 |
| "Yeah, I've read all of these ones already" |
The same rules apply for all supermarkets, coffee shops and basically anywhere that I want to go that's not already outside. I can't bear to leave him where I can't see him because Ari, a mini-schnauzer-cross-chihuahua (a schnau-huahua or a chi-nauzer?), is not mine and I am not a dog owner (never have been) and therefore I can't trust that he won't dissappear the minute I turn my back. Ari is on-loan to me from a good friend who is kindly humouring my obsession with owning a dog. I won't go off on a tangent here about this life-long fixation, or the tears shed when my mother gave birth to my little brother and not a puppy, but I am still desperate to own dog and it is a yearning that no amount of www.borrowmydoggy.com can fix. And yet, I am unwilling to even consider adopting one until I find somewhere in London that truly loves dogs as much as I do.
On our way back to Chalk Farm on the Tube Ari perches precariously on my lap and I feel guilty about anyone who doesn't like dogs who is sitting nearby. I wonder how you can travel across London with a dog without feeling like you've brought your boyfriend along on a 'girls night out'. My discomfort is only encouraged further by the couple opposite me and their labrador, who is manoeuvring himself awkwardly across the packed tube like a lorry reversing out of a dead end. We get off a stop early at Camden because Ari is figgetting and wound-up after a day of avoiding being trodden on by the crowds, and because I'm convinced the whole carriage hates us. I feel I owe him the rest of the way home on foot, via a park.
As we're leaving the station I realise I've forgotten to get the one thing I left the house for and phone Camden's Waterstones to check if they have the book that I need. I manage to reserve it on the way, hoping to reduce the time Ari spends hiding behind a Harry Potter cut-out. In front of the shop we begin looking for a place to pitch when a member of staff wonders over. I brace myself for the re-buff but he just grins and beckons us both in. That's right, dogs are allowed into Camden's Waterstones and everyone seems happy about it. I spend a wonderful half-hour talking about a customer's shared love of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Alsatians, while Ari sniffs the bottom shelves. I feel like we've been let into the VIP area of a party by mistake.
In high sprits, with a bag of books that I hadn't intended on buying, we potter back along Chalk Farm Road in the direction of Primrose Hill. On Chalk Farm Bridge I can see the afternoon sun illuminatng Regents Park Road, and it looks like the French Riviera of North London, where posh pooches go to sniff and be seen. Outside of chic cafes and Italian restaurants Cock-a-Poos are rubbing shoulders with Pomeranians, Spaniels are checking out Shih-ztus, and Ari doesn't know who to eskimo-kiss first. I watch an un-leashed Westie plod after its owner into Greenberry cafe and we hurry after them intrigued. Nervously hovering on the doorstep, unsure if we're welcome, the barrista waves us both in with a smile and I order a skinny cappuccino and a bowl of water to stay.
Once refreshed we're ready for the park and Ari unashamedly flirts with everyone en-route. As soon as we reach Primrose Hill he runs off with two Basset Hounds and a Beagle. Watching them tear happily around each other on the green I feel my heart race after them. The voice in my head reminds me that adopting a dog is an enormous responsibility and a huge decision to make, but I know at least I've found a place that would support it with open arms.
