Whose Dog Is This?

The wedding reception was being held in a glass-walled restaurant on the edge of Lake Wakatipu, just outside Queenstown. The speeches were over, the sun was setting behind the mountains, and the guests were waiting for Sofia and Ben to cut the cake. That was when the dog walked in.

It was a medium-sized dog with a golden coat, one ear that stood up and one that didn't, and the calm confidence of an animal that has been invited. It trotted between the tables, ignored several people who tried to call it, and sat down neatly beside the wedding cake, where it stayed, staring up at the top tier with great concentration.

"Whose dog is this?" asked Sofia's aunt Helen, loudly enough for the whole room to hear. Nobody answered. Sofia, who was holding the cake knife, looked at Ben. Ben shrugged and looked at the ceiling.

Within minutes, every table had a theory. "It must belong to the restaurant," said one of Ben's colleagues. "Places like this often have a dog. It's good for the photos." But the manager, when someone asked her, shook her head firmly. "It can't be ours. We aren't even allowed to have animals in the kitchen."

"Then it must be a stray," said Sofia's uncle. His wife disagreed at once. "It can't be a stray. Look how clean it is. And it's wearing a brand-new collar. Somebody must have washed and brushed it this morning." She looked suspiciously around the room, as if one of the guests might have been hiding a dog under the table all evening.

The theories got wilder as the evening went on and the wine kept flowing. One of the bridesmaids was convinced the dog might have jumped off one of the tourist boats on the lake and swum to shore, although it was completely dry. Sofia's cousin suggested that the photographer could have hired it to make the pictures more romantic. "People do that now," he insisted. "I read about it." The photographer, who was standing right behind him, said she had never hired an animal in her life.

Meanwhile, the dog had not moved an inch. It sat beside the cake as if it were guarding it, and every time someone reached towards the table, it gave a small, polite growl. Eventually Sofia put down the knife, knelt in her long white dress and held out her hand. The dog sniffed it, wagged its tail and pushed its head against her knee. That was when she noticed the small metal tag hanging from its collar.

She turned the tag over and read it twice. Then she read it out loud. "My name is Pip. I belong to Sofia." The room went completely silent. Sofia looked up at her new husband, and the guests looked at Sofia. She had never owned a dog in her life. Her flat in Auckland had been far too small, and she had spent years saying that one day, when she had a garden, she would adopt one.

Ben's face had turned bright red. "He was supposed to be a surprise," he admitted. "I adopted him from a rescue center in Christchurch last month. My brother has been looking after him, and the plan was to bring him out after the cake, with a big bow on his collar." Everyone turned to Ben's brother, Sam, who was sitting at the back with his tie loosened. "I might have left the car window open a little," he said. "I thought he'd be asleep. He must have smelled the cake from the car park."

For a moment nobody said anything. Then Sofia started to laugh, and soon the whole room was laughing with her. Pip was given the honor of the first slice, or at least a small piece of the sponge without any icing, and he spent the rest of the evening asleep under the top table with his head on the bride's shoes. In the wedding album, which Sofia still shows to anyone who visits, there are more photos of the dog than of the groom.