Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts Read Online Free PDF

there?’ Rachel asked, raising her voice to be heard over the cacophony.
    ‘Fifteen, unless we’ve had any hand-ins while I’ve been out?’ Megan was checking a book on the office table, and pressing buttons on the answering machine at the same time. ‘Sorry, we often get phone calls from people at their wit’s end with badly behaved dogs – wanting to dump them on us. I try to talk them round, rather than let them . . . Oh, not again . Sorry, Rachel, this nutcase in Madden’s trying to palm off a couple of Scotties for, like, the tenth time this year. If she could get her arse to training classes it would save us all a load of . . .’
    She grabbed a pencil and gestured towards the dog runs. ‘Do you want to have a look at the guys? Put those wellies on, if you want. Walk very slowly, and don’t put your fingers inside.’
    Rachel realised she must have looked horrified, because Megan added quickly, ‘They won’t bite, but some of them are a bit peckish this time of day.’ She chucked a bag of treats off the desk, and Rachel caught it. ‘Give them one or two, but no more – it’ll be their dinner at six.’
    Rachel slipped her feet into the spare wellies parked by the door, and cautiously approached the first pen, not wanting to set off more barking. The smell of fur and dog breath intensified. As George had predicted, her skirt and opaque-clad legs were already turning grey with stray hairs.
    I should have brought some jeans, she thought. In her rush to leave the flat she’d thrown the contents of her last dry-cleaning run into her bags, dumping the rest of her wardrobe in storage. Thinking about it, she wasn’t sure what bits of her fashionable working wardrobe really lent themselves to kennel work. Most of it was dry-clean only.
    Without warning a wet nose shoved itself up to the wire and she jumped as the front of the run shook with the impact of a big dog thrusting its paws up towards her.
    ‘Oh, my God!’ she gasped, grabbing her throat. ‘Don’t!’
    But she couldn’t help her heart melting at what she saw: a handsome red-and-white Basset hound with a softly wrinkled face, snuffling at her eagerly, one massive paw pressing up against the bars with a pleading gesture, so the solid pads pushed through the bars of the wire, revealing delicate tufts of hair between. Rachel had no idea how old the dog was, but it still looked to be growing into the huge knuckly paws and flopping ears, like a child wearing a set of clothes a year too big.
    There was a tag attached to the top of the cage and she read it while the dog carried on sniffing out her interesting new scent. The note was in Dot’s upright cursive handwriting, but the voice in the written words was clearly the dog in front of her.
    ‘My name’s Bertie, and I’m about twelve months old. My people took me for a walk in the park but then drove away. Though I tried to run after them, I couldn’t run fast enough because as you can see, my legs are very short. I wish someone would come back for me, because it’s rubbish being on my own. What I’m really looking for is a patient couple with a sense of humour who want a dog who’s as funny as they are. PS When I’m big, I will like walks, even though I look like I prefer lying around by your fireside.’
    Rachel’s stomach tightened in a knot as the dog tried to lick her hand, eager for affection. How could anyone just abandon a puppy like this? How could you push a trusting dog away, stopping it following you home? She bit her lip as she fondled the dog’s soft ear and tried not to think too hard about his sad story.
    There were tags on each of the pens, she could see: Rachel wasn’t sure she wanted to read them, but some awful curiosity compelled her.
    She turned to the pen opposite the Basset hound’s, where a little black poodle lay sadly in a basket at the far end of the concrete run, not even bothering to investigate the visitor. The cheery note was much brighter than the