Ain't Nothing but a Pound Dog Page 4

  “Stop that,” snapped Pippin, and when Toby didn’t immediately do as she’d ordered, she snarled at him, a ferocious glint in her eye. “That’s enough!”

  Toby stopped and rolled frightened eyes at her. Maybe this was it. His time was up. Perhaps Old Joe had started to call to him so they could walk together forever in the afterlife.

  “I have a plan,” Pippin said, and smiled her pretty impish smile.

  They say that the simplest plans are the best, and Pippin had explained to Toby that this philosophy had worked for her many times over the past year or two.

  Toby nodded miserably. Not only were his guts in tatters, thanks to an aggressive attack of nerves, but he had started to worry about what would happen to Troot in his absence.

  “Miss Phoebe and I will take care of him, I promise,” Pippin told him, her face solemn.

  “You should be coming with me,” Toby argued, but Pippin shook her head.

  “If I were to tag along, which I suppose would be feasible, then we would have to find a way to take Troot with us too.” Pippin glanced down the run of pens to where Miss Phoebe was nibbling daintily on her feet. “And if the three of us hot-footed it out of here, Miss Phoebe would want to come too.”

  “She couldn’t come. We wouldn’t let her.” Toby shook his head, aghast at the idea. “She needs to wait here for her proper human. They shouldn’t be much longer surely?”

  “Well precisely.” Pippin sniffed. “That’s why I’m staying too. If you go alone then you stand more chance of making it out of here without being caught.”

  The kennels were strangely quiet; most of the dogs knew something was afoot. Or a paw. All they could do was bide their time.

  Toby took a deep breath. One way or another, he had entered the last hour or so at the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary. If he didn’t get out in the next sixty minutes, only the vet stood between him and a meeting with Old Joe beyond Rainbow Bridge.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” he said abruptly, but Pippin poo-pooed his thanks.

  “Oh tosh. I’d have done this for anyone.”

  “I mean thanks for everything. For being my best friend these past few weeks. I never had a canine confidante before.”

  “It’s been my pleasure.” Pippin smiled and stretched, limbering herself up for what lay ahead. “Seriously.”

  “I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you again, ever.” Toby’s stomach rolled again. He had neglected his breakfast, and now, given the turmoil in his guts, was thankful for that at least.

  “Never say never, remember?”

  Toby nodded. “Never say never,” he repeated.

  Toby watched carefully as Selma began her rounds. She had a routine that she carried out every afternoon just after lunch, in the slither of time available to her before the visiting sessions began. She usually began her shift at one in the afternoon and worked till seven. It had become her habit to enter every pen and refresh the water and clean up any toileting mishaps before the visitors were allowed in at two.

  Clever Pippin, ever watchful, had observed Selma do this five days a week, for the past six or so weeks that she’d been incarcerated next door to Toby. In a complex game of Chinese whispers, Pippin had alerted the dogs in the kennels to Toby’s predicament and her plan. As one, the dogs had agreed to help her out—although the labradoodle in the pen next door to King had a touch of dementia and it had taken a great deal of excitable explanation from Miss Phoebe to get him to understand what he needed to do—and now they set about performing their roles to perfection.

  Selma, therefore, entered the kennel run to several toileting accidents, upset water bowls, and numerous shredded blankets.

  “What on earth?” she asked. In her long experience dogs liked to keep their sleeping spaces clean, so she found it surprising to stumble on this level of mess. She stood poised halfway down the run, a broom in one hand and a gallon container of fresh water in the other. “Are you guys alright?” She sniffed the air and grimaced. “I need to have a word with Ravi. There must be something in the food,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “I’d better let him know.”

  Pippin had been counting on the fact that Selma would clean the kennels by herself. Selma was a loving woman who took immense pride in her work. She adored her charges, treating them as well as she could in the circumstances. It didn’t pay to get too attached to them of course, there were far too many goodbyes in her line of work, but still the dogs came to see her as their human mother while they resided at the Sunshine Valley Pet Sanctuary.

  Selma had an hour to get around the dozen kennels. She never varied the way she did it. She would begin with the front left-hand side near the main door and complete that line of six. Once they’d been freshened up, she would cross the run and start with Pippin, before working her way back towards the main kennel door where the German Shepherd finally received attention.

  For Pippin it was all a matter of timing.

  Selma worked quickly and efficiently to clean each pen, mindful of the time, and slightly distracted by the fact that King, who in all his time at the kennels had never made any sort of mess at all, had created the worst mess by far. He’d ripped his blanket to shreds and had done such an impressive job of it, there was nothing left but threads. Selma knew his pen would be a complete nuisance to sweep up.

  Pippin remained alert and watchful, but lay low in her bed observing Selma as she cleaned out her pen. Selma didn’t seem to notice that Pippin had nothing to say to her this afternoon, that she neglected to come close and nuzzle her, that she had no interest in the treats that Selma left for her.

  Toby’s pen came next.

  He’d upset his water bowl, so this meant the floor of his pen required mopping, and his blanket had somehow fallen into the puddle and therefore needed changing. As Selma manhandled the mop into the pen, she reached down to pick up the blanket.

  At that moment, Pippin set up a yowl that would have frozen the blood of the iciest of animal haters.

  Selma dropped the broom handle and left the sodden blanket where it was.

  “Oh my goodness!” She shrieked in shock. “What’s the matter?”

  Pippin flopped over on to her side, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth like a yard of stair carpet. That was more than enough for Selma. Convinced Pippin was somehow mortally wounded or terminally ill, she hurried to the pillar and rang the bell that alerted reception to the fact that she needed help, before dashing back into Pippin’s pen and crouching next to her.

  Toby seized his moment, darting through his open gate and running at full speed to the main door. The manager, alerted by Selma’s bell, opened the main entrance to the kennel run to find out what the emergency was. As the door opened, Toby didn’t think twice. With no time to even look back, trusting that he’d said all the goodbyes he needed to say, he dodged between the manager’s legs and made a break for the reception area.

  The next few moments were the most fraught. If he could be caught, it would happen here. Pippin hadn’t been able to anticipate what would materialise in reception, which doors would be closed, and which would be open, but miracle of miracles, visitors were beginning to arrive.

  The manager, as Pippin had predicted, gave chase. “Come back here!” she yelled. “Hey!”

  As if he intended to do that.

  Seeing the visitors coming through the glass door in reception, Toby sped up. The manager shrieked more loudly. “Loose dog! Close the door! Close the door!”

  Toby hurtled straight for the knees of these newly arriving humans. Perhaps they didn’t understand English, they couldn’t perceive the urgency of the situation, or maybe it was simply that they were unaccustomed to dog behaviour, but nobody reacted to the manager’s urgent command at all. Instead, anxious to avoid a dog with a rock-hard skull heading straight at them, they shuffled sideways… leaving Toby a clear passage.

  With one final push, Toby dug his back paws into the floor and leapt clear over the threshol
d of the reception’s main entrance. He soared through the air for what seemed like forever, before landing neatly on his front feet on tarmac, scattering small stones to the left and right.

  He’d forgotten the layout of the small car park, if he’d ever really noticed it before—he’d only been here once after all, when he’d arrived. It stretched in an ‘L’ shape from the front and around the side. There were half a dozen cars parked here. With no prior knowledge, and no map in his head, every movement he made now seemed purely instinctual. He didn’t even pause to consider what to do. Pippin had told him repeatedly not to stop for any reason at all. He dodged quickly between the cars and spotted the main gates. These thankfully stood ajar, to allow visitors easy access in and out of the kennels.

  He ran for the wide-open space between the gate posts and the freedom beyond. A vehicle turned in towards him, giving him a scare. Committed to his speed and unsure how he could avoid a collision, his heart thudded in his chest. Fortunately, the driver spotted him at the last minute and slammed on her brakes. The car squealed to a stop, but Toby didn’t have time to give it so much as a second glance. He performed a quick double step and then jumped clear.

  And that was it!

  The kennels were now behind him and he was out in the open, running like the wind, putting as much distance between himself and Sun Valley Pet Sanctuary as possible.

  Pippin had told him to run until his lungs were bursting and so that’s what he did. He left the commotion of shouting people far behind, dodging humans and other dogs on the pavement, gliding past cyclists. On and on and on and on until he thought he would never be able to catch his breath again. He would collapse unless he stopped.

  Forced to pull up, he took shelter beneath a covered bus stop, his sides heaving in and out like a pair of antique bellows.

  As he rested there, recovering, adrenaline pumping through his body, and hardly capable of seeing anything except a red haze of exhaustion, a chirpy voice drifted down from above a pair of shapely calves. He gulped air and focused. A woman wearing red leather high heeled shoes.

  “Hello there, sweetheart.” She smelled strongly of imitation lavender mixed with the heady aroma of tabby cat.

  Toby didn’t entirely approve.

  Memories of The Pointy Woman resurfaced. For sure, this woman’s shoes were less remarkable, the heels not as high, and the front of the shoe where her toes lived had a curved edge rather than a sharp one, but still… they made his stomach churn.

  He took three or four steps back and tipped his head back in order to get a better look at her. She smiled down at him, too much make-up. Blonde hair. “Are you lost?” she asked.

  “Kind of.” His chest expanded and contracted as he took rapid breaths. “I lived in this town somewhere. I’m trying to find my home.”

  “Aww!” The woman laughed, a high tinkle of delight. “What a darling. Are you trying to talk to me?”

  Toby curled his lip. “I’m not trying to talk. I am talking.” He knew he should be patient with yet another aurally-challenged mortal. “It’s just that you don’t understand me.”

  But maybe, on reflection, that was a good thing. The only person who had ever understood the words he’d spoken had gone on to completely ruin his life.

  “Where’s your owner?” the woman was asking.

  Dead, he could have told her, but having already established that she wouldn’t understand, Toby decided to give it up as a bad job.

  A feeling of desolation washed through Toby. He’d wanted to get away from the kennels, yes, needed to actually. But now the reality of what he’d done—the enormity of it—hit home. Where would he live? Who would help him survive? Old Joe would be long buried by now. Toby had no idea where. He wouldn’t even be able to visit him.

  He guessed he’d have to live by his wits, inhabit the street, slinking around in the shadows, always hoping to remain one step ahead of the dog warden. That didn’t seem like a particularly inviting prospect.

  The woman’s voice had faded into the background. He sniffed the air. Above her almost-fragrant scent, he could discern the stench of the town lying to his left; concrete and brick, idling cars, bins full of decomposing food, more humans than he could imagine. But up ahead, straight across the road, the warm scent of grass, trees and flowers extended an enticing invitation. The combined bouquet reminded him of the park where he’d often walked with Old Joe.

  Could it be the same one?

  He eyed the park gates, their Victorian wrought iron, the impressive curl and swoop of their lines. The style did seem familiar, but he couldn’t be sure how markedly parks differed.

  His breathing had settled, and the tension had eased from his muscles, so now he sat neatly back on his haunches and waved a paw at his new friend. “Nice chatting,” he told her, “but I have to go.”

  Before she could respond, Toby had taken to his heels again. He edged up to the side of the pavement and this time he paid closer attention to the traffic. He only had to get across two lanes, but there were enough vehicles heading towards him that he knew to wait. Old Joe had taught him good road manners, but until today he had always had someone with him to help him navigate his way across these dangerous thoroughfares.

  Toby wagged his tail as he waited patiently. In his head he heard Old Joe tell him to wait. Then they would turn their heads and observe oncoming traffic. Toby did this now. He glanced right. First one car, then a second. Then a third dangerously close to the second. Alright. Now? A long gap, but on re-checking the other way, Toby spotted a motorcycle racing towards him. In the far distance, way behind the bike, a green bus lumbered his way. Barring any further traffic, he would make it across between the bike and the bus.

  The motorcycle roared past him and Toby pointed his nose where he wanted to go, took a deep breath and ran straight across, his little legs paddling through the air and hardly touching the tarmac.

  He leapt onto the pavement on the far side of the road with relief. Another few steps and he burst through into the park grounds. For the first time in nearly six months, his paws sunk into the earth and the fragrance of newly mown grass tantalised his nostrils. He could have wept with relief. Instead he paused where he was, and threw himself to the earth, rolling with the sheer joy of being alive, crushing the grass beneath, covering himself in the scent of something real, something other than the stale fragrance of captive, unhappy dogs and diluted disinfectant.

  Then he was on his feet again. Running, running, faster and faster.

  He passed the skateboard park where the rumble and thunk of kids performing tricks had always rather alarmed him. Past the duck pond, not even pausing to tell the ducks off today. Past the children’s play park, paying no attention to the children who yelled and shouted at each other.

  Oh, he definitely recognised this place.

  Toby slowed down, giving himself time to sniff the park benches, relishing the happy memories of ambling in front of Old Joe as the old man shuffled behind him, content to observe his canine companion sniffing his way along the paths. Together they would greet Old Joe’s friends and neighbours and swap titbits of gossip.

  And beyond the gates… not just freedom… but his home.

  Home!

  Not far now. With a renewed burst of energy, Toby galloped headlong for the exit.

  The house had been closed up for nearly six months. Toby, skidding to a halt outside the low wall that framed the property at the front, had half-expected to see a For Sale sign embedded in the middle of the front lawn but there was nothing. Old Joe’s neat garden had become a tangle of plants and weeds, but the bees at least seemed to appreciate the unkempt nature of it all. They hummed and buzzed, busily visiting the bright flowers that bloomed in abundance on numerous neglected bushes.

  Once upon a time, while he’d kept the old man company as he pottered in the garden tending his beloved displays, Toby would have jumped and snapped at the bees, or chilli-sky-raisins as Old Joe liked to call them. Was that really only las
t summer? Just a year ago?

  Old Joe had loved gardening. The neighbour, Mrs Crouch, had often alluded to Old Joe’s green fingers, but Toby had sought to tell her on more than one occasion that this was quite categorically an untruth. Old Joe’s fingers were a normal human colour. Sometimes in the winter the old man had worn a pair of handknitted forest-green mittens, but whenever he took them off, his hands reverted to their normal pale pink.

  Humans said some odd things, didn’t they?

  The low front gate hung open, down on its hinges and beginning to rust in places. Toby slunk inside to take a closer look at the house. The windows had been boarded up to protect them from anyone who might have taken liberties with the glass. A piece of blue and white police tape fluttered forlornly in the breeze, attached in part to the front door, but the police had long ago finished their enquiries. Toby climbed the two steps to the front door and sniffed around. He could smell the postman, the young lad from the newsagents, and a vagrant—Tommy, the local homeless chap. Tommy had taken shelter here a few times by the scent of it. Old Joe wouldn’t have minded that. He might even have invited him in over the winter from time to time and offered him the chance to warm up and enjoy a bowl of Old Joe’s homecooked pea and ham soup.

  Toby lifted his head and sniffed the door handle and the letterbox. The latter had been jammed open by a free local newspaper.

  Who knew what awaited Toby inside?

  The whole front of the house had the air of something a little forgotten and unloved. A loose drainpipe, the faded paint of the front door, sweet wrappers and plastic bottles in the garden. Old Joe would have taken care of all these things and Toby would have been by his side as he did so.

  But not anymore.

  Toby whined; a forlorn sensation of loss lodged heavily in the pit of his stomach.

  If only he could turn back time.

  There could be no entry to the house from the front, but Toby slipped around the side, down the narrow-paved area that ran between Old Joe’s house and the house next door, and made his way through into the back garden.