The beach is almost empty; the day-trippers chased away by the downturn in weather. The stragglers don’t notice me, an ageing retiree collecting litter.

Threatening blueberry-coloured clouds sweep over the horizon. A sudden gust of wind whips the rubbish bag in my hand skywards like a balloon.

Plastic bottles lie entangled in seaweed across the tideline. It’s impossible to separate them using my grabber tool; I release them with gloved hands and shove them into the bag, which flaps around like a landed fish until I get a grip on it.

Pebbles clatter noisily underfoot as I zig-zag the shoreline. Discarded coffee cups tumble across the beach, lifted for an instant by the breeze to drop abruptly at jaunty angles. I soon tire of pursuing them.

Thunderous waves crash on the shingle, clawing it back into the water. A hundred feet out, I watch the rescue boat bobbing up and down and empathise. I feel like that boat, bumbling along, tethered to my new coastal apartment. 

We moved here six months ago; two months in, Alexander had a fatal heart attack.  People were kind. The children and grandchildren came. He was a great man, everyone said.  

Every day I set the breakfast table for two. I eat frozen meals that Alexander cooked and talk to him all the time. I can’t cancel his magazine subscriptions. Alexander's walking shoes are next to mine as if he might sit on the chair and slip them on at any moment. His coat and hat hang on the hooks where he left them.

Collecting litter gives purpose to my walk. I follow the same route daily. It's astonishing what visitors leave behind, those tinfoil portable barbeques, punctured lilos, cigarette butts and all kinds of plastic items. People abandon the unwanted minutiae of their lives for someone else to clear before it floats away to an unknown destination or ends up trapped inside a whale.

I lean against the sea wall to catch my breath. Over the past few days, I’ve encountered a lady walking a cute dog called Lola, who has taken quite a shine to me. She stops and lets me pet her. Her owner, Marie, is pleasant, but she looks constantly exhausted.

When the wind drops, I hear a whimpering sound. I see a black zipper bag under the wall ten feet away. I look about; there's only one other person in sight in the distance.

‘Hey!’ I shout, but they’ve gone.

I dump the rubbish bag on the ground and put the pincher tool over it to prevent it from blowing away. I take a deep breath and unzip the bag. A little face appears.

‘Hey, Lola,’ she’s sweet, but why would Marie leave her? The dog licks my gloves. A note is attached to its collar: ‘My name is Lola, please look after me.’

There are four dog food pouches, some kibble in a jar, plastic waste bags and a blanket.

Lola jumps out of the bag, sits, and stares up at me, wagging her tail excitedly. I put the loop of the lead over my wrist and gather my things. ‘Let’s see what to do with you. Come on.’

She trots alongside me up the staircase to the prom. She crouches to pee in a corner.

With my hands full, I struggle to find my door key.

‘Here, let me help you,’ a neighbour smiles and holds the door. ‘Who’s this little fella?’

‘Er… Lola. Thanks,’ I mutter and push through.

Lola gets in the lift, not a peep out of her. You’d think she lived here, the way she trots into the flat, sniffing around the kitchen before she sits and waits.

I remember the beach rubbish, which I usually drop off at the council offices. I leave it in the hall to take later.

Doleful brown eyes stare up at me. Lola whines.

‘I guess I’d better take your lead off,’ I say and struggle to undo the clip; finally, it clicks free.

Among the mismatched crockery in the kitchen cupboard, I find two bowls, one I fill with water and the other with dog food and put them on the floor. Lola devours the food and laps the water. When’s she’s finished, I bend and pet her head, she's lovely, but I can't keep her.

I place her blanket in the corner of the lounge, ‘Lola, sit.’ She snuggles into the blanket and stays there.

I search the internet for what to do when you find a stray. It’s a pity I don’t know where Marie lives.

‘Call the local Council Dog Warden to report a found dog during office hours, eight-thirty to four-thirty.’

It’s ten past five on a Friday. Wait, there’s another number for outside these hours. Lola watches while I dial.

'You've reached the Dog Warden Service. After the tone, leave your name, telephone number and details of the dog you have found - its breed, colour, name, sex, and any distinguishing marks it may have and where and when you found it. We will get back to you.'

I hesitate for a second, then hang up. The animal charity website says they don't have the resources to take care of healthy strays. There's a website called Pets Located, where you can register a found dog. It’s all such a bother. Oh Alexander, what to do?

I relax in Alexander's armchair and sip my camomile tea. Lola rubs her cold nose against my fingers; she has her lead in her mouth. I slip my coat on and take her for a walk; as an afterthought, I take one of the plastic waste bags.

The sky is clear, and I feel the warm sunshine on my face. The promenade is full of dog walkers. Lola trots alongside me and doesn't pull on the lead.

A black Labrador approaches, Lola's tail wags, and she barks. The other dog sniffs her; they know each other. The owner is a tall, grey-haired man.

‘Hello, no Marie today?’ He smiles and says, ‘This is Blackie. I’m Bill. Nice to meet you.’

‘Hello. I’m Lisa,’ I reply.

‘The weather’s turned out nice,’ Blackie yanks on the lead, and they're off, 'bye.'

I wonder about Marie and why she left her dog.

Lola sniffs at a lamp post and crouches. After she's done, she looks from the neat pile to me. I take a deep breath, turn the plastic bag inside out and capture the business. It’s warm. I gag but manage to tie a knot and drop it in a nearby bin.

Seagulls ride thermals, screeching like banshees, their wings quivering.

In the distance, the rectangular shapes of container ships puncture the skyline like a line of morse code.

‘Hello Lola,’ a woman stops.

Lola moves towards the Cairns terrier; they rub noses and bark.

‘Hi, this is Ned,’ she smiles, ‘I’m Sara.’

‘Hi, I’m Lisa,’ I say.

‘Is Marie having a rest?’ She looks at the dogs and back at me, ‘she didn’t look well last week.’

‘Er… yes,’ I reply.

‘I haven’t seen you here before. Do you live local?’

‘A couple of streets away,’ I smile.

‘Sorry, I must get my skates on. I'm running late,' Sara says. 'Come on, Ned! Bye.'

As we walk towards the west, the late summer sun turns to orange, bleeding through a range of colours across distant pale skies.

When we return, the flat is cosier; the little dog follows me while I decide where she can sleep. We settle upon a spot in the hallway close to the bedroom.

The following morning, I awake to find Lola has shuffled into the bedroom overnight. Over the weekend, we develop a routine of eating, walking, and sleeping.

On Monday, I call the Council Dog Warden.

'No, I don't know her breed. She's white with curly hair and called Lola,' her ears prick up at her name.

‘If she has no form of identification, how do you know her name?’ He asks.

I explain how I found Lola.

‘Bring her to the Civic Centre before lunch, and I'll scan her for a chip,’ he says.

Later, Lola doesn't mind when the Dog Warden moves the scanner slowly from side to side across her back to her tail, down the sides of her legs and under her neck, where it finds the chip. He calls the listed telephone number, but there's no reply.

‘You can leave the dog here, and I’ll go to the owner’s address to return her,’ he says.

My heart lurches, ‘I don’t mind keeping her until you find her owner.’

‘It’ll be easier to say goodbye now,’ the Dog Warden insists.

I cup that little face in my hands and kiss her forehead, 'bye, Lola.'

Moist, dark eyes observe me.

‘Can she stay with me?’ I plead.

'Alright, but prepare yourself for disappointment. Nine times out of ten, I find the owner.’

Lola and I make for home with a spring in our step. I move Alexander’s cap off its hook and hang Lola’s lead on it. In the kitchen, I read the names of the luxury dog food pouches I bought her out loud until we settle upon rabbit for dinner.

On our usual walk on the promenade, we bump into Lola's doggy friends and their owners. The rain holds off, and I'm even getting used to collecting poo.

Lola barks at seagulls stealing fish and chip papers from the overflowing dustbins. They soar off over the rooftops.

‘Hi,’ Sara says.

Ned's tail wags as he approaches Lola.

‘Hello,’ I reply.

'I'm sorry about Marie,' Sara loosens Ned's leash a little. 'What a kind soul, always watching out for everyone.’

I feel the sudden need to confess that I didn’t really know Marie but wonder how this might be perceived. ‘Yes,’ is all I can mutter.

‘Marie asked me to adopt Lola, but I can’t manage two,’ Sara continues. ‘She saw you and knew that you and Lola would fit perfectly.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Marie knew she didn’t have long. She left Lola when she saw you were out on your usual walk,’ Sara says.

My eyes start to well up.

'Are you alright, love? Come here,' Sara hugs me, and it's the first time someone has embraced me since Alexander died.

'I'm okay,' I dab at my tears with a tissue. 'You mean that Marie chose me to have Lola?’

‘In a nutshell, yes.’

‘She’s precious,’ I look at Lola, ‘I’ll take good care of her.’

‘Marie’s funeral is at St. Luke’s,’ Sara says, ‘I’m going. How about we go together?’

I agree, and we exchange numbers.

Lola and I are just inside the door when the telephone rings. The Dog Warden tells me Lola's owner passed away, and would I mind keeping Lola until he can rehome her.

'I want to keep her if it’s okay,' I tell him.

‘I’ll have to make the usual checks, but I don’t see a problem,’ he replies.

A week later, I'm standing by Marie's grave alongside Sara. I whisper thank you to Marie and tell Sara I'll be back in a while.

‘Alexander, meet Lola,’ I say as I tidy the flowers and clear away leaves and debris from his grave.

Lola sniffs the headstone and squats.

‘Lola!’ I say in mock alarm, ‘That’s no way to greet Alexander.’

Irish writer Sheila Kinsella’s short stories draw inspiration from people. An avid watcher of human behaviour, and blessed with abundant natural curiosity, she lures the reader into a shrewdly observed world via imagery. Sheila's stories have been published in The Blue Nib, The Galway Review and Severine Literary Magazines.