Tea and Dog Biscuits Page 14

  ‘He’s thin, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Cadbury looking at Friend.

  ‘You should have seen him when he first came in,’ said Dorothy.

  Looking at me, Mrs Cadbury said, ‘He’s taken to you, hasn’t he?’

  I gave him a hug, perhaps a bit too hard for a dog without much flesh on him. ‘And I’ve taken to him,’ I said.

  Dorothy took her eyes off Oscar to watch Friend and me for a few moments.

  ‘I think he’s getting too attached to you, Barrie,’ she said. ‘He’s on the mend now. Don’t you think it’s time we found him a home?’

  ‘For his sake, yes. For my sake, no.’

  All of a sudden Oscar came to life – just for a few moments. That day and over the following two or three days he was like a toy whose battery was nearly exhausted. There would be no movement, and then all of a sudden he would move a short distance, then stop again.

  Oscar padded across the lawn, slowly, to Friend, stopped in front of him, and gazed at him. Then he sniffed at Friend. Oscar being a much bigger dog, I thought Friend looked a little anxious, but my presence may have reassured him for he soon gave a slight wag of his tail. The stress of being extracted from the only surroundings he had known for years had probably tired Oscar, and he sat down on his haunches, facing Friend.

  Dorothy came across to join us. ‘He must be bewildered,’ she said to me. ‘He may find the presence of another dog reassuring. I think it was a good idea of yours to get Friend out.’

  I was not accustomed to having my dog-handling skills praised.

  Dorothy smiled. ‘Don’t look so surprised – we all learn from experience.’

  I hadn’t enough experience to feel confident about where would be the best place to house Oscar while he was with us. Indoors with all the sounds and activities of the household might be too sudden and dramatic a change from the outdoor environment he was accustomed to. But I pulled a face at the thought of putting him in another pen.

  ‘It won’t be the same as before though,’ Dorothy pointed out. ‘We’ll be getting him out regularly. Different people and going for walks might be enough of a change for him to handle now. We can bring him in the house in a few days’ time.’

  For the first two or three days whenever we went down to see him we always found Oscar standing in the middle of the pen, still, like a statue. Observing him from a distance that was all he seemed to do. He wouldn’t be chewing a bone like other dogs, or barking at a bird that landed nearby.

  When I clipped a lead on him he would slowly pad along beside me, but only for two or three hundred yards. Then he would sit down on his haunches. He was telling me he didn’t want to go any further. He hadn’t the confidence to go too far from the security of his pen. Back to his pen we would go, and he would resume his position, a solitary figure in the middle of the pen.

  I found it distressing to watch.

  ‘I think,’ said Dorothy, ‘he’s shut himself down. I think he has turned off his emotions and his reactions. Such an intelligent dog with nothing to stimulate him for year after year – I think it was his way of coping. His way of stopping himself going mad.’

  Was she right? I didn’t know then and I don’t know today. But whatever were we going to do about it?

  After several days’ reflection and discussion, Dorothy had a suggestion.

  ‘Let’s remind him how other dogs live their lives,’ she said. ‘Let’s start by taking Friend with him on the walks. Let Friend remind him that there are exciting trails to be followed, sights to be seen, ditches to be jumped, squirrels that run up trees he can’t climb.’

  What happened in the next few weeks was like a prolonged awakening from a long sleep. On the first couple of walks Oscar just watched Friend, then that German Shepherd inquisitiveness took over: he had to go and have a look and see what Friend was up to, or what he’d found. Then, a little at a time, Oscar started to join in.

  The nights were drawing in now. Our late afternoon walks were the last before it got dark. It was that time of year when we started to notice the pheasants. All the dogs would follow their scent in the fields. Sometimes the trail would lead to the pheasant, then there would be a flapping of wings and a hurried, noisy take-off would ensue. It was when Oscar nearly caught up with Friend for the first time in one such hopeless pursuit that I realised how far we had come. Here was a dog who was bouncing along, tongue lolling, bright eyes wide. A dog who was now living in the house, and would be waiting at the front door at the sight of a lead, barking to go out for a walk. A dog who would try to chase footballs, splash through puddles and retrieve – in his own time – a rubber ring. It was one day when he skipped through a puddle that Dorothy said to me, ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’s getting me wet.’

  ‘It means we can rehome him, Barrie. He’s ready now.’

  Oscar had been with us for several weeks when we homed him with Lewis, who lived in the next village. It was the first home we had got from that card I put in the village shop months before. I didn’t even know it was still there. The lady in the shop said that as it was for a good cause they had left it in place.

  He was happy to take an older dog, Lewis explained, as he would be retiring from his post as a clerk in the finance department of the local council and an older dog would be more suitable for him. I didn’t say this to him, but I’m not very tall and Lewis was considerably shorter than me, fine-boned and with a gentle manner and, age apart, I felt he needed a dog that was not too bouncy.

  The village of Great Fosfen has a long main street which stretches for some three-quarters of a mile, for much of which it has a wide grass verge. One day, a few months after we’d homed Oscar, I was driving through the village when in the distance I could see on the verge a man, running. He was being towed along at the end of a lead behind a big dog that was pulling like a sledge-dog. As I drew nearer I recognised at first the little man, and then the big dog.

  I waved as I drove past them and Lewis managed to briefly raise an arm in the air in acknowledgement.

  I slowed down. I looked in my rear-view mirror to be sure of what I had seen. Yes, it was a man with a look of exhilaration on his face, a man enjoying the exercise, a man having fun.

  I told Dorothy what I’d seen when I got home.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ I said. ‘That dog is twelve years old!’

  ‘True,’ Dorothy said. ‘But Oscar doesn’t know that as he’s been asleep all those years. Now he’s woken up he thinks he’s still a youngster.’

  Sixth Sense

  It was a puzzle. We hadn’t seen Charlie for a few weeks. Charlie, to whom our place had become like a brewery to an alcoholic. A man who could not resist dropping in on his way home to see and stroke our newest acquisition.

  We knew there had been a disappointment for him. As his search for a suitable dog had taken so long his ‘skipper’ had decided Charlie’s standards were too high, taken the matter in hand, and required him to take a dog Charlie didn’t think would make the grade. During week three of the training course Charlie had been proved right.

  ‘We couldn’t get him to bite,’ said Charlie. ‘Well I suppose they could have done if they’d pushed him hard enough, but I wasn’t having any of that. He’ll make someone a lovely family pet.’ He’d mumbled something about ‘doing some admin’ in the Unit while filling in time.

  I was pleased when I heard a vehicle on the drive and looked out of the window to see the familiar white van with POLICE DOG UNIT in blue on the side. I had been half-expecting Cecilia, who was bringing us that afternoon the dog found tied to the hedge, although I would have been surprised if it had been Cecilia as that would have made her only an hour and a half late.

  My plan to spread out the arrival of the three dogs over the day hadn’t quite worked. Dorothy’s work colleague, Irma, was coming late morning with the dog found in the ditch, but had arrived an hour early as she had forgotten her mother was coming for Sunday lunch. She an
d Mrs Cadbury, who had brought Oscar, had swapped stories and then had a nice chat, while the clock ticked.

  As it was a while since Charlie’s last visit, he had some catching up to do. I was able to report that Claude had been homed with a vicar and had already settled in well. It had taken quite a while to find a suitable home for Claude, somewhere where his liking of barking ferociously at strangers could be put to good use. The vicar’s church and its graveyard had been suffering from the attentions of bored teenage lads, some of whom had taken to relieving themselves behind the gravestones. Claude was to be first and foremost a family pet but the Reverend Winstanley was also to institute patrols in the grounds, whereby the sight of Claude’s snapping jaws might encourage the teenage lads to zip up their flies.

  ‘And Digby…?’ Charlie said. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve still got Digby?’

  Digby. How that name brought back memories. Our Lion-Maned Dog. He of the oil-stained coat. Ex-guard dog. Ex-car breakers’ yard. My first and last rugby tackle.

  ‘He’s gone,’ I said.

  ‘Gone? You mean run away?’

  ‘The only running Digby ever did was after next-door’s cat,’ I said. ‘Cecilia should be here soon – it was her who brought him to us – I’ll tell you all about it then.’ In fact, there was to be an unexpected interruption before I had the chance to do so.

  Charlie’s face lit up. ‘You got a doggy coming in today then?’

  ‘A dog? It’ll be the third today!’

  I took Charlie down to see that Sunday’s two earlier arrivals. We only made a brief visit to Oscar in the pen in the old barn. His journey and move to us were enough unsettling experiences for one day. Surprise registered on Charlie’s face when he saw our next new arrival. ‘You’ve not had one of these before,’ he said.

  Looking up at him from behind the wire was a pair of eyes that seemed too big for the head in which they were set. And the rest of the dog made such a contrast to the appearance of the breed closest to my heart, my beloved German Shepherds. But Lurchers ran a close second in my affections. Lottie was mid-grey all over, with soft ears, a fine-boned physique and a gentle temperament.

  I let her out of the pen and Charlie produced from his pocket a ball he had conveniently brought with him. He held it up.

  ‘Fetch?’ he suggested, but Lottie showed no interest. He rolled the ball along the ground and then widened his eyes and tilted his head in the direction of the ball, in what I guessed was supposed to be an encouraging look. Lottie stared for a few moments first at Charlie and then at me. A rubber, pyramid-shaped toy that bounced at random angles produced only a blank expression.

  ‘I don’t think she’s ever been played with,’ was Charlie’s conclusion.

  And it was a conclusion that was borne out in the next few days. Toys and training aids were an unfamiliar sight to her. But even Lottie knew what a bone was, though she didn’t chew bones. She threw them. She would hold the bone in her jaws, put her head back, then launch the bone high into the air to land noisily on the ground several feet away. This Lottie would repeat time after time for hours, retrieving the bone each time. Dorothy, as usual, reflected on the dog’s behaviour and produced a likely answer.

  ‘Charlie’s right that she’s never been played with. So she’s learned to play on her own. And with no ball or other toy she’s had to improvise. Throw the bone for her and I think she may run after it and bring it back to you.’

  And she did.

  Charlie gave up on what was, for now, unrewarded effort. ‘And what’s Cecilia bringing you?’ he asked as I encouraged Lottie back into her pen with a hide chew.

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Goodness knows,’ I said…

  Dorothy, Charlie, Cecilia and I sat round the fire in the living room, drinking tea and munching chocolate digestive biscuits.

  Sitting in front of me, looking up, watching every movement of chocolate digestive, nose projecting upwards, nostrils quivering, was a brown dog. And he really was brown. Brown coat all over, nostrils a darker shade of brown, brown eyes and a brown collar. This was Larry, new arrival number three.

  ‘Oh,’ said Cecilia, ‘he’s such an appealing dog. Don’t you think, Dorothy?’

  ‘He’s gorgeous,’ said Dorothy.

  I knew what Cecilia meant. He was the sort of dog that seeing him made you immediately want to stroke him.

  Dorothy felt we should discover as much as possible about the dogs while they were with us, so reducing the risk of unexpected surprises for the new owner. Thus we tried to make sure each dog encountered everything on a list Dorothy devised: other dogs, cats, horses, children, tractors, lorries, bicycles and vacuum cleaners. And we would try to give each dog a walk in town when it was busy, such as on market day, to see if he was intimidated by crowds. But taking Larry for a walk in town was extraordinarily time-consuming.

  ‘Can I stroke him?’ we would hear every few yards, or so it seemed. The top of his head was shiny where it was stroked so much.

  I turned now to fix my gaze upon Cecilia. ‘Charlie,’ I said, speaking slowly and with deliberation, ‘Charlie, would you tell me, drawing upon your professional expertise, what physical features of this dog you think indicate that there may be some German Shepherd in there?’

  Charlie opened his mouth to speak. I didn’t give him the chance.

  ‘Not the drooping ears,’ I said, ‘Not the single, uniform colour, not the rounded shape of the body, or the Labrador size? What about that smooth, very short brown coat? No, I don’t think so.’

  Cecilia pulled a face.

  ‘Well,’ said Charlie, ‘every German Shepherd I’ve ever known likes cheese – we could try him with that… ’

  BARK! BARK! BARK! There was a sudden eruption outside in Charlie’s van. I turned my head and through the window could see the van rocking from side to side. I nearly dropped my cup in surprise.

  I spun round to Charlie. ‘Have you got a dog in that van?’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ said Charlie, trying to be as casual about it as he could.

  ‘What dog?’

  ‘My dog.’

  There was going to be no more chatting or cups of tea or chocolate digestives until we’d met Charlie’s new dog!

  I’d led the way out to the van – with Charlie in hot pursuit. ‘Don’t let him out!’ Charlie had called after me.

  I circled the van, trying to see inside. An instruction called through the window by Charlie had brought the barking to a halt and the rocking of the van with it. Dorothy had had the sense to stop on her way out to pick up a bag of treats. Cecilia didn’t quite share our enthusiasm and was hanging back, near the front door.

  ‘How long have you had him? Where’d you get him? Have you started the training?’ I wanted to know! Starting the rescue work had brought the unexpected benefit of finding a new mate, Charlie, and it was a double bonus that it was my chance to get to know up close a real, live police dog. A trained dog, enjoying the variety of a working life, using his intelligence, and all in the service of the community: pursuing and bringing down villains, breaking up crowds of yobs, on patrol while we slept safely in our beds.

  ‘Are you going to show us some of the things a police dog can do, Charlie?’ I said. ‘Have you trained him yet to bark on command?’ I looked across at Cecilia. ‘Or Cecilia could play the villain and he could run after her and bring her down. What do you think, Cecilia?’

  ‘I’m thinking of sticking two fingers up at you,’ she said. ‘You know I’m frightened of German Shepherds. And I’m sure I’m terrified of police dogs. Can’t I go indoors and watch through the window?’

  It was then it struck me that Charlie seemed unusually subdued.

  ‘You haven’t even told us his name,’ I said to Charlie.

  ‘Barrie! Will you stop hectoring the poor man!’ said Dorothy.

  ‘He asks more questions than CID,’ said Charlie.

  ‘OK,’ I said, folding my arms. ‘I won’t ask any more.’

  Charlie turned to Do
rothy, ‘He’s like a big kid, your husband, isn’t he? I never even got to finish me cup of tea.’

  ‘Go and get Charlie’s tea,’ said Dorothy looking at me, ‘so he can finish it while we’re out here.’

  I traipsed off, but stopped in the hall, on the other side of the front door, ears flapping. I was beginning to think there was a bit of a mystery here.

  ‘Are you pleased with him, Charlie?’ I heard Dorothy ask. There was a pause and then a noise which puzzled me. I put one eye round the door. Charlie was slowly scraping the gravel on the drive with his foot, staring down, in reflective mood.

  ‘BARRIE! Where’s that tea?’ Dorothy had spotted me. So I didn’t hear Charlie’s reply.

  By the time I’d retrieved the tea, and following Dorothy’s thoughtful lead, found a bag of treats, Charlie had opened the back door of his van. The dog unit vans were kitted out to hold two dogs, the cage divided off into two sections so that each dog had his own space, and to prevent altercations. I’d already asked about this in the past and Charlie had explained that although usually he had only the one working German Shepherd with him, he had also sometimes worked a sniffer dog, a spaniel trained to locate illegal drugs. Now, looking out at us from behind the mesh was one dog, a classic German Shepherd.

  ‘Oh, isn’t he handsome, Charlie,’ said Dorothy. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘He’s about two,’ said Charlie. I handed him his cold tea. He took it and stood staring at it for a few moments, then shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he said. ‘However long was I looking for a dog? And do you know where I got this one from?’

  Dorothy and I shook our heads.

  ‘The police!’

  ‘What?’ I said, half laughing.

  Charlie took a swig of his tea. ‘He’s a fully trained police dog. And he’s a cracker!’ With a sudden wide sweep of his arm he threw away the dregs of his tea. Now he was talking about his dog we were beginning to see some of the enthusiasm and energy we associated with Charlie whenever he talked about German Shepherd police dogs. ‘An absolute cracker!’ He leant over to put his face close to the mesh. ‘But you’re a right handful, aren’t you?’ he said to the dog.