THIS LIFE Anne-Marie Casey

My son opened the car door, the dishevelled creature leapt into life and on to the front seat. We drove along, the lost dog sitting soggily on his lap

WE FINISHED OUR LONG WALK round Glendalough – my 11-year-old son, our dog Coco and me – and piled back into the car. It was a spring Saturday, the sun had shone through the leaves for the morning and, although a sudden downpour had inevitably appeared, as we headed for home we sang along with the radio as the windscreen wipers seemed to beat cheerfully in time. It was then we saw the lost dog. A pitiful sight she was. Sodden and miserable and shaking, she stood in the middle of the road and stared at us, mournfully. We pulled to a halt. She didn’t move. We looked for her owners or a collar. Nothing. We waited. A couple, in allweather jogging gear, bounced towards us, their muscles rippling like chocolate in the Galaxy ad inside their black Lycra leggings. They ignored the dog. ‘Don’t go near it,’ commanded the running man as he passed, ‘it might bite you.’

CLUNK! With an exasperated sigh my son took matters into his own hands. He opened the door, the dishevelled creature leapt into life and on to the front seat. We found ourselves driving along, the lost dog sitting soggily on his lap, Coco growling resentfully behind.

There was at least five minutes of silence. The dog leaned over and licked my hand.

‘Er. What are we going to do now?’ I asked. I was actually curious.

‘Honestly Mum,’ came the exasperated tweenage voice beside me, ‘We’re going to read the microchip and find the owner. It’ll be just like CSI: NY. Google the nearest vet.’

As we were on a back road in Co Wicklow, not Manhattan, we had to find flat land and hold the phone in the air. But we managed to find a vet open at the weekend and got there before it closed for lunch.

‘You can’t leave her here.’ said the gruff receptionist as I explained the story, the shivering dog in my arms. ‘People try to dump stray dogs on us all the time.’ ‘Okay,’ I replied, ‘But can the vet just check if she’s microchipped?’ The receptionist looked unconvinced. ‘I’ll ask.’ She paused. ‘But you can’t leave her here. We’ve got no room.’

(Clearly she would have been perfect working in the hospitality industry in Bethlehem in December AD 0.)

She disappeared into the back. There was a lengthy, whispered conversation. Finally, we were summoned in. The lost dog lay on the bench in the white room and licked the vet’s hands too. The vet, who had also made it clear we could not leave her there, thawed a little.

‘This dog’s a very well cared for pet,’ she said, ‘But she’s cold and hungry and frightened. I’d say she’s been away from home for a few days.’

The vet ran her hands down the dog’s back. The dog yelped in pain.

‘And, look. The poor thing’s been stung by a wasp. I’d say she got shocked by the pain and ran away.’

Within seconds she had removed the sting with tweezers. The lost dog exhaled with relief.

‘Now, I bet she’s chipped.’ She scanned the dog, wrote down the code and typed it into a database on the computer. A few numbers whirred around and there were a couple of beeps. ‘She’s called Lottie!’ said my son, happily. ‘She lives somewhere in Laragh. And there’s a number!’

The vet picked up the phone and dialled. She winked at my son. And then we heard the beeping. The line was dead. Our faces fell.

‘Oh well,’ the vet said, ‘Maybe you can go there and see if anyone recognises her? You can’t leave her here.’

On the way we both wondered what we were going to do. The lost dog had a name now, and because we knew she was loved, we felt responsible for her. The CSI: NY team would have told us not to get emotionally involved. But it was too late.

We parked in a side street in Laragh, intending to head for the local store. We got out of the car and I lifted Lottie into my arms. On the pavement, my son paused. ‘What’s that noise?’ he said. We turned and listened. It was the unmistakable humming of wasps. And suddenly with a happy bark, Lottie galloped down the pavement and into the open arms of her delighted elderly owner.

It wasn’t quite CSI, I thought, but it was thrilling nonetheless. Then I looked at my son. ‘Is CSI a suitable show for you to be watching? Who let you see that?’ ‘I don’t know, Mum. When I was six and you fell asleep on the sofa I saw a whole series of Sex and the City.’

‘Let’s go home,’ I said.