The Handover

Text 1: Good Dog, by Amara Finch

An original short story extract.

Nia had brought Bramble to the training centre to give him back, but she spoke as if she were leaving him for an hour.

‘His blue bowl goes on the left. He won’t touch the biscuits with the green label. If there’s thunder—’

‘We know,’ Leena said gently, reaching for the lead.

Nia found another instruction. Then another. Her words jostled at the gate while Bramble leaned his warm shoulder against her leg.

Inside the yard, Leena walked him towards the low white building. After three steps, Bramble twisted round and trotted back to Nia, his tail battering her coat. Nia laughed, too quickly and too loudly. ‘Hopeless,’ she said, although her hand had already buried itself in the thick fur at his neck.

Leena waited. This time she gave the short rising whistle that Nia had practised with him every day. Bramble’s ears lifted. He crossed the yard, sat neatly at Leena’s side and looked up for his reward.

Nia had imagined the handover many times. In every version, Bramble planted all four paws and refused to leave her. She had not imagined this clean obedience. She had not imagined that success could sting.

‘He’s ready,’ Leena said.

Nia nodded. At the gate, she placed the lead in Leena’s open palm. For a moment, the loop of red leather joined them. Then Nia let go.

Bramble sprang towards the building at Leena’s whistle. Nia turned towards the car park before anyone could praise him again.