The Party

The dog trainer peers at George and gives a tiny frown. 

“He’s a bit old for Puppy School don’t you think?” she says, as a ripple of doubt crosses her perfect face. She is sleek and rangy and reminds me of a working dog, a kelpie, or maybe a whippet.

“He’s twelve,” I say, “or thereabouts. I got him from the Home for Homeless Dogs.”

She’s hot and I want her to like me – and George of course. The trainer screws her mouth into a tight little purse, which looks exactly like George’s bumhole. I know this because George carries his Pug tail high over his back, rather than covering his nethers like other dogs.

“He needs your help,” I plead, aiming for sexy but sounding like a dork. “We both do. I’ve been invited to a Very Important Party – a pooch party – and I didn’t have a dog.”

I’m new at work, a sort of publishing place, and it’s heaps better than my last odd-job, hosing out wheelie bins for Uncle Brin. It’s my first proper employment in three years and I want to impress my boss, but Dad told me You need to impress his missus even more. So I chose George, the cutest, smallest dog at the Home, with his big brown eyes, tufts of creamy fur and curly-wurly tail. A winner with the ladies for sure.

I look at the trainer again and give her my best puppy eyes. 

“He’s an outside dog,” I explain, trying not to beg. “He needs some house manners, quick-smart.”

“I’ll do my best,” she says, letting her face relax into a grin. “I like a challenge.”

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And now here we are, at Mr Thompson’s pooch party. 

I’ve brushed George’s fur and slicked down my hair. We’re pretty schmick. I rub my lucky floral tie, the one I bought at the op shop for my first day at work, and take a big breath.

Mr Thompson’s wife, Mrs Thompson, meets us at the giant front door. It looks as solid as a rock, like a big ol’ slab of Stonehenge, and so does she. 

“Oh, you must be the new office boy,” she says. I can see her brain ticking over, thinking I’m a bit old for that sort of job. I suck in my tummy and chance a smile. 

Mrs Thompson holds out her hand. It’s wrinkly and covered with big, coloured rings, and looks about ten years older than her face. I wipe my hand on my pants and give her sausage fingers a squeeze. They feel like they’ve just come out of the fridge. She drops my hand and steps back. 

Mrs Thompson reminds me of an Ottoman sultan, all beak-nosed and hooded eyes, a giant turban wound around her head. Smiling serenely but full of murder inside. 

“So, you’re Eric,” she says.

“Yes. And this is George.”

“Quite,” she says. “Do come through.”

I take a deep breath and move quick-smart down a wide tiled hall and onto the Patio – Mrs Thompson says PAY-shio – full of the Tiffanys and Maddys and Toms from work. 

Suddenly we’re surrounded by canoodles and spoodles, and goodness-knows what, all perfectly groomed and well behaved, all of them a credit to their fur mummies and daddies. And all of them sneering at George. 

He stands his ground and gazes back, snuffling in that way he does, ignoring their arched eyebrows and smirks, raring to join the fun. 

He tried hard at Puppy School, I know he did, but there’s some truth in the saying you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

And then he does it.

George lifts his back leg so high I can see the bottom of his paw, and pees all over the wheel of Mr Thompson’s spanking new barbeque. Then he wipes his feet in a scratchy little dance and skips away to make a new friend. 

I crumple inside, feeling my cheeks burn and my eyes roll as I search for somewhere else to look. Anything to avoid the spreading puddle of piddle.

Face flaming, I turn around and look straight into Mrs Thompson’s accusing eyes.

“What a lovely little dog,” she says, but all I hear is You don’t belong here, take that mongrel and get out of my house.

She thrusts a plate of mile-high canapés at my face, daring me to take one. I know that’s what they’re called because we have them on Friday nights in the office, after work.

“Er, thanks,” I say. “Um… that’s a lovely dress. Lots of colours.”

Mrs Thompson aims a laser glare at me down her long beaked nose.

“Kaftan,” she corrects, in a voice more poisonous than her perfume.

I round my shoulders and slump a bit, aiming for thoughtful submission. 

“Kaftan,” I murmur, nodding slowly, my chin jutted forward and my mouth turned down into a crescent. “Right … Good to know.”

Mrs Thompson clamps her own mouth tight, but it doesn’t look like the dog trainer’s cute pout, or even like George’s bumhole. No. Mrs Thompson’s mouth is a straight mean line, plastered in thick red lipstick. 

She glares at me again and I think she thinks I’m taking the mickey, even though I’m not. She kind of hisses at me over the canapés and stares at George’s slick yellow puddle.

I glance around for him but he’s on the far side of the Patio, sniffing at something small and fluffy. It’s a bee-john freeze; I know this because there was one like it at Puppy School.

Talking about freeze, Mrs Thompson has turned into something colder than Shackleton’s trip to the South Pole, and I can see Mr Thompson making his way toward his furious wife and the wet barbeque. All the Tiffanys and Toms are watching and now they’re staring at me. 

You don’t belong here. You don’t fit.

I feel a rising blizzard of panic and think it’s time for George and me to leave the very important pooch party, quick smart. I give him a whistle and for once he comes! 

And then it happens. I realise you can teach an old dog new tricks! And it’s true: I don’t belong here, and I don’t want to.

I look Mrs Thompson right in her big ol’ bug-eye and stomp my foot into the middle of George’s puddle. Mr Thompson lunges at me and George gives a startled yap, then we hightail it down the hall, his little claws clicking on the tiled floor, out the Stonehenge front door and away.

I stop to pull off my lucky tie and think You were right, Dad. We didn’t impress Mr Thompson’s missus but it doesn’t matter anymore.

I rub George’s soft brown ears. He snuffles his nose into my hand and gives me a warm pink lick. 

“You’re a good dog,” I tell him. “Don’t you worry about it.”

On Monday I’ll look for a new job.

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