The Devil Is My Dog Walker

How it begins

The devil arrived with references and biodegradable bags. Nora Senn examined both before asking about the horns.

'They fold,' he said.

'That wasn't my question.'

'People usually ask whether they fit under a hat.'

His name was Elias Vale. He wore an ordinary coat, held his umbrella away from the sleeping spaniel beside the door and had listed difficult clients as a professional specialty. Nora had trained dogs for twenty-one years. Difficult clients meant their owners. She appreciated the precision.

The spaniel opened one eye.

'You can come in,' she said.

Nora had not hired anyone since her husband died. People said this as though grief had prevented her from reading applications. Mostly, she had been too tired to explain why a frightened dog needed time and why time could not be replaced by a cheerful slogan.

Elias crouched sideways to the spaniel and waited. He did not extend a hand. After a minute, the dog stood, sniffed his sleeve and leaned against his knee.

'What did you do before walking dogs?' Nora asked.

'Contract enforcement.'

'For whom?'

He looked up. His eyes were brown, inconveniently kind. 'An unpleasant employer.'

Outside, the rain turned briefly red, then became water again. A small black envelope slid under the door against the wind. Elias did not touch it.

Nora picked it up with the barbecue tongs. Years of rescue work had taught her that unnecessary confidence caused most avoidable injuries. The envelope smelled faintly of burned sugar.

'Would this employer object to your new job?'

'He objects to kindness when it has no contractual purpose.'

The spaniel sighed and settled on Elias's shoe. Nora looked at the application, at the clean bags, at the man who had waited for permission from the smallest creature in the room.

'Then we'd better be very clear about your hours,' she said. 'And what you want them to be.'