Chapter Text
They pass each other quite often.
The first few times, they don’t acknowledge each other. They are two strangers walking their dogs in the park, appreciating the warm weather and enjoying the time with their canine counterparts.
Joan walks her dog, a white furred poodle, fur carefully shorn short to cope with the heat and she trots beside her mistress with an elegant gait. Sveta may not be the breed most people would associate with the stoic Governor, however the breed suited Joan perfectly. Poodles are intelligent dogs, with a low urge to bark than many other breeds, and her temperament matched Joan’s. A calm dog most of the time, Sveta had a small tendency to be standoffish with men, and had a habit of baring her teeth at any that got too close for comfort without warning.
Hm, pets display their owners tendencies indeed.
Sveta was six, and the way she had come into Joan’s ownership had been a complete accident. She had decided after almost two years of deliberation, that she would adopt a cat to have some company around the house. She was getting older, and her father’s words about being alone had gotten louder and louder in her head until she’d decided on a pet in an attempt to quash it. She thought if nothing else, there would be some more noise at home.
When she’d arrived at the shelter that she had research in depth, she’d needed to pass through the section where the dogs were kept and while almost all of the other dogs became excited and barked at her as she passed, one kennel had stayed quiet without much movement. Joan had paused, and backstepped, allowing curiosity to win for once.
Sveta had been a puppy, a few months old, but had sat on her little mat with all the elegance of a queen. She’d sat with her two front paws delicately placed on the mat and her tail slightly curled around her, looking at the end of the kennel with her head turned away. Even as a small dog, she’d given the impression that she was above such an establishment as the local shelter. She hadn’t even barked at Joan’s approach to the mesh of her kennel and when Joan had crouched down on her haunches to get a better look at her, the small white dog had turned her head without a sound, ears pricking back as she made direct eye contact with her.
And all thoughts of a cat had disappeared out of Joan’s head like smoke disappearing. It was a rare occurrence for her to do something so unplanned, however when Sveta had stood and slunk over to the kennel door and sat gracefully again, gazing at her with curiosity, Joan had decided to at least try and interact with the small dog further.
Once she’d gotten the attention of one of the shelter’s volunteers, Joan had been shown to a small room with various dog toys and comfortable chairs. Within minutes, the small poodle had been led in with a leash attached to her collar (which looked far too bulky on her neck). The dog hadn’t pulled on the leash, and Joan could see how she’d looked up at the volunteer when they had stood in behind the glass door, almost as if she was giving the order for the door to be opened.
She’d carefully walked through the door once the volunteer had removed the leash, pausing to take in the room and then notice how Joan was sat in one of the plastic chairs by the table (the least likely to have hair stuck on it, in her assumption). With caution, the poodle had walked over with an inquiring air about her, had sniffed at Joan’s feet and at her hand when the woman had extended it to her to offer her the option to get closer.
Sveta had sniffed at Joan’s hand and then promptly sat at her feet, looking up at her.
“Well, looks like Sveta’s made her decision,” the volunteer laughed from her spot by the door.
“Sveta?” Joan had asked, slightly shocked and wondering how such a Russian name had been given to a dog in a shelter in Melbourne. It had been her mother’s middle name.
“Mhm, she’s very particular, our Sveta. One of our volunteers is studying Russian and Russian Literature in Melbourne University, she was the one on duty when Sveta was brought in late one night, she named her as soon as she saw her.” The volunteer shrugged slightly, and then smiled as the white haired poodle carefully lay down at Joan’s feet, resting her face on her front paws. “She doesn’t interact with many people, except Hannah. She’s not vicious, and she’ll let Hannah close enough to feed her and occasionally give her a bath, but she doesn’t try to play with her or the other dogs. Most dogs will try to get your attention, Sveta will give you hers if she thinks you deserve it. Sadly, not many people want the dog who acts like she’s better than you.”
Joan looked down, feeling the heat from Sveta’s body where she lay close to her feet.
‘You’re just selective about people, aren’t you?’ Joan thinks to herself. ‘In the same way as I am.’
Joan had reached a careful hand down to rub against the curled fur of the small puppy, feeling how Sveta’s head perked up at the contact. When Joan pulled her hand away, Sveta looked up and met eyes with her, and Joan knew that she wouldn’t be leaving with a cat today.
And that had been that. Sveta had slotted into Joan’s life as if she’d always been there. She was a highly intelligent dog, taking to training commands quickly and Joan found that she enjoyed the twice daily walks (when work shifts permitted) and the trips to the dog parks.
The volunteer at the dog shelter had been right, Sveta was very selective with who she let close to her, and once she was fully comfortable and settled with Joan, she became selective over who she let close to her mistress as well. Over the six years, she’d grown, becoming fairly large in stature, almost reaching Joan’s hip. Despite her height, she stayed within her ideal weight due to Joan’s commitment to ensuring that she ate the correct diet and was exercised often.
Which led to the routine of passing the same woman when she walked Sveta in the park.
The woman was slightly shorter than she was, with a crown of riotous curls that seemed to be wrangled into a plait some days, and on some days she leaves it loose. Rarely, the woman will sometimes have the front half of her hair clipped back, but will still have one defiant curl bouncing in front of her left eye. Her attire varied by day, however Joan would fully admit that the combo of cargo shorts and a white vest top that the woman apparently favoured made her look particularly attractive and easy to look at.
The woman’s dog had character, clearly. Smaller than Sveta, the King Charles Spaniel was full of energy, often running slightly in front of the woman and then doubling back with a yap of excitement. Joan noticed how more often than not, the woman would have a tennis ball in her hand as she walked by. Occasionally she’d toss it into the grass as she walked, and the spaniel would sprint to grab the ball and return to her owner’s side just as quickly. Joan noted how although the dog appeared to have good recall trained in her, the woman would put her on an extendable lead more often than not, much like Joan did with Sveta.
While Joan knew that Sveta would return to her without hesitation or exception, she did not trust other dogs and their owners would be so trained.
Once as they passed, Joan noticed how the smaller dog looked curiously over to Sveta, slowing slightly behind the woman’s gait, but quickly returned to her owner’s heel when she said “ c’mon Glad, let’s go.”
Joan had immediately noticed how Sveta had not reacted to the stare, simply looking straight ahead and keeping her walk at a steady pace. However, her white ears were pricked in interest, and Joan knew it.
Hm, interesting.
And the routine began - in the mornings and dusky evenings, Joan would see her, and they’d pass each other by without much fuss, however as the weeks passed, Sveta began to look at the spaniel (apparently named Glad) whenever the tan dog turned her head when they passed each other.
And then, one morning, the woman spoke.
“Morning,” she said with a smirk as she passed by, offering a little head bob and continued to walk. Joan stopped, and turned her head to watch her back, and watched entranced as the curls bounced against the woman’s back.
“Morning,” Joan murmurs to herself, smiling slightly, and out of earshot of the woman, wishing that she’d been quicker to respond. Sveta sits on her haunches by Joan’s feet and looks up at her mistress with a cocked head, and curious eyes.
“Yes I know, Sveta.” Joan rolls her eyes at her fondly and then clicks her tongue. “Let’s go.”
Without hesitation, the two begin to walk again.
They don’t see how the woman looks back over her shoulder with a grin, or how her eyes flick downwards and the grin gets wider before she’s pulled back to the task at hand by the spaniel’s impatient huff.