We each have our own self-destruct button but the button of Shirley Barton was more polished than most.

Shirley Barton stood in the small kitchen of the semi-detached bungalow into which she had moved two years ago after her husband had died.  She emptied the washing up bowl and dried her hands, leaving the clean dishes to drain.  She brushed a loose grey hair from her face leaving it on top of her head in the hope that it might magically reunite itself with her pony tail.  In moments of clarity, usually coinciding with feelings of shame, she would admit that she no longer took proper care of herself. 

 Since her son had left home she had not bothered to get up early.  That day, as was her habit, she had eaten her usual breakfast of juice and cereal and now it was a question of what to do with the rest of the day.  It was a question that she regularly asked herself and always, it seemed recently, heard the same reply.  She looked at the clock.

I really must go out for a walk, she said to herself.  However, as that thought passed through her mind, a spot of rain fell against the kitchen window and the pattern of the last few months returned.  It was half past one in Shirley’s town of Bradby but, in the hills outside Jaipur, in the grounds of the Maharajah’s palace, it was approaching half past six and it was time for a G&T.  If asked, she would blame the books she used to read about India and the Empire, but really it was to help her forget her loneliness that she escaped into her alcohol-infused dream world. 

Having poured herself a liberal measure, Shirley sat down in her armchair, closed her eyes and was transported to a far distant land where, dressed in a simple but elegant white cotton Empire line dress and sporting a white straw hat, she would dream that she was on the terrace of that palace, accompanied by a handsome young man, dressed appropriately for the evening meal, in dinner jacket and white tie.  Comforted by that fantasy she slept until about 4.00pm. 

This had, sadly, become a pattern of behaviour which would normally be followed, at 6.30pm GMT by another call to the cocktail cabinet prior to placing the ready meal that she had retrieved from the freezer into the microwave.  It was in this state of limbo that Shirley had passed the last few months.  Some days had gone quicker than others and the only people with whom she had had regular contact were the people serving in the local shop which doubled as an off-licence. 

Her reverie was interrupted by a scratching against the window of the patio door.  Shirley got up to investigate.  Her first impression was of a round black circle surrounded by material, as if someone had squashed a feather duster against the pane.  Upon closer inspection she saw the black spot move and the supposed material develop small legs beneath greyish, wet and matted hair.  

“The window cleaner must have left the garden gate open” she thought to herself and she got up, a little unsteadily, to go to the back door.  The dog looked up at her but she pretended to take no notice.  She couldn’t be doing with a dog, they were too much bother.  She shooed it back through the gate and watched as it walked very slowly down the path towards the road.  Looking back, Shirley could not decide whether it was her own forgetfulness, or fate, which determined that she would not shut the gate before returning to the house. 

The evening passed in its usual fashion, the microwaved meal eaten as if on automatic pilot followed by another helping from the drinks cabinet.  Shirley settled down in her chair but, for the first time in ages, her thoughts were not of the sultry evening in northern India but, instead to a time when, as a child, she had begged her mother for a puppy.  “No,” her mother had answered “they’re too much bother and they cost too much to feed”. 

Her evening nap was disturbed by more scratching at her window.  The dog had returned.  The dog pressed his nose against the window, its eyes gazing mournfully at her, as if pleading to be let in.  Shirley went to the back door, opened it and carefully lowered herself onto the doorstep.  The dog cautiously approached her and gently placed a front paw on her outstretched leg as if trying to claim ownership of the woman.  Shirley, having managed to get down onto the doorstep and feeling some of the effects of the gin, remained seated, gazing upon the small animal before her.  

The dog, feeling encouraged by the fact that he had not been sent packing, took a step closer and laid his head against Shirley’s ample thigh.  There was something comforting, some kind of warming energy transmitted by the dog which Shirley instantly felt as she slowly put her hand out and stroked the top of the dog’s head. 

“You need a bath” she told the dog, “You smell”.  Shirley got up and closed the garden gate, then went into the house to get some shampoo and fill the watering can with warm water.  When she returned, to her dismay, she could not find the dog.  A thorough search of the garden was conducted, but to no avail.  Shirley returned inside only to find the dog lying on a towel that Shirley had put on the floor ready for washing the next day. 

“Made yourself at home then,” Shirley said, smiling.  “What’s your name?”  There was no response from the dog who appeared to be enjoying his newly found bed.  “I will call you “Smudge” because that was the mark you made on my window when you came to see me.  She looked at her watch.  The shop would still be open.  She carefully shut the kitchen door leaving the dog basking in its repose.

Shirley entered the shop and headed for the dog food.  She had no idea what to get but she recognised a name from the adverts she had seen on the television.  She picked up a can and immediately she heard a familiar voice in her head.  “Only one?” it said.  On any other occasion in the last couple of years the voice would have been enticing her to buy more alcohol but, this time, Shirley was able to say to herself, without any guilt, “Yes, I will have a couple more.” 

Shirley approached the counter with her three cans of dog food.  The friendly owner greeted her with the words “The usual?” but this time Shirley, to her surprise, found herself replying, “No, not today, thank you. 

Upon her return home she found Smudge waiting by the back door and barking.  “Do you want to be let out.  Don’t tell me you are house trained.”  She opened the door and let Smudge out.

Shirley watched the dog as it sniffed around the garden and then saw, out of the corner of her eye, her next door neighbour watching and waving over the fence.  Shirley went out to see what was the matter.  “I see that Smudge has come back” she exclaimed excitedly.  “I wonder where he has been.”  Shirley looked at her neighbour curiously and asked “How did you know that I had called him Smudge?”

Her neighbour replied “Because that’s his name.  The lady who had your house before you was fanatical about North American Indians.  She had all sorts of memorabilia, head-dresses, tunics and the like.  She was very depressed when she first came here until Smudge turned up one day and just sat on her doorstep.  She took him in and he really helped bring her out of herself.  She used to take him for walks each day and started to meet people and become involved with the local community.  She named him Smudge after the ritual of cleansing adopted by the Indian tribes which is called smudging.  When she died Smudge disappeared and I haven’t set eyes on him since, until now.  The neighbour paused and said, “I haven’t seen you out much and, if you have felt troubled, perhaps Smudge has come home to help you.”

Hearing this, Shirley could not help herself and burst into tears.  She thought of the dog that she had begged for as a child and knew instantly that Smudge, as he had done with her predecessor’s depression, was the friend and guide she needed to escape from her loneliness.

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