Why Men Like Dogs

This story has little plot and no surprises. It’s short and simple and has happened many times.  It’s only notable feature is that it happened to me.

When I broke my ankle Rob was a star, the ideal man for a girl with a cast and a crutch who needed cosseting.   I had the sofa, the footstool, the TV remote and the best selection of ready meals any girl could wish for, all brought with a smile and accompanied by Rob plumping cushions and asking if I needed a blanket. Idyllic.

The idyll passed, as idylls do.  Soon I was back on both feet, back at work and two stone heavier.  Which, given that I’d been fairly whale-like beforehand, didn’t make for a pretty sight.

Rob was so thoughtful.  He never moaned.  He treated me like a queen, not just when I had a broken ankle, but all the time.  I began to think he deserved something less than a tank on his arm.

I turned to Hilary, a substantial friend with the most welcoming smile you ever saw.  At school we used to call her Heavery and she took it in good part.  Hilary knew all about diets, but she always lapsed before the final pound had brought her down to target weight.  She was like the habitual smoker who can give them up anytime.  She could lose weight, revel in our compliments, think about trying smaller clothes, but before the job was completed she always stopped losing, then slowly added the pounds back on and it all began again. It was what she did.

But I could learn from Hilary and the difference would be that I’d keep going, I’d bring myself back to my youthful slimline figure and stay there. I reckoned Rob deserved that.

Hilary was a diet expert.  She knew them all – low carb, no carb, calorie counting and more.  She had a big folder full of diets, exercises and tips.  Like, how to drop a dress size and how to look as if you’ve dropped a dress size.  That kind of thing.

“What do you think of this, Trisha?” she showed me a full page magazine feature.

She’d been reading about a weekend of pampering, exercise and weight loss and it looked like the works.  We thought we might do it together.  Until we read a bit more and found you could do a whole week in another place.  Then we found TWM – the Two Week Makeover, in a plush hotel only sixty miles down the country.  I imagined going down as a blob and coming home as a babe.

We booked, arranged our holidays and stuffed our faces before embarking on the healthy regime we would be taking on for the rest of our lives.

The hotel was lovely.  Ensuite single rooms with fruit and herbal tea instead of coffee and biscuits, with a TV and DVD player plus a supply of motivational discs.  Beautiful trainers, male and female, paraded around as inspiration and to round us up for swimming, gym sessions, walking and running. 

After the first day, I sank exhausted into bed, without even a cup of herbal tea.  Next morning we got a wake-up call, no raucous alarm but a gentle, persistent chiming of faraway church bells.  I woke, remembered where I was and eased myself out of bed, aching all over from yesterday’s exertions, dressed and made my way to breakfast thinking I’d love a rasher sandwich.  No chance.  Just fruit.

After breakfast we launched into another day of walking, running, swimming, lifting weights, treadmill and other retributions.  Much as I longed to go home and pig in front of the telly, this had cost a packet and I wanted to get my money’s worth, so I threw myself into it, huffing, puffing, stretching, bending and shedding pounds.

I could feel a change in a few days. I was being streamlined and the whole regime was getting to seem worthwhile.  Hilary, on the other hand, couldn’t keep up so well.  She turned up for the sessions, but it was all very hard work for her.  It was clear it was having a much better effect on me than on her.  She was sweet about it, praising me up and encouraging me, flopping over the waist of her tracksuit bottoms.

The food was healthy.  Juices, fruit, then later vegetables, lean meat and fish, more fruit.  And water. At the end of a week, I was leaner, fitter and my skin had a healthy glow.  After two weeks, even leaner and more glowing.  By now my cravings and dreams of chips and crisp sandwiches had almost faded away. 

We drove home in good spirits, having had a complimentary make up session before we left.  Hilary drove us to town and I got some new, sexy clothes using the old plastic magic trick.  Hilary bought a large blue type of coverall, but it was silk and cut to make a nice kimono-like robe.  I told her it was lovely.  Then it was back to the flat, waiting for Rob to get back, to surprise him with the new me.

It was a good night.  Rob came home with a big bunch of flowers and a takeaway, sweet and sour sauce and battered chicken.  I was tempted, but I stuck with a little white rice mixed with tomatoes and low fat yogurt.  Tasty and good for me too.  I glowed with health and righteousness.

Time went on.  To remind me, I pasted old photographs of my fat self on the fridge and the bathroom mirror.  I kept my hair cut and styled properly.  I followed myself with interest, cutting calories, smiling, exercising; and weighing, always weighing.  I was my own project, a highly successful one.

Poor Hilary.  Shortly after our holiday, the weight she’d lost was back on and more with it.  We met up from time to time and she always admired me, said I looked great.  Always in good form, she’d smile and make a few jokes about her own size.  She seemed quite happy.  I knew that symptom, though.  The fat girl who takes refuge in humour.

I’d been thinking of going for a booster weekend back at our spa hotel and asked Hilary if she’d come along.  I thought it would be good for her, help her to get back on the right road.  For me, a weekend would be extra toning, extra losing, extra grooming and blooming.  For Hilary, it would be another start.

Hilary smiled.  “It’s not really for me,” she said, “I’m kinda fed up of all that stuff.”

So much for my theory of the secretly unhappy fat girl.

“But last time – we had a great time, we got fit.” I said.  I didn’t want to embarrass her by mentioning weight loss.

“Ah, it was a lot of hard work,” Hilary said, “to be honest, I was glad when it was over.”

Undeterred, I booked the weekend for myself.  My body was an ongoing assignment.  I would keep working at it, hone it to perfection.

Through the weekend I swam, worked out, exercised. The trainers gave help and encouragement and I took every opportunity to knock a pound off here, tone up there and increase my energy.  It was no longer hard work, I was at my happiest now when I was doing something to even further improve my lovely body.

I was almost sorry to leave the spa.  I thought of how much thinner I could get if I stayed longer.  Still, I couldn’t wait to see Rob and looked forward to going out for a few slimline tonics. 

The flat was empty.  I decided to start the meal but there were no vegetables.  No matter.  I could pop down to the local shops and Rob would be home by the time I got back.

Later I ate the chicken and vegetables alone.  I tried ringing Rob about 9 but no reply.  I tried again at half past, at 10.  I began to worry.  I tried his parents’ house, his mother said she hadn’t heard from him all day.  By now I was convinced he was in trouble or in hospital.

I got a text about 11 saying he wouldn’t be back that night.  

Of course it took me a while to pull myself away from the mirror and work out what was happening.  In the morning, when I went to get some clothes for work, I found the wardrobe half empty.  Rob’s half.  Alarm bells ringing.

After work I rang him.  He hummed and hawed for a bit, then agreed to meet for a drink.  I know it’s pathetic, but I jumped at the chance.  I thought, once we see each other, once he sees me... it’ll all come right.

I went into the pub we’d decided on, found Rob among the customers and as I made my way over there, saw Hilary leave the table and race to the ladies.

I stood there, stunned.  I found my mouth opening and closing, no sound.  No pleading, no shouting, no name calling, just helpless anger.  In a while, Rob raised his eyes, looked directly at me.

With a start I realised that for the first time in months he’d actually looked me in the eyes. He shrugged and said, “she’s real.”

I found my voice. “She’s real?  What about all this?”  I ran my hands down my shapely hips, “all I’ve done… for you.” My voice trailed off on the last two words.

“I never asked you.”

“But… I worked at this.  I’m still working at it.  I…”

“I know.  I appreciate it.  I do.  But…”

“But what?” My voice rose to fishwife mode.

“You left those old photographs.  The ones on the fridge and the mirror.  You look gorgeous in them.  I couldn’t help but compare, seeing that you’re always talking about your body.”

“I look terrible in them pictures.  Heavy and frumpy.”

“Cuddly.”

He was afraid he’d lose me to some better looking or richer guy.  So he found a woman who wouldn’t be in much demand.  That’s what I told myself.

I looked around the pub and saw women in close conversation with their men, women who’ll never win Miss Universe, who won’t be taking two-hour workouts and who’ll never eat a lettuce leaf unless it’s squashed in a bun with a burger. 

Some couples leaned across tables, some held hands, some laughed and some gazed into eyes. All looked engrossed.

In rage, I shrieked at Rob, “It’s just like that joke, isn’t it?”

He looked puzzled.

“Y’know, dog – fox?  You guys, you’re all out with dogs.”

Rob smiled, “I’m not drunk, Trisha.”

The old unkind joke – What’s the difference between a dog and a fox?

Answer – Eight pints of lager. 

Hilary came out of the ladies and linked her arm in Rob’s. She leaned over him, her big bosom against his chest as she lowered her big bum into the chair. She smiled at me. For the first time, I realised Hilary had more ammunition than I had.  Rob had chosen a woman  who’ll give more attention to him than to herself.    

Hilary is looking even bigger now.  She’s like a small house, her kimono like a big tent thrown over it, the bump like a mini-mountain projecting above her substantial legs.  She looks happy, so does Rob.  When I see them, they smile at me, say hello and pass quickly on.  They seem to be complete, in a bubble of love. 

Here’s the thing: a fox is predatory and selfish, while a dog is devoted and loyal and selfless.  That’s the real answer to the question; the real difference between a dog and a fox.

©Frances O’Keeffe

Friday Night Kismet

Friday Night Kismet

Tommy had a secret.  He’d had it for so long that he’d forgotten about it.

When it was new, it was a big, guilty skeleton in the cupboard. He’d jump whenever the phone rang, even though he hadn’t given out his number. For a while, he’d paid so much attention to Tina that she began to wonder why, so he’d eased off that. He’d had confused, anxious dreams and was constantly worried that he’d say something incriminating in his sleep.

But time passed and there was no consequence.  It was just a blokey thing, all over and done with.  He gradually relaxed and life went on as normal. He worked hard, paid his way, loved his wife and children.  Basically, he was your all round good guy.

The past caught up with him one Friday night.  He was in the queue at the off-licence, waiting to check out a six-pack and a bottle of red for the weekend takeaway. The woman in front of him dropped her purse and change fell out around the floor. Tommy, a nice lad, helped to pick it up. 

“Don’t I know you?” She asked, stuffing coins into her purse. She had an open, cheeky smile.

She was about his own age, blonde, dressed in a bright orange top and short skirt. High slingback shoes brought her up to his height. 

He shook his head. “Sorry, no, I don’t think so.”

She placed her basket on the counter, looking puzzled.

A few minutes later, moving away with two bags, she stopped, turned back to him and said,

“I remember now. I think you’re the father of one of my children.”

Tommy was gobsmacked.

The floor wouldn’t open up and swallow him, so he had to stand there in shock while his stuff was scanned through. His face was burning and his mind was in uproar. He looked sideways at the smiling face and couldn’t remember ever meeting her. Yet there was that secret.  He hadn’t thought of it in years and he couldn’t clearly recall the woman.  Or even the night.

It was during his friend Robbie’s stag party. The lads were living it large for one last blast.

They were in a club, he remembered. He was smashed enough to be happy but not completely incapacitated. There were girls, there was flirting.  That was a good laugh, that club, and they all went to a chipper afterwards.

He’d almost finished his chips when he realised the weight on his left hand was a blonde, linking on to him and laughing, asking his name, telling hers.  They’d moved on, she and her friends still with them. He was chuffed at being in demand. At the next club…

The checkout assistant politely called his total.  He handed over some money, took his change and his booze.  The woman was still there, still smiling.

“You’re... Sarah?” he asked.

“Stella,” she corrected him.  Panicked, he had a vision of telling his children they had a half brother or sister.  Worse, he thought about Tina.  He blustered,

“Stella. Yeah. Look, it was years ago… we were very young. We were crazy that night. Doing it in a doorway. How mad is that?…” Stupid inner pride crept into his voice.

He saw her brows furrow and realised he was speaking aloud; he noticed the silence, the customers all busy listening. He lowered his voice,

“I swear I never knew there was a child.”

“Shut up!” she hissed, clearly embarrassed at the interest shown by the whole shop.

“Let’s get out of here,” he steered her towards the door but she stopped and stood facing  him.  The queue listed collectively towards them.

“Stella.  It was a long time ago,” he squeaked.

She raised her voice, “I’ve never had sex in a doorway.  Ever.” She told the listening punters.

He could see she was hopping mad.  He shouldn’t have been so blunt.  She’d probably glossed it over in her mind and told herself the whole thing was a beautiful, romantic interlude; a night of full moon magic when her child was conceived. But he knew there was only one time that he’d been unfaithful, ever since he’d met Tina when they were both sixteen. On that night, he remembered coupling in the tiny back porch of a club, while music blared from inside and out in the dark yard a few others were on the way to doing the same.  Afterwards was a blur, there was more drinking and an eventual blackout. He didn’t know how they’d got back to the grotty guest house that Robbie’s best man had booked, but he remembered the rude awakening in the morning when they all had killer hangovers.

Stella spoke loudly again, for everyone to hear.

“I’m your daughter’s coach. The netball team. Aren’t you Alison’s father?”

Again, the ground remained intact though he wished it would give way. His heart thumped and his legs turned to jelly. Perhaps he’d faint and she’d be gone when he woke up. But she stayed put and his legs stayed upright and he stood there, mortified.

“Sorry, I thought… I thought you were someone else.  I made a mistake.”

Stella said sweetly, “seems like you did – a long time ago.”

He nearly wept. “It was years ago.  I was young then.  A bit mad.”

“And drunk.”

“Yeah.”

“And married?”

“Well...” He floundered on, “Alison says you’re great.  You’re doing a brilliant job with the netball.”

“I am,” Stella said.

“The team is great.  I’m a big fan.”

 “Yeah – that’s why Alison was left there after all the others had gone – that time you were supposed to pick her up.  I waited with her.  I was late for my French class.  That’s why I remember you.”

“Sorry.  But really, I love those matches.”

“Enough to miss the whole game and leave your child waiting afterwards.”

“I usually go to everything.  All the time,” he said eagerly, “I keep all the dates marked.”

“So you know about our committee meeting next week then?”

“Oh, I’m not on the committee.”

“I know you’re not.  But Alison’s mother is.  Your wife.”

 “Oh.”

“Tina, isn’t it?  I must check the agenda. Should be interesting,” Giggles rippled through the queue as Stella swept out of the off licence, calling back, “when we get to Any Other Business.”

©Frances O’Keeffe