Tea and Dog Biscuits Page 4

  Looking back now, I shake my head at some of the things I did in those early days. What would a dog trainer think of some of my techniques? Such as, on my own in the dark, with a dog that had met me only that day, a dog so big that when he stood up on his hind legs he was taller than me, standing behind him, trying to get him into a little chicken house, my hands on his hind quarters, shoving him from the rear?

  But if Monty didn’t want to go into that chicken house, then he wasn’t going to go into that chicken house.

  His owner’s telephone message flashed into my mind: cheese!

  Going back to the house, I rifled through the fridge for cheese. Would he prefer Cheshire or Gorgonzola? I took chunks of both back to the chicken house and, deciding to try the Gorgonzola first – it smells more – waved a bit about in front of Monty.

  ‘Hmmmm,’ I said, holding it up to my nose and sniffing appreciatively. Monty’s gaze was fixed on the cheese. I opened the door of the chicken house and threw the cheese to the far end. Monty leapt after it. In a flash I slammed the door behind him and slid the bolt across.

  I crossed my fingers so hard it hurt, but this time I didn’t even get back to the house. Howl! Howl! Howl!

  Lights came on at one of the houses opposite. I looked at my watch: half past eleven. On a Sunday night. House-trained or not, he had to come in the house – it must be that he’s lonely, I thought.

  We trotted up to the house together, Monty’s tail wagging as he enjoyed his moonlit outing. In our house there were deep pile carpets everywhere except the utility room. I laid down lots of newspaper on the floor. I looked at Monty – he is such a big dog – and put down more newspaper. The Cheese Trick worked again perfectly. I made a mental note to buy a big chunk the next day.

  By this stage I realised I was exhausted. I’m going to bed, I thought.

  Howl! Howl! Howl!

  I froze and closed my eyes. I had run out of ideas. I put fingers in my ears. With eyes closed and fingers in ears, life became quite pleasant again. But I couldn’t stand in the middle of the kitchen like that all night. As I opened my eyes and took my fingers out of my ears I heard the phone ringing.

  I caught my breath. Could that be John? He said he might ring that night to see how Monty was. I made for the hall and grabbed the phone. ‘Hello!’

  ‘Hello, my Barrie.’

  It was Dorothy! Oh, what a lovely surprise.

  ‘I know it’s late to ring you,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t want to go to sleep without saying goodnight on our anniversary. I hope I didn’t get you out of bed.’

  ‘I wish,’ I said, sighing.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ she asked.

  ‘That noise,’ I said, ‘is two rooms and two closed doors away – they must be able to hear it all along the street. I can’t stop him howling, Dorothy.’

  I went through it all with her. How I’d tried the garage, but he howled; how I’d tried the chicken house, but he howled; how I’d tried the utility room, but he howled.

  ‘I wish you were here,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  I was sunk in gloom and at my wits’ end.

  ‘He didn’t howl when you had him in the car,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘Erm. no.’

  ‘Well, put him in the car.’

  ‘Let him sleep in the car…?’

  ‘He’s probably used to it. John’s homeless.’

  I shrugged my shoulders. I had given up hope. ‘I’ll try,’ I said.

  Monty bounded out of the utility room. He looked up at me expectantly. No, I thought, not yet. Cheese is only for when I want you to go in somewhere you don’t want to go. I opened the back of the Volvo. Monty jumped in before I even got the cheese out of my pocket.

  ‘Goodnight, for the fourth time,’ I said.

  I didn’t bother to make for my armchair. I waited behind the front door. The car was on the drive at the front of the cottage, the closest yet to the neighbours, so I wanted to be able to get out there as fast as I could.

  While waiting for Monty to start, I thought about the day’s events. About how, unplanned, we’d taken in our first orphan. That in doing so the decision to start the rescue work had been made for us. And how hard it would have been to turn the dog away, how hard it would have been to say no to his owner, who was so desperate for help, for somewhere for his dog to go. And how useless I’d been in handling the dog. I’d taken him off out without even a lead. I thought about the reckless way I’d carried on, pushing at the backside of this huge dog who’d only known me for a few hours and could have made shredded Barrie of me.

  And then I realised something else: all was quiet.

  Hardly daring to breathe, tiptoeing as lightly as I possibly could on the gravelled drive, I inched my way to the Volvo. Close to, I could hear a noise, a sort of rumbling sound. At first I thought it was my tummy. I leant over to see in the back of the car – and then I knew what the sound was.

  It was the sound of snoring.

  A Quick Start

  I woke up suddenly and looked at the clock: ten to five. Ten to five? Why was I awake at five o’clock in the morning? Then I remembered. Today was the day Dorothy was coming home from hospital. In my sleep I must have been wishing away the night, wanting it to be morning. Another week had passed since our anniversary and I ached to have her back with me, safe and well.

  I lay there for what seemed ages, trying to get back to sleep. What’s the time now? Ten past five? Only twenty minutes later? Might as well get up and start clearing up the house. There isn’t a clean plate left.

  One minute past nine and the phone was ringing. Unusually, I was pleased to hear it, as Dorothy had said she would ring to let me know what time she would be let out, for me to be her chauffeur home. I grabbed the phone.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Mr Hawkins?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ It wasn’t Dorothy. The caller couldn’t have failed to pick up the tone of disappointment in my voice.

  ‘I believe you help people who can no longer keep their dog?’

  If this woman had been present she would have seen me standing with my mouth open. How did she know this? It was incredible how word had spread. We had only mentioned it to a few people we knew.

  The silence was interrupted not by the caller but by Monty.

  Crash!

  I knew immediately what that was.

  ‘Excuse me one moment,’ I said into the phone, and made straight for the kitchen.

  I pushed the door open and trod in something soft. My foot started to slide and I grabbed the door. The previous evening I had slid on some mouldy tinned tomatoes I had found at the back of the fridge, there from before Dorothy had gone into hospital, which had been retrieved from the bin by Monty. That time I had slid and bumped against a stack of dirty dishes on the cooker, sending them crashing onto the washing machine. This time I did better and held on to something.

  I had already learnt not to eat in the same room as Monty. On his second day with us I was eating microwave chips and veggie sausages on my lap in front of the telly. While I watched the telly, Monty watched me. Sitting on his haunches, his gaze followed every forkful from plate to mouth.

  Hearing a noise outside, I looked round to the living room window and listened out intently. A friend had said he might call round that night to cheer me up and I hoped it was him, but all was quiet. I turned back to my sausage and chips, but something was wrong – it was just chips. I gazed at the plate, empty on one side. I was sure there had been a sausage left.

  And where was Monty? I leaned over the arm of the chair to look round the room. There, under the table, half-hidden by a tablecloth, I could see an enormous black dog, silently licking his lips. How could a dog that big have removed a sausage from my plate, on my lap, carried it to the other side of the room, got under the table and eaten it, all without my hearing or seeing a thing?

  ‘You villain!’ I said.

  This was Orphan Dog Number One, and I was learning. I was learni
ng that when you took in somebody else’s dog you took in any bad habits he had been allowed to develop.

  Today’s squelchy mess on the floor was strawberry trifle. I really mustn’t leave anything on the worktop if Monty is in the kitchen. I tutted to myself. I’d have to clear this mess up when I finished on the phone. Monty sat on his haunches, waiting to be told off, by the look on his face. The yellow blob on the end of his nose would have made for a good photo.

  I went back to the phone.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said.

  ‘My name is Sarah Phipps and I have a dog that is two years old and—’

  I had to stop her before she went on.

  ‘I’m sorry but we’ve only just started this—’

  ‘Pearl’s a very easy dog – she’s not got any problems – that’s not why I’m trying to home her.’

  ‘No, I’m sure. What I meant was that we aren’t set up properly. If we’re going to do this on any scale we’re going to have to build kennels and runs in the garden.’

  ‘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.

  Healthy Exercise

  ‘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.