Cover

About the Author

ERICKA WALLER lives in Brighton with her husband, three daughters and pets. Previously, she worked as a blogger and columnist.

Dog Days is the sum of everything she has learned about love, loss, and the healing power of dogs.

Twitter: @erickawaller1

Instagram @erickamary

Dedication

To Grace, Daisy and Bliss
(remember, anything is possible)

and to James,
for always believing in my writing

Prelude

IT’S ONE OF THOSE spring mornings you get down on the coast, a scene so brilliant it reminds you of a child’s painting: the sky a solid block of Crayola blue, the sun scrubbed to a radiant beam. On the horizon, crisp white clips of sails like petticoats, like maids curtsying to the shore. The Beacon winks with buttercups and dandelions. The grass does silent t’ai chi in a breeze that may adjust a hat to a jaunty angle, but would never be so rude as to whip it off your head. And there is the windmill, casting its shadow on the bodies of Luke and Lizzie, Dan and Atticus, on George and Betty and their dogs.

Even from this distance, it’s easy to spot who belongs to whom. That Fitz and Wolfie belong to Dan and Luke, striding over the mound. Fitz’s tongue is too long and his tail too waggy to be perfect, but you’d struggle to find a more decent creature, just like his owner. Wolfie – the flirt, the airhead, the poor simple beast – is distracted from chasing a squirrel by Maud. Lizzie is supposed to be walking her, but it’s always the other way round. Betty and George are on the bench with Poppy, who is licking the salt from George’s fingers as he eats. Betty is knitting another hideous jumper for her rescue greyhound, Lucky – a coat-hanger of a dog who always looks embarrassed but never leaves her side.

The rain comes out of nowhere, as it can so close to the sea. The first dollop of water lands on George’s thin hair. He tuts. Fucking weather. Poppy barks. Fitz and Wolfie roll in something dead and smelly. Lucky’s woollen coat starts to itch.

They all look up at the rain, heads tipped back, pale necks exposed to the elements, like birds waiting to be fed. They stay that way for a minute, before Betty covers her head with her newspaper and George packs away his lunch. Before Luke worries about his hair. Before Atticus takes off his coat to give to Dan, who, says Lizzie, needs it more.

There is a brief moment when time pauses itself, and we can see the fragile threads between them glittering like gold in the rain. From a finger here to an elbow there. From the corner of Atticus’s smile to Dan’s beating heart. From paw to person and back again.

George

(Where is Ellen?)