*This is a work of fiction- any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental!

The puppy has grown. No longer a puppy, he is a hulking teenager, trying to throw his weight around and then when tired wanting to curl up on my lap for a nap. He is now way too big for my lap.

Training is going as training does – one step forward, ten steps back, but we are finding some kind of peace with each other, well at least on some days.

What we can both agree on is that we love a walk. He has started to do that funny, bouncy, trying-to-sit-but-everything-is-just-so-exciting when I fetch his lead. I am mostly trying to remember where I put my glasses.

Bertie is excited by everything; he loves kids, dogs and people and that’s where the problem begins.

I love dogs. I love saying a quick hello as the dogs do a quick sniff, but I am less keen on dog owners.

Down the field, there is a pack of them. Their dogs run wild while the owners walk along, incredibly slowly, chatting away to each other. They are a super-friendly bunch, often standing on mass in the middle of the path to greet other non-pack members. There they stand, chatting away, their dogs running wild.

Bertie is still on the lead. At seven months he can’t be trusted to come back every time that I call. We play ball, off lead, down the back of the houses and as long as there are no distractions he does pretty well.

Down the field with the chatty-pack, there are way too many distractions.  So, it’s a struggle, with a young dog on the lead, when a wall of dogs comes charging towards us. The pack of dog owners carry on with their leisurely pace. There is much jumping and sniffing, and barking. The odd snarl gets in there and a couple fancy their chances trying to nose into the treat bag. The dog owners still dawdle along, Bertie and me, exhausted by the time they have sauntered up. This, you might think would be the end of the ordeal. You might think this would be the time to carrel their hounds and continue on, but no. Now they have me trapped in a sea of yapping dogs, they want to coo at Bertie and tell me he has grown.

‘Look how big he is,’ says one.

‘Ooh, he’s grown,’ says another.’

‘How have you been?’ says a man, who I do not know, in that voice used for the disabled or very elderly – brimming with concern and pity.

I smile politely, not wanting to cause a scene, my arm dislocating from the socket as Bertie tries to escape a rather persistent Cockerpoo. The pack stand directly in front of the wheelchair, the dogs all around.

Like a princess trapped on a bridge, I feel I need to pay the trolls to get past, but I’m not sure I speak their language. Other than yes or no I remain stubbornly silent.

You’d think that most people would take this as a hint – not this lot, they’ve taken it as a bloody challenge. It’s like they are on a mission to recruit really grumpy middle-aged women to their cult.

‘You can always walk with us,’ one woman smiles. ‘we are always down here in the mornings.’

I smile tightly – I don’t want to be rude.

‘You don’t have to walk by yourself,’ says another ignoring her dog that is humping an apple tree.

‘You should try a better lead,’ says the man. ‘You want one like this.’

My smile becomes a rictus.  I try to inch my wheelchair forward hoping they will take the hint, but no, they stand fast. This has gone on for months.

To my credit I haven’t sworn, I haven’t tried to ram. I do not run over their annoying little dogs, that jump up at my legs, covering me in muddy paws, but in my head I am screaming WILL YOU ALL FUCK OFF!.  

I think I might have said it too loudly in my head.

I’ve avoided the field for a few weeks but today, when the pack of dog owners saw me coming, they did not stop. I still had to deal with their rag-taggle off-the-lead mutts but other than repracheful stares and a polite hello, I nearly made it through.

‘It’s a shame she doesn’t like to chat,’ says one of the pack, still in earshot.

‘Do you think that’s why she is in the chair?’ asks another.

‘Have you seen how much she’s grown?’

Rude!

‘She’s still using the wrong lead.’