Andy tells Ifti on a Thursday.
Ifti is leaning over the bills spread across the table, ID lanyard flipping against the wood—two cards, a pen, and a tiny troll keychain bumping together. Andy flinches at the clatter. Why would anyone choose to carry that much weight around their neck? Madness.
"I'm getting a dog," Andy says.
Ifti looks up from the paperwork. "A dog?"
"A Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Specifically." Andy has a folder. Inside: printouts, notes in careful handwriting, a spreadsheet with columns Ifti can't quite parse. "I've done the research. They're good for flats. Low to moderate exercise requirements. Friendly temperament. I can afford one with Dad's money."
Ifti's careful: "That's... that's a big thing, mate. The space, the exercising, all the kit and the food. If it's a lot of money then you know you'll have to speak to your Auntie. We should maybe talk through-"
"I've talked it through. With myself. For three months. I'm getting a dog."
· · ·
The planning takes two months. Ifti brings worksheets and they talk feeding schedules, vaccination protocols, toilet training methods.
Andy maps the nearest vet, the nearest emergency vet, two backup emergency vets. He calculates monthly costs in a spreadsheet with coloured boxes, coded for one-off or recurring expenditure.
Aunty Christine countersigns the forms. "You sure about this, Andrew?"
"I'm sure."
"Your mum would've liked this. You having company."
Andy doesn't look up. "Yes."
At the bank, withdrawing eight hundred pounds, Andy's hands shake. He's only seen this much money on gameshows. The cashier counts it twice. "Big holiday?"
"No. A dog," Andy says. "Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Eight weeks old."
"Lovely! First one?"
"Yes. Thankyou, bye."
Ifti, standing slightly behind, catches the cashier's flicker of confusion, then understanding. She smiles at Andy's back. "Good luck with the pup!" as he strides past Ifti and out through the door.
· · ·
The breeder is in East Kilbride. They take the train. Ifti tries some smalltalk. Andy is quiet, prefers to check through his folder a final three times.
The puppy comes in a cardboard box with holes. Ginger and white, small enough to fit in two hands, making soft, lost sounds.
The taxi back costs seventeen pounds. Andy holds the box on his lap, rigid.
"Wit ye got there?" the driver asks.
"A dog. Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Eight weeks old."
"Ach, thas braw! First one?"
"Yes."
The driver tries again. "Wit ye callin him?"
Andy is quiet for three seconds. "Archimedes. He's named after the Owl in The Sword in the Stone. He's Merlin's companion but my Dad used to say he's also Arthur's mentor. He's not magic in the story, but he does talk."
The driver's eyes find Ifti in the mirror, the lanyard. He nods once. "Listen pal, even in the West End, ye cannae be shoutin' 'Archimedes' in the park".
Andy's way ahead of him. "Welllll, actually it's kind of only his formal name anyway. 'Archie' is better for training so it's that that I'd call in the park. If I have to. Some books say if you're shouting after them then you've already lost."
"He's got it all worked out." says Ifti after a silence.
· · ·
In the flat, the puppy won't settle. At 11 PM Andy disregards their conversation about boundaries and phones Ifti, who disregards it and answers.
"Why won't he lie still?"
"It's his first night away from his mum, mate. He's scared."
"The breeder said he'd sleep and I've given him a warm bed with a hot water bottle and a clock to mimic the mother's heartbeat. He's still running around though. I don't know if I've missed something or I read bad information or what, but it's like he's not happy here. I don't want to be tired tomorrow because we have to do toilet training and get used to some different sounds."
"Right, okay. Let's take our time. I think… maybe you might need to rethink the plan in the morning. Maybe just try doing different things with him tonight until he settles. You can do this mate, but just remember- you've read all the books on puppies and he hasn't."
"But what if you're wrong? You said you've never had dogs. What if-"
"I don't know dogs but I know you. I know sometimes you can struggle with things that come easier to other people, but you never let it get you down and you keep trying. Remember the year after you lost your mum-"
"Died. She died, I didn't lose her."
"Sorry yeah. But when you didn't think you'd be able to get the bus to Yoker on your own. Remember what I said?"
"You said I can do it if I do it my way. Look on street view at the route first, get the timetable, look up the price and make sure I have the right change."
"Exactly, and what happened?"
"I got the bus on my own all the way to Yoker, upstairs at the front by myself."
"See! So I was-"
"Then I got the first bus back, because it turned out there was nothing in Yoker."
"Hah, so I was right on both counts."
Silence. Then: "Okay. Well that makes sense. Okay. Thanks, bye."
At 2 AM they're both asleep. Archie on Andy's chest, Andy's hand curved around him. Both scared. Both okay.
· · ·
Week two is chaos. The flat smells like accidents. Andy has dark circles. Archie has learned nothing.
Ifti visits, steps over a chewed trainer. "How's it going?"
"I don't understand. I'm following the guidance." Andy has a printout, highlighted in three colors. "It says puppies can hold their bladder for one hour per month of age. He's nine weeks. He should manage two hours. He doesn't."
"Okay, well you always said there'd be-"
"Also he won't eat the food I put down so I try something else and then it looks like he likes it, so I get more, but then he stops liking that too."
"Right, so it sounds like you might need to-"
"And every time we're out for a wee- him for a wee, me just with him- he either jumps up at somebody and they look annoyed at me and I have to come up with an apology or he drags me over to them and wants to be friendly and I have to come up with something to say or they ask loads of questions."
"Maybe…" Ifti treads carefully. "Maybe it's going to get better. But also maybe this is it? Would it be okay if this is as good as he gets? Cos if not, we could find him a good home. Someone with a garden, more time…"
"No." Andy is very quiet. "I just need more information."
· · ·
Week three: Andy has a new spreadsheet.
"Look." He turns the laptop. Columns: Time Fed, Amount Fed, Activity Level, Time Toileted, Location, Success/Failure. Color-coded. Cross-referenced.
"If he eats at 7:42, he usually wants the toilet by 8:17. If he eats at 8:00, he toilets by 8:34. The interval is consistent when you account for activity variables."
Ifti stares. "That's... actually brilliant."
"It's just consistent. He's a dog. Dogs are really consistent actually."
Week four: no accidents.
· · ·
March 2020. The news is all virus, lockdown, stay home. Andy wears his mask and gloves, carries spares in his bag. Keeps his distance. Talking through perspex screens doesn't bother him. The city goes quiet. The rules are clear and he follows them.
Ifti calls through on the laptop: "You doing okay, mate?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Just checking. I know change is hard sometimes. All the new rules and that."
"The rules are fine. They're very specific. Six feet apart. Masks in shops. One household only. It's clear. It's… annoying when some people don't do it properly but Auntie Christine says just focus on what I'm doing."
On screen behind Andy: Archie in perfect sit-stay, twelve weeks old, focused on Andy's hand.
"Jesus. How'd you teach him that?"
"Repetition. Consistency. Positive reinforcement. It's not complicated actually."
"And it's not getting to you? Lockdown and that?"
"It's fine. We're training. See?"
Ifti pauses. On screen his flat looks small and gloomy. There's washing draped over a radiator. Dishes in the sink. "Just... it's hard for some folk. My girls are with their mum in Paisley. I can see them but the travel's awkward and everything's... anyway. You're managing okay?"
"You have kids?"
"Aye. Two. Leah and Aisha. Seven and nine." He holds up his lanyard-gonk to camera. "Aisha gave me this, remember?"
"Oh. Right. Seven and nine. Okay. Welllll… Archie's doing really well with recall now. Do you want to see?"
"Aye. Aye, go on then."
· · ·
April. May. June. Ifti calls twice weekly. Andy seems fine. Better than fine. The flat is clean. Archie knows seven commands. Then twelve. Then seventeen.
"He just did the wee-whine," Andy says one call, standing.
"The what?"
"The wee-whine. It's different from the hungry-whine and the play-whine. Means he needs toilet. I have them all recorded."
"...How many whines does he have?"
"Fourteen distinct vocalizations. Plus twenty-three non-vocal communications. The head-tilt means he doesn't understand the command. The paw-lift means he's uncertain. The ear-twitch means he heard something outside."
Silence on the line.
"Andy, that's... that's amazing."
"It's just paying attention really. Not amazing."
Ifti watches Andy drop out of frame- sees his backside in the air, hears grunts and good boys.
"Andy? You okay there? What's happening mate?"
Andy bobs back into shot. "Sorry, he does this thing where he rolls on his back and kind of snorts. I thought he looked like he was stimming, so I started getting down and doing it with him."
"And?"
"He loves it, I think."
"Hahaha! Now that is amazing!"
· · ·
August. Restrictions ease slightly and Ifti meets Andy at Kelvingrove Park, first time in five months.
Andy looks the same. Archie is bigger now, sleek, moves like water beside Andy's leg. They walk. Archie heels without a command, matches Andy's pace exactly. He only has eyes for Andy.
"He's doing brilliant," Ifti says.
"Welllll… He's a good dog and we have a routine."
They pass the ice cream van. Andy usually avoids it- too many people, too much noise. But Archie pulls slightly toward it, other dogs there, tail waving.
Andy stops. "Do you... want ice cream?"
"Uh, sure?"
They join the queue in socially distanced formation. A woman with a terrier: "Oh, he's gorgeous! How old?"
"Six months."
"He's so well-behaved! Mine's a nightmare."
"Training helps. Consistency. Positive reinforcement. Thanks for being nice about my dog, bye."
The woman smiles, moves to the counter. Andy orders: "Two 99s please. And can dogs have ice cream?"
"Aye, I've got pup cups! He's a handsome fella! What's the wee man's name?"
"Archim... Archie. He's called Archie. And yes, he's handsome, which is statistically likely for a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, who consistently rank in the UK's top five favourite breeds."
The vendor blinks. "Aye... Well... I see ya Archie! Here's your pup cup.... Wow, what a good boy! You've trained him well eh!"
"I just pay attention really. Thank you for the ice creams and pup cup. Bye."
They find a bench. Archie demolishes his pup cup with absolute focus. Andy eats his 99 methodically, cone last.
Ifti: "That was good chat, mate."
"The ice cream man seemed nice. He probably sells ice cream all day and it's boring in his van so he just wants to chat a bit when people buy stuff. I don't think he needed to know about Archimedes the owl."
Ifti doesn't say anything for a moment. They eat their ice creams.
"Can I ask you something?" Andy says.
"Course."
"When you said your girls are in Paisley. Do you see them much?"
"Aye. Well. Twice a week usually. Wednesday night and Saturday. It's... it's good."
"That's good then. Seven and nine, right?"
They watch Archie investigate an interesting smell in the grass.
· · ·
March 2021. Phone call: "Ifti, I want to go to Edinburgh."
"Oh aye? What for?"
"Dog show. Scottish Spaniel Society Championship. June fourteenth. I've been preparing."
Silence.
"Ifti?"
"That's... that's brilliant, mate. Really brilliant. You've done amazing with him."
"We've been training for it since before Christmas. I have the routine planned. Twenty-three commands in sequence. Archie knows them all."
"I bet he does! It's just... those shows- I don't know. It's intense, right? And busy- lots of people, noise? Judges can be... they might not see what you and Archie have."
"They're judges. That's their job. To see if dogs are trained properly."
"Yes, but… you don't think maybe they expect a certain kind of person. For things to look… a certain way? I don't want you to be disappointed, especially with all those people watching."
"You said yourself, you don't know dogs, or dog shows. He can do everything they'd want. If there's something you think I need to work on or do differently so he gets to compete…"
Another pause. "Aye. No, you're right. I don't know anything about it, but you're great with him. On you go, you'll be brilliant."
"Can you come?"
"I'll... I'll check my rota. Probably can't get the time off but I'll try."
"Okay. The show starts at nine but our category isn't until eleven-thirty so you wouldn't have to leave too early if you can come. It's still limited crowds but I'm allowed two people and Auntie Christine is still poorly."
"I'll let you know, aye?"
· · ·
June thirteenth. Text from Ifti: Car trouble, can't make it tomorrow. You'll smash it though. Let me know how it goes.
Andy reads it twice. Types: Fine.
Deletes it. Types: Okay. Thanks.
Sends it.
· · ·
Edinburgh. The hall smells like dog and carpet cleaner.
Andy sits in the holding area. Archie beside him in perfect heel position. Andy's hands are in his pockets. His leg is bouncing. He counts his breaths: in for four, hold for four, out for four.
A woman next to him: "First time?"
"Yes."
"Nervous?"
"I'm counting my breaths."
"Right. Well. Good luck!"
She moves away. Andy keeps counting.
Their category is called. Novice Handler, Cavalier King Charles. Seven entries.
They walk to the ring. The judge is a woman in her sixties, tweed jacket, clipboard. She doesn't smile. "Handler name?"
"Andrew Dalgleish."
"Dog's name?"
"Archimedes. Called Archie."
She writes. "When you're ready."
Andy stands at the marker. Archie sits without being told. Andy's breathing is steady now. This is the routine. They've done it two hundred and forty-seven times. It's just data.
"Archie. Heel."
Archie moves into position. Left side, shoulder aligned with Andy's leg, eyes up.
They walk. Andy's gait is his - always has been - and Archie matches it exactly. Not the smooth show-ring pace of the other handlers. Something else. But precise. Synchronized.
"Halt."
Archie sits immediately.
"Down."
Archie drops.
"Stay."
Andy walks ten paces. Turns. Archie doesn't move. Doesn't look away.
"Come."
Archie comes. Fast, focused, sits in front of Andy without command.
They go through the sequence. Twenty-three commands. Every transition clean. Andy's hand signals are small, precise. Archie's responses instant. Between commands, Archie checks Andy's face. Andy's shoulders drop fractionally when Archie gets it right.
The judge watches. Writes.
Other handlers move smooth, practiced, performing. Andy is Andy. The partnership is visible but it looks different. The timing is odd. The spacing unusual. Andy doesn't present the dog, doesn't engage with the audience. He just works through the sequence like he's alone in his flat.
When they finish, the judge says: "Thank you."
Andy walks back to the holding area. His heart is loud in his chest. The routine was perfect. He has the data. Every cue landed. Every transition executed exactly as practiced.
They wait while the other entries compete. Andy counts the commands each handler uses. Measures the approximate timing. Archie sits beside him, calm.
The judge calls them back for placement.
Seventh place goes to a young spaniel, barely trained. Sixth goes to Andy and Archie. Fifth through to first go to handlers who moved right, presented well, whose dogs were good but not-
Andy looks at the white ribbon in his hand. Participation. Thank you for entering.
The winner gets a trophy, a rosette, applause.
Andy leaves during the photographs.
· · ·
On the train home, Andy watches the routine on his phone. The video is clear. Every command visible. Every response correct. He plays it three times.
Archie sleeps on the seat beside him, head on Andy's leg.
Andy opens his spreadsheet. Updates it:
Edinburgh Show June 14th 2021. Commands executed: 23/23. Placement: 6th of 7. Notes: Routine completed as practiced. Judge: Mrs. F. Henderson. Will review video for errors.
He watches the video again. Can't find any.
Saves the spreadsheet. Puts his phone away. Looks out the window at Scotland going past in the dark.
His hand rests on Archie's head.
· · ·
That evening, Ifti calls.
"How'd it go?"
"We came sixth."
"Ah, mate. I'm sorry."
"Why? We did the routine perfectly. Every cue, every transition. I have it on video. Do you want to see?"
Pause. "Aye. Aye, send it over."
Andy sends the video. Waits. The call sits quiet. Three minutes pass. Four.
When Ifti's face appears on screen again, his eyes are red.
"That was perfect, Andy."
"I know. That's what I said. I can't find the errors."
"There weren't any."
"Then why did we come sixth?"
Ifti is quiet for a long moment. "I don't know, mate. I don't know."
Andy looks at the screen. At Ifti's face. "Your car's fixed then?"
"What?"
"You said it was broken. But you're okay now?"
Another pause. "Aye. It's... aye, it's fixed."
"That's good."
"Andy-"
"I'm going to enter the Autumn championship. In Falkirk. November twenty-first. If you can't come to that one either it's okay though."
"I'll be there," Ifti says quickly. "I'll be there, I promise."
"Okay. I'm going to practice more. I made a list of things the winning trainers do that I didn't do. I'll do them and see."
After they hang up, Andy makes tea. Feeds Archie. They do the evening walk. Training from eight to eight-thirty, same routine, same commands, Archie perfect every time.
At ten PM Andy updates the spreadsheet one more time:
Falkirk Show: November 21st. Research judges. Review successful entries. Increase practice frequency.
Archie is already asleep on the couch, allowed now, rules relaxed over time.
Andy watches him for a moment. Twitching in dreams. Probably chasing something.
He closes the laptop.
Tomorrow: practice.
