Tea and Dog Biscuits (17 page)

The man I thought must be the caretaker was standing at the back. ‘I've a question,' he called across the room.

The Honorary Chairwoman looked taken aback for a moment, then nodded.

‘If you've got all this time to give to doing things for animals, why don't you spend your time doing things for people instead? They're more important than animals.'

Suddenly it was as if the audience had all been turned into wax figures. Nobody moved. They were all looking at me. And the only sound was the second hand of the clock on the wall moving round.

Out at the front, I stared ahead of me, numb.

For months afterwards that question would come back to trouble my mind. It was to be someone else who eventually answered it.

I didn't disclose to the audience where we had homed Jess.

I'd had a phone call from Luke, the young vet in London to whom Jess had been taken to be euthanised. I'd had by now quite a few nights when I found it difficult to get to sleep, still churning over in my mind the legal implications of what I and the young vet had done. One night I dreamt I had been sent to prison and on my first day was told they didn't cater for vegetarians and the lunch that day was pancreas.

‘Barrie, I know how you've been fretting over the legal rights and wrongs of what we did, so I'm the man with good news.'

‘Really?' I wondered whatever the good news could be in the circumstances.

‘I've got to tell you, Luke,' I said, ‘the more I think about it the more convinced I become that we stole that dog from the guy who brought it to you.'

‘We didn't, Barrie.'

‘Luke,' I said, ‘you may be a brilliant young vet but you're not a lawyer.'

‘We can't have stolen it from the guy, Barrie – because it didn't belong to him.'

‘What?!'

‘It wasn't his dog, Barrie. He lied to me. It was his girlfriend's dog.'

My head was beginning to spin.

‘Remember, Barrie, he brought the dog to us to put it down to get back at his girlfriend who he'd fallen out with. I've found out now that he told her the dog had run off. It's all come out because the girlfriend came to us with a puppy she'd bought.'

I was beginning to get hold of this. ‘Hang on a minute,' I said. ‘How do you know
she's
not lying?'

‘I'm learning, Barrie, that when you become a vet it's not your animal patients that are a problem – it's the owners.'

I understood that completely.

‘I wanted proof – she's got the receipt from when she bought the dog and it's made out in her name. She convinced me, Barrie. I have no doubt Jess is her dog.'

I felt the need to sit down. I never dreamt when I decided to help homeless dogs I would face situations like this.

‘Who would have thought it, Barrie! It's really brilliant, isn't it?'

‘Yes, I suppose it is.' Yes, I could feel my anxieties beginning to ebb away. We can't be guilty of stealing a dog from someone it doesn't belong to.

‘She burst into tears, Barrie, when I told her.'

‘You
told
her?!'

‘I don't think she believed me at first. She thought after all this time that the dog must be dead, that he'd got run over or something. She's a very genuine person, Barrie. She really loves Jess. She can't wait to get him back.'

Get him back? My eyes widened.

‘Are you still there, Barrie?'

‘Luke, are you telling me she wants us to give the dog back?'

I gripped the phone. I had just been hit by a thunderbolt.

‘Luke – listen to me – I've just homed the dog!'

There were several moments' silence at the other end of the phone.

‘Oh… I. I didn't know.'

I had been meaning to ring Luke and tell him the good news that Jess had settled in to his new home with a Detective Chief Superintendent Bulmore and his wife.

I told him now.

‘I don't believe you,' said Luke. ‘You've homed him with a policeman? You're pulling my leg.' I wish.

It hadn't been until their second visit to see Jess that the question of Mr Bulmore's job had come up. We need to know about the new owners' work arrangements to be assured the dog won't be left alone for too long but there are so many other things to talk about as well and it hadn't come up on day one. Then I could hardly say to Mr Bulmore he couldn't have the dog because he was a senior police officer and I thought the dog was nicked. And it was a really good home. The couple suited Jess, and he had really taken to them both.

Dorothy had once said to me, ‘I've come to realise that when you do welfare work with animals you come face to face with the worst and the best. The worst side of human nature: the dreadful things people do to animals. But we also meet lovely people, those who take them from us and want to put right the wrong that has been done, to cancel it out.'

And Mr and Mrs Bulmore were like that. They didn't know the circumstances in which Jess had come to us but they knew that he needed a home and needed caring for, and they could and would do that.

I closed my eyes at the thought of knocking on their door and telling them it had all been a terrible mistake and they had now to give him up. Because some vengeful young man had created this ghastly situation for us all.

Luke rang again the next morning. Jess's real former owner was going to come and see us. She would come on Monday evening. I did not have a good weekend.

Dorothy and I told her the whole story, except the names and address of where Jess had gone, although I did attempt to draw for her the cottage and its garden to give her some idea of what it was like.

She cried.

She had had Jess from when he was eight weeks old. As he grew she realised she had made a terrible mistake. A walk in the city park wasn't enough for such a big dog. For months she had worried herself over the quality of his life, and whether she should try to find a better home for him. But he was a dog who followed her about everywhere – would that be too upsetting for him?

Of course she was devastated when he had disappeared, but it would be selfish to take him away from his new home where he was happy. A home in the country. And she had learned her lesson and taken a tiny terrier pup from the pound.

Goodness knows what she had seen in the young man who wanted to wreak revenge on her by killing her dog, but he had been a very lucky young man indeed to have had Lisa as his girlfriend.

When she left she thanked us for what we had done for Jess. She gave me a kiss, gave Dorothy a gift set of hand cream, and for our orphans gave us six sacks of dog food too expensive for us to buy. We gave her a photo we had taken while Jess had been with us.

The lady had seen our poster at her vet's and rang. By now I was learning to ask a series of fundamental questions, the answers to which could save the time of a wasted meeting with the caller. Finding a home for Roxy, who had been pushed out of her young owner's car, wasn't going to be easy. At nine she was showing signs of stiffness and prospective owners always wonder how long the older dog will be with them. Mrs Duvalier's answers ticked the boxes and, yes, she would consider an older dog.

Her appearance gave me a surprise when I opened the front door.

Dorothy and I talked with Mrs Duvalier over a cup of tea for nearly an hour. Yes, she had had a German Shepherd before; in fact, she had had them all her life and was very familiar with the breed. Yes, she realised it might not be possible to insure Roxy at her age for vet fees, but paying the fees herself would not be a problem.

She and her late husband had lived for many years in South America. Her husband's family had land interests out there. The clothes, the demeanour and the Daimler parked outside on the road all spoke of an elegant lifestyle, such that Mrs Duvalier felt it necessary to mention that she was accustomed to dog hairs on the carpets and rugs.

Yes, she would be delighted to take Roxy to training class; she had always taken her previous Shepherds, it was an evening out for both of them. Yes, she would make sure Roxy's inoculations were kept up to date – she had seen the sad alternative every day in South America. Yes, she would keep an eye on that slight stiffness – probably the best thing was regular and not too strenuous exercise, rather than occasional tiring bouts of activity. Every question was answered fully and to our satisfaction.

Mrs Duvalier commented on how reassuring she found it that we took such care in vetting prospective homes. Then she paused before saying, ‘I know what you've been waiting to ask me.' I smiled. ‘Go on then, ask it,' she said.

I reflected for a moment or two. Did I need to know? What would that tell me? My eyes and ears told me most of what I really needed to know.

‘I wouldn't dream of asking a lady her age, Mrs Duvalier,' I said, ‘if that is what you are referring to.'

‘You know it is,' she said. And I thought she looked disappointed. Perhaps she had wanted to surprise me. ‘What about the other, related question? Or shall I ask it for you?' she said.

We gazed at one another. I realised then the extent of the covering make-up she wore.

‘What happens to the dog if the Good Lord decides to take me before Roxy? That was your next question, wasn't it, Mr Hawkins?'

I nodded.

‘My son lives with me. He moved back in after his divorce. It was ridiculous in any case my rattling around on my own inside The Hall. He would of course continue to care for Roxy.'

I got to my feet. ‘No more questions,' I said.

‘Is this where I finally get to meet her?'

‘It is indeed.' I went on to explain how by this time a sort of system had been created. There were two main stages to the homing process. The first question was whether this person was someone to whom we felt we could entrust a homeless dog. If the answer to that was yes then the next question was whether this particular dog suited this particular home. Of course, if the prospective home fell at the first fence then it would be a cruel waste of time for both the dog and the prospective owner to meet. A glance at Dorothy told me that Mrs Duvalier had passed the first test.

‘I'll call my son in then,' said Mrs Duvalier. ‘No doubt you'll want to meet him and he'll want to meet Roxy as well. He's waiting in the car. I'll go and give him a wave.'

At the front door she paused and turned to me. ‘It's so good for your health to have a dog, isn't it?' ‘It certainly is,' I said.

‘It'll make my son exercise more, so it'll be good for him. He's seventy, you know.'

Mrs Duvalier and her son, Julian, arranged to collect Roxy on the following Saturday morning. She jumped without hesitation up onto the cream leather seats of the big, black Daimler, a rather grander form of transport than the small, rusty car she had been pushed out of onto the bypass. I nodded to myself with pleasure. Roxy had gone up in the world.

As Mrs Duvalier was about to get into the car, her rather formal, businesslike manner suddenly dropped away. She leant forward and spoke in my ear, conspiratorially.

‘I've been to four or five places, you know – and none of them would give me a dog. They didn't say why, but I knew.' She straightened up and fixed me with a look. ‘I'll prove them wrong,' she said. ‘And you and Dorothy right.'

Then she took hold of my hand and pressed something into it.

‘A Longevity Stone,' she said. ‘The local people where we lived in South America said anyone who slept with it under their pillow would enjoy long life. There are two in that little bag, one for each of you.'

‘Oh. Thank you.' My surprise must have shown on my face.

‘I'm going to put one under Roxy's blanket in her bed. Then she and I will both have one.'

Grey-muzzled Roxy enjoyed another six years of life on her own country estate in deepest Norfolk.

I've still got my stone under my pillow.

We had only one left. Dear, dear Friend.

‘Do you think he's putting on weight?' we would ask each other every day. The trips to the vet weren't so frequent now and the scales there usually showed an increase of a kilo or two, except for one week when we had a bad experience, the scales showing a sudden drop until we realised he had only three legs on the platform. He was putting on weight, the sores were clearing and the patches of bare skin were disappearing. He was taking an interest in the world and, most tellingly of all, if you held up his lead, he got up, went to the door and began wagging his tail.

‘I think this dog gets younger every day,' said Dorothy.

I'd been thinking the same.

‘Do you still think he's about ten, Melissa?' I had asked on our last visit.

‘Ten?' She shook her head emphatically. ‘Did I say that?' She took hold of his head and had a look at his teeth. ‘Give his teeth a clean,' she said, ‘and I think he'll be six or seven.'