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for a dog?

      He shouldn’t have told her its name.

      Only she would have figured it. The dog had a blue plastic collar, obviously standard Animal Welfare issue, but whoever had attached it had reattached his tag, as if they were leaving him a bit of personality to the end.

      Kleppy.

      The name had been scratched by hand on the back of what looked like a medal. Abby set the dog on her passenger seat—he wagged his tail again and turned round twice and settled—and she couldn’t help turning over his tag.

      It was a medal. She recognised it and stared.

      Old Man Abrahams had done something pretty impressive in the war. She’d heard rumours but she’d never had confirmation.

      This was more than confirmation. A medal of honour, an amazing medal of honour—hanging on the collar of a scruffy, homeless mutt called Kleppy.

      Uh-oh. He was looking up at her again now. His brown eyes were huge.

      Six weeks in the Animal Shelter. She’d gone there once on some sort of school excursion. Concrete cells with a tiny exercise yard. Too many dogs, gazing up at her with hope she couldn’t possibly match.

      ‘The people who run this do a wonderful job,’ she remembered her teacher saying. ‘But they can’t save every dog. If you ask your parents for a pet for Christmas you need to understand a dog can live for twenty years. Every dog deserves a loving home, boys and girls.’

      She’d been what? Thirteen? She remembered looking at the dogs and starting to cry.

      And she also remembered Raff—of course it was Raff—patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Hey, it’s okay, Abby. There’ll be a fairy godmother somewhere. I reckon all these dogs’ll be claimed by tea time.’

      ‘Yeah, probably by your grandmother,’ someone had said, not unkindly. ‘How many dogs do you have, Finn?’

      ‘Seven,’ he’d said and the Welfare lady had pursed her lips.

      ‘See, that’s the problem,’ she said. ‘No family should have more than two.’

      ‘So you ought to bring five in,’ someone else told Raff and Raff had gone quiet.

      You ought to bring five in. To be put down? Maybe that was what Philip would think, Abby decided, though she couldn’t remember Philip being there. But even then Philip had been a stickler for rules.

      As were her parents.

      ‘We don’t want an abandoned dog,’ they’d said in horror that night all those years ago. ‘Why would you want someone else’s cast-off?’

      She needed to remember her parents’ advice right now, for Isaac Abrahams’ cast-off was in her car. Wearing a medal of valour.

      ‘Move the car, Abby.’ Raff’s voice was inexorable. She glanced up and he was filling her windscreen.

      ‘I don’t want …’

      ‘You don’t always get what you want,’ he growled. ‘I thought you were old enough to figure that out. While you’re figuring, shift the car.’

      ‘But …’

      ‘Or I’ll get you towed for obstructing traffic,’ he snapped. ‘No choice, lady. Move.’

      So all she had to do was take one dog to the vet’s and get herself to court. How hard was that?

      She drove and Kleppy stayed motionless on the passenger seat and looked at her. Looking as if he trusted her with his life.

      She felt sick.

      This wasn’t her responsibility. Kleppy belonged to an old guy who’d died six weeks ago. His daughter didn’t want him. No one else had claimed him, so the sensible, humane thing to do was have him put down.

      But what if …? What if …?

      Oh, help, what she thinking?

      She was getting married on Saturday week. To Philip.

      Nine days.

      Her tiny house was full of wedding presents. Her wedding gown was hanging in the hall, a vision of beaded ivory satin. She’d made it herself, every stitch. She loved that dress.

      This dog would walk past it and she’d have dog hair on ivory silk …

      Well, that was a dumb thing to think. For this dog to walk past it, he’d have to be in her house, and this dog was headed to the vet’s. To be put down.

      He looked up at her and whimpered. His paw came out and touched her knee.

      Her heart turned over. Nooooo.

      It took five minutes to drive to the vet’s. Kleppy’s paw rested against her knee the whole time.

      She pulled up. Kleppy wasn’t shaking. She was.

      Fred came out to meet her. The elderly vet looked grim. He went straight to the passenger door. Tugged it open.

      ‘Raff rang to say you were coming,’ he said, lifting Kleppy out. ‘Thanks for bringing him. Do you know when the rest are coming?’

      ‘I … Henrietta was trying to catch them. How many?’

      ‘More than I want to think about,’ Fred said grimly. ‘Three months from Christmas, puppies stop being cute. Not your call, though. I’ll deal with him from here.’

      Kleppy lay limp in Fred’s arms. He looked back at her.

      The paw on her knee …

      Help. Help, help, help.

      ‘It’ll be quick?’

      Fred glanced at her, brows snapping. Abby had gone to school with Fred’s daughter. He knew her well. ‘Don’t,’ he said.

      ‘Don’t what?’

      ‘Think about it. Get on with your life. Nine days till the wedding?’

      ‘I … yes.’

      ‘Then you’ve enough on your plate without worrying about stray dogs. Not that you and Philip would ever want a dog. You’re not dog people.’

      ‘What … what do you mean?’

      ‘Dogs are mess,’ he said. ‘Not your style. You guys might qualify for a goldfish. See you later, love. Happy wedding if I don’t see you before.’

      He turned away. She could no longer see Kleppy.

      She could feel him.

      His eyes …

      Help. Help, help, help.

      She was a goldfish person? She’d never even had a goldfish.

      A paw on her knee …

      He reached the door before she broke.

      ‘Fred?’

      The vet turned. Kleppy was still slumped.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I can’t bear this,’ she said. ‘Can you … can you take him in, check him out for damage and then give him back to me?’

      ‘Give him back?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You want him?’

      ‘He’s my wedding present to me.’ She knew she sounded defiant but she didn’t care. ‘I’ve decided. How hard can one dog be? I can do this. Kleppy is mine.’

      Fred did his best to dissuade her. ‘A dog is for life, Abigail. Small dogs like Kleppy live for sixteen years or longer. That’s ten years at least of keeping this dog.’

      ‘Yes.’ But ten years? That was a fact to give her pause.

      But the paw …

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