The Plague Dogs (20 page)

"Well, anyway, after a long time the star dog decided to come back to the earth again and this time he chose the middle of the summer, because he thought it would be nice to roll about on the grass and have a run through the parks, and the gardens of the houses, when all the leaves and flowers were out and smelling so nice. When he arrived it was a hot day and he went down to the nearest river to have a drink. But he found he could smell it from half a mile away and it was awful. When he got up close he found it was full of human shit and crammed with floating, dead fish. There was a wretched water rat making off as fast as he could along the bank and the star dog asked him what had gone wrong, but he only said he didn't know.

"After some time the star dog came upon a crowd of men who were all shouting at each other and holding some sort of meeting, so he asked them if they knew what had happened in the river, and how all the fish had come to die in poisoned water.

" 'We're the sewage workers,' said one of them, 'and we're not going to do any more work until our demands are met. It's a very serious business, too—do you realise we're so short of money that we haven't got any for gambling or smoking or getting drunk?'

" 'My fish are all dead,' said the star dog.

" 'What the hell's it matter about a lot of bloody fish?' said one of the men.

'We know our rights and we mean to have them.'

"This time the star dog told all the men he met that if he found them once more wilfully misunderstanding of taking no notice of what he'd said, he wouldn't warn them again."

Rowf paused.

"Noo what wez at th' bottom o' thet, then?" asked the tod.

"Well, of course, it did go wrong," said Rowf morosely. "I'm not telling it very well, but he came back again. Kiff knew this story, and he said the star dog found the men sticking iron, pointed things into a wretched bull and making it rip the stomachs out of a lot of poor old broken-down horses, and they were laughing at them and pelting them with orange peel while they went limping about. But I think my mother said he found some birds in cages which the men had blinded to make them sing.

They sing to assert themselves, of course, and keep other cock birds away, so as they were blind they kept singing as long as they had any strength, because they couldn't tell whether there were any rival birds about or not. Anyway, whatever it was, the star dog said to the man, 'Because thou hast done this thing, thou art cursed above every beast of the field. They will continue to live their lives as before, without reflection or regret, and I will speak to them in their hearts, in hearing and in scent and instinct and in the bright light of their perception of the moment. But from you I shall turn away for ever, and you will spend the rest of your days wondering what is right and looking for the truth that I shall conceal from you and infuse instead into the lion's leap and the assurance of the rose. You are no longer fit to look after the animals.

Henceforth you shall be subject to injustice, murder and death, like them; and unlike them, you shall be so full of confusion that you shall loathe even your brother's and sister's bodily fluids and excretions. Now get out of my sight.'

"So the man and his mate, with faltering steps and slow, took their solitary way. And ever since that day all the birds and animals have feared man and fled from him; and he exploits them and torments them, and some of them he has actually destroyed for ever from the face of the earth. He bruises us, and those of us who can bruise him. It's a bad world for animals now. They live out of his way, as best they're able. I believe, myself, that the star dog's given it all up as a bad job. He must have, for what good are men to animals?"

"Yon's a fine tale noo," said the tod. "Ay, a reet dazzler, an' yer a grrand hand at tellin' it."

"Yes," said Snitter, "you told it well, Rowf. And you're quite right—I have heard it before. Only you left out one very important bit, which they told me.

When the man was disgraced and told to go away, he was allowed to ask all the animals whether any of them would come with him and share his fortunes and his life. There were only two who agreed to come entirely of their own accord, and they were the dog and the cat. And ever since then, those two have been jealous of each other, and each is for ever trying to make man choose which one he likes best. Every man prefers one or the other."

"Well," said Rowf, "if that is the moral—and I don't believe it is—then I've just had my trouble for nothing. I suppose you can twist a story to mean anything you like. But all I can say again is, no more men for me—"

"If you did find a master, Rowf—I mean, just suppose you did—what would he be like? What would he do?"

"It's a stupid idea."

"Well, but go on—just for fun—just suppose! I mean, suppose you found yourself sort of forced to be with a man who turned out to be—well, you know, decent and good and honest—what would he be like?"

"Well, first of all, he'd have to leave me alone until I was ready—and take no notice even if I barked the place down. If he tried to force himself on me or started messing me about, I'd bite his hand off. And I'd judge him on his voice as well as his smell. He'd have to let me take my own time about smelling him—his hands and his shoes and all that. And if he was any good, he'd be able to tell when I'd begun to feel all right about him and then he'd say, 'Hullo, Rowf, have a bone,' or something like that; and then he'd give me a good one and let me alone to gnaw it while he went on with whatever he was doing. And then I'd lie down on the floor and—oh, what's the use? Snitter, you're just tricking me into making up a lot of rubbish!"

"I'm not—but it only shows you've got some sort of idea at the back of your mind—"

"Isn't it time to go out and hunt yet?" interrupted Rowf. "I'm hungry."

"Why, let's away noo. Yer in gud fettle then? Ducks an' gimmers'll sharp put ye reet, Ah warr'nd."

Monday the 1st November

"Well, Stephen, you'll be delighted to know that your ideas were entirely the right ones." Dr. Boycott seemed positively jovial.

"Sorry, chief, which ones were those?"

"About the dogs."

"The smoking autopsies? Well, if we—"

"No, no, no—the dogs that got out. Seven-three-two and that other one of Fortescue's."

"Oh, those, chief. But as far as I remember the only idea I had was that we should say nothing at all about them."

"Yes, and you stuck to it very sensibly. And the—"

"But—excuse me, chief—what do I say to this Mr. Williamson when we ring him back?"

"I'm coming to that. I was saying, the Director thinks yours is entirely the right line. So all you have to do now is telephone Mr. Williamson and tell him."

"What, tell him the dogs are ours and we're not going to do anything?"

"Good gracious, no! After all, how do we know that the dogs are ours? You don't know, and neither do I; it's only a guess. And from what you tell me, there may not even be any dogs at all. No one seems actually to have seen them. No, you simply tell Wiliamson that we have nothing to say in reply to his question."

"But—but I mean, won't he think that's very suspicious?"

"He may, but he's just as likely to be wrong as right. The sheep-killings may stop of their own accord. If they are in fact due to a dog or dogs, they may get themselves shot and turn out not to be ours. Even if they are ours, they may not be traceable to us, if Tyson's got any sense. They may have worried their collars off by now. The Director thinks it's unlikely that anything embarrassing could be laid at our door, and more than unlikely that any of these farmers could or would sue us. They're much more likely to claim their insurance and let it go at that. Whereas if we stand in a white sheet, start admitting liability and try to take some sort of step towards helping in a search, we shall only attract adverse publicity and put Animal Research in the wrong when it may be nothing of the kind. Besides, if we were to incur any expenditure in that way, how would we justify it at audit?"

"But what about Tyson, chief? He may already have spilled too many beans outside for us to be able to take the line that we haven't lost any dogs."

"We're not taking that line, Mr. Stephen, my good sir. We're simply saying we've nothing to say.

Let them take it from there. I've already had a word with Tyson—pointed out to him that the most he can truthfully say if he's asked is that two pens were found empty. I stressed that it would be quite unjustified on his part to put two and two together and make five, and that the Director would be most upset to think that anything of the kind was being said. Most upset, I said. I think he got that message all right."

"Nudge nudge wink wink say no more, eh? But is that quite fair to Williamson?"

"My dear chap, we're under no more obligation to stand and answer Williamson's questions than any private person would be. If he thinks evil, let him prove evil—if he can. I repeat, it's all very unlikely to come to anything."

"I just don't particularly fancy ringing him back, that's all."

"Well, in this place we all have to do things we don't like sometimes, don't we? Even the animals, ha ha. Anyway, cheer up. You'll be pleased to hear about the dogfish. The colour-plate tests on the eyeless ones show—"

"Williamson sounded hellish angry," said Mr. Furse, the assistant editor of the Lakeland News, downing the last of his second pint. "In fact, I couldn't really get an awful lot of sense out of him, for that reason."

"Well, wouldn't you be?" replied Mr. Weldyke, the editor. "What's his damage— three sheep, did you tell me, and a chicken pen smashed in or something? Oh, nice of you to come over, Jane. Two pints as before, please."

"Ay, but I mean he doosn't have to take it out on me, now, dooz he?"

"V shouldn't be standing in the road, should you?" said the editor. "Anyway, what's your notion

—are you going to do a piece on it?"

"Short piece, ay, might as well. 'Mysterious sheep losses in Dunnerd—you know the sort of thing. Thanks, Jane. Cheers, Mike! But it'll all blow over. Happen fella whose dog it is knows very well already; and he's keeping his mouth shut. If it goes on, he'll maybe go out himself one night by moonlight, find it and get rid of it—shoot it himself, as like as not, and no one the wiser."

"But you said Williamson was accusing the Animal Research place at Coniston. Did you ask them about it?"

"Oh, ay—rang 'em up. They'd nothing to say at all. 'No comment.' Just what I'd say in their position. I can't see much point in pushing any harder where they're concerned, can you? I mean, God knows what they have to do to all those poor brutes up there. I know it's in a good cause; you've got to have science and progress; but I mean they very probably don't know from day to day what's dead and what's dying and just how many they have got. You can bet your boots the N. F. U. wouldn't want them pushed around—they must be far too useful to farmers in general. So it follows that we don't, doesn't it? Ours is a farming area and our readers are farmers."

"Ee—yes, I can see that," replied the editor reflectively, looking out at the men striding like scissors down Market Street to get out of the rain. "So we cover it without mentioning the research station, right? N. F. U. or no N. F. U., farmers are entitled to expect this sort of thing to be covered in their local paper. If there is a dog gone feral, playing merry hell in Dunnerd or Lickledale or somewhere, we ought to find out as much as we can and print it, if only so that local chaps can get together and organise a hunt with guns if they think it's worth while."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Nice to see you. How are you?"

Mr. Weldyke and Mr. Furse looked up to encounter the smile of a dark, very much dressed man of about forty-five, who affably waved a hand beringed with two large stones set in gold. (His other was holding a double whisky.) "I couldn't help hearing what you were saying," said this gentleman ingratiatingly. "We haven't actually met, but you'll remember my name, business-wise—it's Ephraim, manager of the Kendal branch of Suitable Suits. You've kindly printed a lot of our advertising, of course, as you'll recall."

"Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Ephraim," said Mr. Weldyke, his gaze, as it returned for a few moments to his pint, encountering en passant a dove-grey waistcoat adorned with mother-of-pearl buttons and a thin, long-and-short-linked gold watch-chain. "Nice to meet you. Are you going to join us?" He drew back a chair and as he did so his eye caught Mr. Purse's for the briefest of moments. That eye said, "I don't have to tell you that local newspapers never disoblige their regular advertisers."

"Well, thanks, if I may. Only for a moment."

"We've just slipped out for a jar and a snack. It's my round—that's whisky you're drinking, isn't it? Good. And can I get you a pork—" (Mr. Furse kicked him under the table.) "I mean, they have some good chicken sandwiches, or there's hot Scotch eggs in that glass thing there, if you prefer."

"No, no, thanks, I've had lunch. I'll only stay for a quick one with you." As Mr. Furse departed from the bay-window table to attract Jane's attention once more, Mr. Ephraim went on, "It was just an idea that occurred to me, Mr. Weldyke, for a little stroke of business—business with benefit to the community, one hopes, and perhaps a bit of sport as well. As I said, I couldn't help hearing what you were saying about the wild dog down Dunnerdale way and how the farmers might be wanting" to organise a hunt. Now my idea is this. By the way, is it quite convenient to put this before you now?

Have you time?"

"Oh, yes, certainly, Mr. Ephraim. We should be most interested to hear your idea."

"Ah, you're back quickly, Mr. Furse. Easy to see you're a favoured customer, eh?"

"Oh, me and Mike here practically support th' place. Cheers!"

"Good health! Success to journalism! Well, now, we're anxious to expand business a bit in that western area—you know, get some fresh custom, let the locals know who we are and all that. Of course, I know hill-farmers aren't millionaires, but even they're spending a good deal more on clothes than they used to and we feel there's a potential. Affluent society, you know, and all that. What I feel we've got to do is meet the country farmer half-way—show him we're offering value for money and nothing up our sleeves—let him see we're human, you know. So—tell you what I'll do! Suppose we were to organise this dog hunt—with your help on the publicity side, of course. Just thinking aloud, we'd provide six—well, say five cartridges for every man taking part, and offer each gun, up to twenty, his choice of either two hard-wearing shirts or a pair of good, serviceable trousers. And then for the one who actually kills the dog—have to think how we're going to be sure he's killed the right one, of course