The Dog Share. Fiona Gibson

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       Chapter Thirty

       Chapter Thirty-One: Ricky

       Chapter Thirty-Two: Suzy

       Chapter Thirty-Three

       Chapter Thirty-Four: Ricky

       Chapter Thirty-Five: Suzy

       Chapter Thirty-Six: Ricky

       Chapter Thirty-Seven

       Chapter Thirty-Eight: Suzy

       Chapter Thirty-Nine: Ricky

       Chapter Forty: Suzy

       Chapter Forty-One

       Chapter Forty-Two: Ricky

       Chapter Forty-Three: Suzy

       Chapter Forty-Four: Ricky

       Chapter Forty-Five: Two Months Later: Suzy

       Chapter Forty-Six

       Chapter Forty-Seven: Two Weeks Later

       Chapter Forty-Eight

       Chapter Forty-Nine: Ricky

       Chapter Fifty

       Chapter Fifty-One: Suzy

       Chapter Fifty-Two: Four Months Later: Arthur

       Chapter Fifty-Three: Springtime: Suzy

       Acknowledgements

       Keep Reading …

       About the Author

       By the same author

      About the Publisher

       Prologue

      ‘Dad,’ I yell, ‘look at that dog!’

      I’m running across Silver Beach. I know it so well; every rock, the names of all of the shells, the best places to find flat stones for skimming. I know most of the people we see here – and their dogs – at least to say hi to.

      But I’ve never seen this dog before.

      I stop and wait for Dad to catch up. ‘That’s the kind I want,’ I tell him.

      ‘Are you sure?’ he says, smiling. ‘Last time we looked, you said you’d have any kind …’

      He means the dog rescue centre websites. I’m always checking them out, seeing which dog I’d adopt if Dad would let me. Not that he will – I realise that. It wouldn’t be fair, I’m out all day, we don’t have a garden, blah-blah-blah. I’ve heard it all a million times. But it doesn’t stop me looking … just in case.

      I like reading about dogs too. I know loads of canine facts, like they only sweat from furless areas (their noses, the pads on their feet). And when they see a dog on TV, they actually recognise it as a dog. Some even have their favourite programmes (my friend Lucas’s whippet likes Match of the Day). Dogs are amazing.

      I grab a piece of driftwood and throw it. The dog tears after it and brings it back to me. We do it again and again as Dad strolls about, looking for more sticks.

      The dog’s mostly brown, with a patch of white on his chest, and he’s a bit scruffy and skinny. He probably wouldn’t win any of those competitions where the dogs are paraded about in front of judges. I don’t really like those competitions, but maybe the dogs don’t mind. Obviously they can’t say, ‘God, this is boring, having to sit nicely and look neat. Can we go out and play now?’

      I like thinking of all those competition dogs sending each other telepathic messages, planning a mass breakout. I mean, they can communicate through sounds, movements and by producing scents – so why not by telepathy too?

      A dog is as intelligent as a two-year-old human, I told Dad recently.

      That’s amazing. But we’re still not getting one, he said with a smile.

      ‘I can’t see anyone about,’ Dad’s saying now. ‘Maybe he’s run away?’

      ‘Yeah, maybe.’ I nod.

      ‘We should take him to the police station,’ he adds.

      ‘Can’t we play a bit more?’

      Dad checks his watch. ‘No, we really should go. We don’t want to miss the ferry, do we?’

      In fact, I wouldn’t mind missing it this time. I don’t really want to go back to Glasgow. And I definitely don’t want to take the dog to the police station. I want to play here all day, like I used to, when it wasn’t just me and Dad who came to the island, but Mum, too.

      Sometimes I feel sad being here without her. It СКАЧАТЬ