Nicola Barker - Love Your Enemies

Sarah wanted to put Silver’s great marketing paw on the label of their joint shampoo venture. She believed that Anthony’s success was her success too, but Anthony (rather selfishly) had insisted on dog food exclusivity. He said, ‘Silver is my dog when all is said and done, Sarah. I sometimes feel as though all this fuss and attention gets on his nerves. He’s just an amateur in this game, not one of your professional pampered pets. Use one of your own dogs instead.’

Sarah was convinced that Silver loved the limelight, and that Anthony didn’t care about the shampoo because the initial idea had been her own. She kept saying, ‘Why won’t you commit yourself properly to this project, Anthony? Everybody knows that a dog must look good both inside and out to be truly successful. Cosmetic factors are important. I need Silver’s face to make a success of this, not just me, we both do. This is a joint venture after all.’ Anthony would close the subject by taking Silver out for a long walk.

A firm basis of their marriage had always been competitive shows of affection towards the dog. If one of them bought him a collar from Macy’s, the other would buy him a jewel-encrusted pooper-scooper. The dog became a scapegoat, and somewhere along the line, in their generous displays, they forgot what it was like to be generous towards each other; they forgot what it was like to love each other. Sarah left the matrimonial home as a gesture of defiance. She didn’t return.

The Annual International Afghan Appreciation Society’s Summer Ball was to take place that Saturday night. This occasion was of great significance to Sarah in career terms because she had been chosen as guest of honour and was to receive an award (rumour had it, to be presented by someone in indirect contact with the Onassis blood-line) for her services over the years to the Afghan as a breed. An in-depth photo session — ‘The Silver/Sarah Story’ — with Hello magazine was also in the offing.

She needed Silver. She needed Silver at her side to open the ceremony — they had enclosed a small dog-biscuit shaped invitation with Silver’s name on it along with her own — but if she couldn’t have Silver (increasingly it looked that way), then she had to ensure that Anthony didn’t try and sabotage her by some ruse, as yet known only to himself. She couldn’t bear the idea of him bringing Silver along to the ceremony. It would look bad, especially if he hadn’t groomed him properly. For Anthony it meant nothing, but she had so much on the line.

As she left the police station Sarah swallowed back a wave of nausea. She was so desperate that she had even contemplated an attempted (and temporary) reunion during the weekend so that she might make use of Silver for the duration of the ball, but she knew that Anthony was too wise, too possessive, too paranoid. It was a big problem.

Anthony sat in the back garden brushing Silver’s long, golden hair and musing silently on the turn of events. He was satisfied with his morning’s work. He said out loud — the sound of his voice causing the dog to start and pull momentarily on his lead — ‘I showed ’em, Silver. These professional animal care types are demons. The worst sorts. Care only for money and prestige and profit. I think I’m better than that. You’ve always been mine and I’ve always loved you, come what may.’

Suddenly a thought entered his head, a thought so intoxicating that the joy of it made him feel as though his brain was soaking in rum, floating in a sea of alcohol. He threw down the brush and ran into the house. Several minutes later he re-emerged holding a small electric razor, which was already vibrating in his hand.

Silver stared at the buzzing razor with his big grey-brown eyes and sighed despondently. He was a decent sort of animal, but lately had begun to feel rather stressed out.

As Anthony sheared away at Silver’s fur, he felt warm, salty blood trickling down his throat. He remembered the tissues in his ears and pulled them out, then, without needing to remould them, pushed the ear-stoppers up either nostril. He tried to remember to breathe through his mouth.

Sarah had her spies. A particularly helpful and obliging kennel-maid in her employ was more than happy to spend her working hours — and several more hours overtime — scrutinizing the Bland residence, keeping an eye on Silver, making sure that Sarah was kept abreast of all developments.

On Friday night, Sarah was sitting somewhat gracelessly (her legs up on the desk) in the reception area of Paws for Thought. They were closed. Even allowing for the incident with Anthony earlier on, it had been a most depressing day. Countless clients had made references to the AAS ball and award ceremony. All expressed an enthusiasm to see Silver in the fur, so to speak, with his hair like a waterfall of smooth, creamy, champagne follicles.

Sarah was full of a deep, numbing, inexplicable sense of foreboding. She sensed that Anthony was up to something, was willing to go to extreme lengths to humiliate her. She stared at her knees and tried to think of something else. Instead she wondered whether cellulite and fat were the same thing, or if cellulite was something more complex that you couldn’t get rid of merely by dieting. Her knees looked dimply. Anthony had always loved her dimples.

The front door of the shop crashed open and Sarah’s obliging kennel-maid ran in, panting, red-faced, slightly hysterical. Sarah removed her legs from the desk and pulled down her skirt. She then strode over to the girl and, taking hold of her shoulders, shook her violently while saying, ‘For God’s sake, tell me what’s happened, tell me what he’s done, tell me!’

The girl’s teeth chattered but she forced out the word ‘razor’.

Sarah gasped. ‘You mean, you mean he’s …’ She gulped, ‘… suicide?’

The girl shook her head and then breathed deeply to try and control her vocal chords. ‘Worse than that. It’s the dog. He’s shaved the dog. Hasn’t shaved the whole dog, though. Only its bottom.’

Sarah dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around her head like someone shielding themselves from a bomb. After a short duration her voice emerged, wavering, muffled, ‘How does it look?’

The kennel-maid sobbed and rung her hands, ‘Oh Mrs Bland, it looks … it looks awful !’

Anthony stared smugly out of the kitchen window at Silver, who was trotting around the back garden, the hair on his body swinging regally. He was such a proud dog, a great specimen. Anthony thought to himself, ‘I love him! Everything I’ve done I’ve done for him. He’s my child. This cut is just cosmetic, peripheral, like discipline; being cruel to be kind. Let’s see how Sarah reacts to it though!’

He couldn’t repress a tiny chuckle as Silver turned around and brought his beautifully shaved rump into full view. Anthony’s chest puffed out proudly as he perused his handiwork. It wasn’t just a shaved bottom, it was more than that. Anthony had shaved a large heart shape across the dog’s buttocks which spread over the entire rump area, an area that was now whitish, surprisingly skinny and amazingly unattractive. The base of the heart, its bottom ‘v’, found a lovely focus just under the dog’s anus. Anthony had shaved the tail too, for good measure, which waved around like an obscene, pale, twig.

Silver knew that something strange had happened to his rear end. Occasionally he craned his head round and endeavoured to sniff at it. That part of his body now felt extremely vulnerable and cold. He dreaded winter, when he might be forced to perform his more basic bodily functions crouching in the snow. On such occasions, a bottom really needed hair.

Anthony turned from the window and set about making some popcorn in the microwave.