I know you’re not home, but I go there anyway. I feel intrepid, once I’ve made the decision, and take the left instead of right towards your new love-nest. I don’t even know why I’m doing it. Part-sadism, to see the house you’re sharing with him, part-pathetic, to glean some clue of what you are now, how you’ve changed. And secretly, to see how I would have to change to get you back.

I have a brief fantasy about how I march in, you proclaim your undying love, I kick sand in his face, and we leave together into the sunset.

I know it’s not real; too much has been said, too little care has been shown, but it’s a hope that I can’t kill. No matter how I starve it, and how much you have poisoned it, it just won’t die. The fantasies are it’s death throes, and play behind my eyes like in an empty, rotting flea-pit cinema, showing me things that can never be.

The hangover plays merry hell with my eyes, and my cheeks are sore from wiping.

I pull to a stop outside you house and listen to the engine cooling. I can’t will myself to look up. My fingers itch, the dashboard could do with a wipe down - anything to avoid all that I’ve come to see.

And there isn’t much to see. A suburban house - a tired, crazy-paved driveway - nets in the window. No clues to your hedonistic new lifestyle, no signs of a crack-den I could drag you from to save your life and re-earn your love. It looks a lot like our house, just different. What domestic bliss do you find there? What does he have that I don’t?

My guts churn on last nights lager. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll need to find a toilet very soon. My hand reaches for the keys, still in the ignition. I look one last time.

And there she is, black nose poking over the lip of the back fence. She barks and barks at me, ears up.

‘Sandy!’ I say, elated. She’s not changed a bit, same face and colour. She is so pleased to see me. I’m out of the car before I know it, the door left open behind me.

She licks my hand, and I babble at her. After so long, I’d forgotten the pleasure of being liked. I could quite happily take her for a long walk, let her do all those things she wasn’t allowed to, run through rivers, chase sheep, choke down bar after bar of chocolate. I want to hold her and run with her and -

-thats when I think of it. I laugh. Like an evil genius. I may have even rubbed my hands together.

Taking Sandy would be an emblem, a stand. It will annoy you no-end. You’ll phone the Police, who won’t take you seriously. You’ll pace back and forth wondering if Sandy is okay. He will tell you to come back to bed or something, but you won’t. Cause in the back of your mind you’ll know that I’ve taken her and it will eat you up inside.

Hope again, but this time its’ nasty side. Revenge fantasy, as ridiculous as any of the others I’ve had, though this doesn’t involve getting a better woman, and making you jealous. The difference is, this time I’m listening. For once I’m not afraid of the consequences. How much prison time do you get for stealing your dog back, anyway?

But I don’t care. My head is hurting cause of you, my guts are clenching cause of you, my life is over because of you. What difference would a little dog-napping make in the face of such pain?

I just wish I could see your face when you realise she’s gone.

And hope, that tenacious bastard, provides the visual as I flip open the gate and lead Sandy to the car.

I really need to find a toilet.

*

Sandy has changed.

Even though it’s only been - what, a year? She’s thicker around the middle, has lost that puppy-sheen of newness. She remembers the house, the garden, even her dusty old bowl that I dig out from under the sink. I drink coffee, and begin to worry.

You will phone the Police quicker than I thought. Someone on your street saw me. CCTV picked up strange car entering your area. I lie on my sofa, after clearing up last night’s black-out mess, clutching my belly, and looking at Sandy re-sniff every item in the front-room. I have a bad feeling that goes beyond guilt.

Hope sniggers and I worry. I’ve never stolen before, unless you count sweets as a kid. Never been in trouble with the Police, though a few close calls on lager-fuddled mornings when I clearly shouldn’t have been driving. This is what you make me do. This is what you’ve driven me to -

No. This is nothing to do with you, as much as I would like to plead crime apassionel before the judge on my knees. This is all down to me. After ignoring all those thoughts for so long, I actually went and listened to one.

At least it didn’t involve knives, or a can of petrol, or a bottle of paracetamol.

And Sandy sits in her basket, looking at me with crinkled eyes. Those eyes are yellowing, doleful brown orbs. Like she knows something is wrong, though actually she knows no such thing and is just getting comfortable on an odd-smelling cushion.

'What have I done now,' I ask out loud. My words echo on the empty kitchen countertop, and somewhere a drumroll does that thing, and the audience laugh, and I've screwed it all up again.