I walk into our bedroom. Lizzie’s lying down, watching something on her laptop involving a heated exchange between an Australian, an American and an English person (I later learn this is a show called The Tourist).
As I glance over at Lizzie, I think… something’s different.
It’s then I realise… Cedric is lying in bed next to Lizzie.
It’s strictly forbidden for Cedric to come upstairs into the bedrooms (despite the children’s efforts to encourage him to do just that). And even more forbidden for him to lie on the beds. The cats can, but not Cedric. It’s a double standard, for the pets, but we really don’t want our beds to stink of canine.
I stare at Cedric and he stares back, balefully. He knows what the drill would normally be. I’d shout incomprehensible, gruff words at him and stomp about… and the dog would hightail it back downstairs, where he belongs.
But this time I don’t shout and Cedric doesn’t move an inch. Because Lizzie’s just had her last chemo, I don’t feel like I can shout at her doggie companion to go. Even if it is Cedric.
Cedric stares at me with his beady eyes. I’ve got you, his expression seems to say, you can’t make me do a thing, a-hole.
I glare back. The normal order might have been turned upside down by your mistress’s illness. But this isn’t over, hound. I like to think Cedric can pick up my meaning, from the complex grimace I give him.
Now Lizzie looks down at her pet and strokes his head… then wrinkles her nose.
‘Oh Cedric,’ she says. ‘You really shouldn’t be here. You’re just not sanitary.’
For some reason, the music to The Hollies’ He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother springs into my head.
‘But he SMEEEELLLLS….. he smells like HELL…’ I improvise.
‘He ain’t sanitary… he’s your dooo-og.’
Lizzie joins in as I repeat the last line.
Cedric looks on unimpressed, the whole while. And doesn’t budge.
P. D. Clifton 
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