The flight back from America is incredibly short – five hours and 50 minutes, thanks to an overactive jet stream. It’s so short, in fact, that we end up circling Heathrow, waiting for it to open.
The sun has not yet risen when I find myself sitting at the kitchen table in my coat, looking at 10 days’ worth of post. I decide to cope with jet leg by not coping; I just let it have its way with me.
I wander aimlessly through the house for a bit, then I fall asleep. When I wake up, the clock says 4.30 and it is dark outside. I don’t know what kind of 4.30 it is, and I don’t care.
“It’s midday,” my wife says, two or perhaps three days later. “Are you ever going to get up?”
“What for?” I say.
I pull the duvet back over my head and I think: this is great; wake me up when it’s dark enough to drink. I’d love to be able to say I’ve finally found the courage to give up on life, but really I’m just taking advantage of the fact that the dogs aren’t here.
The dogs were farmed out while we were away – the old dog went to Cornwall with my father-in-law, and the little one went with Constance, who I believe subcontracted its care to her mother. To me, the near impossibility of finding one person to look after two dogs simply reinforces the stupidity of having two dogs. Even the people who came to look after the cat did so on the condition that there wouldn’t be any dogs here.
Having no dogs, on the other hand, is marvellous. There’s no reason to go outside, and there aren’t two sets of eyes watching me watch TV. Over Christmas, we were sent a lot of pictures of strangers cuddling the little dog, as well as one of the old dog in a coat. I felt a few pangs of guilt at the time – other people weren’t just looking after my pets, they were taking the trouble to dress them up – and I supposed that coming home to a house without the dogs in might be a little depressing. I was mistaken. It’s thrilling.
“It’s half past one,” my wife says, storming into the bedroom. “When are you going to wake up?”
“Never,” I say.
“What about lunch?” she says.
“Who says we have to eat lunch at lunchtime?” I ask.
I sit up and look out of the window towards the park, where people are walking their dogs in the rain, and I think: suckers.
“You need to cook,” my wife says. “I’m going to my dad’s.”
“Oh,” I say. I realise it’s already Sunday – dog day afternoon.
I get dressed and go downstairs. The Christmas tree, I notice, has been de-ornamented, ready for removal. The middle one is already up and watching Sky Sports News. Lunch is sitting on the kitchen worktop in an unmade state, waiting for me.
The buzzer rings. I open the door to find Constance standing there with the little dog. “Happy New Year,” she says.
The little dog runs past me and makes a hysterical circuit of the ground floor, before launching itself into the air and colliding with my shins.
“Yeah, hi,” I say.
The dog turns and runs up the stairs.
“Can I have some wine?” Constance asks.
At that moment, my wife walks in with the old dog. I hear the little dog tearing back down the stairs, making its familiar, pig-like grunt of overexcitement. As I turn back towards the kitchen, I exchange a brief, unhappy glance with the cat.
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