Arnie

Late for work again, I slammed the door behind me and rushed out to the street, thinking, a ten minute walk to the station; a minute to spare; train arrives; me on it; no problem. Seriously though, I knew I needed to get a grip, otherwise I was going to lose this job like I had the last one.

Every morning, weather permitting, I had marched past an elderly man clad in a blue raincoat and a grey cap. His back was so hunched that he appeared to have little to look at except the pavement as he shuffled along in misshapen shoes. At his side was a greyhound, faithfully keeping pace with him step for step, the dog’s gait slow and tentative.

This morning, courtesy of forgetting to set my alarm, I had burst out of the gate and almost collided with them, immediately noting that the man was stooped more than usual. His arthritic fingers were fumbling with the top of a black poop bag in which he was trying to tie a knot. He had obviously just picked up the greyhound’s latest offering but it looked highly likely that the contents were about to drop out any second.

I had to stop. “How are you doing there? Do you need any help?” The greyhound looked at me and at her owner… there’s something wrong. I stroked her silky head.

The man sighed. “It’s this damn leg, dear, it keeps letting me down.”

“Do you have far to go?”

He lifted a finger to point and the poop bag dropped on my foot. “Just round the corner, dear. I need a wheelchair. Could you go and get one for me?”

I glared at him, various thoughts going through my head, and not all of them kind.

“Well, wait here then”, I said, inspecting my boot.

“I’m not going anywhere, dear.”

Nor am I, I thought irritably.

I quickly strode around the corner to the red brick building he’d pointed to, wondering why I had never noticed the board that said, Ivy Residential Care Home.  I walked up the path to the door and rang the bell, taking a few seconds to appreciate the attentive work that had been done on the manicured garden. It was nearing the end of January and groups of snowdrops were blossoming in clusters around the lawn. They looked like they were deep in conversation.

A dark-haired woman in a blue tunic opened the door, her eyebrows raised in enquiry, “Can I help you?”

“Oh, hi. There’s an elderly man with a greyhound…”

Her face fell. “Oh no, it’s Arnie. Has something happened to him?”

Her concern touched me and I ceased being irritated.

I shook my head, “Well, not really, I think it’s his leg and he sent me to get a wheelchair…”, whereby she reached behind the door and pulled one towards her.

“Where has he got to this time?”

We walked hurriedly back to where Arnie and his greyhound were patiently waiting. The woman positioned the wheelchair behind him and he sank into it with a sigh, “Aah, that’s better.” He touched my hand, “Thank you, my dear. What’s your name?” He took off his cap.

Now that I could see Arnie’s face I was amazed at how smooth his skin was. His eyes were a faded blue but his mouth had lots of laughter lines around it. He’d definitely have been a good-looking man once.

“I’m Lily,” I told him.

“What a lovely name! Just like the beautiful flowers.”

The woman laughed. “Come on, you old charmer.” She began to push the wheelchair along the pavement, the greyhound following obediently. I walked with them to the corner where I waved my hand as a goodbye gesture. The woman said, “Thanks so much for your help. I hope we haven’t made you late?”

I shook my head. “Not at all.”

At the weekend I needed to go into town to do my weekly shopping. Thankfully, it was fine and sunny – just what office workers gasped for after a week inside walls. As I turned the corner I noticed Arnie and his greyhound a few yards in front of me walking at their usual speed – just a tad faster than standing still.

I approached them and the greyhound paused. I appraised her. She was skinny and black with flecks of grey sprinkling her coat. White-grey hair outlined her brown eyes and powdered her muzzle. I stroked her.

“Oh, hello, dear,” Arnie greeted me. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thanks. How is your leg?”

“Terrible, dear. It’s dreadful getting old, you know, don’t let it happen to you.”

“I’ll try not to.” We both smiled.

“How old is your greyhound?” I asked.

“Missy is twelve, quite old for a greyhound… and I’m eighty-nine, dear.” He chuckled. “I’m not sure which one of us is going to go first.”

Missy’s lead hung loosely in his arthritic fingers; I was touched by the frailty of them both.

I asked, “Do you take her for a walk every day?”

“Even more if the weather behaves itself. By the time I’ve finished one walk it’s time to do another. He gestured in the direction of the retirement home. “I have a friend who helps me out if I’m having a bad day; but it’s my eyes, you see, they’re not as good as they used to be. Thank goodness for glasses, dear, I really don’t know what I’d do without them.” He sighed. “It’s a misery getting old, dear, don’t let it happen to you.”

I smiled and repeated, “I’ll try not to.”

In the days that followed, I saw them often and always made time to chat. I was certain that Missy knew my footsteps; if I walked up behind them she would pause and turn her head in my direction. I liked to stroke her as I chatted to Arnie and feel her nose bump against my hand. In fact, if I was honest with myself, I looked forward to our encounters; silly really, just an old man and his dog.

One day, as I accompanied them at a tortoise’s pace around the block, Arnie told me that he had a daughter. She was married with two grown-up children and they must be very busy because they never came to see him. “They are not bothered about me, dear. Never mind.” Arnie suddenly stopped and regarded me through smudgy spectacles. He laid a trembling hand on Missy’s head. “She’s all I’ve got, dear. She means everything to me; I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

The winter turned to spring and one Saturday after going to the library, I walked back through the park and the crocuses, clutching two books and a bag of shopping. It was heavy, and so was my heart; I hadn’t seen Arnie and Missy for a few days. I concluded that he must have altered the time that he took Missy for her walks. Then again, why would he? I dropped off my shopping and went back outside, tracing our usual route around the block. There was no sign of them.

With a sinking feeling, I rang the bell of the retirement home. I just had to know.

A young girl answered the door. She was wearing a uniform and a caring expression.

I explained that I often walked with Arnie and Missy but hadn’t seen them around recently – and tentatively asked if everything was all right?

The girl smiled wistfully. “I’m afraid Missy died. Arnie hasn’t left his room since.”

I couldn’t stop tears springing to my eyes, nor the catch in my voice as I whispered, “Oh, I’m so sorry. Please can I see him?”

“Well, I will try, but I can’t make any promises. Who shall I say it is?”

I told her my name and watched as she turned and walked a few steps to a door. I noticed it was number 12, the same age as Missy.

She knocked and put her head around the door, presumably speaking to Arnie.

I stepped inside the home and waited, thinking about an old greyhound that liked to nudge my hand with her white muzzle.

The girl beckoned to me as she pushed the door to number 12 open further. I approached the room and she smiled. “Honestly, you’ve made him so happy. He said, ‘How lovely that someone has come to see me.’”