I waited for a moment before ringing the doorbell. I felt very anxious and I could see that those unknown smells and noises made him restless as well. He was eyeing the passers-by quite suspiciously and glanced at me from time to time reproachfully with his bloodshot eyes. Having spent almost ten years together, I knew exactly what he was thinking of: he wanted to be dozing at home in his favourite nook under my writing-table. He must have taken me for a senile old bag again lugging him to impossible places early in the morning. It was half past eight and we were standing in front of one of the elegant Victorian houses of the Harley street. Many thoughts were whirling in my mind, but I tried to reassure myself that Mr Gordon would be in safe hands here as the doctor was a recognized authority on this field. Both of us cast a last scornful look at the ‘trendy’ young lady passing by with her ridiculous greyhound, which—I could hardly believe my eyes—was wearing a pink fur-bodice. I turned back and read the modest copper table on the door once more: ‘Dr Conan Moriarty, dog-dietician & psychologist’. I took a deep breath and finally rang the bell.

            We were lead into the tastefully furnished waiting room. The doctor was looking after an emergency case, so we were kept waiting for a while. As a matter of fact, I was a bit annoyed at first. I just couldn’t imagine what could be that important. ‘Perhaps one of the Queen’s lap dogs has a stomach upset as a result of exaggerated caviar-consumption,’ I thought and fidgeted on my chair impatiently. Fortunately, my nine-year-old basset hound, Mr Gordon didn’t take over my mood this time and soon fell asleep by my feet. The involuntary physical training of walking here really exhausted my poor old thing. He seemed so innocent and helpless while sleeping, just like when he was a puppy—well, he didn’t use to snore like this at those days.

            I was roused from my pondering over by a jovial and slightly hoarse voice:  ‘The next, please.’ There was an elderly gentleman standing in the consulting room’s door. He was about in his late seventies and wore a goatee and a white coat. I pulled Mr Gordon’s leash gently to wake him up, which he took quite amiss, and grumbled at me. He was in a petulant mood anyway, but I also knew he did it on purpose. He had always delighted in ridiculing me by his uppish disobedience, especially in public places. I felt I was turning red despite my seventy-five years, which obviously ha nothing to do with the doctor’s remarkable height and penetrating azure eyes. ‘We are a little bit obstinate today, aren’t we?’ he said cheerfully and walked up to that capricious hell-hound. To my great surprise, Dr Moriarty murmured something to him and Mr Gordon followed him at once.

            ‘Well, what seems to be the matter?” he asked after I settled down in a comfortable armchair in front of his table. ‘I am really worried about him recently. He has put on considerable overweight, as you see, and he finds it more and more difficult to move and he is panting all the time.’ ‘And what is his state of mind like? Is he often depressed?’ ‘Yes, definitely. One of the signs that I find the most alarming is that he pushes away even his beloved marrow bone lately. He can’t get used to his new build, either. For instance, he got stuck into the cat exit the other day, too. I was scared stiff upstairs, as I was woken up in the middle of the night by puffing sounds of desperate exertion. I think his legs hurt him as well. He looks so pitiable when trotting about the house on his bandy legs.’ ‘I see,’ the doctor answered and began to examine Mr Gordon, who acted as gentle as a lamb. ‘How old is he?’ sounded the next question while Mr Gordon was being weighted. ‘Nine years and eight months. I received him as a birthday present from my son, Jamie, you know. It was two years after my husband’s death, and I was really broken down. I just spent my days looking forward to the past and feeling sorry for myself. But Mr Gordon proved a real remedy for me. To be honest, I wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea of cleaning up his little marks all over the house at first. Moreover, it was obvious right from the start that he is an absolutely independent personality.’ ‘Yes, I’ve experienced it myself as well’ he said and smiled – at Mr Gordon. ‘But we’ve learnt to mutually respect each other in the past years, and I can’t imagine my life without him anymore. Oh, you must be thinking that I am an old fool…’ ‘Not at all’ he replied seriously. ‘It’s not good to be alone in one’s old days, I can feel it very strongly since my wife’s death.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, doctor’. ‘Thank you, but, anyway, I prescribe some medicines for Mr Gordon’s legs. I’ll also create a special diet for him, which is less rich in fat. You can make an appointment for next week with my assistant. The diet and the medicines will do him good physically, but several treatments are needed to cure his old-age depression.’

            ‘Thank you very much indeed, doctor. I know that my dear bridge-partner, Winnie Trotwood was right when she suggested visiting you. She claimed you’ve done wonders with her Angora cat’s cystitis!’ ‘Oh, thank you’. I was about to leave when he suddenly  asked if I liked Brahms, since he happened to have two tickets for the evening concert… I smiled and answered ‘I do love Brahms, doctor, and I’d be pleased to join you to the concert.’ Both of us felt a little bit embarrassed, but it was quite understandable—at least in my case. As far as I could remember, I had had my last date in 1954. We left and I felt twenty years younger. Mr Gordon measured me with his eyes and probably declared me a hopeless case in himself.

by Eszter Ureczky  (Sárospatak)

Comments by the judges:

• I had to read this one a few times to appreciate it.  Still, "Every Dog" is the best of the submissions for its well-structured, descriptive passages and literate humor.  I could envision this as one of those back-page stories in "The New Yorker" with some complementary cartoon next to it.  Overall, well done in strong descriptive tone and easily the best "writing" of the submitted works of prose.