Not Just For Christmas

"He must be going soft," she muttered.

She opened the door of her Fiat and the unmistakably ripe stench of dog muck and damp fur assailed her nostrils. She wrinkled her nose and picked her way over the muddy carpark.

Forty-five minutes ago she'd been warming herself in front of an open Mac before Mike swept through in classic Scrooge style.

"Right. Christmas Eve. Let's remind the smug bastards the world is still a crock of shit because what do we know about shit, boys and girls?"

"Shit sells," the newsroom intoned.

"That's right. Mel. Bex. One of you at the Dogs' Home, one at the Kiddies' home. I want fluffy puppies, I want forlorn kids, I want Joe Public sobbing in their eggnog. Got it?"

Mel snatched the Dogs' Home — the lesser of two evils — stuck her tongue out at Bex and headed off.

Dave and Carl were already waiting for her, camera and boom slung over their respective shoulders. They smirked at her attempts to scrape the mud off her Jimmy Choos on the grass verge.

"Didn't want to see the widdle babies?" chirped Dave

"Oh, piss off," she retorted. "Let's just get this over with — bloody bleeding hearts and begging bowls. Hardly Pulitzer material.”

She rang the bell. A cacophony of barking rent the air. She winced and drew a deep breath through her mouth before plastering the smile on her face before the door opened.

“Mary? Mel Grayson. You spoke to my producer.”

They entered the building, and made their way down the corridor. Their breath hoofed ahead of them. Mel rubbed the tips of her fingers. Mary shrugged apologetically.

“Boiler’s on the blink. Again.”

In spite of the cold, Mel relaxed. Mary was likeable and had just the right amount of dog hair on her gillet to make her credible. This piece could actually work. Suddenly Dave piped up.

"Can we get some shots of Mel with some puppies?" He shrugged his shoulders at Mel. "Boss' orders."

"Oh, yes. I've got some gorgeous bitches through here."

Carl grinned openly.

"Perfect. We love working with gorgeous bitches"

They opened the door to a scene of gambolling chaos. A writhing mass of tails, paws, and wet noses tumbled towards them. Dave and Carl battled through the excited pups. Mel watched them struggling to set up tripods and boom stands in the midst of the turmoil with a cruel smile on her lips. Then her eyes were drawn to the corner of the room. A small bundle of fur shivered.

"Ah, yes. That's Humbug. She's very shy — had a bit of a rough time of it," said Mary, sadly.

Mel crouched down. Humbug stood and slowly crept towards her, belly low, tail twitching tentatively. Three legs and a stump, Mel noted. She reached out a hand and gently caressed the dogs silken ears. A warm, wet tongue licked her wrist in response.

"She likes you!" beamed Mary.

Mel looked down into molton brown eyes.

"Oh, crap!"

Several hours and a king's ransom later, Ben was still shaking his head in disbelief.

"What?" she challenged. "She'll be company for you, working from home."

They watched her report, snuggled in front of the telly.

"You must be going soft," he smiled, lifting Humbug onto the sofa with them.

Her phone buzzed. She read the message from Mike.

“Nice one, St. Francis. Shelter rang to say boiler’s being fixed, gratis and donations flooding in. Want a feature on the mutt by New Year’s Eve.”

She smiled at Ben.

"Could be worse," she said. "Bex is probably pregnant by now."

Humbug shuffled between them and thumped her tail.