I Had One Job (It Came With a Scroll)

For reasons entirely and suspiciously unbeknown to me — no interview process, no background checks, no gentle easing into the role — I have been entrusted with my mother-in-law’s precious dog. She is, of course, in Australia. Living her best life. Hiking mountains. Breathing in eucalyptus. Radiating smug vitality. Probably befriending kangaroos and giving them unsolicited wellness advice. For three whole weeks. And I have been left with… this. There are instructions. Not a note. Not a quick scribble on the fridge. Not a passive-aggressive WhatsApp. A scroll. It unfurls dramatically when I open it, rolling all the way down to my feet like sacred scripture for the world's most enlightened dog. Feeding times, walking schedules, emotional check-ins, and a bathing ritual that requires way too many candles for a dog with a wagging tail. “Quentin must not be distressed,” it reads. Quentin. Right. I’m expecting something delightful. A bounding ball of fluff. A Maisy-esque situation. Something vaguely worth the scroll. Instead — It emerges. Slowly. Cautiously. Like it already knows it’s deeply disappointing on arrival. It might be a poodle. Or equally, the uneasy aftermath of a poodle and naked mole rat colliding in a moment nature would rather forget. It’s… patchy. Slightly haunted-looking. And — dear God — it is riddled with fleas. They’re not subtle about it either. It’s a full-blown festival. A writhing, jubilant, no-tickets-required infestation. I itch just looking at it. My skin prickles in protest — phantom crawling kicks in immediately. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. “Right,” I say aloud, already uncomfortable in my own skin. “We’ll… manage.” We will not manage. Quentin stares at me. Unblinking. Judging. Of course, life doesn’t pause just because I’ve inherited a sentient flea circus. The car needs fixing. I am not — by nature — a “put on the overalls and crawl under a vehicle” kind of woman. I am, at best, someone who opens the bonnet, stares at it meaningfully, and hopes the problem feels seen. But here I am. Flat on my back. Under the car. Covered in oil. Poking things with absolutely no understanding of what those things do. Proding, adjusting, tinkering, and dropping the occasional heartfelt f-bomb for moral support. Quentin sits beside me. Watching. Always watching. Like a small, itchy supervisor. Occasionally taking notes. And then — ping. A video call. Of course. My mother-in-law. I answer. There she is — windswept, glowing, somehow standing on the edge of a cliff like she’s about to star in a travel documentary. “Amanda! How’s my precious Quentin?” I hold the dog up. It dangles slightly. “Alive and well,” I say, with the confidence of someone who has already mentally drafted several backup lies. “Has he eaten at 07:12? And then again at 09:47? And his emotional enrichment walk at 11? Was it… spirituality enlightening?" “Yes,” I say. “He’s thriving.” Quentin scratches aggressively mid-air. “Marvellous,” she beams. “I must dash—summiting in ten!” And she’s gone. Connection lost. Sanity pending. Climbing mountains at seventy-five while I am being psychologically dismantled by a flea-ridden enigma. I am just finishing up under the car — if “finishing up” means wiping my hands and hoping for the best — when a man appears. Out of nowhere. Just… there. “That’s my dog,” he says, firmly. I blink at him. “I think you’ll find,” I reply, “this is my mother-in-law’s dog.” “No,” he says, stepping closer. “That’s my dog.” He says it like the conversation is already over. “That’s Quentin,” I insist, though even I’m not entirely convinced anymore. “That,” he says, already unclipping the lead, “Is Fleabag.” Fleabag. I pause. Kinda makes sense. Before I can mount any kind of defence, he’s already halfway down the road, the dog trotting beside him like it’s been waiting for this moment its entire itchy life. “You can’t just steal dogs!” I shout. “I’m not stealing!” he calls back. “I’m reclaiming!” And then — They’re gone. Just like that. Quentin. Fleabag. Whoever he was. Vanished. I stand there for a moment. Processing. Weighing my options. I could chase him. Or — “I’ll say he was eaten alive by fleas,” I mutter. “End of story. My heartfelt condolences.” A tragic, if medically ambitious, conclusion. Feels reasonable. I don’t get far before my phone rings again. My stomach drops instantly. A full, sinking, oh-not-her decent. My mother-in-law. But it stops. Voicemail. An unknown number. I press play. “Heeeey girls! Missing you already! Can’t wait to catch up this weekend and get coked up! Woop-woop!” I freeze. I listen again. Same message. Same woop-woop — aggressively cringeworthy. I know that voice. It’s one of the mums from school. Not school mum Kate. Haven’t heard a Scooby from her since she begged for my dream stories and then disappeared into the void. No. This is another mum. Her name has escaped me, so we shall call her PTA mum. The kind of mum who never forgets non-uniform day. Who packs lunches with little compartments. Labels things. Owns a label maker and isn’t afraid to use it. Perfect. Or so I thought. I stare at my phone. And I had her down as Mum of the Year. And yet — There it is. Mrs Perfect Mum, snorting lines in a grimy cubicle on a Friday night with her fifty-something mates. Elbows on the cistern. Handbag in a puddle of something best left unidentified. Living, it seems, her truth. Disturbingly so. Meanwhile, I’m out here losing dogs that may or may not exist. I really do live a tragically boring life. Just as I’m contemplating this, I spot my mum. She’s on a ladder. Not just any ladder. A dangerously tall one. Leaning against… someone’s gutter. “Mum!” I shout. “What are you doing up there?!” “Oh!” she says brightly. “Just grabbing some stationery.” Stationery. From a gutter? “Why?” “I’ve got to make a card.” “… For who?” She pauses. The ladder gives a slow, worrying wobble, like it’s one fragile gust from giving way. She rubs her temple. “Oh,” she laughs, slightly too casually. “Now that’s a question.” I rush over, gripping the ladder like my life depends on it. “Let’s come down, shall we?” “You worry too much,” she says as she descends, one precarious step at a time. My heart is in my throat. BEEP BEEP. I nearly launch myself into a bush. It’s Mat. Of course it is. “Get in,” he calls. He’s in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, wearing the focused professionalism of a London cabby. “Why do you look like a taxi driver?” I ask. “Because,” he says, “I am one.” No irony. No explanation. Just… Mat’s Cabs. I climb in the back. There’s a boy in the front seat. He turns slowly. Locks eyes with me. “This is Sanjeev,” Mat says. “Hi,” I offer. “I’ve seen you,” the boy says. Pause. “In my dreams.” Then, quieter — “You’re carrying too much.” Oh. Right. It lands somewhere deeper than expected. “Where’s Quentin?” Mat asks. Straight to it. “Ah,” I say. “He’s… found a more suitable home.” The car slams to a stop. “Whaaaaaat?” “Technically,” I say, “he belonged to someone else. And that someone else…took him.” A stong opening. Weak defence. “Amanda,” he says — not Mandy, my name — which is never a good sign. “You had one job.” “Well,” I counter, “it was actually several jobs. There was a scroll—” “Mum’s going to be distraught.” I know. God, I know. And then — Everything goes quiet — the kind of quiet that presses in on your ears and makes itself known. I look at my hands. They’re clean. No oil. No flea bites. No scroll. No dog. No car. No ladder. No taxi. Just… me. Standing. Alone. With the faint echo of responsibility lingering like a flea you can’t catch. And it hits me — It was never about the dog. Or the fleas. Or the impossible list of instructions. Or the perfect mums with their powdered-nosed secrets. Or even losing something that was never fully mine. It’s about that feeling. That persistent sense that I’m juggling things I don’t fully understand… trying to do them right… while quietly suspecting I’ve already dropped something important along the way. And still pretending that counts as control. And maybe — Just maybe — The dog didn’t get stolen. Maybe I let it go. Because part of me knew… I was never meant to carry all of that in the first place. Or perhaps I just finally stopped chasing something that was never really mine to hold.