The Switch(26)

After the near-biting incident I am slightly less excited about walking this dog, but if Jackson thinks I can’t do it, I’m obviously going to have to do it, so that’s that, really.

‘We’ll be just fine, won’t we, Hank?’

Hank jumps up at me ecstatically. I squeal and lose my footing. I’m starting to think Google has not entirely prepared me for this.

‘Off we go, then!’ I say, as confidently as I can manage. ‘Bye!’

‘See you soon,’ Jackson calls as we shoot off down the path. ‘If you have any problems just …’

I think Jackson is still talking, but I don’t hear anything after this point because Hank is very keen to get going. Christ, I hardly need to use any momentum for this walk, Hank’s dragging me along – oh, feck, he’s in the road, he’s in the – all right, back on the – what’s that he’s eating? Where’s he got that from?

The journey through the village to the open fields is the longest ten minutes of my life. We also pass literally everybody in Hamleigh-in-Harksdale – it seems they have all chosen right this very moment to be outside their houses, watching me get towed down the pavement by an extremely excited Labrador.

An old man tries to overtake me on his mobility scooter for the whole length of Middling Lane. He’s mostly obscured by a large waterproof cape to keep off the drizzle; through the plastic, he calls, ‘You ought to keep Hank to heel!’ at me.

‘Yes!’ I call. ‘Thank you!’

‘That’s what Eileen does!’ the old man yells, now alongside.

‘That’s good to know!’ I say brightly, as Hank attempts to dislocate my shoulder. ‘Heel, Hank,’ I try, in a spritely, talking-to-a-dog-or-baby voice. Hank doesn’t even glance around at me.

‘I’m Roland!’ calls the man on the scooter. ‘You must be Leena.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Heel, Hank! Heel!’

Hank stops abruptly, smelling something interesting, and I promptly fall over him. He licks my face while I’m down. Meanwhile Roland takes this opportunity to complete his overtake triumphantly, which I find incredibly annoying, because even though I hadn’t consented to this being a race, I clearly just lost.

When we’re finally through the village and out of sight of prying eyes, I drag Hank to a stop and lean against a tree. Bloody hell, this is more like route-marching than walking. How on earth did my grandmother manage this beast?

I look around the field – I remember this spot. It looks different in the grey weather, but Carla and I used to picnic here as kids; she got stuck up this tree, once, and burst into noisy tears, which didn’t stop even as I talked her down one step at a time.

Hank brings me back to the present with a yank of the lead. He’s straining so desperately he’s managed to lift his front paws off the ground. I’m pretty sure the Internet said not to let the dog strain at the lead – I’m meant to encourage him back to me, aren’t I?

I fish out one of my homemade treats and call his name; he shoots over, gobbles up the treat, then he’s straight back to the business of lead-straining. This happens three more times. The homemade treats have turned to mush in the sandwich bag; I can feel the residue of mincey egginess under my fingernails.

Defeated, I strike out again and powerwalk around the perimeter of the field. Every so often I try out an optimistic ‘heel’ or haul Hank back to my side, but I am largely, if we’re honest, getting taken for a walk by this dog.

Ironically, given Jackson’s ‘big wellies to fill’ comment, I am actually wearing Grandma’s wellies right now – I don’t have a pair of my own, and me and Grandma have the same size feet. The wellies have been rubbing my heels ever since I stepped out of Clearwater Cottage, and now there’s an enormous stone in the toe of one, too. I make an ineffectual attempt at getting Hank to stop, and then bend down to remove the offending boot.

I am definitely holding the lead. Of course I am. You wouldn’t loosen your hold on the lead with a dog like Hank. Except … somehow, in the confusion of hopping on one leg and my welly falling over, and trying not to step my socked foot in the mud, I seem to let go of it.

Hank’s gone like a bullet. He’s running full pelt, back and front legs almost crossing in the middle, bolting with single-minded focus for the fields beyond.

‘Fuck! Fuck!’ I’m already sprinting, but I’ve only got one welly on, and running with one welly is very tricky – a bit like doing a three-legged race on your own – and it only takes a few paces for me to stumble and fall again. Hank is streaking away from me. I scrabble to my feet, panicked and breathless, oh God, oh God, he’s out of sight now – he’s – he’s – where is he?

I dash back for the welly, yank it on, and run. I have never run harder in my whole entire life. After a few minutes of entirely random sprinting, my crisis-control impulse kicks in and I realise I’d be better off running in at least a slightly methodical pattern, so I work my way in a zigzag across the fields, gasping for breath. At some point I start to cry, which does not make it easier to run at speed, and eventually, when almost an hour has passed, I collapse underneath a tree and sob.

I’ve lost Jackson’s dog. Filling in for my grandma was supposed to be easy, and restful, and something I could not suck at. But this is awful. God knows what could happen to Hank out there. What if he reaches a main road? What if – what if something eats him? Does anything in the Yorkshire Dales eat puppies? Oh, God, why the hell am I crying so much?