We have twenty-five rescue dogs currently staying at St Francis, and I already know which of them will eventually be adopted and which won’t. It’s the kind of thing you pick up quite quickly if you work at a rescue centre like this, whether a dog is adoptable or not. It’s a combination of breed, age and temperament. An old, quiet Labrador is almost guaranteed a new family. A boisterous Staffie is not, much as it breaks my heart.
I lead Sandra down through the kennels, stopping at each run to introduce the dog within. I leave the biters and the growlers behind their gates, but for the friendlier ones I unlock the door for a proper greeting. Sandra is hesitant around the dogs, standing slightly behind me and only reaching a hand to the dogs when I assure her they’re safe.
‘What kind of dog were you thinking of?’ I ask after a while. When I’m in my St Francis uniform, my voice comes easy.
‘A gentle one,’ Sandra says with a little laugh. ‘Not too much energy.’
‘Maybe an older dog would suit you,’ I say. ‘In fact . . .’ I skip the next couple of kennels and come to a stop. ‘You know what? I think this is the perfect dog for you.’
Petal is an eight-year-old spaniel who was brought to St Francis a couple of months ago after her elderly owner died. She’s the sweetest dog, but incredibly mopey – even getting her out for her daily walks is a trial sometimes.
I rattle through the basics, squatting on to the floor next to Petal, who shuffles over to me and rests her head on my knee. ‘She’s got a lovely temperament,’ I say, stroking her ears. ‘And she’s very low-maintenance.’
‘Hello,’ Sandra says softly, awkwardly sinking down beside me. ‘Hello, Petal. Oh, you’re very beautiful.’
‘Shall we take her out for a run?’ I suggest cheerfully. ‘To help you visualize her being your dog?’
Two hours later, I’m back at reception with Sandra, this time accompanied by Ivan and Petal. Sandra, looking a little shell-shocked but happy, is filling in a pile of forms and Petal is sitting at her feet.
‘We’d usually arrange a home visit first,’ Ivan is saying. ‘But as Steffi knows you and I trust her judgement I’m willing to waive that this time. So long as you don’t mind her checking up on you quite a bit in the first couple of months.’ He gives me a small, understanding smile. I smile back happily.
‘Oh, I think I’ll be very grateful for Steffi’s visits,’ Sandra says, and my smile grows into a beam.
Petal is an extra excuse, if I ever needed one, to spend more time at the Gold house. She’s so well trained there’s not really much need to worry, but Rhys’s mother has never owned a dog so I go through all the basics, explaining about feeding times and regular walks. This is a topic I’m most comfortable with and that, plus the fact that I love the entire Gold family, builds my confidence in everything from my abilities to my speech.
‘You’re spending a lot of time over there,’ Dad says to me, about a week after Petal’s adoption. ‘If you and Rhys want to come over here instead sometimes, that’s fine with us.’
‘I know, Dad.’
‘OK, good. Just wanted to be sure.’
‘It’s only because of the dog,’ I remind him. ‘People need training just as much as dogs do, you know.’
He smiles. ‘Yes, I’m sure. This kind of thing . . . helping people learn how to look after new animals . . . is this what you’d like to do for a career?’
I nod. ‘Something like this, yeah. Working with animals, anyway.’
‘Maybe you should think about expanding,’ he says. He comes into my room – where I’m sitting on my bed doing homework – and leans slightly, anchoring his hands in his pockets. ‘Maybe turning some of the people you know from the kennels into clients. You could build up a client list before you’ve even left school. One day it could be your own business.’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think I’ll start doing anything like that until after university. I’ll be more prepared then.’
A slight frown passes over Dad’s face. ‘I meant as an alternative to university.’
‘Oh, Dad,’ I snap, instantly irritated. ‘Will you stop? I get enough of this from Mum. I want to go to uni, OK?’
‘I know that, love.’ His careful calmness gets my back up even more. ‘But I’m a little concerned that you haven’t made as much progress as we’d hoped. With your communication, I mean.’
‘Well, I don’t know where you’re getting that from,’ I say, beginning to type more ferociously than necessary on my keyboard, not even looking at whatever nonsense is appearing on screen. ‘I’m doing a lot better, actually. I can talk at school now.’
‘A word or two, every now and then,’ Dad says. ‘That’s not really what we had in mind. By now I’d hoped that you’d be talking to more of your peers. But I don’t hear you mention anyone at school except Rhys.’
‘God, what do you want from me?’ I demand. ‘You’re meant to encourage me to push myself.’