Sophie was offered a house sitting job for a few days and the rather plush flat in the 16 ème arrondisement in Paris, just off Rue des Belles Feuilles, came with a large and ageing black Labrador bitch. The owners, Mr et Mme Legrand, would be away for a few days and the dog, though old, would not be much trouble, she was assured. All that was required of her was that she feed and walk her morning and night and that she sleep in the flat, preferably spending the evenings there as well. The owners were a kind and generous couple in their early middle age and told her to help herself to the contents of the fridge and the freezer and anything else she might want. They had no problem with her having a close friend over for dinner if she felt like it.

The morning they were to leave she went around early, at 08:30, to be shown around the house and to be introduced to Fibule. A couple of things were pointed out to her regarding the burglar alarm, she was handed the keys and numbers were exchanged should there be an emergency. The Legrands then left, she fed the dog and then put her on a lead, walking her down the street, over Avenue Bugeaud and down the short stretch of Rue Spontini that led onto Avenue Foch. Fibule ambled along at a gentle pace, her over-grown claws scratching audibly at the pavement, and the short walk there and back ended up taking the best part of half an hour. Once back at the flat Fibule dropped into her bed in the pantry and Sophie locked the house up, rushing off to her classes that she was running late for.

By the time she got back to the flat that evening it was almost eight. She fed Fibule and repeated the same walk, at the same gentle pace, that they had taken that morning. By the time they got back it was past nine. Fibule dropped back into her bed in the pantry and curled up with a sigh and a lick and a couple of blinks. Sophie served herself a glass of red, put a frozen lasagna in the oven and settled down in the living room in front of the TV. An hour or so later she had finished eating, she cleaned up after herself, turned off the lights and went to bed after a rather long day.

Her alarm went off at seven the next morning. She instinctively reached over to her phone on the bedside table to turn it off and for a moment lay back in bed, blinking at the ceiling, slightly disorientated with the unfamiliar surroundings. Once she was up and had been to the bathroom she wandered over towards the pantry and saw that Fibule was still rolled up in her bed. She called her as she wandered into the kitchen but the dog didn’t stir. As she opened the fridge and reached for the orange juice and a yoghurt pot she called Fibule again. She served herself a glass and drank it one go, opened several drawers until she found a spoon, opened the yoghurt and took a spoonful. She then called Fibule again but she heard nothing stirring from the other room. She wandered back over to the pantry and called the dog again. Fibule lay motionless; rolled up exactly as she had last seen her the night before when she switched off the lights. Kneeling down beside her, Sophie placed her hand on her. The dog was stiff and cold to the touch, apparently as dead as stone.

She took a moment to gather her thoughts and then called the Legrands, her heart pounding in her chest. Sophie felt even worse at the calm and almost apologetic way Mme Legrand received the news; the dog was old, this was something they had sort of been expecting for some time and how awful for Sophie to find herself in this situation. They, however, would not be back for another three days and something needed to be done about the body in their absence. Could she get it over to vet’s, as he would know how to dispose of it. She was given the address – which was some way across town – and told Mme Legrand not to worry but as she hung up it dawned on her that how this was to be done had not been discussed. She didn’t have a car and she couldn’t quite see herself carrying twenty something kilos of stiff, dead dog in her arms down to the street and hailing a cab. She searched around the various corners of the house and eventually managed to find a largish suitcase, with wheels, that would have to serve as the dog’s hearse for the journey and man-handled Fibule into it with as much care and decorum as she could muster, whispering gently to the animal as if she were tucking a child into bed.

Wheels or not, the suitcase was heavy and the awkward journey across town in the packed metro required a couple of changes. She got off at her stop and made her way up towards the surface. She had started pulling the load, step by step, up the last set of stairs that led up onto the street when a young man approached her and politely asked if she might want a hand. “Merci. C’est gentil” she nodded, and the man picked up the suitcase in his arms. He blew out hard and mentioned how heavy it was as they walked up. She was too embarrassed to tell him the truth and all that she could think to say was that she was moving house and it contained her desktop Mac. “Ah bon!” he puffed. As they got to the top of the stairs she turned her head around a few times to get her bearings and was turning back around to thank the man when she saw him galloping down the street, the suitcase clattering and bouncing behind him, and turn left into the next side street. By the time she got to the corner the man was nowhere to be seen. I suppose as he disappeared into the crowd the man must have been grinning from ear to ear, quite convinced he had just earned his week’s wages.