Tea and Dog Biscuits (9 page)

I hurried back to the phone and snatched it up. ‘I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.'

‘Oh, hello,' I heard clearly from a voice that spoke without hesitation. I furrowed my brow. It sounded as if my caller had had a miraculous recovery.

‘I thought it would be easier if I spoke to you instead of my mother,' said the new voice.

I was beginning to feel I was having a confusing morning.

‘My mother needs to rehome her dog. He's only four months old and I'm afraid she can't cope with him. Matters came to a head last night. Mother had taken her teeth out, just for a minute or two, when she suddenly heard the sound of crunching. Mother would like another word.'

‘It's me again,' said the original voice. ‘Ooh, what has he got now, I thought. And there they were – in bits all over the ‘arpet. Cost me three ‘undred pounds. “Oh you naughty boy,” I said to him.'

His owner went on to recap further exploits, some of which I could follow, and she was clearly at the end of her tether. Dorothy was feeling well enough to drive now and I arranged for her to collect the youngster that afternoon.

Having agreed to take ‘am, I could now give my attention to Mr Kerry and I went out to join him. I found him staring open-mouthed. An officer had left the police car and was proceeding down the drive.

He stopped when he got to Mr Kerry's MPV and ran his eye over it. Then he spotted me and called out, ‘Mr Hawkins!' I nodded in acknowledgement. He came across to me, hand extended. ‘Charlie Morecambe.'

We shook hands and he turned to Mr Kerry, who had a worried expression.

‘It's all right, Mr Kerry,' I said. ‘PC Morecambe's come to see a dog – he's not been trailing you!'

Mr Kerry rested a hand on my shoulder.

‘He had me worried there… I thought, Have the British police got time to follow me around to see if I've given up my dogs?'

I smiled in commiseration. I wasn't the only one having a confusing morning.

Dorothy had been out walking Pearl when our callers had arrived. As a dog handler, on a scale of one to ten I probably rated two at that time whereas Dorothy probably rated 50, so when she came back I left her to deal with the pair of new arrivals while I dealt with PC Morecambe.

Before I introduced our first ever orphan to the policeman I wanted to know rather more than I had been told on the phone about the life of a police dog. I invited him in for a coffee.

As we sat talking, a realisation struck me. For the first time I appreciated the full enormity of what I had undertaken. That in my hands lay the future of this dog. What happened to him for the rest of his life depended on me and my making the right decision. As PC Morecambe spoke in detail and at length about what was involved with the training, I was gazing at the floor, finding it hard to pay attention, struck by the weight of the responsibility I had – so lightly – undertaken. Then suddenly I thought, Pay attention to what he is saying. Now you've realised what you've taken on, you have to weigh up this man. I looked up and concentrated on the man and what he was saying.

‘… and for the right dog it's a marvellous life,' I heard.

Then he fell silent. My penetrating look must have thrown him off track.

I ran my eye over him; which was ironic, because that must be what a policeman does to a suspect.

He had a button missing off his shirt, his hair stuck up at the back of his head as if he had only bothered to comb the front, and his serge trousers showed no signs of a crease, but did show what looked like grass stains on the knees.

I had a sudden thought: When we parted with the dogs we rehomed, would we ever see them again? This prompted me to ask him if he lived locally.

Yes, he lived in Fox Fen, near the reservoir, which was handy, he said, for walking his dog in summer: the lad could have a swim to cool down. He went on to explain that he didn't work for the local force, however; he was with a different dog unit.

I asked him about training methods. I asked him what would happen if the dog didn't complete the training course. I asked him about veterinary care. I asked him about a typical working day for the dog. I asked him how much time the dog would expect to spend in the dog van. I still had a lot more questions to ask and was about to put the next one when he pulled out a wallet, opened it and took out a photograph. He held it out to me.

‘That's my last boy,' he said. ‘Digby.'

I took the photo and looked at a head and shoulders portrait of a classic, handsome, black and tan German Shepherd. His eyes shone, as did his coat, his ears were erect and his black nose glistened.

‘That was him when he was only three,' said PC Morecambe. ‘And this was us on holiday in the Lake District.'

He held out another photo. This one was of a man and his dog, out in the countryside, the man smiling broadly as his dog splashed about in water.

And a third photo. This was of a younger, slimmer PC Morecambe, smartly turned out in tunic, pressed trousers and cap, stiffly posing for the camera, a German Shepherd sitting to attention by his side.

‘That was when he passed out from training school. He looked fantastic.'

What he looked was happy: bright-eyed, alert and eager.

‘Lost him with bloody cancer. He was only six.'

PC Morecambe sat back in his chair, his thoughts now elsewhere. We sat together in silence for several moments.

I no longer had the will to question him as I had done. Not a man who carried with him in his wallet photos of the dog he had lost.

Yes, I would want to have lots more information, but I had the feeling that I knew what I really needed to know: that this was a man into whose hands I could entrust a homeless dog.

We went off to meet Monty.

The phone was ringing.

I was expecting a call. Mrs Burton had said she would ring at nine o'clock on Saturday morning, but it wasn't nine o'clock yet. Or was it? I was still half asleep.

I still wasn't used to getting up early on Saturday mornings. Trudging down the hall to answer the phone I reflected on how my Saturdays used to be. I'd read the paper, have a leisurely breakfast, have a yawn and a stretch, perhaps wander round the bric-a-brac market in town, maybe take the dog for a walk, although not too far.

And now… today I had five dogs to walk! My hand on the phone, I paused and pictured the five. And smiled – what a lovely thought.

‘Hello.' As I lifted the receiver another thought quickly followed on: At some time today it would be only four dogs.

‘Hello, Mr Hawkins. I'm sorry to ring you so much earlier than I said. But I just couldn't wait.'

I smiled again. That was just the sort of thing I wanted to hear. ‘Hello, Mrs Burton.'

‘I thought the earlier I rang, the earlier we could arrange to come and pick him up.'

The eagerness in her voice was music to my ears.

‘I can't wait,' she said.

‘You haven't changed your mind, then, about wanting him,' I said, teasing.

‘I shan't deign to even answer that question,' was the reply. ‘But I have a couple of questions to ask if I may.'

‘Fire away.'

There followed a series of questions, all relating to Monty's well-being. For this was going to be Monty's Big Day. Monty was going to his new home with Mr and Mrs Burton.

‘He's a cracking dog,' PC Charlie Morecambe had said when he met Monty. ‘I'd love to have him.'

He had taken him back to the police kennels for some initial tests which Monty had – of course – passed with flying colours.

‘He's full of it,' Charlie had said. ‘My sort of dog.'

But the force X-rayed potential canine recruits to assess their hips. Hip dysplasia is a common problem in German Shepherds and without a good ‘hip score' the strains put upon a police dog could lead to early retirement. Monty's hips, we were told, were fine for a family pet, but as a working dog there was doubt whether he would be able to scale walls until retirement age.

‘I miss him already,' Charlie had said when he brought him back. He'd had him one day.

As he was getting into his police car he had paused, pursed his lips and looked at me. ‘If I don't find a dog soon they'll have me back pounding a beat.' He shut his eyes for a moment at the thought. I could tell that his disappointment wasn't just because he hadn't found himself a police dog; it was so much greater because he thought that he had. He was about to close the door of his police car when he looked up at me and said, ‘I don't suppose you want any help sometimes, do you? I could do with walking a dog.' He patted his belly. But I knew that wasn't the only reason why he wanted to walk a dog. I had had that same sense of longing when I had been without Elsa after she died. I would gaze at other people's dogs. I would ask if I could stroke their dog. It was a need.

I told Charlie I would be delighted if he came and walked some of our orphans – and I meant it. Most big dogs usually need plenty of exercise and it would also be a chance for me to get tips about dog-handling from a professional.

Charlie's loss was to be Mr and Mrs Burton's gain. And they wanted to come and collect their new dog ASAP, as Mrs Burton's phone call was making clear.

‘I can't wait,' she said. ‘We can be round in twenty minutes if that's all right with you.'

I had to ask her to be patient a little longer.

‘I'd like to take Monty for one more walk,' I said. ‘Our last walk together.'

She understood. They would come round late morning.

I put the phone down and stood gazing at it. Those words I had used, ‘our last walk together', had stilled me. I realised what it would be: my last walk with a dog that had become in just three weeks my companion, my friend, my playmate, my personal guard. My dog.

Looking back now I realise how lucky we were with our first rehoming, how easy it was. From then on we would be handing over our dogs to people we had met only a couple of times, usually after replying to an advertisement. No matter how much care we took in our assessments, no matter how many enquiries we made, no matter how much more skilful we became in assessing the suitability of the home, we were still taking a risk. We were placing our trust in the people. And people could put on an act. We all do at some time or other. We are on our best behaviour on a first date. We want to impress at the interview for a job. Dorothy and I had something that people coming to us wanted. How much of an act would they put on to get it from us?

Mr and Mrs Burton lived in the next village, where they had seen our advert in the village shop, but before that they had lived in Little Wilberry. Over the years we had often seen them walking their female Shepherd, and stopped to admire her and to chat. From first-hand experience we knew this was a couple who regularly exercised their dog, took her to training classes, immediately whisked her off to the vet at the first sign of a health problem, took her away at weekends caravanning, took her on holiday with them and were stricken with grief when she died suddenly at only eight years of age.

For our last walk together I would take Monty somewhere different.

‘How would you like to go to the reservoir?' I said, holding up his lead and dangling it temptingly.

He did his usual rushing round in a circle, then jumped up at me, paws on my shoulders, then another rush round in a circle. He knocked over the kitchen flip-top bin.

I opened the back of the old Volvo estate. He didn't leap in, but waited for the instruction. Standing, ready to spring, eyes fixed on me waiting for the word, trembling with excitement.

‘In the back!' And he was up with a surge of power off those back legs, skidding across the carpet in the load-carrying area, crashing into the rear seat. Then he turned back to come and put his head out of the opening, look all around and give me a lick in the ear. I could read the eager, happy anticipation on his face. He stood there, king of the castle. I looked at him and shook my head in wonder and admiration. How I adored this breed.

He loved to learn new things to do, and learnt so quickly. All I'd need to do was go through it with him two or three times and he'd got it.

‘You're so clever as well as handsome,' I said to him.

Wag, wag, wag went his tail. ‘Are you sure you want to go for a walk?' I asked. I shouldn't have teased him but I couldn't resist it. He held up a paw and plopped it down on my arm which, in readiness, I had held out. Then he leant forward and took hold of some strands of my hair in his teeth. This is why I couldn't resist teasing him. I knew what he was going to do. Just three weeks and we had developed our own fun routines. I jerked my head back and cried out in mock pain.

On the way to the old reservoir I looked in the rear-view mirror. I knew what I would see: two paws resting on the top of the back seat of the car, one either side of the head of a German Shepherd dog. I couldn't see a great deal other than that in the mirror. The dog was looking about, sometimes screwing his head round behind him as we passed something of particular interest. I realised that when I drove the car after that day I would miss that view in my mirror.