Teddy and Donny

In the waiting room were two women, not actually at the same time but they were together. Both about 5′ 4″ tall, probably around the age of 70, with collar length hair, hairdresser set with coloured blonde patches. Each wore slacks and puffer jackets, one black, one brown and slightly flamboyantly decorated glasses. They spoke in short bursts with black country accents in a gruffness that comes from manual labour and smoking and as I was the only other person waiting, they cast their search for complimentary and reassuring smiles at me.

The first woman was in the waiting room with a rather shaggy fat white poodle called Donny, while her friend was in the other room seeing the vet, she waited. She and Donny were moderately relaxed.

Soon she swapped places with her friend, who was dragged from the wide flung door of the consulting room on a taught lead, by a less fat white poodle, whose coat had been recently clipped. His name was Teddy.

Teddy’s owner had a shorter perm than Donny’s owner and the couple were not so good at waiting, they paced about the room, the woman making exasperated huffs, and soon Teddy joined in, barking with increasing sharpness and volume until his barks were earsplitting.

Donny and his woman eventually emerged and an exchange took place where it became obvious that although the dogs’ official names as given to the vet, were the longer version, in ordinary life the dogs passed as: “Ted” and “Don”.

This raised the question for me of whether the two dogs were actually replacements for the dead husbands of the women.

They all left the surgery car park together in a fairly new, silver Volvo hatchback.

Tags: Copyright Sarah Harbridge 2017, Dog Owners, Dogs, Double Identity, Pets, Poetry, Waiting Room