Laikas I

Trevor?’ Hilary called through the mail slot, having pushed open its tarnished little door. When he opened up to let her in there were so many strays jostling that he didn’t see her crouched there among them at first. But he knew it was her by her voice and the crazy magnetic pull on his heartstrings. The dogs continued to lay claim until she whistled and growled, ‘Laikas, sit!’ Then they all lowered, panting, some cocking their heads, some not.

Laika was the Russian dog that went up in a space rocket and Hilary had named the pack collectively in memoriam. To some of them she had given individual names but as a group they were always Laikas. Now, Monday, at 7.15 a.m., seventeen strays stared at Trevor. And there was Hilary in sweet profile.

‘Smoke?’ Trevor handed her the thin cigar he had already lit.

‘I was in the neighbourhood,’ she said, smiling, turning her face to him.

In fact, Trevor had texted, called and finally begged her to stop by. He was slumming at this present address on Fairview. He’d moved out of home to share an apartment with three delinquent acquaintances, something his wealthy parents lauded as potentially character-building. But because the room-mates were usually out and/or stoned, Trevor was often lonely. Plus, he was experiencing lovesickness. Now that Hilary had finally arrived, he knew the jealous dog pack would give them an hour – maybe – and then she’d be laughing at his fabulous attempts to keep her there.