I was the first to hear about what had happened to Barney. Being the only person in the house to get up at 7 am, I was there to answer the phone when it rang. In a way, I was glad of this.
"Hello," a female voice had greeted me when I picked up the receiver. "To whom am I speaking?"
"Simon."
"Ah, yes, I saw your name on the poster." I inhaled deeply, my pulse racing and palms sweating. Surely, this was good news. Surely, at last, our dog had been found.
"Oh, good!" I replied, unsure what to say. "So, you have my dog?"
"Well, I found him, but I'm afraid I am the bearer of bad news." Oh no.
"How did you, um, find him?" I asked nervously.
"I was in Heathetown park, walking my dog, when he disappeared into some bushes. I called his name, many times, and, Jasper being a very obedient boy, I began to worry, as you do, so I went to find him. Let's just say I found your dog, sir, and he was not in a good way."
"Oh God, was he hurt?" I asked dumbly. "Is he-"
"I'm afraid, sir, he was quite past being hurt," the woman interrupted before I could get any further. "I'm terribly sorry, but your dog is dead."
I was speechless. No, no, this wasn't right. This could not be happening. I wasn't hearing this right; she must have identified the wrong dog.
"And are you sure this was my dog?"
"Quite sure," she said, sympathy lacing her tone. "His collar had "Barney" engraved into it and your telephone number – this number – was below." No, no, no. "I'm so sorry."
"W-what was his... his body like? Do you know what happened?" was all I could think to ask.
"I think he had been there quite a while, sir. From the, um, flies and... let's just say it wasn't a fresh body."
Oh no, oh no. My poor boy.
"Did he look like he'd been in pain?" I demanded, realizing immediately what a stupid question this was - how was the poor woman supposed to know?
"There was a lot of blood," she replied – exactly what I hadn't wanted to hear. "I could say I knew what happened, but I think you'd be better off not hearing it."
"I want to know."
"Are you sure, sir? I really don't know if I'd wish to-"
"Please just tell me." I needed to hear how my poor dog had come to an end.
"Okay... well, there was this pretty heavy branch nearby," she began. I grimaced, already not liking the sound of where this was going. "I'm afraid my answer is really not a pleasant one, but the only explanation I could find was that he had been hit over the head with it. Quite a lot of times."
"Surely not!" I exclaimed, mixed feelings of fury and horror building up in my chest. "That's... who the hell would do that?" There was no reply. "I hope it all happened quickly, I don't like to think of him being in a lot of pain. He was such a lovely dog."
"I'm so sorry sir," she said again. "All I can say is that it was one heavy branch, so he would've probably been knocked unconscious straight away and not known anything. I'm sure he would have been."
"Oh, God," I muttered, then looked at the phone and realised we'd been talking for quite a while and added "thank you for taking the time to let me know this."
"That's okay, sir. That's okay."
"Look after your dog," I added. I don't know why – it just felt like the right thing to say.
"Thank you, sir. I will do. Goodbye."
"Bye."
When I had hung up, a sudden wave of emotions overpowered me and I viciously hit the settee with my fist. It hurt my hand, but I felt a little better afterwards. Who the hell would do that to a dog? Who the hell would do that to Barney, for that matter?
I had to hit the chair a few more times before I could compose myself to break the news to Laura. Having always thought of myself as being the "calm one", I surprised even myself by my sudden outburst.
"Morning!" Laura padded past me in her night gown and slippers, blissfully unaware of the terrible things she was about to hear. I decided that I couldn't leave her in the dark for a minute longer and went to join her.
Just as I'd christened myself the "calm one", Laura often called herself the "tough one". She prided herself in defying the gender stereotype of being a "weepy woman", but the floodgates opened when I explained the fate of Barney to her. As I said, she was not a crier.
"I just hate to think of Luke," she cried. "He's going to be distraught – he loves that dog."
"And Emma," she added as an afterthought.
"When should we tell him?" I was using "we", but praying she would take responsibility, because I was useless when the kids cried; I always became tearful myself, but Laura was a woman of steel.
"I'll do it." My wife knew me so well it often took me by surprise. Our unspoken deal was that I dealt with the "soppy stuff" – grazed knees, bad days at school and nightmares – because I was the "soft one" and she dealt with the "tough stuff" – things like breaking the news of the dead family dog.
It wasn't a task for the weak.
There would be no easy way to break the news to Luke – I knew there never would be. No words could describe the deep-rooted bond the dog and boy had shared. They had loved each other unbelievably.
Loved.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
