Ain't Nothing but a Pound Dog Page 2

  The puppy shook his head. “I didn’t like the human. He wasn’t nice. He separated me and my brothers and sisters from my Mummy and took us to the marketplace. People were picking us up. They took my sisters away. I was so scared—” he began to cry again. “I jumped out of the box and I ran away and I hid under the stalls and I ate a carrot and I—”

  “Breathe little man.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two laughed. “Sounds like you had a lucky escape. Babies like you soon find good homes with decent humans. Nonetheless, we’ll have to come up with a name for you while you’re here.”

  He pondered on names. “What about Gus?” he tried out.

  From the other side of his pen came a dismissive snort. Pippin. Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s best friend for the past seven weeks or so. She’d been brought in as a stray and they had lived next door to each other ever since. Ee-ex-ten-eight-two loved her for her simplicity and common-sense approach to life. She had a way of bringing him back down to earth whenever he became over-excited or fearful.

  “That’s an old dog’s name,” Pippin called.

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two turned his head. “I’m no good at this stuff. I bow to your superiority. What would you recommend?”

  “Something younger. Funkier.” She lifted her head and sniffed. “He certainly smells like vegetables. Call him Cabbage. Or Beetroot. Or something shorter. Snappier. I don’t know—”

  “Troot?” suggested Ee-ex-ten-eight-two.

  Pippin fell about laughing, rolling onto her back and waving her paws in the air. Ee-ex-ten-eight-two and the puppy exchanged glances and, consumed by Pippin’s evident mirth, ended up giggling along with her. Once Pippin could speak again, she rolled back onto her front and shook her head. “To be fair I was thinking something more like Pea or Spud, but yeah, Troot would do it.” She laughed again.

  “Troot it is.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two turned back to the puppy. “You’ll get a proper name when you’re adopted. But Troot you are for now.”

  “That’s a ridiculous name.” On the other side of the puppy, a pretty pale silver terrier with a pink collar sat elegantly and touched her paw to the wire mesh. “It’s a mongrel’s name.”

  Pippin curled her lip. “There’s nothing wrong with a mongrel name, especially if you are a mongrel.”

  “Are you a mongrel?” the terrier asked Troot.

  The young dog rolled his head and pricked his ears. “I’m sorry, Miss,” he replied, quite taken with the terrier’s demeanour. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Well,” the terrier sat on her haunches and tapped both feet against the wire. “I’m a Bedlington Terrier. A pedigree, don’t you know? I come from a long line of Bedlington Terriers. I can trace my bloodline back for well over a dozen generations. But take Pippin there—” she cocked her nose to the other side of Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s pen, where Pippin had pressed herself up against the wire of the pen and had fixed the terrier with a laser stare that might have cut glass. “She’s an allsorts. She doesn’t even know who her Dad was—”

  “That’s not true,” Pippin snarled.

  “Ladies! Ladies!” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two quickly intervened. Troot’s head swivelled from the terrier to Pippin and back to Ee-ex-ten-eight-two, uncertain whether he should be taking sides or not. “It doesn’t matter what our backgrounds are, we’re all in here together and we need to try and get on.”

  Pippin sniffed, whirled about, and collapsed on her haunches. With her back to the others, she pretended to ignore them, but Ee-ex-ten-eight-two could tell by the way her ears kept twitching that she was listening in to their conversation.

  “I’m Phoebe. Miss Phoebe to you… youngsters.” Phoebe cast a wary eye Pippin’s way. “And while I can see that you shouldn’t have too grand a name—after all you are of questionable heritage—I would probably have gone with something a little more common. Humans like to call their dogs human names. No human was ever called Troot, I’m sure.”

  “Shuddup down there!” The booming bark of the German Shepherd made them all jump. King often claimed to be an ex-police dog, but nobody quite believed him. Why would an ex-police dog end up in a rescue pound? Didn’t the police take care of their own, after all?

  Miss Phoebe lowered her voice. “I always have plenty of ideas. If you fancy changing your name, just give me a shout.” She removed one dainty paw after another from the wire and returned to her basket, where she proceeded to turn round and round, roughing up her blanket for some time before finally collapsing and curling herself up into a tight doughnut shape.

  Troot watched open-mouthed for a moment before turning his attention back to Ee-ex-ten-eight-two and regarding him quizzically. “What do you recommend?”

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two shrugged. “A name is a name. It’s your choice.”

  “What’s your name?” The puppy asked, flopping down against the bars once more so that he could lie nose to nose with his neighbour.

  “Ee-ex-ten-eight-two,” said Ee-ex-ten-eight-two.

  “That’s not his proper name,” Pippin called across to Troot. She sounded gruff and grumpy. “That’s the number they tattooed on his ear when he was brought in here. He must have had a human name before that, but he refuses to tell us what it was.”

  “Why’s that?” Troot cocked his head endearingly, unsure what a tattoo was. Nobody had done anything to his ears except look inside them.

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two ducked his head. “Because as far as I’m concerned, I’m a bad dog and this is my prison.”

  Troot widened his eyes in alarm. “But I thought you said I’d be adopted. That a human would come. You said that.” His voice started to rise. “If this is prison—”

  “I did say you’d be adopted, and I meant it. You’re not in prison, but I am.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two nodded, his voice firm.

  “Then why is it a prison for you and not for me?”

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two considered the puppy with a steady gaze, the very tip of his tail wagging. “This is a kill kennels, Troot. After six months any dogs left without homes are taken away and they don’t come back.”

  “K—kill?” Troot whimpered.

  Pippin made a warning growl deep in her throat. She didn’t want Ee-ex-ten-eight-two to alarm the puppy. None of them would get any sleep if he scared Troot any further. Ee-ex-ten-eight-two sighed instead. “I’m afraid my time is up, that’s all. No-one will adopt me.”

  “You don’t know that,” Pippin chipped in, her eyes sad.

  “I think I do.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two remained resolute.

  “What about you, Pippin?” Troot asked. “Will a human come for you?”

  “I choose to remain optimistic,” Pippin replied loftily, her ears rippling.

  Troot spun about and dashed to the bars on the other side of his pen. Beyond them, Miss Phoebe lay tightly coiled up, snoring her head off in a most unladylike way. “And Miss Phoebe?”

  “It’s different in her case,” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two explained. “She says that someone stole her from her own garden. Somebody tried to sell her—”

  “And a number of other pedigree dogs,” Pippin chipped in.

  “That’s right. On a buy-and-sell website. The police are trying to track down her original owner.”

  “Oh.” Troot’s head swivelled between one new friend to the next. “I really hope the police find them so Miss Phoebe can go home to the people who love her.”

  “So do we.” Pippin smiled an inscrutable smile that might have meant almost anything, but Ee-ex-ten-eight-two knew she’d be glad to see the back of the little silver-coloured diva.

  “Quieten down!” King barked in irritation. A clamour of exasperated yips and yaps followed, echoing his sentiments.

  “Shhh.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two winked solemnly at the puppy. “Lie down here next to me and get some rest. Tomorrow is another day.”

  “I’m far too excited to sleep,” Troot replied, yawning so widely Ee-ex-ten-eight-two thought the skin on his face might peel back like a banana. Content for now though, he lay agains
t the wire beside the older dog and within seconds, his eyes had closed and his breathing had become deep and regular.

  Across from Ee-ex-ten-eight-two, Pippin gazed at the little fellow fondly. “You’re right,” she said. “He’ll find a home quickly enough. I suppose his only issue might be that he’s black, and lots of humans don’t take to black dogs.”

  “Yes. They’re weird like that, aren’t they? Humans.” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two thought back to the humans he had known. Some kind, some not so. “But he has a chance, given how very young he is.”

  Pippin nodded and lay her head between her paws. “Someone will come for you too, my friend,” she cooed, but Ee-ex-ten-eight-two could only drop his head sadly and hide his eyes.

  “No. The one who loved me has gone from this life. There will never be another.”

  “Speak to none other than me.”

  That’s what she’d said. It had no meaning for him. It didn’t occur to him to speak to anybody. He couldn’t speak. He was only a dog after all. Still a puppy at only twelve months old.

  Speaking, or attempting to speak, was not his concern. Old Joe was. He’d tried to jump from the sofa, to get down on the floor beside the old man. He would lick his face. Old Joe would gently laugh and tell him to “Get off, you lunatic!”. Then he would struggle to his feet and pick up the broken crockery while Toby licked up the spilt tea and milk.

  Together they would make everything right again.

  There would be more milk in the fridge. More tea in the cupboard. They might have to buy a new teapot though.

  Old Joe would apologise to the lady. The pointy lady. He would say sorry for being a clumsy old man and offer to make her another cup of tea.

  But none of that happened.

  The Pointy Woman had asked Toby, “Do you understand?”

  Fear gripped him in a way that he’d never experienced before. “Yes! Yes!” he had yowled. The sounds had been strange, coming from his own throat in that way. Not a bark. Not a growl, but actual words.

  The woman had emitted a high-pitched wheeze—some expression of amusement—before turning her attention back to Old Joe. He lay on the worn rug beside the coffee table, his face the colour of sour milk, his chest shuddering in pain. His eyelids fluttered, and he made quiet moaning sounds, little gasps for breath.

  The Pointy Woman tutted. “Oh Joe,” she said. “Such a sad state of affairs. I bet now you wish you’d never messed with us?”

  Joe tried to speak but she leaned over him and placed one brightly coloured fingernail to his pale lips. “Too late now, Joseph. Much too late.”

  She tapped his forehead. Softly. Once, twice, three times. “Begone,” she whispered. His chin lifted, his eyes rolled back, all movement ceased, and he stopped producing any sounds. The woman seemed satisfied. “Journey well, old man,” she said and stood.

  With her back to Toby, who shivered alone on the sofa, she reached up to the mantelpiece. Toby heard rather than saw her open the glass door of the carriage clock. He listened as her fingers scrabbled inside, heard the chink of something brittle touching the glass.

  “You made it all too easy, Joseph,” she lamented, and without looking back at Toby, stepped over the body of the old man and bent to retrieve her handbag. She swooshed out of the room, all luminous skirts and heady perfume, her feet clicking along the hallway in the direction of the front door.

  Toby took the opportunity to leap from the sofa and rush to Old Joe’s side. “Old Joe! Old Joe?” he called.

  The man’s eyes were open, but they gazed sightlessly at the ceiling. Toby nuzzled against Joe’s hand and succeeded in lifting it, as he had on so many dozens of occasions previously. But now, when he freed his head, the hand fell back into place, didn’t smooth Toby’s fur or cup his face, didn’t scratch his head or tickle his ears.

  “Old Joe!” Toby cried.

  The sound of the woman’s heels clicking on the tiled floor of the hall alerted Toby to The Pointy Woman’s return. He cowered as she reached down to him.

  “I need this like I need a hole in the head today,” she growled. “Stop making so much noise.”

  She tangled her fingers in Toby’s collar. In turn, he twisted and wriggled, strong despite his size. He snapped at her, eyes blazing. “What have you done to Old Joe?”

  The Pointy Woman shook Toby so hard that his teeth rattled. “I’ve put him out of his misery, which is exactly what I’m going to do to you if you keep causing such a stink! People will hear—”

  The front doorbell rang, the tinny sound echoing along the hallway. Both The Pointy Woman and Toby froze in place.

  “Mr Silverwind? Mr Silverwind?” A woman’s voice called through the letterbox, rapidly followed by a thump on the door. “Are you alright, Mr Silverwind?”

  “Who’s that disturbing us?” The Pointy Woman hissed into Toby’s ear. “Speak!” she demanded when he merely shrank away from her.

  “Mrs Crouch. She lives next door.”

  “Agh!” The woman stamped her foot. “This is your fault. I should have been out of here by now. I would have been if you hadn’t been making such a commotion.” She twisted Toby’s collar tightly with one hand and raised the other in front of his nose. “Bite me,” she demanded.

  Toby yelped and tried to turn away. Bite her? He wouldn’t. Could never do such a thing.

  “Bite me!”

  “No!” Toby rolled away, desperate for escape, and she almost lost her grip. The banging on the front door had increased.

  Mrs Crouch sounded increasingly alarmed. “Toby? Mr Silverwind? I’m going to call the police unless you answer me.”

  Toby barked. Loudly. Hysterically. Attempting to alert Mrs Crouch to the horror unfolding inside.

  “Oh, my spellbound hound. What a fool you are.” She lifted her spare hand once more and wiggled the fingers in front of him, quietly intoning the words: “Once bitten twice shy, puncture my skin, and live a lie… To triumph in this bitter fight, allow this witch to claw and bite!”

  Toby turned reluctant eyes on the woman’s hand, but quickly drew back in horror, observing as wounds began puncturing the skin on the top of the hand. These small holes were then magically torn and slashed, as though an invisible dog had grasped her around the thumb and sunk its teeth into the skin, and violently thrashed its head. Blood bubbled to the surface and began to spill from the wounds.

  “Oh,” The Pointy Woman called weakly. “What have you done to me, you wretched creature?” She smirked at him before raising her voice and beginning to screech in the direction of the front door and the neighbour outside.

  “Call the police. This dog is out of control!”

  Ee-ex-ten-eight-two shuddered and twitched in his sleep, hearing the woman’s voice over and over again. The sound of a police siren, heading towards him out of the distance, finally jolted him awake. He sat up, blinking and swallowing, unsure whether the wailing had followed him out of his dream or actually existed in the here-and-now.

  “Are you alright?” Pippin’s soft voice drifted out of the darkness. Around them, a few other dogs stirred, but swiftly settled down once more. The puppy on the other side of Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s partition slept soundly. Miss Phoebe snored loudly. Nothing bar a nuclear explosion would wake her.

  The flash of red and blue across the walls confirmed to Ee-ex-ten-eight-two that the siren belonged to a vehicle travelling along the road outside. He relaxed a little.

  “You were talking in your sleep,” Pippin told him.

  “Just bad dreams, that’s all.”

  “Certainly sounded that way.” Pippin settled down again, but after a moment lifted her head. “Do you actually want to get out of here?”

  Toby frowned. His thick eyebrows knitting together. Under normal circumstances this might have looked quite comical. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because I’ve noticed when the humans come in, the ones that want to adopt us, you hide from them. I find that strange. You’re a good-looking dog. You’re young. You�
�re no shrinking violet.”

  “So?” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two growled a warning. Pippin could do with minding her own business.

  Pippin would not be put off. “So, maybe you have a death wish. Maybe you’re happy to stay here until your six months is up. And it must be soon. Am I right?”

  Toby declined to answer.

  Unperturbed, Pippin continued. “Maybe you’re going to walk along the kennel run, trot obediently, straight into Vet Ravi’s waiting arms and embrace The Big Sleep. Maybe you are going to die without even trying to live.”

  “You don’t know anything.” Dogs don’t cry tears, but Ee-ex-ten-eight-two had to stifle a lonely whine.

  Pippin wrinkled her fluffy cream nose. “You’re right. I don’t. But I hear you every night. The things you say. I know what happened to you. I watch you suffer through your nightmares. I listen to you call out for your human and I know he isn’t coming back.”

  “Don’t talk about him,” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two snapped. “He’s mine. My memory.”

  “I know he is,” Pippin used her patient voice. “But he isn’t coming back. You have to understand that.” She cocked her head and gave him a quizzical look. “Tell me. Would your Old Joe have wanted you to carry on without him?”

  “Don’t say his name!”

  Pippin carried on regardless, in her stride now. “Would Old Joe have thought you were a good boy or a bad boy?”

  “Stop it!” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two’s yelp woke some of the other dogs and there were a few answering growls.

  “Would Old Joe have loved you regardless of what you did?”

  “That’s none of your business!” Ee-ex-ten-eight-two sprang to his feet and snarled into the wire partition between him and Pippin.

  For her part, Pippin didn’t even flinch. She regarded him coolly, eyes shining in the subdued light. “I think Old Joe would have wanted you to live forever,” Pippin told him. “You owe it to him to live the best life you can for all the time that is available to you.”