Tea and Dog Biscuits (6 page)

‘She could live in the house. She's always lived indoors.'

‘I've already taken in one that's living in the house.' I looked in the direction of the kitchen. ‘And it's not turning out to be easy.'

‘She's my best friend – it's not that I want to get rid of her.'

There were several moments' silence. I wanted to help, of course, but I'd already taken in a dog before we had planned to get started. Dorothy couldn't come out of hospital to share the house with two strange dogs. Take in somebody else's adult dog and it's not used to you, it's not used to doing what you ask, it doesn't know your routine, it's likely to be unsettled, restless, missing its previous owner – it might even be howling!

‘I have terminal cancer, Mr Hawkins,' the woman said.

Now it was my turn to fall silent. It was an uncomfortable silence – I didn't know what to say. But I had to say something.

‘I'm sorry,' was all I could think of.

‘I have to go into hospital this week. I have rung so many places and nobody will take my dog.'

This was something I was going to hear many, many times in the future.

‘I'm not afraid to die, Mr Hawkins. I'm just afraid of what will happen to my dog when I do.'

For an awkward moment I said nothing and gazed into space, stunned.

Then I found myself saying, quietly, ‘We'll take Pearl and we'll look after her. And we'll find her a lovely home. And she will be fine.'

And that's how it was that when Dorothy left hospital – after all those weeks, after that six-hour operation – she returned to find that she was to share her home with
two
new residents who had moved in while she had been away.

How different they were: Monty pure black, Pearl pure white. And the contrast in their colour was reflected in their characters. Monty was a bruiser, Pearl soft and gentle. Monty was always rushing about, while Pearl would lie with her head resting on her paws, watching us. With Monty we were always wondering, What's he up to now? Pearl just dropped in to our routine, as if she had always been with us.

Of course with Dorothy convalescing it wasn't the right time to be taking a strange dog into our home, let alone two. Two dogs to walk, feed and generally look after.

The first dog my wife had known about, the second caused her to stare open-mouthed in the hallway when we got back from hospital. She could see a white dog through the frosted glass in the kitchen door; she had been expecting to see a black one.

‘What…? Barrie…? What…?'

I had some explaining to do.

I just said that I had to take Pearl, as a way to give thanks. Because the most important person in Pearl's life would not come out of hospital and the most important one in mine had.

‘Ooooooooowwww! Aaaaaww! Huurrr!'

It was so unexpected. So sudden. So
painful.

I was enjoying a walk along the country track, the evening sun on the back of my neck, appreciating the quiet and green of the countryside, at peace with the world, then something careered into me from behind, at the speed of an InterCity Express. It hit me in the back of my legs, knocking me right up into the air then down onto my back with such a thud I was gasping for breath. For several moments I just did not know what had happened to me. It
felt
like a train crash. Forty-five kilos of bone and muscle hurtling into me, the collision made my top and bottom teeth clang together.

‘You mad dog!' I managed to call out, even though I was fighting to get my breath.

It was my first walk with Monty off the lead. I had been apprehensive about undertaking it but it was my arms that compelled me to try. We had had him over a week now and my arms had grown a little longer every day. It wasn't just that he pulled on the lead; it was that he progressed on the lead in a manner Dorothy came to call ‘helicoptering'. Like the blades of a helicopter, Monty would whirl round, with me in the centre. I had a choice: either I could end up with the lead wrapped round me several times, so I couldn't move, or I had to spin round with him. After a few spins I would get giddy. On one of our walks I fell in a hedge.

But the worst aspect of walking him on a lead was the birds. It was all right if they didn't move, but see Monty coming and what did they do? They flew off, and then I would fly off as Monty took off after them. I'd lost count of how many times it felt like he had jerked my arm out of its socket. I would spend half the walk rubbing the top of my arm and my shoulder and within the first week had used up the whole tube of ointment for muscle pain I found in the medicine drawer.

Then there was his inquisitiveness. Many of the houses in the village had a wall low enough for Monty to look over, or a picket-type fence he could peer through. But one neat, detached bungalow had a wall too high for him to see over. On our first walk Monty felt it was necessary to jump up, rest his paws on the top of the wall and get a clear view of the immaculate garden. The occupant must have been bending over the flower border exactly at the spot where Monty's big head appeared. This elderly gentleman straightened up to find himself up close, face to face with Monty, took a couple of steps backwards and toppled over. After that, we always walked a different route.

Rubbing the backs of my knees now, I wished I hadn't used up all of that tube of ointment on my arms.

‘You mad dog,' I said again, ‘I could murder you!' Monty didn't look worried; he wagged his tail. I sat for several minutes rubbing the backs of my knees, my bottom, my elbows, my head. The crash had shaken me up and given me a headache.

Monty wandered off to investigate more interesting things than me but came back when I didn't get up. He stood looking at me, then tilted his head sideways as if puzzled.

‘First you frighten the life out of me, then you break both of my legs!'

It was an exaggeration, of course, to accuse him of breaking my legs; it just felt like it. But it isn't an exaggeration to say he had frightened the life out of me at the start of the walk.

I had needed somewhere quiet to walk him, where we wouldn't meet people. On our lead walks in the village, if he saw a person he would want to rush up to them, towing me along behind. It wasn't that he was a threat to them, it was his inquisitiveness. He wanted to investigate them. Dorothy said it was another sign of his intelligence. No doubt she was right, but I also thought a huge black dog rushing up to people was a way to alarm them. So I had driven out to Hope Hill, where we had walked sometimes in the past with our Elsa. It was a few miles from the nearest village and we had only ever met a tractor there.

The countryside surrounding Wilberry was crisscrossed by a network of tracks used by farm vehicles and some walkers. These numerous tracks were the by-product of how farmers in the area held their land. Instead of the land making one continuous holding adjacent to the farmhouse, it was common for a farmer to have fields scattered throughout the locality. Because of the need to reach their fields, there were more tracks, or ‘droves' as they were called, than might be found in other rural areas. This was a discovery Dorothy and I made after moving to the village and was a feature of the local countryside for which we were to become grateful, especially after we commenced the rescue work. In the city, street after street of tarmac and pavement had been broken up by the occasional park. Here we were surrounded by hundreds of acres of green countryside and the droves gave us access to it and miles of walks.

I had let Monty out of the Volvo, feeling fairly confident he wasn't going to run off, that he would come back to me when called. I was now the Cheese Man. In the garden I only had to pat my left trouser pocket and he would come rushing up. That was the pocket I kept the bag in, the one with the cheese cut up by Dorothy into little cubes.

The drove I planned to walk was halfway up a rise, an area of the local countryside where there were small fields marked out by hedges and trees. We had gone perhaps only a couple of hundred yards before I felt the need to stop and appreciate what was around me, the differing shades of green, of brown, of gold. Colours that calmed me.

I had the presence of mind to think, Enjoy this, Barrie, but keep an eye on Monty. I looked around. He was a few yards behind me, motionless like a statue, his head lowered, gazing at a toad. My movement may have alarmed the toad, for he hopped off to disappear in the grass verge. Monty looked up at me and I smiled back at him. We think we are alone, but of course we are surrounded by small creatures, including some we never see.

I turned back to savour the picturesque scene. It was spring; I had the rest of springtime and all of the summer to look forward to and enjoy. I took a few slow deep breaths and realised then how peaceful it was. A sense of calm well-being came over me.

It was interrupted by the thought, Barrie, keep an eye on Monty. I looked behind me again, casually. No Monty to be seen. I swivelled my head all around, this time concentrating. Was that him in that field, or was it something else? The something else didn't move. I scanned further. I wasn't feeling relaxed now. I put my hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the sun and scanned the horizon.

Where was he? I knew I shouldn't have taken my eyes off him!

‘Monty!' I called out. Then louder: ‘Monty!' I spun round to call in the other direction. ‘MONTY! COME!'

I was alone. Why would he run off? In the garden if I called he would always come immediately – he must have been so far away already he couldn't hear me. It had taken me half a minute to go from serenity to panic.

My chest started to rise and fall with anxiety. I wished Dorothy was with me. I'd have to go home and get her – I couldn't find him on my own out there. What was I going to do?

‘Monty! Monty! M-O-O-O-O-ONTY!'

All was still and silent.

But only for a few moments – because then I heard it. A rumbling like distant thunder. I looked in wonder at the clear blue sky stretching to the horizon.

The noise was getting louder and closer. I turned in the direction it was coming from. It was getting louder still. Whatever was making that noise? It was coming from the grass field that went up the horizon. I realised it was coming from over the ridge, from something out of sight.

Then, in this isolated and formerly tranquil area of English countryside – and I am prepared to testify to this on oath in a court of law – I felt the ground begin to tremble. It dawned on me where I had heard the noise before: on the telly. In Westerns. When the herd stampeded.

Over the ridge came a big, black dog, ears back, tail between his legs, running for his life.

Seconds later the herd followed: a big herd of cattle thundering towards… me. And I was separated from them by two strands of wire purporting to be a fence.

More and more of them came into view. Some of them had horns. Some of them had very big horns. Some of them were wide-eyed. Now Monty was just a few yards away. He ducked under the wire and shot past me.

I spun round and ran, feeling a tightening in my chest. How could that silly little fence hold that galloping herd? My short legs carried me along faster than they ever had before. I covered two or three hundred yards in seconds, inspired by sprinters I'd seen on the telly and by fear, face screwed up with the agony of effort.

On the other side of the track there was a ditch - should I jump it? Was the sound of the thundering hooves subsiding? Had the fence held them? I dared to twist my head and look back. The beasts were turning away before getting to the fence. Force of habit? I closed my eyes in relief then promptly opened them again – remember the ditch!

I slowed and stopped and collapsed against a tree, drained by running and terror. Monty lay down beside me, with his great tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, panting. What had he done to get the herd in such a state? Then I noticed the little figures at the back of the herd and I recalled reading how protective a cow could be of her calf. I had another thought: a German Shepherd is a sheepdog. I looked down at Monty. ‘Had you been trying to round them up? Is that it, you barmy dog?' His tail brushed backwards and forwards across the grass.

Shaking my head now at the thought of this earlier near-miss, I took a break from rubbing my knees. I sat there on the ground, looking up at this big dog. It was the first time I had really paused to study him. He had those big pointed ears, the trademark of the German Shepherd. But he had not been painted the classic black and tan of his breed. Monty was an uncommon pure black. His former master, John, must have regularly brushed him for Monty's black coat shone. He had been running – he was always running – and his tongue was lolling out of the side of his mouth, which even now is the longest tongue I have seen.

‘You were two hundred yards
ahead
of me when I last saw you,' I said to him, ‘and then you've rushed at me from behind!' I shook my head. ‘I know you've got loads of energy – I expect a dog your age to run about – but anyone would think you've got a firework up your bum! And if you
are
going to rush about as if you're demented, why don't you look where you're going?'