Nelson

‘Won’t be long now,’ the Kennel's Receptionist said, ‘it’s just taking a while for the dog handler to get the harness on’.

‘Harness!?’ I replied, panicking slightly.

I knew that rehabilitating dogs that needed to be socialised due to mistreatment by their previous owners was a function of the volunteer role I’d devoted my Sunday mornings to; but I hadn’t expected to move on quite so quickly from the fluffy, gentle, dog that I’d taken out the week before. That dog had preferred cuddles and affection to any heavy duty walking and posed happily for photographs on request.

I braced myself for being dragged around the designated walking area by a large, bouncing, out of control Lurcher or an over excited, impossible to train, German Shepherd cross breed. After all, my services were offered to be utilised by any of the dogs in need, even if they were terrifying, almost as large as, and probably considerably stronger than I was.

I heard him before I saw him. Straining against his harness, his claws scraping and skidding on the smoother than smooth dog proof flooring. All at once he was handed over to me and immediately I was pulled out of the front door, the handler calling after me ‘He’s called Nelson’.

Nelson was knee high and not too terrifying, though he wasn’t an overly affectionate dog. In fact, he barely acknowledged I was there until he was satisfied that he’d marked his territory and I’d poop scooped that mornings deposit. Once we had bonded over his bodily functions he cast me a sideward glance and allowed me an obligatory pat on the head. Then we began Nelson’s winning combination of plodding about, alternated with more territorial marking along with the occasional barking at other dogs.

We carried out this routine at all four corners of the quadrant, keeping a safe distance from the other walkers as instructed. Other volunteers clung on to the leads of their wards and all around were rescue dogs pivoting their anchors, taking full advantage of their forty five minutes of freedom.