Rainboots

Three years after arriving from Lagos, I succumb to London’s waterlogged winters and buy my first pair of wellies. The weight of the boots so offends my feet, spoiled for so long by the lightness of sandals, that I keep the first few walks short by simply taking my dog, Twix, to a nearby park.

At the edge of the park, I unleash him. He sprints forward as my arm curves behind me to toss a ball into a five-feet-deep basin that sits at the edge of the park. On days like this, I hurl the ball repeatedly into the basin as his little body exerts itself scurrying out with the prize.

Today, though, Twix comes to a dead stop as the ball lands plop in a pool of water maybe two feet deep and sinks, resurfacing amidst a throng of other balls, beyond the reach of my water-shy dog. Vexed, he barks at the edge of the water, looking to me, then the ball, and me again.

I am annoyed, too. I had hoped to avoid a walk.

“We just lost one, too,” a voice says at my shoulder. I turn to greet Simba’s owner as the shaggy terrier races down to the site of Twix’s resistance. “Finally got yourself some boots? Just in time—six years in this town and I’ve never seen flooding like this.”

The next day, we gather again in the drizzle. The smaller dogs mope around the perimeter of the basin, wet ears dragging on the ground, bellies soaked. The body of water has risen by at least half a foot and claimed a black hoodie.

“It’s a bit scary, isn’t it?” Woohoo’s owner says. “Next, they’ll say climate change isn’t real.” We stand in silence for a while, watching the ducks who have wasted no time investigating the newest body of water in town. Two men from the council labour silently in fluorescent waterproofs, driving timber stakes into the ground around the pool.

“Oh what does she know, that bloody vegan,” Leo’s owner says a few days later. My eyes forget their manners and drift upwards to his MAGA hat, meeting his on the way down. He smirks. “It’s just a bit of rain. I'm sure there were floods before there was global warming.”

After six miserable weeks, I venture out once again in trainers. The water has receded, leaving behind waterlogged earth and a terrible stench. We pinch our noses and nod hello as our dogs round on each other’s anuses. Soon, the ugly fence is the only reminder that something out of the ordinary happened. How many balls lost to how many makeshift lakes in how many towns in England, I wonder, before we could agree to entertain the idea that something might be happening? How few before we would not need to?

If nothing else, I finally have some boots.