The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Rome

a full circle around Freja. The others, emboldened by his success, wobbled and plopped over to investigate this strange-smelling outcrop. They tested Freja’s pants and boots with the tips of their noses, then jumped back. A front paw reached out and patted her hand where it rested in the grass … once … twice. Two paws ventured onto her ankle with a snuffle and a swivel of stumpy, felted ears. Then, finally, one by one, the fluffy grey babes hopped, crawled and tumbled into her lap. Freja’s eyes widened. Her breath caught. The babies wriggled and squirmed in the small bowl of her lap until they were squished and moulded together, like pairs of socks squeezed into a too-small drawer. They nudged noses, jiggled bottoms, licked one another’s faces and, exhausted by their first great outing, yawned and fell asleep. Freja’s neck and shoulders tingled, and her face almost split with the width of her smile. ‘Fur fairies. Fluffy seeds,’ she whispered into the wind. ‘Heaven.’ A shadow passed overhead, an eagle. The mother hare sniffed the air. The black tips of her ears twitched. She sneezed, then made a series of grunting sounds. The leverets awoke and scrambled out of Freja’s lap. The mother jittered and fussed, rounding them up, guiding them across the grass and through the gap in the rocks, where she would stuff them back into their nest, sheltered and safe from harm. Freja took a long, deep breath of icy air and sighed. She turned her head towards her mother, expecting

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