Back at the cage, I falter a moment. Will this backlash on me? Even if it does, this dog is not going through a moment more of suffering because of me. I focus intently on cutting though the wire mesh; I’d use my teeth if I had to. I cut and cut until eventually one section tears and I make a hole. Herbie is whimpering loudly. ‘Alright, old boy, it’s only me.’ He looks straight at me and I’m sucked into a vortex of such sadness I wonder if I’ll ever surface again. ‘Darling boy.’ He stands, legs unsteady, tail involuntarily moving in a jagged circle as if it’s forgotten how to wag. I hear voices at the door. The hole is big enough to clamber through and I crouch in the dark beside my boy, his big head suddenly in my lap. I cradle him: ‘Shhh.’
Herbie, it’s ok, Yaya’s back, it really is the real Yaya!
The voices say their thank yous, marvellous round today, adios, adieu, till next time. ‘Come on, ole boy.’ We need to get out of here before the electric gates lock us in. I try to push Herbie’s bulk through the hole but he seems dazed. I go first. ‘Come, Herbie.’ I pull the edges of the circle and then like some magically trained circus animal he jumps through the hoop and the two of us run towards the car.
Herbie is panicked, his breathing fast and high, his big lolling tongue trying to grab on to the air to cool him down. I should have brought him a bowl of water. Cast my mind back to the pen: was there any food or water? I imagine throwing a firework soaked in kerosene through the letter box, leaving a poo-bomb on the doorstep, scratching the shiny midnight-blue BMW with this year’s reg.
‘Herbie?’ He seems unsure; perhaps this is playing out like a dream, something he’s careful not to trust in case he wakes up cold and alone in his cage. Vow to win him back and instinctively know to take it slow. I wind down the back window, even though it’s cold and damp, and he sticks his oversized head out, tongue catching the wind.
‘Home sweet home,’ I say as we drive up to the house. His whole body is shaking. Poor guy. My heart is full to the brim, bobbing about in there like some unmoored, overinflated balloon, likely to burst at any point. I open the back door; he jumps out, sniffing the air. He cocks his leg and widdles on the overgrown tangle that is my front garden.
I open the front door. ‘Marmie? I’ve a friend for you to meet!’ The little cat trots out all confident, sees the huge shaggy dog and bolts, Herbie in hot pursuit. Marmie’s squeals fill the air. I hadn’t thought of Herbie as a cat chaser before now. He wouldn’t do anything if he caught her – would he? – unless his months in captivity have changed him. I pick Marmie up from under the couch, sing snatches of lullabies into her ear. The cat is rigid. The phone rings.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, can I bring you over a takeaway?’
His voice, all warm and familiar. I can feel the old creeping coldness.
‘Busy later. Thanks, though.’
‘Really? Doing what?’
This line of questioning has an invasive quality that powers up my protective walls.
‘Important day tomorrow. Going to see Tommy.’
‘You might need a listening ear after that. I’m here for you, you know that.’
‘Thanks, David. I’ll let you know how it goes.’ Sewn into the fabric of that statement is the implied directive to leave me alone until I decide to call. ‘Chat soon.’ I disconnect.
Anxiety is mounting, extremities hot and twitchy. I spend the next hour or so googling ‘bonding a cat and a dog’ and receive so many conflicting instructions that the mist starts to swirl. The door to the yard is wide open and there’s a cartoon stand-off between them, Marmie hissing and swiping at the air, Herbie standing stock-still, fixated. He looks like David last night as he took in my naked body. The first twenty-four hours are the most intense, one post wrote, after that they’ll start to relax a little in each other’s company. I’m glad in a way of the distraction. Marmie is growing more boisterous, circling him, hissing, then running away. The poor old dog doesn’t even give chase, just stares in her direction, panting. Meanwhile the texts keep on coming: Where/what/why/who? Who, indeed! Who are you to ask? Makes me want to go out and fuck a random stranger.
The doorbell rings. The caller presses down longer than is polite. Damned if I’m going to be bullied, and anyway I couldn’t trust myself not to lose it. Excitement builds. A voice bellows through the letter box. Herbie starts to bark, Marmie mewls.
‘Sonya, open that door. NOW.’ I’m moving towards the door to bolt the Chubb when I catch a glimpse of a silver Cortina outside. My adrenalin falls so suddenly I feel as if I might crash to the floor. How I wanted this particular scene to play out: the obsessed, demented, jilted lover who turns up on the doorstep of the object of his crazed fantasies, enacting some beautiful, brutal act. And that, right there, is weird, and I know it.