Tea and Dog Biscuits (19 page)

It was as if he had just woken up.

I went back to Dorothy. ‘Perhaps he just doesn't know what to do after all these years,' I said. ‘He might have lost his confidence. Another dog might help – show him what to do. Shall I go and get Friend?'

Dorothy had been gazing at the dog, deep in thought. She turned to me. ‘You can try it,' she said, but her tone of voice did not sound as if she was convinced.

I fetched Friend and he trotted happily over to Oscar. With his long legs Oscar towered over Friend and it struck me how spindly Friend still looked in spite of his weight gain.

‘I've realised what a striking dog he is,' said Mrs Cadbury. ‘He is a German Shepherd, is he? They don't look like that normally, do they?'

‘I think he may be a cross,' said Dorothy. ‘He's fine-boned for a Shepherd and very tall, but he's got a Shepherd's ears.'

That bloomin' man says he's a pedigree,' said Mrs Cadbury. ‘He bought him from a breeder for his son's birthday but he soon lost interest in the dog – kids do, don't they. They used to have a rabbit as well – they never looked after that.'

‘And you say he's been shut in the pen eight years,' said Dorothy.

‘No – I've seen him in there ever since I've lived there and
that's
eight years. The man said he lived in the house until he was six months and then they put him in the pen.'

‘Oh, for goodness sake,' said Dorothy. ‘However long has the dog been in the pen?'

‘The man's son worked it out from his birthday, he's been in there eleven years and two months.'

I felt the need to stroke a dog and knelt down to run my hand slowly along Friend's side.

‘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.'

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 and 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.