Littering

We do it every weekend, more or less. Mum phones up. She's good at expressing interest in things she's not really interested in. There's a voice she does. Softer. More high-pitched. It reminds me of when I was little. Which is rather sad, when you think about it.

When she gets off the phone we get in the car. Sometimes it's just round the corner. Other times it's quite far away. The longest we've driven was for an hour and a half. It isn't too bad though. We listen to ABBA, and sing along.

Mamma Mia!
Are we there yet?
Here I go again!
Are we there yet?

When we get there, there is usually a small, suburban, semi-detached house; the kind that England does so well. Scrappy front garden with an overgrown lawn. Plastic window frames. Sometimes there is a farmhouse in the countryside.Those are the best times.

We knock on the doorbell and it is answered, usually by a woman, often wearing a baggy t-shirt and jogging bottoms, but sometimes by a man, often wearing a wife-beater. But not when it's a farmhouse in the countryside.

They take us through to see them. They're usually in some kind of back room or garage, in a special pen. Mum chats to the man or woman with that voice of hers, and we get to play with the puppies.

It's not always puppies. Sometimes it's kittens, or even baby rabbits. But the puppies are the best. Fat and squirmy and playful. A mass of soft fur in white and black and brown, tails wagging, little tongues lapping and yapping. We let them lick our faces and put them in our t-shirts, and pick out our favourites as though we were picking out our new pet.

But we never were.
It was sad, at first. We always hoped that one day, Mum would let us actually take one home. Once or twice we made a scene. She threatened not to take us again. Now we're older, we understand. We know we're not allowed. We can't afford it. We've learned to play along, to gulp down the lump in our throats each time we put the puppies back.

After a while, Mum says, 'Thanks, they're just what we're after, I'll give you a call,' and they believe her. They always do. And we get back in the car with smiles on our faces. 'Thanks Mum, you're the best!' ABBA comes back on and we sing along again.
But we don't mean it. Our hearts are much too heavy.
Our souls are full of puppy-shaped holes.