A shaggy dog story

A short story by Hilary Boyd

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Had it really come to this? Molly and Fran at loggerheads? The sisters - although very different in temperament - had always been close. Sensible, functioning women in their late sixties, not given to drama.

The problem was Sid. He appeared unexceptional: small, shaggy, light brown. He was, well, a dog. But so cute, and those eyes! Soulful and beguiling.

Molly and Fran's ageing father, Arthur, had found him outside his Lake District cottage one afternoon - collarless, aimless and a bit worse for wear in the summer heat. Arthur had given him food and water, pinned a note in a sandwich bag to the gate, saying, "Small brown dog found. Owner, apply within."

But no owner did apply. So Arthur kept him, named him Sid. They rubbed along splendidly together, Arthur getting a new lease of life with the company and the exercise Sid required.

Until Arthur started fading. Molly and Fran took turns to help out... and both quickly fell in love with little Sid.

Arthur, in the fullness of time, died. The sisters were sad, of course. He'd been a good father, and, as any good father would, left his worldly wealth - such as it was - equally to his two daughters. Things were in tidy order. The only issue he hadn't addressed was Sid.

"I'll take him," Molly insisted. She had no pets and loved Sid so much, and knew he loved her. "He can't live with you," she said. "He'll pee all over your cream carpet."

"No," Fran stated bossily. "You can't look after him. You work and you couldn't afford the vet's bills."

Molly was a gardener, her life a touch ramshackle. Living alone, spending every waking hour outside, she had a permanent rim of earth beneath her fingernails - her tanned, lived-in face resembling an overcooked cake. But she was wiry and healthy... although sometimes lonely.