Ain't Nothing but a Pound Dog

  Ain’t Nothing but a Pound Dog:

  Spellbound Hound Magic and Mystery Book One

  by

  JEANNIE WYCHERLEY

  Copyright © 2019 Jeannie Wycherley

  Bark at the Moon Books

  All rights reserved

  Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect or are used with permission. Any other resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  Ain’t Nothing but a Pound Dog was edited by Christine L Baker

  Cover design by Tammy.

  Formatting by Tammy

  Proofing by Johnny Bon Bon

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Have you enjoyed Spellbound Hound Book One?

  Spellbound Hound Magic and Mystery Book 2

  Read the Wonky Inn Books

  The Wonky Inn Series

  Also by Jeannie Wycherley

  Coming in 2020

  More Dark Fantasy from Jeannie Wycherley

  Ain’t Nothing but a Pound Dog

  is dedicated with love and Bonios to the Whiplash Witches, the Bedlington Whippet Pet Group and to everyone who has ever been held spellbound by their hound.

  How privileged we are!

  “Speak to none other than me.”

  That’s what she’d said.

  Or at least that’s what he’d heard. Afterwards he often thought that perhaps her words had been lost in translation. She’d spoken English with Old Joe, with a well-to-do accent that conjured images of high tea, cricket on the green, and glasses of Pimm’s at garden parties on great rolling lawns laid out in front of ornate stately homes.

  But when she uttered those words to him, they didn’t come out in any language he recognised. Words, or the ghosts of words, tripped from her tongue in harsh toe-curling guttural whispers, an ancient dialect lost in the winds of time.

  He’d sensed the change that came over him. The tingle in his body from his shiny wet nose to the tip of his busy tail. The constriction in his throat, around his larynx. A wave of movement that rippled out from his shoulders, along his chest and spine, and flowed down through his hips and legs, ending with a quiver in his toes.

  He’d jerked, as though pulled upright, then skittered backwards, hardly daring to look the woman in the eye, although he had a sense of her size. She was tall, helped by the elegant red shoes with stiletto heels. And boy, was she pointy. Pointy elbows. Pointy nose. He bet her knees were pointy too, but her skirts were wide, reaching to her calves, and crisp lace-trimmed petticoats gave them bulk, like something from the 1950s. And when she’d directed her index finger at him and uttered those words, her nails had been long, much longer than his, and his were far too long because Old Joe had often complained about this.

  Red nails to match her shoes, pointy to match her heels. Claws by any other name.

  He’d slunk behind the worn sofa, scared of what else she might do to him, but she’d followed him, reaching down into his hiding place and yanking him out by the collar.

  “Do you understand me, you ugly runt?” she’d hissed in his face and he’d instinctively turned his head away, desperate for a dark corner.

  “Yes! Yes!” he yowled. “Not a word. Not a word!”

  He reeled in shock. The sound of those words—the sound of an actual voice originating from his own small body—stunned him far more than anything else had up until then.

  The woman threw her head back and laughed, a high-pitched wheeze, entirely without humour. She seemed to be enjoying herself. Having the time of her life. Not so much Toby or his human, Old Joe.

  Old Joe lay sprawled on the floor in front of the sofa. He’d made the mistake of answering the door to this woman and inviting her inside for a cup of tea. He was nice like that, Old Joe. He’d popped the kettle on the stove, brought it to its whistling boil, and poured a brew, chatting to her all the while about the weather and what a long time it had been since they’d seen each other.

  Toby had zoned out of the conversation. Conversations that didn’t revolve around him or trips to the park or the woods were too boring by far, and Old Joe had added insult to injury by reaching into the human biscuit tin for some Rich Tea biscuits, while neglecting to open Toby’s treat jar.

  “Share and share alike,” Toby had whined at Old Joe, but evidently his human had selective hearing because he’d ignored his pup for the time being and carried on chatting with the pointy woman.

  Toby, in a bit of a huff, had retreated to his basket, his favourite place in the whole world. This enormous soft, fluffy temple of canine comfort had been located in front of the television, making for the ideal set-up as far as Toby was concerned. If he lay one way, he could watch all the wildlife programmes—he particularly liked wildlife programmes that included tigers—and if he lay the other, he could keep an eye on Old Joe.

  Toby, still only twelve months old, had studied his human intensely in the months since Old Joe had brought him home. He knew that when Old Joe removed his John Lennon glasses and folded them neatly, he would slip them into his hard leather spectacle case and close it with a pleasing snap. This satisfying sound signified a stroll out, whatever the weather. Old Joe would then begin the process of hooking off his slippers and locating his walking boots. Cue much groaning as Old Joe bent down to lace his boots securely. All the while, Toby would wag his tail in ecstasy and encourage Old Joe to get a move on by headbutting him occasionally and shaking unnecessarily. Select hairs from his silver, grey and black coat would take flight and sprinkle across the furnishings.

  Old Joe would tut fondly and tell him to ‘hang about, hang about’. The whole process took an age, but boy oh boy it was always worth the wait.

  Toby loved Old Joe. He’d known right from the get-go that they’d be buddies forever.

  So why had this woman arrived at the door and spoiled it all? Old Joe had been kind to her. He’d offered her tea and biscuits and given her the best seat in the house, the one Old Joe generally took when he sat down to watch his favourite crime dramas in the evening. During the afternoon he preferred the sofa, where he’d close his eyes for forty winks while the television channel broadcast endless game shows or property programmes. Toby would snuggle up in the crook of Old Joe’s legs and enjoy his own forty winks too. As a result, the sofa probably wasn’t the cleanest or the most hair-free of places for a guest to sit.

  Therefore, Old Joe had offered the woman his special seat. The reclining one that Toby was forbidden from using.

  And that’s when it had all gone wrong.

  Toby had been lying in his basket, his head on his paws, content enough. The large gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece had been keeping time, the way it always did, marking the seconds and the minutes and the hours
of their lives.

  The woman had been sitting on the special chair. As Old Joe had walked out of the kitchen towards them carrying a tray containing the teapot and a couple of mugs, a plate of biscuits and the milk jug, the woman had casually kicked her handbag—a great black leather affair with a shiny gold buckle—into the old man’s path.

  Joe hadn’t seen any hint of danger coming. A little unsteady on his feet at the best of times, he’d tripped and fallen forwards, the tray flying through the air, the teapot and the jug suspended in the atmosphere. Everything headed towards Toby in his basket and the television behind him. Toby, fast of reflex and minutely aware of all impending peril, had shot to his feet and leapt onto the sofa out of harm’s way.

  Or so he thought.

  As the tray clattered against the television screen and the teapot and mugs shattered on the floor, the milk jug exploded, splashing milk within a six-foot radius. Normally Toby would have been straight in there, tongue at the ready, on a mission to help Old Joe clean up the spillages.

  But not this time.

  This time things were very different.

  Old Joe smacked into the heavy coffee table as he fell. He screeched in pain, a shriek that chilled Toby’s blood. But even this wasn’t as scary as the sound of the violent clicking and splintering of old bones as Joe fell onto his side and fractured his pelvis and thigh bone.

  Toby quivered on the sofa, caught between his fear of the noise and the sudden viciousness of the situation and his desire to dive to Old Joe’s aid. Everything can be mended with a good face washing and a canine kiss, after all.

  But just as he made the brave decision to jump from the sofa and rush to Old Joe’s aid, the woman had turned his way and directed her pointy claw at him.

  And no, she hadn’t spoken in a tongue he recognised and yet still he had understood her. “Speak to none other than me.”

  That’s what she’d said.

  And that’s when he’d become a spellbound hound.

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two glanced up as the iron door at the end of the kennel run clanged. Once upon a time he would have stood bolt upright and raced to his door, barking an energetic greeting and demanding to know more about the intrusion, but now he simply raised his impressive eyebrows, peered down the length of the concrete corridor and waited patiently.

  He’d been resident in the pound for nearly six months and he understood his time was almost up. These days every time the door at the end of the run opened, it ran the risk of being one of the kennel workers on a mission to take him to see Ravi the vet.

  Dogs who were taken to see Ravi the vet after a six month stay at the kennel never came back again.

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two had recently spent a great deal of time mulling this over. Part of him hoped these dogs, many of whom he knew the names of, went off to their forever homes, but he suspected this was not generally the case.

  But now, high in the wall through the grilled window, Ee-ex-ten-eight-two could see the pearly silhouette of a waxing moon. Ravi the vet usually clocked off at five. It had gone five a long time ago. All the dogs had eaten their dinners. Soon it would be bedtime.

  Could this herald a new arrival?

  All around him, his fellow detainees were jumping around in either excitement or alarm. Ee-ex-ten-eight-two cocked his head, straining to listen. Yes, there it was. Beneath the cacophony he could hear frightened whimpering. Now he lifted his head and peered through the chicken wire that covered the wooden frame of his door. Stocky green cotton-clad legs made their way down the corridor towards him.

  “Alright guys. Calm down. Calm down.” Selma. A large black lady with a wide gap-toothed smile and wonderful weaves she kept tied up in colourful silk scarves. Selma was by far one of the nicest kennel workers, always ready with a grin, a soothing touch and a treat.

  There was a jangle as Selma unlatched the gate of the pen next to his. None of them were locked. The whole kennel was a cheap affair, constructed from concrete and breeze blocks, flimsy wood and cheap wire fencing.

  “In you go sweetheart. You’re a handsome lad. I’m sure we’ll find you a home soon.”

  Now Ee-ex-ten-eight-two allowed himself to be a little more interested. He pushed himself upright and sauntered over to the slightly sturdier wire barrier that separated the two stalls, coolly pushing his nose through to sniff the young pup on the other side.

  Selma tapped his nose gently.

  “Who’s the nosy one?” she asked, and chuckled. Ee-ex-ten-eight-two licked her fingers. “I need you to look after this little guy for me. Can you do that?”

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two barked at her. Once, twice. Yes, of course he could.

  “Good boy!” She fished a couple of biscuits out of her bulging pocket and, squatting down so she could see him properly, slid one through the gap. “Maybe tomorrow will be your lucky day and we’ll find you a new home too? What do you reckon?”

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two rolled his eyes at her and munched on the biscuit. He wasn’t holding his breath on that score. Visitors came and went, and quite a few had expressed their interest in him, but it never seemed to get any further than the front office.

  Never say never though.

  “Back in your basket now,” Selma told him. He obliged her, because she was kind and he liked her. Not that the basket to which she referred resembled anything even remotely basket-like. This rock-solid heavy plastic bucket affair couldn’t have been any less comfortable. Its only saving grace was a thin blanket layer—and he only had that thanks to kind-hearted Selma—which preserved the skin on Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s tender elbows.

  “Keep an eye on this baby for me tonight, alright?”

  Ruff, agreed Ee-ex-ten-eight-two.

  And with that, Selma secured the door in the next pen and trundled back up the kennel run, oblivious to the frantic shouting and cries from the other residents.

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two placed his head between his paws. Closing his eyes, he made some attempt to drown out the cacophony. At some stage soon the lights would be dimmed, and everyone would fall quiet for six or seven hours. Then at around six in the morning, the first kennel worker would arrive in their truck and King, the German Shepherd who lived in the first pen, would set up an excited hue and cry and they would all be off again, demanding breakfast, toilet breaks, freedom, anything! Just pay me some attention!

  This had been Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s existence for a third of his life now, and while it wasn’t the most pleasant situation, it had to be better than the alternative.

  An alternative that involved Ravi and The Surgery in the small yard behind the kennels. No dog in their right mind wanted to go there.

  The new puppy in the pen next door to him yipped and cried, pleading to be reunited with his Mum and his siblings.

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two opened one eye and regarded the young newcomer, his tan and brown fur, his tiny pointy-up ears. This could end up being a long night for everyone. He sighed deeply. Selma had asked him to look after the puppy, and while it seemed unlikely he would come to any harm, Ee-ex-ten-eight-two supposed that looking after him might also include soothing him in some way too.

  “Kid? You’re just going to need to chill,” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two said, his tone mild. He didn’t so much as move a whisker, simply stayed where he lay in his plastic basket.

  “Mummy! Brothers! Sisters! Home!” cried the puppy.

  For heavens’ sake.

  “Kid!” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two repeated, more sharply this time. “You need to calm down.”

  “I can’t! I can’t! I’m frightened!”

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two reluctantly dragged his furry rump out of bed and slunk alongside the wire partition. “Hey? Kid?” he called. “Here. Front and centre.”

  “I’m scared! I want my Mummy!” The puppy spun in a terrified circle, out of control.

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two barked his deepest command. “Front and centre! Now!”

  The puppy stopped in his tracks and peeked at his neighbour as though checki
ng he was serious, then cowered down on his haunches while Ee-ex-ten-eight-two glared at him. Finally, with nowhere else to go, he slunk towards the wire partition and lay in front of the larger dog, rolling onto his side and showing his belly, the well-known signal of submission among canines.

  “Cute. Very cute.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two nodded his approval. “What’s your name, baby?”

  The puppy looked confused. “I don’t know, sir. Everyone just calls me Pup.”

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two sniffed the little scrap in front of him and gave him a cursory lick the best he could. The puppy rubbed himself up against the bars. This was the first sign of affection the sweet little guy had experienced in days.

  “That figures,” the older dog said. “Unnamed babies are always called Pup until they find someone who cares about them.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two sniffed him again. “You smell of downtown. The underpass and the vegetable market.”

  “That’s where I was hiding,” the puppy replied excitedly. “Among the beetroots and the cabbages. You’re so clever, sir!”

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two preened slightly. A long time ago his human had been fond of telling him how clever he was. “What a clever boy! What a good boy!” He yearned to hear those words again from someone who truly cared, but now he anticipated he probably never would. He cleared his throat and banished the memory from his past abruptly.

  If he’d been that clever he wouldn’t have ended up here.

  “Didn’t you have a human who called you something?” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two asked the little fellow in front of him, bending to give him another cursory lick and a nudge. At least he’d quietened down.