Behaving Badly

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Very odd things—Miles’s shirts out of the laundry basket, for example.’

‘She might find it comforting if he’s out.’

‘But she steals old egg-boxes too. And the other day she took five empty plastic flowerpots out of the garden, one by one, and put them in her bed. And she was arranging them so carefully, almost tenderly, as if she loved them. It was weird. We didn’t know what to think.’

Ah.

I got up and went over to Sinead, pushed her gently onto her side, and lifted up the feathery fur on her underside. Her tummy was slightly bloated and pink.

‘Has she been anywhere near a dog?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes—positive. And when she was last on heat we kept her in.’

‘Then she’s having a phantom pregnancy. That’s why she’s so subdued. Females that have never been mated can get very broody. They become listless, and they stay in their beds, which they carefully arrange, because basically they’re making a nest. Then they look for objects which they can put in their “nursery” and “mother”—hence the egg-boxes and flowerpots. They even show some of the symptoms of pregnancy, just as she’s doing. Look at her nipples.’

Fiona’s jaw slackened.

‘Good God.’

‘If she’d been smooth-haired you would have noticed it, but her long fur covers it up. That’s what it is. A phantom pregnancy. I used to see this when I was a vet.’

‘I see.’

‘So you don’t have to worry that she has psychological problems, or any kind of depression—she doesn’t. She just wants to be a mum.’

Mrs Green dabbed at her eyes. ‘Maybe she’s doing it in sympathy with me.’

‘We were going to have her spayed actually,’ said Miles.

‘Can I make a suggestion?’ They both nodded. ‘Don’t. Or, at least not yet. Why don’t you let her have puppies?’

‘Actually…that’s a very good idea,’ said Miles slowly. He suddenly smiled. ‘We hadn’t thought of that.’

‘No,’ Fiona agreed. She stroked the dog’s head. ‘We’ve been so caught up in ourselves.’

‘And it’s nice for girl dogs to be allowed to have at least one litter,’ I pointed out, ‘otherwise, well,’ I shrugged, ‘they can feel a bit sad.’

‘Oh,’ said Fiona. ‘I see. We could have puppies. That would be fun, wouldn’t it, darling?’ Miles nodded. ‘Maybe we won’t have a baby, but we’ll have some sweet little puppies.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s what I would do if I were you.’

‘Well, that’s very good advice,’ Fiona said as they stood up. ‘I feel quite overcome.’ She gave me a watery smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘Not at all.’ I felt slightly emotional myself.

Chapter Two (#ulink_55574faa-b5a0-5e3c-b164-bb2b0ae243c5)

Maybe Sinead was picking up on Fiona’s frustration, I thought, as I prepared to set off for Caroline Mulholland’s house half an hour later. Maybe she was even trying to have a baby for her, who knows. I mean, dogs do imitate us, because they love us—they want to do all the things that we do. We sit—they sit. We sing—they howl. We vacate the driver’s seat—they jump right in. We get broody—maybe they get broody…? That’s the thing about being a behaviourist: you have to work out what’s going on with the owners before you can begin to sort out their pet. I checked my appearance in the mirror, retouched the concealer below my eye—I need less now—then ran a brush through my hair and left. Daisy was right about the Mews being friendly, I realized, as Joy, the osteopath, gave me a cheery wave. Caroline Mulholland lived in a village called Little Gateley, five miles from St Albans; I guessed it would take an hour and a quarter if the traffic wasn’t too bad.

As I drove through Archway I passed Alexander’s road, heart pounding like a tom-tom, my mouth as dry as dust. Masochistically, I glanced down Harberton Road—for the first time since ‘it’ happened—and felt a wave of distress. But, once I’d got through the queues in Finchley and Barnet, I was soon coasting down lush country lanes; and as I wound down the window and saw the intense yellow of the rape and the fields of green corn, I relaxed—Daisy was right. This was a turning point; the start of a new phase in my life and I was determined to make it work out. Fifteen minutes later I came to St Albans, where I soon spotted the village sign. I passed the green with its horse chestnuts, laden with fading pink candles, then just beyond the church I saw gates. ‘Little Gateley Manor’ was carved on one of the pillars and I turned in.

The house was just as I expected—straight out of Country Life. Georgian, painted white, and with a circular drive sweeping up to an imposing, rose-smothered front door. As my wheels crunched over the gravel, I heard a deep throaty barking, saw a silver flash, and the Weimaraner came bounding up. Then a woman appeared, running after it, visibly flustered.

‘Oh Trigger! You naughty boy! Come here! Hello, I’m Caroline,’ she said slightly breathlessly as I got out of the car, and the dog jumped up at me. ‘I’m so grateful to you for coming out.’

I’m normally circumspect when I meet someone new, but I immediately took to her. She was thirtyish, with dark blonde hair scraped back in a ponytail, and she was attractive in a non-glossy way.

‘I’m so grateful to you,’ she repeated. As we went up the steps I inhaled the scent of the roses. ‘I’ve been at my wits’ end. You see, we adore Trigger but he’s such a handful, and in particular he’s horrid to my two Westies—Tavish and Jock.’

I looked at them, scuttling round her feet in the black and white marble-tiled hallway, casting anxious looks at the bigger dog. ‘And they were here first, were they?’

‘Yes. I had them before I got married. But then my husband decided that he’d like a proper “man’s dog”—’ she giggled ‘—and so I got him Trigger for his birthday, but sometimes I think I made a mistake.’

‘He’s certainly beautiful,’ I said, as I followed her into the large drawing room. ‘They’re such individual-looking dogs, aren’t they?’ I gazed at his coat, the colour of pale pewter, and at his unearthly, intense, amber eyes.

‘Oh yes,’ she agreed. ‘They’re gorgeous-looking things.’

‘But they’re also strong-willed and need firm control.’

Caroline laughed. ‘Well, that’s precisely where we’ve slipped up.’ She sank into one of the sofas and Trigger tried to clamber onto her lap. ‘Stop it you naughty dog! Get down! Get down will you!’ One of the Westies then jumped up at her, and Trigger snapped at it viciously. Her hand shot out and she smacked his behind. ‘Oh do stop it you bad, bad boy! Do you see what I mean?’ she sighed. ‘I wasn’t exaggerating, was I? It’s hopeless. Anyway, let’s have a cup of tea first.’

As she disappeared, all three dogs running after her, slithering on the marble tiles, I glanced around the room. It was gorgeous—twenty-foot ceilings with egg and dart coving, in one corner a baby grand; two apricot-coloured Knole sofas, a scattering of mahogany tables, and an enormous fireplace with a marble surround. There were gleaming oils on the walls, and on the mantelpiece were several photos in silver frames, including one of Caroline on her wedding day. I looked at it, then looked away, glancing into the flower-filled garden. A solitary magpie swooped onto the lawn, chattering loudly. ‘One for sorrow,’ I said to myself quietly. Then I looked at the photo again…

There was something strangely familiar about Caroline Mulholland’s husband, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what it was. He looked mid-to-late thirties in the photo, and his hair was receding and already quite grey. But he was certainly handsome—they made a good-looking couple. I found myself wondering what he did. No doubt he was a successful banker, or a captain of industry—perhaps I’d seen him on the news. Yes…that must account for my sense of déjà I thought: I’d seen him in the media somewhere. Caroline reappeared with a tray, then suggested that we had the tea outside so that I could see Trigger ‘in action’. But I’d already identified the problem—he was an over-indulged alpha male. He felt he should naturally be number one in the pack. He needed to have his status reduced.

‘He’s desperate to dominate,’ I explained, as we sat on the terrace, watching him with the other two dogs.

Caroline put her tea cup down. ‘Is he?’

‘Yes. This might sound harsh, but what he needs is to be knocked off his pedestal.’

‘Really?’ she said. I nodded. ‘But how?’

‘By you taking far less notice of him. He’s a chronic show-off—if he’s got your attention he’s thrilled. And the more you shout at him, the more he likes it—because then he knows you’re focussed on him. You’re actually rewarding his “bad” behaviour by reacting to it.’

‘I am?’

‘Yes—you’re inadvertently indulging him.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Every time you shout at him, he actually thinks you’re praising him, so that’s going to make him worse.’