. ‘Two wee pups and two wee babies are just the same thing.’
His sister had told him over the phone this morning that, ‘You know, wild dogs raise their pups alone without any human interference, have done for centuries?’ and Murray had retorted smugly how Nell’s wee doggie paws were useless with ring pulls on the cans of Chum so Ally didn’t even know what she was talking about.
‘I don’t even like dugs,’ Finlay said decisively, ready to leave.
‘Now, I know that’s not true! You loved that old Collie dog at the plant nursery.’
Finlay pulled a ‘didnot!’ sulky sort of expression, but he must have known he’d been rumbled.
‘I cannae look after a pup up at the cruive,’ he protested. ‘Think of the dangers! Plus… what kind of dogs are those, even?’ He nodded at the tumbling pups, who seemed to be devoted to biting each other’s ears.
They had certainly found their barks today too. Not ideal when Murray had their adoptions to arrange. He couldn’t help people seeing (and hearing) what a handful they’d been.
‘Labrador,’ he lied.
Finlay huffed and hawed until Murray had to admit, ‘There might be a wee touch of the wandering mutts in there, and so what? Don’t be so judgy. Maybe that’s why the breeder dumped them? Not much use for selling at a pedigree premium? Anyway, it wasn’t the pups I was thinking of for you.’
‘Whit?The mother! Nae chance. Naw, naw, naw.’ He was backing away towards the door.
‘Listen.’ Murray was on his feet, his hands spread, reasoning. ‘She needs a quiet home, somewhere steady and peaceful, where she’ll get loads of attention but not be bothered by kids or anything.’
Finlay was looking at the snoring, exhausted mother. Murray gave it his last shot.
‘Imagine being all alone in the world. A wee bit gruff and scruffy, aye, but soft as putty underneath. All she needs is a good groom and a few treats, and some long walks, the sky above her, fresh air…’
‘No.’
‘Please, just think about it? Please.’ He’d skirted around the dinner table to where the dog snored, not daring to wake her from her well-deserved sleep but putting his face close to hers. ‘Please?’ he said, in a cartoon-dog voice. ‘You’re my last hope, Finlay Morlich.’ He held his paws up, and hung his tongue out. Probably overkill, but maybe Finlay was a sucker for cuteness?
‘Are you finished?’
‘I am,’ Murray said, doing big hopeful eyes.
‘The answer’s still no. It’s bad enough you folk have me down here wasting my Sunday in your garden, upsetting my routine, but now you want me to take a dug?’
Murray nodded like all of that was perfectly reasonable.
‘I like things how I like them,’ the ranger went on. ‘I want peace and to be by myself and not have to bother with anybody, you understand? My life, my cruive, my mountain. Me!’ He jabbed hard at his chest.
