Cleopatra didn’t see it as her own fault. Well, she couldn’t help it once—she lunged after a cat, yanked the lead harder than she meant to, and her owner fell. But Cleo didn’t do it out of spite; it was just instinct.
Life had a habit of rapping Simon on the knuckles: “Don’t push in, you don’t belong here, step aside.” And Simon stepped aside. Life was right; it was safer to keep your head down. Nature hadn’t been generous with him—he was small, scrawny, weak.
At school they called him a wimp, and sometimes gave him a thumping for good measure. Simon had hardly any friends, except for one—Paul.
“It’ll be fine when I grow up,” Simon used to think. “Adults are sensible. They don’t dish out stupid nicknames or clout you for nothing.”
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
*****
Adults did hold back on the clouts, it’s true. That sort of thing isn’t done in the grown-up world. But the nicknames… they were something else.
Simon was called all sorts: a runt, a shrimp, a little mouse. He felt the sting, but he could never muster a decent comeback. His tiny frame came with a crippling shyness that got in the way more than his looks ever did. He couldn’t make new connections. So he only kept in touch with his old school friend Paul, and with his mother while she was still alive.
The years rolled on. Simon worked as a storekeeper in a shop, and he didn’t even think about a love life, even though the staff were ninety percent women. But the ladies looked at him like a sort of “regimental mascot.” They fussed over him, protected him, brought him home-cooked food. Why? Because he was “poor little thing.” And come forty, he was an orphan, so the soft-hearted women felt sorry for him.
That went on until the day he met Megan. Megan was a woman with a capital ‘W.’ You couldn’t miss her. She was tall, well-built, and loud. She was magnificent.
Simon fell hopelessly in love. He was too scared to even approach her. What was he to her? A flea, a pale little moth, a speck. But life has a peculiar sense of humour. It decided to bring the shy little wimp and the big, booming Megan together.
Life chose a well-worn method for this: how many times has a rescuer fallen for the rescued? Plenty. And Megan got to rescue Simon one day.
This is how it happened. Simon was queuing at the till, where the magnificent Megan sat. He was pale, red-faced, nervous, shifting a bottle of milk from one hand to the other. Then two young lads turned up behind him, each with a bottle of booze. They nudged Simon aside.
“You’re behind us, mate. We’re in a hurry,” one said.
Any other day Simon would have let them through, but not today—because Megan was watching.
“Oi, lads, join the queue. My lunch break won’t last forever,” he squeaked.
“Don’t get shirty. We said you’re behind us, so you are.” One of them plonked his bottle on the belt. The other turned and gave Simon a light shove in the chest. “Keep your distance, mate.”
Simon flushed bright red and opened his mouth, but Megan beat him to it.
“In order!” she boomed from behind the till. “And as for you, lads—let’s see some ID. I might not even be allowed to sell you that booze.”
The lads got flustered. “Come off it, love, we’ve got a dozen kids at home and you’re asking for ID!” one joked.
“Listen, you two, don’t give me grief. Either prove you’re old enough or bugger off home to Mum and Dad,” Megan ordered.
The security guard, Old Tom, had perked up behind Megan, so the lads, muttering under their breath, scarpered.
“Cheeky little sods!” Megan snapped. Then she looked at Simon and added softly, “Come on, Simon, let me ring you through. You need to eat; you’re far too thin. Even little thugs pick on you.”
“Thanks…” Simon mumbled. He wanted the floor to swallow him up. “That’s it,” he thought, “she’ll never look at me now. What a way to show myself up—scared of a couple of lads! Though how was I to know they were lads? They were built like brick outhouses!”
But things turned out completely differently.
From that day on, Megan treated him differently. She smiled, she flirted, she started bringing him homemade lunches. The other ladies stepped aside. Simon never knew what Megan said, but he once overheard them whispering: “Our little mouse is Megan’s trophy now.”
“Good, let her have him,” another said. “Maybe she’ll marry him and fatten him up.”
Simon didn’t mind being called a trophy. “It means she values me,” he decided. “It means I matter to her. Love is just a step away. My love will do for now—it’s enough for two.”
That thought spurred him on. Swallowing his shyness, he finally asked Megan out. She said yes. One thing led to another—dates turned into a romance, and soon they tied the knot.
But married life disappointed Simon. Megan immediately declared herself head of the household. That would have been fine, except she had a very peculiar idea of what a head of the household should be. In her mind, the head not only made all the decisions and kept control, but also had the right to discipline and punish.
Oh, how many times Simon copped it for the slightest mistake! He hung a light wrong, didn’t wipe the floor properly, left a plate unwashed…
Simon took it. He loved his rescuer, Megan, regardless. And he desperately wanted to be loved in return. He hoped things might change—that they’d settle in and live in harmony.
But illusions, along with the last shred of love, were knocked out of Simon by a single clip around the ear.
“You useless, spineless runt!” Megan ranted that evening. “Can you do anything right? You’re quiet, are you? Well, speak up! Where am I supposed to find another cup like this? It was my grandmother’s, antique, my favourite. You’ve got clumsy hands—can’t even wash up! I’ve had it up to here with you.”
Simon didn’t get a chance to answer. When Megan ran out of words, she resorted to action. She had a heavy hand. But once Simon’s head cleared, he knew: “Time to leave. I’d had enough clouts as a kid.”
They divorced through scenes and shouting. Simon felt let down by people yet again and swore never to fall in love again.
Life had also given Cleopatra a rough time, and quite undeservedly. She was a beauty—black, long, big. Twelve kilograms of pure joy. But for some reason, nobody wanted that much joy. So Cleo was passed from hand to hand.
Her first owner didn’t like her looks. “She’s some sort of overgrown dachshund—a super-dachshund. That’s a reject. I never wanted a mongrel.” So he quickly palmed her off to a mate.
“What breed is that? A giant dachshund?” the mate joked. “She’s huge! Her mother must have had a fling with a basset. And what a bark! Perfect, she can guard the allotment.”
But Cleo couldn’t guard. She had a deep, fierce bark, but she only used it whenever the mood took her—not when she saw intruders.
“Useless dog,” they scolded her. “A yapper. You eat too much, you can’t guard, you trample the flowers and dig up the lawn. We need to find you a new home.”
A new home came with difficulty. The new owner was a pleasant old lady, very slow-moving. Cleo swore to be a good dog, but it didn’t work out. Cleo didn’t see it as her own fault. Well, she couldn’t help it once—she lunged after a cat, yanked the lead harder than she meant to, and the old lady fell. But Cleo didn’t do it out of spite; it was just instinct. The lady was only shaken, thank heaven. Was that really a reason to part? But people are strange creatures.
“I can’t handle her!” the fallen owner whined to someone on the phone. “I value my life. Find her a home, or I’ll put her out on the street.”
And someone must have tried. Cleo got a new family—a proper family of three: a man, a woman, and a child.
“Cleopatra, don’t you dare hurt little Andrew,” the man ordered. “Or I’ll give you what for.”
Cleo wasn’t about to hurt the little human. But the little human had his own plans for her. “You’ll be my pony,” four-year-old Andrew declared, trying to climb on her back. Cleo squirmed and snapped. She was big, but hardly a pony. Andrew got angry and cried. The woman owner got cross and scolded. The man owner reached for his belt. Cleo hid. Then the man turned red, shouted, and threatened to send her to a shelter.
Nobody knows how it would have ended, but one day the man had a friend over. Cleo crept out from under the bed to see who’d arrived. The friend was a small, scrawny bloke called Simon.
“What a runt,” Cleo thought. “My owner’s much bigger. This bloke must be a reject, same as me.”
“Hello, Paul, haven’t seen you in ages,” Simon said, hugging Cleo’s owner. “I see you’ve got another addition—a dog. I’ve finally got divorced.”
“Congratulations, about time! And I want to get shot of this dog. I’ve regretted getting her a hundred times,” Paul sighed. “She’s badly trained, nasty, growls at Andrew, and hides under the bed when you tell her off. I’m thinking of giving her away.”
“Don’t be hasty. Why give her away straight off?” Simon looked at Cleo sympathetically. “Badly trained, you say. But did you train her? Yelling and punishing isn’t training. She needs a proper dog trainer. I’m no dog person, but they tried to mend me with shouting and clouts—didn’t work.”
“What dog trainer, Simon? I don’t even have time for my family. I’m working like a horse. My wife’s the same. Listen, since you’re so smart, why don’t you take Cleopatra?” Paul suggested. “You’re on your own now, free. Train her as much as you like. It’s a good idea—works for everyone: us, Cleo, and you.”
“I’d take her, but will she come? She’s probably used to you lot,” Simon said, looking at Cleo.
“I definitely like him,” Cleo thought. “He talks sense, he’s got no kids, and he’s non-standard himself. He’ll understand me quicker than others. I need to show I’m up for it.” She wagged her tail twice.
“Look at that, she’s all for it!” Paul grinned. “Let’s hope you can handle her. And maybe on some dog walk you’ll meet your match.”
“Don’t. I’ve had enough of that,” Simon waved him off.
That evening, he and Cleo went home together.
It turned out that handling Cleo was far easier than handling his ex-wife. She didn’t be difficult, she didn’t yell over nothing, and she certainly didn’t lash out. If she didn’t understand something the first time, she got it the second. Besides, she loved Simon. He was everything to her: friend, master, the whole world.
They went to dog training classes together, walked in the park, learned, played, and talked. And Simon was grateful that fate had nudged him to visit his old school friend that evening.
“Dogs are definitely better than people,” Simon thought. “Cleo proves it. Smart, beautiful, obedient—well, maybe not perfectly obedient yet, but that can be fixed.”
He didn’t think that for long. It turned out there were some remarkable people out there: kind, sensitive, caring. Simon simply hadn’t known where to find them before. Now he discovered that dog parks were full of them. He met many thanks to Cleo, and made friends with a few.
And who knows? Maybe one day he’ll fall in love again with a Jack Russell’s owner or a Great Dane’s. Not right now, but Simon doesn’t rule it out.
