The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Rome

was with lowered eyes, a gentle nudge, a tentative nibble and a readiness to retreat if they felt feared or unwelcome. Of course, there were those crowded situations where she and the animals could not help but rub shoulders — amidst a large herd of reindeer or a colony of seals, for instance — but even then, the animals were courteous. They simply pretended she was not there until a mutual comfort had settled upon them and everyone felt happy to gurgle, play or share a quiet cuddle. With people, it was different. Forced. Rushed. There was no good-mannered staring, sniffing or circling during which Freja could gather her wits. No time to watch, listen or prepare an appropriate response. People ran straight at her, talking, telling her things she didn’t understand, asking her questions she didn’t know how to answer. It was overwhelming and Freja, so very often, longed to do what any frightened animal might do — run away and hide. And sometimes she did. In fact, in the last three weeks she had found herself tucked away beneath a train seat at her mother’s feet, crouching amidst a flock of live sheep in an outdoor nativity display and hiding beneath a table. Just as she was on this occasion. Mrs Thompson clucked disapprovingly, but Clementine’s mention of the generous babysitting fees and the family-sized block of chocolate in the fridge seemed to quell her disgust.

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