Walking Ollie by Stephen Foster

Author:Stephen Foster [Stephen Foster]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781907595240
Publisher: Short Books
Published: 2010-07-08T16:00:00+00:00

A friend of Trezza’s came to stay. We went to eat in town. On our return, at about ten thirty, I volunteered myself for the night-time empty out.

By now this activity was no longer a daily ritual; as the nights began to draw out we’d started experimenting with taking him for a late evening second walk and skipping last-thing since it didn’t seem to be doing any of us any good. I might wake to find a present in the morning, but so what? – picking-up was beginning to slip down my list of Ollie-related problems. Still, on this occasion, I used him as an excuse to be on my own, to clear off out of the way and let the girls’ talk begin.

For once I was relaxed, not least on account of the bottle of wine I’d consumed. I walked Ollie down to Carrow Road and let him off in the carpark to attend to his toilet. The one extra reason I could claim for these unauthorised freedoms I was allowing him was that I’d learnt he didn’t like relieving himself if you were nearby, and he didn’t like being watched while he was at it either, not for poos, that is – he’d piss anywhere, like all dogs. He’d piss when he didn’t even need a piss. He didn’t cock his leg, he crouched like a girl. Trezza said this was because he’d had his equipment decommissioned too young. Sometimes I had a piss myself, and I’d cock my own leg to try to give him a clue, but he didn’t seem to see any connection between human piss and dog piss, much less did he consider my technique.

So I pretended to look away and smoked a cigarette while he did his main business. I bagged and binned the turd. He wandered into the darkness at the far end of the carpark. I called him. He backed off. I threw him a bit of chicken. He ate it and backed off again. We continued this game until we were very close to the front of the stadium. I reversed, to lure him back into the safety of the carpark. But he stayed put. I called him. Nothing.

I whistled him.

Nothing.

‘Chicken, Ollie,’ I said, ‘Chicken!’ I took a step forward and he cantered away round the corner, in the opposite direction, down the service road in front of the main stand, towards the main road proper. This could not be happening because this was the behaviour he reserved for the fields at the university, it was not for here where it had never happened before. I trotted after him, softly calling his name and saying, ‘Chicken.’ He went faster. I came to a halt, hoping he’d follow suit. He carried on. He’d put an unrecoverable distance between us now and was nearing the three-lane highway that runs parallel to the service road. The highway has phosphorescent orange overhead lighting and is edged by industrial units, a petrol station, and supermarkets.

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