The first thing I did when I moved to England was calling the animal shelter. Really. As soon as I got a place, an English place, a place with a garden, even if I only had the lower floor, I still had the garden. So, as soon as i had a garden I went to the shelter and realized my life-long dream: giving a dog a home. I cannot even start describing how long I’ve wanted, needed, a dog for. We had them at home when I was a child, but that was certainly a while ago, and never ever in my adult life I had a place large enough for a dog. But my company decided I should serve them in London. And I now had a garden in London.
This is how Isobella got here. You should see her. She is not that large, honey-coloured and has really intelligent, although sometimes a bit sad, eyes. She looks at me as if she knew it all about the world but couldn’t tell me because I wouldn’t get it. She doesn’t catch balls (apparently there are plenty of dogs without that kind of instinct), but she sits down and gives her paw.
Now, I know you might find this very objectionable. I thought about it very long myself, I swear. But my heart seemed to be positive about it: I made Isobella vegan. I know, I know. Who am I to do this. She had no choice. It’s not natural. I know. But I couldn’t do it otherwise, and there are so many doggies living happily on a balanced but plant-based diet. She is so strong, her fur is shiny: she is healthy. No doubt about it. The only thing is, she is still a dog.
My elderly neighbour warned me: ‘she is going to hunt whatever comes into your garden’. My vegetarian landlady added: ‘there’s not much to hunt here, dear, some mice, at most, but that will keep them away from the house’. I was terrified I would have to finish off a badly hurt mouse or bird, so, so scared. I wouldn’t have the guts to do it. But a month went by, and the situation never happened. A year passed, nothing still. So I grew confident that Isobella was a happy vegan without killing needs.
As you might suspect, I wasn’t right. Otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you all this, would I. Don’t get me wrong: she was healthy. Her vet said so. But she wasn’t as quiet as I thought. One day, I went down to have breakfast and I mechanically opened the garden door for her. I had my tea, my fruit, my juice. And before I had started my cereal, she came in. She looked so happy. She wagged her tail enthusiastically, proudly. She had something red in between her teeth.
Hit by the circumstances, I resigned myself to act quickly. I went towards her and almost with my eyes closed pulled the red thing off her mouth. It was a felt cone. I felt so relieved. No blood. Good. I had no idea what the heck was that little red cone, though. Part of artificial flowers or a toy, maybe. We had some strange kids in the street and maybe they could have thrown something on my side of the fence. I took the wet little felt confection and stepped out into the grass.
I didn’t see it at first glance, but then something shivered underneath the bush. It was small, but still, I was scared. I slowly, slowly creeped through the garden until I was close enough to get it. Now, you won’t believe me, but I swear it’s true. I understood what I had in my hand, and how Isobella had got hold of it. What was on the floor, looking hurt and scared was… a gnome. I know, I know. But he was there. Needless to say, he was not a ceramic gnome. He had a grey beard (not as long as you’d expect), little corck boots and a blue overall of sorts, with a string belt. And of course, his head was bare, missing the little hat I was holding.
I held him with my hands, without thinking. His face changed to worse., I must have pressed something. He was breathing so quickly. I took him inside and dried Isobella’s saliva off him with a towel. I put some tea on a thimble and he drank it. I don’t think he liked it, but he seemed to cheer up a little. He got used to my presence, not to Isobella’s, who I had to lock out. He looked around very curious, and nibbled on some Hob Nobs. Long story short, he slept in a shoe box with some improvised padding that night. And the next night. And the next. It’s been three months now and i don’t dare having visitors over for fear of him appearing in my living room. He likes being in the nude a lot, too. Maybe it’s the heating.
Now, what worries me the most is, he grew tired of the cookies. And of the pine nuts. He got tired of the peanut butter and the blueberries too, and of the pieces of apple. He won’t have any more peas or spaghetti or mushrooms. The little guy took, not without trouble, a Guardian magazine I had left on the sofa and pointed and the “Christmas meal special” feature. Particularly to the big, dead, stuffed, golden bird on the picture. The gnome won’t have any of my vegan stuff. And he is starting to look angry, but won’t leave the house. I’m beginning to be scared of him. Isobella ignores the guy and I don’t know what to do. The gnome is not vegan.
