Short Story: Ferdie & Petunia

“Okay, so here’s the plan,” Petunia whispered. Well, woofed, since she was a dog.

“Go on. This had better be good,” Ferdie whined back.

Every day for the past six months, Petunia and Ferdie had visited the beach with their owners, Cleo and Tom, but now their mornings of running in the surf together were about to come to an end. In three days, Tom and Ferdie would be moving from Brighton to Manchester. Petunia didn't really know where that was, but according to Cleo, who’d studied Google Earth like a woman possessed, it was a really long way away.

The humans had struck up their friendship after Cleo ran out of poop bags one morning, and the dogs had benefitted from the unlikely alliance. Petunia had never imagined that an artist like Cleo would fall from an uptight lawyer like Tom, but a girl’s heart was nothing if not unpredictable, and in the week since news of the move broke, Cleo had cried into her wine every evening.

Dammit, Petunia couldn't let this happen. Cleo had rescued her as a tiny pup, saving her from a shed in a housing estate where she’d been starved half to death and offering her a life of luxury instead. Organic kibble for breakfast, her diamanté collar, a comfy sofa, and Pedigree Chum in the evenings.

Ferdie didn't have it quite so good as Tom spent most of his hours working, but he still joined Petunia for a run on the sand at seven a.m. every day, half an hour on weekdays and double at the weekend. Before Tom had come on the scene, Petunia’s walks had been hit and miss, seeing as Cleo kept getting distracted by online dating websites.

No, Tom had to stay.

So, while Cleo painted in the daytime, Petunia had plotted and schemed and played with her favourite squeaky toy, and finally came up with her Grand Masterplan.

“Right, so at the end of the walk,” she told Ferdie, “When they put on our leashes, we wait until they're really close together and then we run in circles.”

“Why?”

“So they're tied together. Then Tom can't go to Manchester.”

“How will we get dinner?”

Good grief, did Petunia have to explain everything?

“You're a spaniel, and I’m a chihuahua. We just sit there looking cute, and someone will feed us.”

“Are you sure?” Ferdie sounded doubtful.

“Trust me, I’m a bitch.”

“How will I know when to run?”

“I’ll sit down and scratch, then we go. Me clockwise, you anti-clockwise. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Petunia spent an hour rolling in the sand and trit-trotting through the waves while Ferdie practised his doggie paddle. Tom and Cleo strolled along the beach, chatting and laughing. How could Tom even think of leaving?  Sometimes, humans were so dumb.

As they all walked back towards their respective cars, Tom’s Porsche and Cleo’s Volkswagen Beetle, Petunia began to worry. What if this didn't work? Cleo would cry so much that she forgot Petunia’s bedtime treat—again—and Ferdie might not even have a beach to run on.

Cleo clipped Petunia’s leash on, and finally, the moment of truth arrived. Crossing her dainty paws, Petunia squatted on a dandelion and raised one leg to scratch.

“So, I guess I’ll see you again at some point?” Tom said to Cleo. “There’s always a bed for you in Manchester if you fancy coming to visit.”

“Sure. Email me when you arrive?”

“Of course. I’ll really miss— What the…?”

Petunia started running, only for Ferdie to take off in the same direction.

“Other way!” she barked. Good grief. Men!

Luckily, he got the message, and within seconds, they'd bound their humans together. Wow. This was going exactly as she’d planned. Perfect. Fantastic.

Then it happened.

“Squirrel!” Ferdie yelped. 

“Ferdie, no!”

But her frantic barks had no effect. Ferdie took off after the hapless rodent, forgetting he was attached to his extra-long flexi-leash. Cleo and Tom toppled over, and the crunch as they hit the curb made Petunia wince.

“Owwww, my arm,” Cleo gasped. “I think it’s broken.”

Dammit, Ferdie. You had one job.

“Hang on, I think I can get a hand free,” Tom said. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“Hurry up. Please, hurry up.”

A week later, Petunia lay in her bed, chewing on a rubber bone as Cleo painted with one hand. Her other arm, freshly pinned, lay across her chest in a sling. Beside them, Tom sat at his makeshift desk, typing while he talked on the phone.

Well, the Grand Masterplan had sort of worked. Tom hadn't gone to Manchester. No, he’d moved into Cleo’s apartment to take care of her until her arm healed. Maybe even permanently. Who knew?

“This is kind of weird, don't you think?” Cleo asked.

“Yeah, but a good weird. Apart from you breaking your arm, obviously. I was always too nervous to ask you out, but I guess fate stepped in to lend a hand.”

Cleo put down her brush and squashed onto the seat next to Tom. “In six weeks, it’ll be as good as new, and I’ve got great painkillers.”

“Now you've got me too.”

Ugh. Kissing. Proper kissing with tongues and everything. Sometimes, humans were so gross. At least Cleo still got her walks, courtesy of Tom. Forty-five minutes every morning, extra at weekends, and sometimes a quick trip around the block in the evenings. Plus Tom bought great doggie treats.

The only downside was that Ferdie had moved in with Cleo too, and Ferdie turned out to be an total asshole. Not only did he “borrow” Petunia’s toys, he farted in his sleep, hogged the sunbeams, and peed on every tree in the garden. So uncouth.

She couldn't take much more of this. Did she mention the disgusting mutt drooled in the water bowl as well? What an animal.

No, something had to change. This apartment wasn't big enough for the four of them, and Petunia had been here first. So, while Cleo and Tom spent their days doing unmentionable things in the bedroom, Petunia plotted and schemed. Soon, the Grand Masterplan, Phase II would be complete. She called it Operation Ferdie. 

It may or may not have involved a squirrel.

And possibly a really big truck.