Fluke

Twelve

How do you feel now? Is your mind still closed to my story, or are you wondering? Let me go on; there’s a few hours before dawn.

My journey to Edenbridge was a long one, but strangely I knew the way as if I’d travelled that route many times before. When the town had been mentioned in the yard it had evidently planted a seed in my mind, and it was a seed that suddenly grew and sprouted. I wasn’t sure what the town meant to me, whether it was where my home was or if it had some other significance, but I knew it was the place to go, the place to start from. What other alternative had I anyway?

I must have run for at least an hour, narrowly avoiding being run down by uncaring traffic more than once, before I reached a piece of waste ground where I was able to grieve for my lost friend in private. Creeping under a dumped sofa, its stuffing more out than in, I sank to the ground, resting my head between my paws. I could still see that trickle of blood running from beneath the rusted metal, forming a pool in a small dip in the earth and creating a miniature whirlpool, a vortex of Rumbo’s life. Animals can feel grief just as deeply as any human, perhaps more so; they have limited ways of expressing their sorrow, though and their natural optimism usually enables recovery more quickly, there’s the difference. Unfortunately, I suffered both as a human and an animal, and it was heavy stuff.

I stayed there until long into the afternoon, afraid and bewildered once again. Only my loyal companion, hunger, roused me into movement. I forget from where I scrounged food, just as I have forgotten a great deal of that long journey, but I know I did eat and was soon moving onwards. I travelled by night through the city, preferring the empty quietness of the streets, the activity of the day making way for the quiet prowlings of night creatures. I met many prowlers — cats, other dogs, spirits (so many in the streets of the city) and strange men who flitted in and out of the shadows as though light or open spaces would harm their bodies — but I avoided communication with any of them. I had a purpose and would allow nothing to distract me from it.

Through Camberwell, through Lewisham, through Bromley I went, resting during the day, hiding in derelict houses, parks or on waste ground — anywhere away from inquisitive eyes. I ate badly, for I took few risks; I didn’t want to be sent back to a home, you see, not now I had an objective. I had become timid again now that Rumbo wasn’t there to spur me on, to chastise me when I cowered, to threaten me when I balked and to laugh when I surprised him.

Soon I reached open country.

It rolled out before me, green and fresh under the gentle beginnings of spring. It wasn’t true countryside yet, for I was only just outside the London suburbs, but after the blacks and the greys and the browns and the reds and the garishness of everything in the city, it seemed like passing through a barrier to where nature governed, and human influence played only a minor part. I was no longer afraid to travel by daylight.

The sudden strength of growing things thrilled me. Fresh green shoots thrust their way through the earth to breathe in fresh air, bulbs and tubers were sprouting and buds were breaking open on broad-leaved trees. Everywhere things were stirring, new life was being created. A vibrancy filled the air, filled my lungs and filled my limbs with its tingling life. The greens and yellows were newer, more dazzling, and the reds and oranges glowed with fire, sending out waves of energy. Everything glistened, everything shone with wetness. Everything was firm, vigorous, even the most delicate flower. It put new life into me.

I scrambled through a hedge running alongside the road, ignoring the scratchy protest of the thorny hawthorn and prickly dogrose. Two startled wrens screeched and froze as I brushed by their small huddled forms. A group of bright yellow stars flashed before me as I wormed my way through lesser celandine, plants which are the first in the queue for spring regeneration. I burst through into a field and ran like mad through its dewy wetness, twisting and rolling on to my back until my whole coat was soaked. I sucked at the grass, drinking the pure water from them, and dug holes in the soft earth to see what I could find. Beetles scuttled away from my inquisitive nose and a mole turned a blind eye. An eight-inch-long keeled slug curled its slick grey body into a ball as I sniffed at him and I quickly spat him from my mouth after a tentative taste. Cooked snails might be a delicacy for many, but raw slug isn’t even fit for a dog.

My appetite soon returned, however, and I began to explore the field in search of food. I was lucky enough to find a young rabbit nibbling at the bark of a tree and unlucky enough to be unable to catch him. I cursed his speed then wondered if I could have killed the rabbit even had I caught up with him. I’d never killed for food before.

Fortunately, I found some late winter fungus among a group of trees and devoured the upturned yellow caps and stalks with relish, somehow aware that the mushrooms were not poisonous. Was this animal instinct or had I some human knowledge of fungi? The question bothered me for only a second or so, for a sleepy wood-mouse shuffled lazily between my legs, his black little eyes searching the ground for snails. I felt no urge to eat or fight him, but I did give his reddish-brown back a playful tap with my paw. He stopped, looked up at me, then ambled on at the same pace, ignoring me totally. I watched him go then decided it was time to move on myself, the diversion pleasant enough but hardly profitable as far as self-discovery was concerned. I raced back across the field, scrambled through the hedge, and set off down the road again.

It wasn’t long before I found myself back among shops and houses, but I kept on, pausing only once to steal an apple from a splendid display outside a fruiterer’s. The road became more and more familiar to me now that the complications of the city streets were far behind, and I knew it was a route I must have taken many times before.

By the time I’d reached Keston my pads were very sore, but I kept going until I reached a small place called Leaves Green. There I rested through the cold night in a small wood, nervous of the country night noises, my unease finally driving me to seek shelter in somebody’s front garden. I felt more comfortable being in range of human contact.

I didn’t eat much the following day, but I won’t bore you with the various misadventures that befell me in my search for sustenance; suffice to say, by the time I reached Westerham, I’d have bitten the leg off a cow.

It was at Westerham that a nasty experience was awaiting me. And this I must tell you about.

Thirteen

Church bells woke me. They had a strident Sunday morning sound that sent my thoughts racing back to other times — human times.

Awareness of my present plight dismissed the memories before they gathered pace and I stretched my aching limbs, wincing at the tenderness of my foot-pads as I pushed them against the ground. A bus shelter had been my refuge for the night, but the early morning chill had crept into my bones and seemed reluctant to leave. I yawned and my stomach grumbled for nourishment. Glancing around, I saw there were no shops in the immediate vicinity, so I trotted gingerly along the street keeping my nose high in the air, acutely receptive for the faintest waft of food smells. I soon found myself in the High Street and to my dismay realised it was indeed Sunday, for all the shops — apart from a couple of newsagents — were closed. It was a pretty dismal dog who stood shivering by the kerbside, looking first left then right, undecided, unwanted and unfed.

It was the pealing bells that gave me the idea. Small groups of people were walking briskly towards the sound, clad in Sunday best, a brightness about them that would wear off as the day wore on. Children held hands with parents or skipped along ahead of them; grannies clutched at the elbows of middle-aged offspring; sombre husbands walked stiffly alongside beaming wives. There was a fresh friendly feeling in the air, the beginning of spring enhancing the Sunday morning ritual, encouraging goodwill to all men. And maybe dogs, too.

I followed the people to their church. It was on a hill, half hidden away from the road by a screen of trees, its entrance reached by a gravelly path winding through a surrounding graveyard. A few of the people clucked their tongues at me or gave me a friendly pat as they passed by, but soon they had all disappeared into the cold, grey-stoned building. I settled down on a flat gravestone to wait.

I enjoyed the muted singing that came from the church immensely, occasionally joining in at the bits I knew. The service seemed to go on forever, and I soon became bored with the long stretches of silence between hymns so I began to explore the churchyard and was surprised at the thriving animal and insect life in this place of the dead. The unmistakable sound of the congregation rising as one body inside the church drew me away from my fascinating study of a rainbow-coloured spider’s web, and I trotted back round to the enormous doorway, keeping to the damp grass which was so cool to my sore pads. I waited to one side of the porch and soon the flock came pouring out, some looking uplifted, others looking relieved now that their weekly duty was done. It was one of the uplifted members I wanted.

I soon spotted her: a little old lady, probably in her mid-sixties, round-faced, smiling constantly, knowing and known by everybody, it seemed. All lace and kindness. Perfect.

She spent several minutes chatting to the vicar, occasionally breaking off from her conversation to call hello to a passing acquaintance, giving them a little blessing with her white-gloved hand. I waited patiently until she’d ended her dialogue with the cleric then followed her as she made her way through the remaining gossiping cliques. Smiling sweetly and stopping to chat to every third or fourth person she finally drew clear of the throng and strode spritely down the gravel path. I followed, keeping a few yards behind, not ready to make my move while she still had so many distractions. We reached the road and she turned left, climbing further up the steep hill and away from the town.

‘Good morning, Miss Birdie!’ the people we passed called out, and she acknowledged them with a cheery wave.

Now’s the time, I thought, and scampered up ahead of her. I stopped four yards ahead, turned to face her and gave her my sweetest smile.

‘Woof,’ I said.

Miss Birdie threw her hands up in surprise and beamed with delight. ‘What a pretty dog!’ she exclaimed and I wagged my rump with pride. She advanced on me and clasped my head between white-gloved hands.

‘Oh, what a lovely boy!’ She rubbed my back and I tried to lick her face, congratulating myself on finding another Bella. ‘Yes, yes, he is!’ she went on.

After a few moments of unbridled affection she bade me goodbye and strode on, waving at me as she went. I bounded after her and tried to leap into her arms, slobbering and grinning and desperately trying to fawn my way into her heart and charity. I admit it: I had no shame.

Miss Birdie gently pushed me down then patted my head. ‘Off you go, now, there’s a good dog,’ she said in her kind way.

Sorry Rumbo, but at that point I whimpered.

Not only that, I hung my head, drooped my tail and looked cow-eyed at her. I was pathetic.

It worked, for she suddenly said, ‘Oh my poor dear, you’re starving, that’s what it is! Look at those skinny old ribs.’ My chin almost touched the ground as I hammed up my performance. ‘Come along then, dear, you come with me and we’ll soon put you to rights. Poor little wretch!’

I was in. I tried to lick her face again in glee, but she restrained me with a surprisingly firm hand. I needed no encouragement to follow her, although she seemed to think I did, for she constantly patted her thigh and called out ‘Come along now.’

She had plenty of energy, this charming old lady, and we soon reached a rusty iron gate, behind which was a muddy path leading away from the road. Tangled undergrowth lay on either side of the narrow path and there was a constant rustling of hidden life as we made our way along it. I sniffed the scent of Miss Birdie along this well-used route, not the fresh powdery smell that followed in her wake now, but a staler version of it mingled with the scents of many animals. Now and again I stopped to explore a particularly interesting odour, but her call would send me scampering onwards.

Suddenly we emerged into a clearing and a flint-walled cottage stood before us, its corners, door and window openings reinforced by cut stone. It was a beautiful scene — like walking on to a chocolate box — and in perfect character with Miss Birdie herself. Smug with my own cleverness, I trotted up to the weathered door and waited for Miss Birdie to catch up with me.

She pushed open the door without using a key and beckoned me to enter. In I went and was pleased to find the interior of the cottage matched the quaintness of the exterior. Ancient furniture, worn and comfortable, filled the main room in which I found myself, there being no hallway. Well-cared for ornaments were scattered around the room, one of those interesting dark-wood dressers filled with delicately painted crockery taking up a large part of one wall. I wagged my tail in approval.

‘Now let’s just see if you’ve an address on your collar, then we’ll give you some food, eh?’ Miss Birdie placed her handbag on a chair and leaned forward over me, reaching for the name-plate on my collar. I obligingly sat down, determined not to kill any golden geese through over-exuberance. She peered shortsightedly at the scratched lettering on the nameplate and tutted in mild annoyance at herself.

‘My old eyes are getting worse,’ she told me, and I smiled in sympathy. I would dearly have loved to have told her of my own peculiarly clear eyesight, of the many changing colours I could see in her face, of the blue deepness in her ageing eyes, of the sparkling colours all around us, even in her faded furniture. It was frustrating to have to keep these things to myself, and even Rumbo had been unable to understand my visual sensitivity.

She felt inside her handbag and produced a light-rimmed pair of spectacles and muttered ‘That’s better,’ as she put them on. She still squinted through the lenses but managed to make out the name on the strip of metal.

‘Fluke,’ she said. ‘Fluke. That’s a funny name for a dog. And no address. Some people are very careless, aren’t they? I haven’t seen you around before, I wonder where you’ve come from? Bet you’ve run away, haven’t you? Let me look at your footies… ‘ She lifted a paw. ‘Yes, they’re sore, aren’t they? You’ve come a long way. Been badly treated, haven’t you? Thin as a rake. It isn’t right.’

My hunger was making me a little impatient by now and I whimpered again, just to give her the idea.

‘Yes, yes. I know what you want, don’t I? Something for your tummy?’ It’s a pity people have to talk to animals as though they were children, but I was in a forgiving mood and willing to put up with a lot more than baby-talk. I thumped my tail on the carpet in the hope that she would take that for an affirmative to her question. ‘Course you do,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you something.’

The kitchen was tiny, and lying in a basket on the floor, fast asleep, was Victoria.

Victoria was the meanest, surliest cat I’ve ever come across, either before or since that time. Now these feline creatures are renowned for their tetchiness, for they believe they’re a race apart from other animals and well above you lot, but this monster took the prize. She sat bolt upright, her fur bristling and her tail ramrod-straight. She hissed disgustedly at me.

‘Take it easy, cat,’ I said anxiously. Tm only passing through.’

‘Now you settle down, Victoria,’ said Miss Birdie, equally anxious. ‘This poor doggie is starving. I’m just giving him something to eat, then we’ll send him on his way.’

But it’s no good trying to talk sense to a cat, they just won’t listen. Victoria was out of her basket in a flash, up on to the sink and through the half-open kitchen window.

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Miss Birdie, ‘you’ve upset Victoria now,’ and then this nice old lady gave me a hefty kick in the ribs.

I was so shocked I thought I’d imagined it, but the pain in my side told me otherwise.

‘Now let’s see what we’ve got,’ Miss Birdie said thoughtfully, her index finger in the corner of her mouth as she looked up into the cupboard she’d just opened. It was as though nothing had happened and I wondered again if anything actually had. The throb in my side assured me something had.

I kept a safe distance between us after that and watched her warily when she placed a bowl of chopped liver before me. The food was delicious but marred by my sudden nervousness of the old lady. I just couldn’t understand what had happened. I licked the bowl clean and said thank you, very aware of my manners now. She fondled my ears and chuckled approvingly at the empty bowl.

‘You were hungry, weren’t you?’ she said. ‘I’ll bet you’re thirsty now. Let’s give you some water.’ She filled the same bowl with water and placed it before me again. I lapped it up greedily.

‘Now you come with me and rest those poor weary legs.’ I followed her back into the main room and she patted a hairy rug in front of the unlit fire. ‘Rest there, nice and comfy, and I’ll just light the fire for us. It’s still too cold for my old bones, you know. I like the warm.’ She prattled on as she put a match to the already laid fire, her words soft and comforting. I became confident again, sure that the strange incident which had taken place in the kitchen was merely a slight lapse on her part, caused by the shock of seeing her beloved pet cat leaping through the window. Or maybe she’d slipped. I dozed off as she sat in the armchair before the fire, her words lulling me into a warm feeling of security.

I woke in time for lunch, which wasn’t much, she being an old lady living on her own, but she gave me a good portion of it. The cat returned and was further put out at the sight of me gobbling down food which she felt was rightfully hers. However, Miss Birdie made a big fuss of her, running into the kitchen and returning with an opened tin of catfood. She poured some of it on to a small plate and laid it before the sour-faced mog. With a menacing look at me, Victoria began to eat in that jerky cat fashion, neatly but predatorily, so unlike the clumsy, lip-smacking manner of us dogs. My portion of Miss Birdie’s lunch was soon gone and I casually sauntered over to Victoria to see how she was doing, ready to help her clean her plate, should the need arise. A spiteful hiss warned me off and I decided to sit at Miss Birdie’s feet, my face upturned and carefully composed into an expression of mild begging. A few tasty morsels came my way, so my fawning was not in vain. This disgusted the cat even more, of course, but her sneers didn’t bother me at all.

After Miss Birdie had cleared the table and washed up, we settled in front of the fire once again. Victoria kept an aloof distance and came over to settle on the old lady’s lap only after much enticement. We all dozed, I with my head resting on my benefactor’s slippered feet. I felt warm and content — and more secure than ever before. Perhaps I should stay with this kind old lady and forget my quest, which might just bring me more misery. I could be happy here; the cat would be a mild annoyance but nothing to worry about. I needed some human kindness, I needed to belong to someone. I’d lost a good friend and the world was a big and lonely place for a small mongrel dog. I could always search out my other past at some future time when I learned to live as I was. I could offer Miss Birdie companionship. I could guard her home for her. I could have a permanent meal-ticket.

These thoughts ran through my head as I dozed, and I made the decision that I would stay there for as long as possible — little suspecting what lay in store for me.

Later on, Miss Birdie stirred and began to get ready to go out. ‘Never miss the afternoon service, my dear,’ she told me.

I nodded approvingly, but didn’t stir from my cosy position. I heard the old lady bustling around upstairs for a while, then the clomp of heaving walking shoes as she descended the stairs. She appeared in the doorway, resplendent in white gloves and a dark-blue straw hat. Her suit was pink and her high-necked blouse a bright emerald green. She looked dazzling.

‘Come along, Fluke, time for you to go now,’ she said.

My head shot up. What? Go?

‘What? Go?’ I said.

‘Yes, time for you to go, Fluke. I can’t keep you here, you belong to someone else. They may have looked after you badly, but you do belong to them. I could get into trouble by keeping you here, so I’m afraid you’ve got to leave.’ She shook her head apologetically then, to my dismay, grabbed my collar and dragged my resisting body to the door. For an old lady she was quite strong, and my paws skidded along the wood floor as I tried to hold back. Victoria enjoyed every moment, for I could hear her snickering from her perch on the window-sill.

‘Please let me stay,’ I pleaded. ‘Nobody owns me. I’m all alone.’

It was no use: I found myself outside on the doorstep. Miss Birdie closed the door behind us and marched down the path, calling me to follow. Having no choice, I followed.

At the gate she patted my head and gave me a little push away from her. ‘Off you go now,’ she urged. ‘Home. Good boy, Fluke.’

I wouldn’t budge. After a while she gave up and marched down the hill away from me, looking round twice to make sure I wasn’t following her. I waited patiently until she was out of sight then pushed my way back through the gate and padded down the muddy path to the cottage. Victoria scowled through the window as she saw me coming and shouted at me to go away.

‘Not likely,’ I told her as I squatted on my haunches and prepared to wait for the old lady’s return. ‘I like it here. Why should you have it all to yourself?’

‘Because I was here first,’ Victoria said crossly. ‘You’ve got no right.’

‘Look, there’s plenty for both of us,’ said I, trying to be reasonable. ‘We could be friends.’ I shivered at the thought of being friends with this miserable specimen but was prepared to ingratiate myself for the sake of a nice secure home. ‘I wouldn’t get in your way,’ I said in my best toadying voice. ‘You could have first and biggest share of all the food’ (until I was better acquainted with the old lady, I thought). ‘You can have the best place to sleep’ (until I have wormed my way into Miss Birdie’s affections), ‘and you can be the head of the house, I don’t mind’ (until I get you alone some day and show you who the real boss is). ‘Now, what do you say?’

‘Get lost,’ said the cat.

I gave up. She would just have to lump it.

An hour later Miss Birdie returned and when she saw me sitting there she shook her head. I gave her my most appealing smile.

‘You are a bad boy,’ she scolded, but there was no anger in her voice.

She let me go into the cottage with her and I made a big fuss of licking her heavily stockinged legs. The taste was horrible, but when I decide to smarm, there are no limits. I was sorry not to have the dignity of Rumbo, but there’s nothing like insecurity to make you humble.

Well, I stayed that night. And the following night. But the third night — that’s when my troubles started all over again.

At nine-thirty in the evening Miss Birdie would turn me out and I would dutifully carry out my toilet; I knew that was expected of me and had no intention of fouling things up (excuse the play on words — couldn’t help it). She would let me back in after a short while and coax me into a small room at the back of the cottage which she used to store all sorts of junk. Most of it was unchewable — old picture frames, a pianoforte, an ancient unconnected gas cooker, that sort of thing. There was just enough room for me to curl up beneath the piano keyboard and here I would spend the night, quite comfortable although a little frightened at first (I cried that first night but was O.K. the second). Miss Birdie would close the door on me to keep me away from Victoria who slept in the kitchen. The cat and I were still not friends and the old lady was well aware of it.

On that third night she neglected to close the door properly; the catch didn’t catch and the door was left open half an inch. It probably wouldn’t have bothered me, but the sound of someone creeping around during the night aroused my curiosity. I’m a light sleeper and the soft pad of feet was enough to disturb me. I crept over to the door and eased it open with my nose; the noise was coming from the kitchen. I guessed it was Victoria mooching around and would have returned to my sleeping-place had not those two agitators, hunger and thirst, begun taunting my greedy belly. A trip to the kitchen might prove profitable.

I crept stealthily from the room and made my way through the tiny hallway into the kitchen. Miss Birdie always left a small lamp burning in the hallway (because she was nervous living on her own, I suppose) and had no trouble finding the kitchen door. It, too, was open.

Pushing my nose round it, I peered into the gloom. Two slanting green eyes startled me.

‘That you, Victoria?’ I asked.

‘Who else would it be?’ came the hissed reply.

I pushed in further. ‘What are you doing?’

‘None of your business. Get back to your room.’

But I saw what she was doing. She had a small wood-mouse trapped between her paws. Her claws were withdrawn so she was obviously playing a fine teasing game with the unfortunate creature. His reddish-brown back was arched in paralytic fear and his tiny black eyes shone with a trance-like glaze. He must have found his way into the cottage in search of food. The absence of house-mice (undoubtedly owing to Victoria’s vigilance) would have encouraged him and he must have been too stupid (or too hungry) to have been aware of the cat’s presence. Anyway, he was well and truly aware of it now, and paying nature’s harsh price for carelessness.

He was too scared to speak so I spoke up for him.

‘What are you going to do with him?’

‘None of your business,’ came the curt reply.

I made my way further into the kitchen and repeated my question. This time a wheezy snarl was the reply.

It’s not in an animal’s nature to have much sympathy for his fellow creatures, but the plight of this defenceless little thing appealed to the other side of my nature; the human side.

‘Let him go, Victoria,’ I said quietly.

‘Sure, after I’ve bitten his head off,’ she said.

And that’s what she tried to do, there and then, just to spite me.

I moved fast and had Victoria’s head between my jaws before she had a chance to dodge. We spun around in the kitchen, the mouse’s head in the cat’s mouth, and the cat’s head in mine.

Victoria was forced to drop the terrified wood-mouse before she had done any real damage and I saw with satisfaction the little creature scurry away into a dark corner and no doubt down a dark hole. Victoria squealed and pulled her head from my jaws, raking my brisket as she did so. I yelped at the stinging pain and lunged for her again — very, very angry now.

Round and round that kitchen we ran, knocking chairs over, crashing against cupboards, shouting and screaming at each other, too far gone with animal rage to concern ourselves with the noise we were making and the damage we were doing. At one point I snapped my teeth round Victoria’s flailing tail and the cat skidded to a forced halt, a scream of surprise escaping her.

She wheeled and drew her sharp claws across my nose and I had to let go, but her tail was now bald near the tip. I sprang forward again and she leapt upwards on to the draining-board, knocking down the pile of crockery left there to dry by Miss Birdie. It came crashing down, shattering into hundreds of pieces on the stone floor. I tried to leap on to the draining-board myself and almost succeeded, but the sight of Victoria diving head-first through a pane in the closed window amazed me so much I lost my concentration and slipped back on to the floor. I’d never seen a cat — or any animal — do that before!

I was still half lying there, perplexed, and a little delighted, I think, when the white-gowned figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. I froze for a second at the apparition, then realised it was only Miss Birdie. Then I froze again.

Her eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. Her white hair hung wildly down to her shoulders and the billowy nightdress she wore crackled with static. Her whole body quivered with a rising fury that threatened to dismantle her frail old body. Her mouth flapped open but coherent words refused to form; she could only make a strange gargling sound. However, she did manage to reach up a trembling hand to the light switch and flick it on. The increased light suddenly made me feel very naked lying there among the smashed crockery.

I gulped once and began to apologise, ready to blame the cat for everything, but the screech that finally escaped the old lady told me words would be wasted at that particular moment. I scooted beneath the kitchen table.

It didn’t afford me much protection unfortunately, for one of those dainty slippered feet found my ribs with fierce accuracy. It found my ribs a few more times before I had the sense to remove myself. Out I shot, making for the open doorway, scared silly of this dear old thing. This dear old thing then threw a chair at me and I yelped as it bounced off my back. She came at me, arms and legs flailing, stunning me into submission, terrifying me with her strength. My collar was grabbed and I found myself being dragged back to the cluttered ‘guest’ room. I was thrown in and the door slammed shut behind me. From the other side of the heavy wood I heard language I’d been used to in the Guvnor’s yard but hardly expected to hear in a quaint old cottage and from such a sweet old lady. I lay there trembling, fighting desperately to keep a grip on my bowels and bladder: I was in enough disgrace without that.

Another miserable night for me. I must be unique in knowing the full meaning of the expression ‘a dog’s life’. I know of no other animal who goes through so many highs and lows of emotion as the dog. Maybe we make trouble for ourselves; maybe we’re over-sensitive; or maybe we’re just stupid. Maybe we’re too human.

I hardly slept. I kept expecting the door to swing open and the ancient demon to appear and deal out more punishment. But it didn’t swing open; in fact, it didn’t swing open for another three days.

I whined, I howled, I grew angry and barked; but nothing happened. I messed on the floor and cried because I knew it would get me into trouble. I starved and cursed the mouse who’d got me into this predicament. My throat grew sore because I had nothing to drink and I cursed the malicious cat who’d caused this situation. My limbs grew stiff because of lack of exercise and I cursed Miss Birdie for her senility. How could she change from being a charming, delicate old lady one moment into a raging monster the next? All right, I know I was to blame to some extent — her cat had gone head-first through the window — but was that enough reason to lock me up and starve me? Self-pity sent me into a sulk that occasionally welled up into anger, then receded into a sulk again.

On the third day the door handle rattled, twisted and the door slowly opened.

I cowered beneath the pianoforte hardly daring to look up, prepared to take a beating with as little dignity as possible.

‘There, there, Fluke. What’s the matter then?’ She stood smiling down at me, that sweet granny smile, that gentle innocence which only belongs to the very old or the very young. I snuffled and refused to be lured out.

‘Come on then, Fluke. All’s forgiven.’

Oh yes, I thought, until your next brainstorm.

‘Come and see what I’ve got for you.’ She left the doorway and disappeared into the kitchen, calling my name in her enticing way. A meaty smell came my way and, tail drooped between my legs, I made my way cautiously after her. I found Miss Birdie pouring a whole tin of dogfood into a bowl on the floor.

I might be unforgiving but my stomach has a mind of its own and it insisted I go forward and eat. Which I did of course without too much inner conflict, though I kept a wary eye on the old lady all the time. The food soon went and so did the water that followed, but my nervousness took a little longer to disappear. Victoria watched me all the time from her basket in the corner, flicking her tail in a slow, regular movement of cold fury. I ignored her but was actually pleased to see she’d come to no real harm by diving through the window. (I was also pleased to see the bald tip of her tail.)

I shied away when Miss Birdie reached down to me, but her calm words soothed my taut nerves and I allowed her to stroke me and soon we were friends again. And we remained friends for at least two weeks after that.

Victoria made a point of keeping out of my way and, I confess, I made a point of keeping out of hers, too. I would scamper down to the town with Miss Birdie when she went shopping and always did my best to behave myself on these occasions. The temptation to steal was almost irresistible, but resist it I did. I was reasonably well fed and the dreadful incident of my fight with Victoria was soon forgotten. Miss Birdie introduced me to all her friends (she seemed to know everybody) and I was made a great fuss of. In the afternoons I would romp in the fields behind the cottage, teasing the animals living there, inhaling the sweetness from the budding flowers, revelling in the growing warmth from the sun. Colours zoomed before me, new smells titillated my sense: life became good once more and I grew healthier. Two weeks of happiness, then that rat of a cat managed to upset everything again.

It was a sunny afternoon and Miss Birdie was in her garden at the front of the cottage tending her awakening flowerbeds. The front door was open and I trotted backwards and forwards through it, enjoying the luxury of having a home where I could come and go as I pleased. On my third or fourth trip, Victoria wandered in after me, and I should have realised something was going to happen when she slyly started a conversation with me. Being a fool and eager to make friends, I readily laid my suspicions to one side and answered her questions, settling down on the rug, prepared to have a good natter. As I said before, cats, like rats, aren’t much given to conversation and I was pleased Victoria was making the effort on my behalf, thinking she had accepted me as a permanent guest and was trying to make the best of things. She asked me where I came from, if I knew any other cats, if I liked fish — all sorts of inconsequential questions. But all the time her yellow eyes were darting around the room as though looking for something. When they rested upon the huge dresser with all its fine crockery she smiled to herself. Then came the insults: What was a mangey-looking thing like me doing here, anyway? Were all dogs as stupid as me? What made me smell so? Little things like that. I blinked hard, startled by this sudden change in attitude. Had I offended her in some way?

She came closer so we were almost nose to nose, and stared intently into my eyes. ‘You’re a dirty, snivelling, fleabitten, worm-riddled mutt. You’re a thief and a scoundrel!’ Victoria looked at me with some satisfaction. ‘Your mother was a jackal who coupled with a hyena. You’re vulgar and you’re nasty!’

Now there are many insults you can throw at a dog and get away with, but there’s one we will not put up with, one word that really offends us. That’s right — dirty! (We often are, of course, but we don’t like to be told so.) I growled at her to be quiet.

She took no notice, of course, but ranted on, throwing insults not worth repeating here, but some quite ingenious for one of her limited vocabulary. Even so, I would probably have borne all these insults had she not finally spat in my face. I went for her, which is exactly what she had wanted all along.

Up into the dresser she went, spitting and howling. I tried to follow her, shouting at the top of my lungs, finding some nice insults of my own to call her. Victoria backed away along the dresser as I tried in vain to reach her and, as she moved her body backwards, so the ornamental plates which stood balanced upright on the first shelf came tumbling down.

A shadow fell across the doorway but the half-wit (that’s right) carried on barking at the wailing cat. I only became fully aware of Miss Birdie’s presence when the rake came down heavily on my back. I scooted for the front door, but the old lady had sprung wings on her heels and reached it before me. She slammed it shut and turned to face me, the rake clutched in her gnarled old hands like a lance, its iron-toothed end almost touching my nose. I looked up at her face and gulped loudly.

It had gone a deep purple, the tiny broken veins seeming to explode like starbursts across her skin, and her once kind eyes pressed against their sockets as though about to pop out and roll down her cheeks. I moved a fraction of a second before she did and the rake crashed into the floor only inches behind me. We did a quick circuit of the room while the cat looked on from her safe perch on the dresser, a huge smug smile on her face. On our third lap round, Miss Birdie spotted her and took a swipe at her indolent body with the rake (I suppose the frustration of not being able to catch me had something to do with it). It caught the cat a cracking blow and she shot off the dresser like a ball from a cannon and joined me in the arena. Unfortunately (more so for us), Miss Birdie’s sweeping blow at Victoria had also dislodged more plates, together with a few hanging cups and a small antique vase. They followed the cat but of course refused to join us in our run; they lay broken and dead where they had fallen.

The anguished scream from behind told us matters had not improved: Miss Birdie was about to run amuck! Victoria chose the narrow cave formed between the back of the settee and the wall below the front window to hide in. I pushed my way in behind her, almost climbing on to her back in my haste. It was a tight squeeze but we managed to get half-way down the semi-dark corridor. We trembled there, afraid to go further because that would lead us out again.

‘It’s your fault!’ the cat snivelled.

Before I had a chance to protest, the long handle of the rake found my rump and I was suddenly pushed forward in a most painful and undignified way. We became a confused tussle of hairy bodies as we now struggled to reach the other end of the narrow tunnel, violent pokes from the rear helping us achieve our goal. We emerged as one and the old lady dashed round to meet us.

Being the bigger target, I came in for the most abuse from the rake, but it pleases me to tell you the cat received a fair share. The chase went on for another five minutes before Victoria decided her only way out was up the chimney. So up she went and down came the soot — clouds and clouds of it. This didn’t improve Miss Birdie’s humour one bit, for the soot formed a fine black layer on the area around the fireplace. Now it was the old lady’s habit to lay that fire every morning and light it when she settled down in the afternoon, even though the warmer weather had arrived, but for once she decided to bring her schedule forward. She lit the fire.

I gazed on in horror as the paper flamed and the wood chips caught. Forgetting about me for the moment, Miss Birdie settled down in her armchair to wait, the rake lying across her lap in readiness. We stared at the fireplace, Miss Birdie with grim patience, I with utter dismay. The room around us was now a shambles, all cosiness gone.

The flames licked higher and the smoke rose. A spluttered cough fell down with more soot and we knew the cat was still perched there in the dark, unable to climb any further. Miss Birdie’s rigid lips turned up at the corners into a rigid smile as we waited, the silence broken only by the crackling of burning wood.

A knock at the door made us both jump.

Miss Birdie’s head swung round and I could see the panic in her eyes. The knock came again and a muffled voice called out, ‘Miss Birdie, are you in?’

The old lady burst into action. The rake was shoved behind the settee, overturned chairs were righted, and broken crockery was swept beneath the armchair. Only the soot-blackened carpet and a slight disarray of the room gave evidence that something out of the ordinary had happened. Miss Birdie paused for a few seconds, tidied up her clothing, rearranged her personality, and went to the door.

The vicar’s hand was raised to knock again and he smiled apologetically down at Miss Birdie.

‘So sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘It’s about the flower arrangements for Saturday’s fete. We can count on your wonderful assistance again this year, can we not, Miss Birdie?’

The old lady smiled sweetly up at him. ‘Why, of course, Mr Shelton. Have I ever let you down?’

The change in her was remarkable; the demon castigator had reverted back to the aged angel of innocence. She simpered and fawned over the vicar and he simpered and fawned with her; and all the while the cat roasted in the chimney.

‘Now how is that little stray fellow of yours?’ I heard the vicar inquire.

‘Oh, he’s thoroughly enjoying his stay,’ Miss Birdie replied, having the nerve to turn round to me and smile. ‘Come here, Fluke, and say hello to the vicar.’

I suppose I was expected to run over and lick the clergyman’s hand, wagging my tail to show how pleased I was to see him, but I was still in a state of shock and could only cower behind the armchair.

‘Oh, he doesn’t like strangers, does he?’ the vicar chuckled.

I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Miss Birdie, for his voice had taken on that simpleton’s tone people usually reserve for animals. They both gazed at me affectionately.

‘No, Fluke’s very shy of people,’ said Miss Birdie, melting butter clogging her words.

‘Have the police located his owner yet?’ the vicar asked.

‘Constable Hollingbery told me only yesterday that nobody had reported him missing, so I suppose whoever owned Fluke didn’t really want him very much.’

They both tutted in harmony and looked at me with soul-churning sympathy.

‘Never mind,’ the vicar said brightly. ‘He has a good home now, one I’m sure he appreciates. And I’m sure he’s being a very good doggie, isn’t he?’ The question was aimed directly at me.

Oh yes, I thought, and the pussy is being a very good pussy, albeit a well-cooked one.

‘Oh dear, Miss Birdie, the room seems to be filling with smoke. Is your chimney blocked?’

Without turning a hair, the old lady gave a little laugh and said, ‘No, no, it always does that when it’s first lit. It takes a while before the air begins to flow properly.’

‘I should have it seen to, if I were you, mustn’t spoil such a charming abode with nasty smoke, must we? I’ll send my handyman around tomorrow to fix it for you. Now the Woman’s Guild committee meeting next Wednesday…" And that was when Victoria dropped from her hiding-place.

The vicar stared open-mouthed as the soot-covered, fur-smoking cat fell down into the fire, screaming and spitting with rage, leapt from the fireplace and streaked for the door. She flew past him and he could only continue to stare as the smouldering black body disappeared down the path leaving a jet-stream of trailing smoke behind. His mouth still open, the vicar turned his attention back to his elderly parishioner and raised his eyebrows.

‘I wondered where Victoria had got to,’ said Miss Birdie.

The cat never came back, at least not while I was still there, and I seriously doubt she ever returned. Life in the cottage went on in its crazy normal way, the incident forgotten by my benefactor as though it had never happened. Several times in the ensuing week Miss Birdie stood at her front door and called out Victoria’s name, but I guess the cat was several counties away by then (I still have bad dreams of her being out there in the night, watching me, smouldering in the dark). However, Miss Birdie soon forgot about Victoria and directed all her attention towards me, but, not surprisingly, I felt I could never really trust her. I spent my time nervously waiting for the next eruption, treading very warily and learning to subdue my undisciplined spirits. It occurred to me to leave, but I must confess the lure of good food and a comfortable bed was stronger than my fear of what might happen next. In a word, I was stupid (Rumbo had been right), and even I’m amazed at just how stupid my next mistake was.

I found a nice, chewy plastic object lying on the edge of the kitchen-sink drainer one night. The kitchen was my night-time domain now that Victoria was gone and her basket had become my bed. I often had a poke around during the night or in the early hours of the morning and this time I had been lucky in finding something to play with. Not too hard, not too soft, and crunchy when I bit down firmly. No good to eat, but pretty to look at with its pink surface and little white frills around one edge. It kept me amused for hours.

When Miss Birdie came into the kitchen next morning, she showed no sign of being amused at all. Her toothless mouth opened to let the raging soundless cry escape, and when I looked into that gummy mouth, the human part of me realised what lay chewed, twisted and splintered between my paws.

‘My teefth!’ Miss Birdie spluttered after her first wordless outcry. ‘My falthe teefth!’ And that old gleam came back into her eyes.

Stupid I am, yes, and stupid enough to amaze even myself, right. But there comes a time in even the most stupid dog’s life when he knows exactly what he should do next. And I did it.

I went through that window just as the cat had (through the new window-pane, in fact), terror helping me achieve what I had been unable to do before (namely, getting on to that kitchen sink). The fact that Miss Birdie was reaching for the long carving knife which hung with its culinary companions on the wall convinced me this might be her worst brainstorm yet. I thought it unnecessary to wait and find out.

I went over her flowerbeds, scrambled through bushes and undergrowth and burst into the open fields beyond, a terrifying image of Miss Birdie in her long white nightdress chasing after me and brandishing the wicked carving knife keeping me going for quite some distance. It’s certainly handy to have four legs when you’re constantly running away.

I was a long way from that cottage before I collapsed into an exhausted heap, and had already resolved never to return. It was no way for even a dog to live. I shuddered at the thought of the schizophrenic old lady, so charming one minute, so lethal the next. Were all her friends fooled by her antique sweetness, her enchanting old maidishness? Didn’t anybody see what lurked just behind that veneer, ready to be unleashed by the slightest provocation? I presumed not, for she seemed so popular and respected by her townsfolk. Everybody loved Miss Birdie. And Miss Birdie loved everybody. Who would ever guess that the endearing old lady had the slightest streak of viciousness in her? Why should anyone think such a thing? Knowing her lovable side so well, even I had difficulty in believing her kindness could turn to such violence, but I shall never trust any sweet old ladies again. How do you explain such a twist in human nature? What made her good one moment, bad the next? It’s quite simple really. She was nuts.

Fourteen

Dog’s life, dogsbody, dogfight, dog-eared, dog-days, dog-end, dirty dog, mad dog, lazy dog, dog-tired, sick as a dog, dog-in-the-manger, underdog — why so many abuses of our name? You don’t say hedgehog’s life, or rabbit’s body, or frog-in-the-manger. True, you do use certain animal names to describe a particular type of person — chicken (coward), monkey (rogue), goose (silly) — but they’re only individual descriptions, you never extend the range with a particular species. Only dogs come in for this abuse. You even use various species’ names in a complimentary manner: an elephant never forgets (not true), happy as a lark (not true), brave as a lion (definitely not true), wise as an owl (are you kidding?). But where are the dog compliments? And yet we’re cherished by you and regarded as man’s best friend. We guard you, we guide you; we can hunt with you, we can play with you. You can even race some of our breed. You use us for work and we can win you prizes. We’re loyal, we trust, and we love you — even the meanest of you can be adored by your dog. So why this derogatory use of our name? Why can’t you be ‘as free as a dog’, or ‘as proud as a dog’, or ‘as cunning as a dog’? Why should an unhappy life be a dog’s life? Why should a skivvy be called a dogsbody? Why wouldn’t you send even a dog out on a cold night? What have we done to deserve such blasphemy? Is it because we always seem to fall into some misfortune or other? Is it because we appear foolish? Is it because we’re prone to over-excitement? Is it because we’re fierce in a fight but cowardly when our master’s hand is raised against us? Is it because we have dirty habits? Is it because we’re more like you than any other living creature?

Do you recognise our misfortunes as being similar to your own, our personalities a reflection of yours but simpler? Do you pity, love and hate dogs because you see your own humanness in us? Is that why you insult our name? Are you only insulting yourselves?

‘A dog’s life’ had true meaning for me as I lay there in the grass, panting. Was my life always to follow this unlucky pattern? It was the human part of my nature coming to the fore again, you see, for not many animals philosophise in such a way (there are exceptions). Fear and that good old human characteristic, self-pity, had aroused the semi-dormant side of my personality once more and I thought in terms of man yet still with canine influence.

I shook off my misery the way dogs do and got to my feet. I had an objective which had been neglected; now was the time to continue my search. It was a beautifully fresh day and the air was filled with different scents. I was without a patron again and still without a friend but because of it I was free; free to do as I pleased and free to go where I pleased. I had only myself to answer to!

My legs broke into an unpremeditated sprint and once again I was in full flight, only this time my compulsion to run was ahead of me and not behind. I knew the direction I should take instinctively and soon found myself back on the road and heading towards the town that had sounded so familiar.

Cars swished past at frequent intervals, causing me to shy away. I was still very frightened of these mechanical monsters even after months of living in the busy city, but somehow I knew I had once driven such a vehicle myself. In another life. I came to a heavily wooded area and decided to take a small detour, knowing it would actually cut a few miles off my journey.

The wood was a fascinating place. It hummed with hidden beings which my eyes soon began to detect, and to which (surprisingly) I was able to put names. There were beetles, gnats, hoverflies, tabanad flies, mosquitoes, wasps and bees. Speckled wood and brimstone butterflies fluttered from leaf to leaf. Dormice, wood-mice and bank-voles scuttled through the undergrowth, and grey squirrels were everywhere. A woodpecker stared curiously at me from his perch and ignored my hearty good morning. A startled roe-deer leapt away as I stumbled into its hiding-place. Thousands on thousands of aphides (you might know them as blackfly or greenfly) sucked the sap from leaves and plant stems, excreting honeydew for ants and others to feed on. Birds — songthrush, chaffinch, great tit, blue tit, jays and many, many more — flew from branch to branch or dived into the undergrowth in search of food. Earthworms appeared and disappeared at my feet. I was amazed at the teeming activity and a little in awe of it, for I had never realised so much went on in these sheltered areas. The colours almost made my eyes sore with their intensity and the constant babble of animal chatter filled my head with its raucous sound. It was exhilarating and made me feel very alive.

I spent the day exploring and thoroughly enjoyed myself, seeing things through new eyes and with a completely different mental approach, for I was now part of that world and not merely a human observer. I made a few friends here and there, although I was generally ignored by this busy population of animals, insects, birds and reptiles. Their attitudes were quite unpredictable, for I had quite a pleasant chat with a venomous adder, whereas a cute-looking red squirrel I chanced upon was extremely rude. Their appearance bore no resemblance to their nature. (My conversation with the adder was strange, for snakes, of course, have only an inner ear which picks up vibrations through the skull. It made me realise again that we were communicating through thought.) I discovered snakes are a much-maligned creature for this one was a very inoffensive sort, as have been most I’ve come into contact with since.

For once I forgot about my belly, and allowed myself to enjoy my surroundings, sniffing out trails left or boundaries marked by various animals through their urine and anal glands. I marked my own trail from time to time, more as a ‘Fluke was here’ sign than a means of finding my way back. There’d be no going back for me.

I dozed in the sun in the afternoon and when I awoke I wandered down to a stream to drink. A frog sat there eating a long pink worm, scraping the earth off the shiny body with his fingers as he swallowed. He stopped for a moment and regarded me curiously, the poor worm frantically trying to work his body back out of the frog’s mouth. The frog blinked twice and resumed his eating, the worm slowly disappearing like a live string of spaghetti. The worm’s tail (head?) wriggled once more before leaving the land of the living, then was gone, the frog’s eyes bulging even more as he gulped convulsively.

‘Nice day,’ I said amiably.

He blinked again and said, ‘Nice enough.’

I wondered briefly how he would taste but decided he didn’t look too appetising. I seemed to remember from somewhere that his legs might be quite tasty, though.

‘Haven’t seen you around here before,’ he commented.

‘Just passing through,’ I replied.

‘Passing through? What does that mean?’

‘Well… I’m on a journey.’

‘A journey to where?’

‘To a town.’

‘What’s a town?’

‘A town. Where people live.’

‘People?’

‘Big things, on two legs.’

He shrugged. ‘Never seen them.’

‘Don’t people ever pass this way?’

‘Never seen them,’ he repeated. ‘Never seen a town, either. No towns here.’

‘There’s a town not too far off.’

‘Can’t be any such thing. Never seen one.’

‘No, not here in the woods, but further away.’

‘There is no other place.’

‘Of course there is. The world’s far bigger than just this woodland!’

‘What woodland?’

‘Around us,’ I said, indicating with my nose. ‘Beyond these nearby trees.’

‘There’s nothing beyond those trees. I only know those.’

‘Haven’t you ever gone further than this glade?’

‘What for?’

‘To see what else there is.’

‘I know all there is.’

‘You don’t. There’s more.’

‘You’re mistaken.’

‘You’ve never seen me before, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I come from beyond the trees.’

He puzzled over this for a minute. ‘Why?’ he said finally. ‘Why have you come from beyond the trees?’

‘Because I’m passing through. I’m on a journey.’

‘A journey to where?’

‘To a town.’

‘What’s a town?’

‘Where people… oh, forget it!’

He did, instantly. The frog wasn’t really that concerned.

I stomped away, exasperated. ‘You’ll never turn into a handsome prince!’ I shouted over my shoulder.

‘What’s a handsome?’ he called back.

The conversation made me ponder over the animals’ point of view. This amphibian obviously thought that the world was only that which he could see. It wasn’t even that there was nothing beyond, for he had never even asked himself the question. And it was that way for all animals (apart from a few of us): the world consisted of only what they knew — there was nothing else.

I spent a restless and anxious night beneath an oak tree, the sound of an owl and its mate keeping me awake for most of the night. (It surprised me to discover the ‘to-whit-to-whoo’ was a combination of both birds — one hooted while the other twitted.) It wasn’t so much their calling to each other that bothered me, but their sudden swoops down on to vulnerable voles scurrying around in the dark below, the sudden screech culminating in the victim’s squeal of terror which disturbed and frightened me. I didn’t have the nerve to upset the owls, since they seemed vicious and powerful creatures, nor did I have the courage to wander around in the dark looking for a new sleeping-place. However, I did eventually fall into an uneasy sleep and the following morning I went hunting for chickens with my new friend, (I thought) — a red fox.

I awoke to the sound of yapping. It was still dark — I estimated dawn was a couple of hours away yet, and the yaps came from not too far off. Lying perfectly still, I tried to detect in which direction the yaps came from, and from whom. Were there pups in this wood? Sure that the owls were now at rest, I inched my way forward away from the trees, my senses keened, and had not gone far when I came across the fox’s earth in a hollow under a projecting tree-root. A musty smell of excrement and food remains hit my nostrils and then I saw four sets of eyes gleaming out at me.

‘Who’s there?’ someone said in a half-frightened, half-aggressive, manner.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ I reassured them hastily. ‘It’s only me.’

‘Are you a dog?’ I was asked, and one set of eyes detached itself from the others. A fox skulked forward out of the gloom and I sensed rather than saw she was a she. A vixen.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Er, yes. Yes, I’m a dog,’ I told her,

‘What do you want here?’ Her manner had become menacing now.

‘I heard your pups. I was curious, that’s all.’

She seemed to realise I was no threat and her attitude relaxed a little. ‘What are you doing in these woods?’ she asked. ‘Dogs rarely come in here at night.’

‘I’m on my way… somewhere.’ Would she understand what a town was?

‘To the houses where the big animals live?’

‘Yes, to a town.’

‘Do you belong to the farm?’

‘The farm?’

‘The farm on the other side of the woods. Over the meadows.’

Her world was larger than the frog’s.

‘No, I don’t belong there. I’m from a big town, a city.’

‘Oh.’

The vixen seemed to have lost interest now and turned back when a small voice called from the darkness.

‘Mum, I’m hungry!’ came the complaint.

‘Be quiet! I’m going soon.’

‘I’m hungry too,’ I said, and I really was.

The vixen’s head swung back to me. ‘Then go and find yourself some food!’

‘Er… I don’t know how to in a forest.’

She looked at me incredulously. ‘You can’t feed yourself? You can’t find yourself a rabbit, or a mouse, or a squirrel?’

‘I’ve never had to before. I mean, I’ve killed rats and mice, but nothing bigger than that.’

She shook her head in wonder. ‘How have you survived, then. Coddled by the big ones, I suppose — I’ve seen your kind with them. They even use you to hunt us!’

‘Not me! I’m from the city. I’ve never hunted foxes.’

‘Why should I believe you? How do I know you’re not trying to trick me?’ She showed me her pointed teeth in a grin that wasn’t a grin but a threat.

‘I’ll go away if you like, I don’t want to upset you. But perhaps me and your mate can go and find some food for all of us.’

‘I don’t have a mate any more.’ She spat the words out and I could feel the anger and hurt in them.

‘What happened to him?’ I asked.

‘Caught and killed,’ was all she would say.

‘Find us some food, Mum,’ came the plaintive cry again.

‘Well, perhaps I could help you,’ I suggested.

‘Huh!’ scoffed the vixen, then her voice changed. ‘There may be a way you can be used, though,’ she said thoughtfully.

I stiffened to attention. ‘Anything. I’m starving.’

‘All right, then. You kids stay here and don’t go outside! You hear?’

They heard.

‘Come on, you.’ The fox brushed past me.

‘Where too?’ I asked eagerly, following behind.

‘You’ll see.’

‘What’s your name?’ I called out.

‘Hush up!’ she whispered fiercely, then said, ‘What’s a name?’

‘What you’re called.’

‘I’m called fox. Vixen to be exact. You’re called dog, aren’t you?’

‘No, that’s what I am. Fox is what you are. I’m called Fluke.’

‘That’s daft. Flukes are flatworms!’

‘Yes, but men called me Fluke — it’s an expression.’

She shrugged off my silliness and didn’t speak again till we’d walked for at least a mile and a half. Then she turned to me and said, ‘We’re nearly there now. You have to keep very very quiet from here on — and move very carefully.’

‘Right,’ I whispered, trembling with excitement.

I could see the farm stretched out before us and from the stench I guessed it was mainly a dairy farm.

‘What are we going to do — kill a cow?’ I asked in all seriousness, the excitement draining from me.

‘Don’t be daft!’ the fox hissed. ‘Chickens. They keep chickens here too.’

That’s all right then, I thought. That could be quite interesting.

We crept towards the farm and I copied the fox’s style exactly, running forward silently, stopping, listening, sniffing, then padding forward again, from bush to bush, tree to tree, then stealthily through the long grass. I noticed the wind was coming towards us, bringing lovely rich farmyard smells. We reached a huge open shed and slid easily into it. On our left were the remaining bales of last winter’s barley straw, and on our right bags of fertiliser piled high. When we emerged, I stopped at a water-trough and, resting my paws on its edge, had a good tongue-lapping drink.

‘Come on!’ the vixen whispered impatiently. ‘No time for that. It’ll be dawn soon.’

I padded after her, feeling quite refreshed now, every nerve alive and dancing. The fox and I passed through the collection yard, over the feeding-troughs, by the silage pit, then past a nearly empty but pungent manure hold. I wrinkled my nose — you can have too much of a good thing — and sped after the wily fox. We could hear the cows snoring in their enormous shed, and the smell of barley managed to cover the smell of manure (although not entirely) as we went by a giant barley bin. We were soon through the yard and I could see the dark outline of a house in the moonlight ahead of us.

The fox stopped and sniffed the air. Then she listened. After a while, her body relaxed slightly and she turned to me.

‘There’s one of your sort here, a big ugly brute. We must be careful not to wake him — he sleeps up near the house. Now this is what we’ll do.…" She came closer to me and I saw she was quite attractive really in a sharp-looking way. ‘The chickens are over in that direction. A thin but sharp barrier keeps them in and us out. If I can get a good grip with my teeth at the bottom of the barrier, I can pull it up so we can get underneath. I’ve done it before — it’s just a knack. Once we get in, all hell will break loose…" (did she understand the concept of hell or was it only my mind translating her thoughts) "… and when it does, we’ll only have a short time to grab a hen each and make a bolt for it.’

I’m sure her eyes must have gleamed craftily in the dark, but I was too excited — or too dumb — to notice.

‘Now,’ the vixen went on, ‘when we run for it, we must go separate ways. That will confuse the big dog and the big thing who keeps him. The two-legged thing…’

‘Man,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Man. That’s what he’s called.’

‘Like Fluke?’

‘No. That’s what he is. Man.’

The vixen shrugged. ‘All right. Man has got a long stick that screams. It kills too — I’ve seen it kill — so you must be careful. You had better run back this way through the yard because there’s plenty of cover, and I’ll go the other way across the fields at the back because I’m probably faster. O.K.?’

‘Right,’ I said keenly. Rumbo was probably turning over in his grave just then.

On we stalked, silently and breathlessly, and before long we’d reached the chicken-coop and its surrounding wire-mesh fence. It wasn’t a particularly large coop — the farmer probably only kept chickens as a sideline, his profit coming from his cows – but it could have contained thirty to fifty hens. We heard an occasional flutter from inside, but it was obvious they hadn’t detected our presence.

The vixen scuffled around at the base of the wire fencing and tried to get a grip on it with her teeth. She managed to do so and pulled upwards with all her strength. The wiring tore loose from its wooden base, but my companion was unable to keep her grip and it fell back down again, although it remained loose. There had been a ripping sound as the wire mesh tore loose and the noise had alerted the hens inside the hutch. We could hear them moving around inside. Soon they would be jabbering and screeching.

The fox tried again and this time she was more successful. The wiring sprang up and sank back only slightly when she released it.

‘Quickly,’ she whispered and shot through the opening. I tried to follow, but my body was bigger than the fox’s and the wire cut into my back, trapping me half-way through. Meanwhile, the fox had climbed up a short run, lifted a small flap with her nose, and in a flash was inside the hutch. The screams and the thrashing sounds that came from inside paralysed me. The sudden deep barking that came from somewhere near the house made me mobile again. I struggled to get free, knowing the farmer and his ‘screaming stick’ would soon be down there.

The small hatch to the chicken-hutch suddenly flew open and out poured the squawking poultry, feathers and bodies flying through the air like torn pillow-cases.

Now I don’t know if you know this, but hens, as do many groups of animals, have their own hierarchy. It’s called the ‘pecking order’, and the hen who has the biggest and meanest peck is the boss, the second meanest pecker is under the first, but boss over the others, and so on all the way down the line. But now it looked as though everyone was equal.

They all ran around like lunatics and the only competition was who could fly the highest.

The fox emerged, a hen as big as her own body fluttering feebly in her grasp. She ran towards the gap where I was crouched neither in nor out.

‘Move yourself,’ came her muffled command.

Tm stuck! ‘I yelled back.

‘The dog’s coming, quickly!’ she said, desperately pacing backwards and forwards along the side of the pen. But the dog must have been chained, for although we could hear him barking, he was still nowhere near. Then we heard the roar of the farmer as a window flew open back there at the house.

That moved me. With a terrific wrench backwards I tore myself free of the wire, scratching my back nastily as I did so. The fox, chicken and all, was through in a flash.

‘You go that way!’ she shouted at me, feathers spraying from her mouth.

‘Right!’ I agreed. And then I ran up towards the house, towards the dog, towards the farmer and his gun, while my friend flew off in the opposite direction.

I was half-way there before I stopped and said to myself, Hold on! I looked round just in time to see a fleeting black shape tearing across a field before being swallowed up by the dark line of a hedge.

I turned back as I heard the door of the house crash open and out leapt the farmer wearing vest and trousers and heavy boots. The sight of the long object he held in two hands before him nearly made me faint. The other dog was going mad now trying to get at me and I saw it was a very healthy looking mastiff. I had the feeling his stretched chain would break at any moment.

I groaned and wondered which way to run. The end of the cowshed lay to my left, outhouses to my right. Ahead was the farmer and his monster dog. There was only one way to go really, and of course the fox had taken it. I turned in my tracks and made for the open fields.

A choking kind of shout came from the farmer as he saw me and I heard him lumber out into the yard. I didn’t have to look to know he was raising the gun to his shoulder. The blast told me it was a shotgun and the whistling over my ears told me the farmer wasn’t a bad shot. My speed increased as my quickening heartbeat acted as a crazy metronome to my legs.

More footsteps, silence, and I waited for the second blast. I swerved as much as I could and crouched low to make myself as small a target as possible. The hens leapt into the air in horror as I passed them, no doubt thinking I had returned for second helpings.

I leapt into the air myself as my tail seemed to explode into shreds. I yelp-yelped in that rapid way dogs do when they’re hurt, but kept going, relieved that I could actually keep going. The barking behind me reached a new frenzy and then I knew the mastiff had been let loose, for the sound took on a new, more excited pitch. The welcoming fields rushed forward to meet me and I scrambled under a fence and was into them, my tail on fire.

‘Gorn boy!’ came the shout from behind and knew the monster dog was closing up on me. The field seemed to stretch out before me in the moonlight and grow wider and longer, the hedge on the far side shrinking rather than growing. The mastiff hadn’t caught up with me yet, but his heavy panting had. He’d stopped barking to save his breath and conserve his energy. He really wanted me, that dog.

I inwardly cursed myself for being so stupid and allowing myself to be used as a decoy by the fox. It made me very angry and almost caused me to turn and vent my anger on the pursuing dog. Almost, but not quite -1 wasn’t that stupid.

The mastiff seemed to be panting in my left ear now and I realised he was very close. I turned my head quickly to see just how far behind he was and immediately wished I hadn’t — his grinning teeth were level with my left flank!

I swerved just as he took a snap at me and he went sailing on by, rolling over on the grass as he endeavoured to stop himself. The mastiff came racing back and I went racing on again, so he found himself running in the wrong direction once more.

Looming up ahead was the hedge and I was grateful it had stopped playing shrinking tricks on me. I dived into it and prayed I wouldn’t hit a tree trunk; the mastiff plunged in right behind me. Brambles tore at us and startled birds complained of the noise, but we were through in an instant and tearing across the next field. Knowing he would soon catch up, I began my swerving tactics again. Fortunately, the mastiff wasn’t too bright and he fell for my tricks every time. It was exhausting though and several times his teeth raked across my flank, but eventually even his energy seemed to be depleting. On one very successful twist he had gone at least five yards beyond me, so I stopped for a breather. The mastiff stopped too and we both faced each other across the grass, our shoulders and chests heaving with the effort.

‘Look,’ I panted, ‘let’s talk about this.’

But he had no inclination to talk at all. He was up and at me, growling as he came. So on I went.

As I ran, I picked up a scent. Foxes are usually pretty smart when it comes to covering their tracks — they’ll double back, climb trees, jump into water, or mingle with sheep — but when they’ve got a dead chicken in their mouth, dripping blood and feathers, it’s another story. She’d left a trail as strong as cat’s-eyes in a road.

The mastiff got a whiff of it and momentarily lost interest in me, then we both tore off down that smelly path. Through another hedge we went, and then we were m the wood, dodging round trees and heavy clumps of bushes. Startled night creatures scurried back to their homes as we crashed past, twittering and protesting at our intrusion.

I don’t think the mastiff’s night vision was as good as mine — probably he was a lot older — because his progress wasn’t so fast, and several times I heard him cry out when he bumped into trees. I gained some distance on him and began to feel a little more confident about getting away. Then I bumped into the fox.

The hen had hampered her flight and she must have dropped it at this point and paused to retrieve it. I bore no malice — I was too frightened at what lay behind — and would probably have ignored her had I not gone straight into her crouching body. We rolled over in a struggling heap, fox, chicken and dog, but parted immediately when the mastiff joined us. He bit out at everything within reach and, fortunately for both the vixen and me, we were able to leave him there with a mouthful of chicken, content in his catch as he shook the dead body and tried to rip it apart. The farmer would be well pleased when his guard dog returned with a mouthful of feathers and blood.

We went our separate ways, the vixen and I, she back to her cubs, me to find somewhere quiet to nurse my wounds. It was growing lighter by the minute now and I hurried to get away from the area, not sure of my directions but wanting to travel as far as possible before daybreak. I knew (how did I know?) farmers took great pains to seek out and destroy any killer dogs who plagued their livestock and this particular farmer would certainly regard me as such. My tail stung terribly now, overriding the hurt from my various other wounds, but I didn’t dare stop and examine the damage. I came to a stream and swam across, enjoying the coolness on my wounds, and when I reached the other side, clambered out with reluctance. I gave myself a good shake then sped onwards, determined to get clear of the farmer’s land.

The sun had risen and was gathering strength by the time I stumbled into a resting-place. I ached and I hurt, and all I could do was lay there in a dip in the ground and try to recover my strength. After a while I was able to twist my head and examine my throbbing tail. The wound wasn’t half as bad as I expected; only the very tip had been damaged and much of the hair had gone from it. Victoria would have been pleased, for our tails were now a good match. The sting from the scratches on my back and flanks caused by the wire mesh and the mastiff’s teeth weren’t too bothersome, but irritating nonetheless. I rested my head between my paws and slept.

When I awoke, the sun was high overhead and covering my body with its warmth. My mouth and throat felt dry and my wounds were a dull throb. My stomach grumbled over the lack of food. Rousing myself, I looked around and saw I was resting in the dip of a gentle slope. A valley spread out below and other grassy hills rose up on the other side, their soft summits mounted by beech copses. I wandered down hoping to find a spring at the bottom of the hill, nibbling at certain grasses as I went. The grass — sheep’s fescue it’s called — wasn’t too tasty, but I knew many downland animals ate it, so at least it would provide nourishment. Again, I wondered how I knew about such things: how I knew the snail I’d just pushed was a Roman snail that used calcium in the chalky downland soil to make its shell; how the bird that sang somewhere to my right was a skylark; how the butterfly that fluttered by was an Adonis blue wakened prematurely by the sudden warm weather. I had obviously taken a keen interest in the countryside in my past life and taken the trouble to learn about nature and her ways. Had I perhaps been a naturalist or a botanist? Or had it been only a hobby to me? Maybe I had been brought up in the countryside and names and habits came naturally to me. I shook my head in frustration: I had to find out who I had been, what I had been; how I had died and why I had become a dog. And I had to discover who the man was, the man in my dreams who seemed so evil, who seemed such a threat to my family. My family — the woman and the little girl — I had to find them, had to let them know I wasn’t dead. Had to tell them I’d become a dog. Wasn’t there someone who could help me?

There was. But I wasn’t to meet him till two nights later.

Fifteen

Pay attention now because this is important. This is the point in my story where I heard a reason for my existence, why I was a dog. This is the part that may help you if you’re prepared to accept it. I won’t mind if you don’t, it’s up to you, but bear in mind what I asked of you at the beginning: keep your mind open.

I wandered on for two more days, finding the road again and relieved to find it. I was determined not to waste any more time, but to find my home and to find some answers.

Road signs were becoming more difficult to read; I had to gaze at them for a long time and concentrate hard. However, I found the right way and continued my journey, pleased to reach a town further on; it was much easier for me to get food when I was among people and shops. A few people took pity on me in my bedraggled state (although others chased me away as though I were something unclean) and gave me scraps. I spent the night with a family who took me in, and I think they had intentions of keeping me as a pet, but the following morning when they let me out to relieve myself, I ran off to the next town. I hated spurning this family’s kindness, but nothing could deter me from my purpose now.

I was less successful in scrounging food in the next town, although I still ate adequately enough. The road was becoming more and more familiar and I knew I was nearing my home. My excitement grew.

When dusk fell I was between towns, so I left the roadside and entered a deep wood. Hungry (of course) and tired (naturally), I searched for a safe place to sleep. I don’t know if you’ve ever spent the night in a wood alone, but it’s very creepy. It’s pitch-black for a start (no street lights), and there’s a constant rustling and cracking of dry twigs as the night animals mooch around. My night vision’s good — better than yours — but even so, it was still difficult to detect much in the darkness. Eerie glowing lights set my heart racing until I investigated and discovered a couple of glow-worms going through their meeting routine. Another blue-green glow upset me until I realised it was only honey fungus growing on a decaying tree-trunk.

I could hear bats flapping around, their high-pitched squeals making me jump, and a hedgehog trundled into me and pricked my nose with its spikes. I considered going back to the roadside, but the blinding lights and roaring engines of passing cars were even more frightening.

The woods at night are almost as busy as in the daytime, except everything seems even more secretive. I adopted this secretive attitude myself and skulked around as stealthily as I could in search of a resting-place. Finally I discovered a nice soft mound of earth beneath a thick roof of foliage, just under a tree. It made a snug hiding place and I settled down for the night, a strange feeling of portentousness filling me. My instincts were right, for later that night my sleep was disturbed by the badger.

And it was the badger who explained things to me.

I had failed to fall into a comfortable sleep and lay dozing in the dark with my eyes constantly blinking open at the slightest sound. A shifting of earth behind me made me jump and twist my head round to see the cause of the disturbance. Three broad white lines appeared from a hole in the sloping ground and a twitching nose at the base of the middle stripe sniffed the air in all directions.

It stopped when it caught my scent.

‘Who’s there?’ a voice said.

I didn’t reply -1 was ready to run.

The white lines widened as they emerged from the black hole. ‘Funny smell,’ the voice said. ‘Let me see you.’

I now saw there were two shiny black eyes on either side of the middle stripe. I realised it was a badger speaking, and it was, two black stripes running down his white head which gave him this white-striped appearance. I backed away, aware that these creatures could be fierce if alarmed or angered.

‘Is it… is it a… dog? Yes, it’s a dog, isn’t it?’ the badger guessed.

I cleared my throat, undecided whether to stay or run.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ the badger said. ‘I won’t cause you any bother unless you mean us harm.’ He waddled his great coarse-haired body out of his sett and I saw he was at least three feet long and very tall.

‘Yes, I thought I recognised the smell. We don’t get many dogs in here on their own. You are on your own, aren’t you? You’re not night-hunting with one of those cattle farmers, are you?’

Like the fox, he didn’t seem to trust the dog’s association with man. I found my voice and nervously assured him I wasn’t.

He seemed puzzled for a moment and I felt rather than saw him regard me curiously. Whatever was going on in his mind was interrupted as another badger shuffled from the sett. I assumed this was his sow.

‘What’s going on? Who’s this?’ came a sharp voice.

‘Hush now. It’s only a dog and he means us no harm,’ the boar told her. ‘Why are you alone in the woods, friend? Are you lost?’

I was too nervous to speak up right then and the sow piped up again: ‘Chase him away! He’s after the babies!’

‘No, no,’ I managed to say. ‘No, please, I’m just passing through. I’ll be on my way now. Don’t get upset.’ I turned to trot off into the darkness.

‘Just a moment,’ the boar said quickly. ‘Stay awhile. I want to talk to you.’

Now I was afraid to run.

‘Chase him away, chase him away! I don’t like him!’ the sow urged.

‘Be quiet!’ the boar said quietly but firmly. ‘You go on about your hunting. Leave a good trail for me to follow — I’ll join you later.’

The sow knew better than to argue and huffed her way rudely past me, emitting a vile odour from her anal glands as a comment.

‘Come closer,’ the boar said when his mate had gone. ‘Come where I can see you better.’ His enormous body had shrunk and I realised his hair must have become erectile on seeing me and had now returned to its normal smoothness. ‘Tell me why you’re here. Do you belong to a man?’

I shuffled forward, ready to flee.

‘No, I don’t belong to anyone. I used to, but don’t any more.’

‘Have you been mistreated?’

‘It’s a lucky dog who hasn’t.’

He nodded at this. ‘It would be a fortunate animal or man who hasn’t,’ he said.

It was my turn to regard him curiously. What did he know of man?

The badger settled himself into a comfortable position on the ground and invited me to do the same and, after a moment’s hesitation, I did.

‘Tell me about yourself. Do you have a man name?’ he asked.

‘Fluke,’ I told him, puzzled by his knowledge. He seemed very human for a badger. ‘What’s yours?’

The badger chuckled dryly. ‘Wild animals don’t have names, we know who we are. It’s only men who give animals names.’

‘How do you know about that? About men, I mean.’

He laughed aloud then. ‘I used to be one,’ he said.

I sat there stunned. Had I heard right? My jaw dropped open.

The badger laughed again, and the sound of a badger laughing is enough to unnerve anyone. Fighting the urge to run I managed to stammer, ‘Y-you used…’

‘Yes. And you were too. And so were all animals.’

‘But… but I know I was. I thought I was the only one! I…"

He stayed my words with a grin. ‘Hush now. I knew you weren’t like the others at my first whiff of you. I’ve met some who have been similar, but there’s something very different about you. Calm down and let me hear your story, then I’ll tell you a few things about yourself — about us.’

I tried to still my pounding heart and began to tell the badger about my life: my first recollections in the market, my first owner, the dogs’ home, the breaker’s yard, the Guvnor, Rumbo, the old lady, and my episode with sly old fox. I told him where I was going, of my man memories and, as I went on, my nerves settled, although an excitement remained. It was wonderful to talk in this way, to tell someone who would listen, who understood the things I said, how I felt. The badger remained quiet throughout, nodding his head from time to time, shaking it in sympathy at others. When I had finished, I felt drained, drained yet strangely elated. It seemed as though a weight had been lifted. I was no longer alone — there was another who knew what I knew! I looked eagerly at the badger.

‘Why do you want to go to this town — this Edenbridge?’ he asked before I could question him.

‘To see my family, of course! My wife, my daughter — to let them know I’m not dead!’

He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘But you are dead.’

The shock almost stopped my racing heart. ‘I’m not. How can you say that? I’m alive — not as a man, but as a dog. I’m in a dog’s body!’

‘No. The man you were is dead. The man your wife and daughter knew is dead. You’d only be a dog to them.’

‘Why?’ I howled. ‘How did I become like this? Why am I a dog?’

‘A dog? You could have become any one of a multitude of creatures — it depended largely on your former life.’

I shook my body in frustration and moaned, ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Do you believe in reincarnation, Fluke?’ the badger asked.

‘Reincarnation? Living again as someone else, in another time? I don’t know. I don’t think I do.’

‘You’re living proof to yourself.’

‘No, there must be another explanation.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’ve no idea. But why should we come back as someone or something — else?

‘What would be the point of just one existence on this earth?’

‘What would be the point of two?’ I countered.

‘Or three, or four? Man has to learn, Fluke, and he could never learn in one lifetime. Many man religions advocate this, and many accept reincarnation in the form of animals. Man has to learn from all levels.’

‘Learn what?’

‘Acceptance.’

‘Why? Why should he learn acceptance? What for?’

‘So he can go on to the next stage.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I don’t know, I haven’t reached it. It’s good, I believe. I feel that.’

‘So how do you know this much? What makes you special?’

‘I’ve been around for a long time, Fluke. I’ve observed, I’ve learned, I’ve lived many lives. And I think I’m here to help those like you.’

His words were soft and strangely comforting, but I fought against them. ‘Look,’ I said, Tm confused. Are you saying I have to accept being a dog?’

‘You have to accept whatever life gives you — and I mean accept. You have to learn humility, Fluke, and that comes only with acceptance. Then will you be ready for the next level.’

‘Wait a minute,’ I said, taking on a new tact out of desperation. ‘We all become animals when we die?’

He nodded. ‘Nearly all. Birds, fishes, mammals, insects — there are no rules as to which species we’re born into.’

‘But there must be billions upon billions of living creatures in the world today. They can’t all be reincarnated humans, our civilisation just hasn’t been going that long.’

The badger chuckled. ‘Yes, you’re right. There are at least a million known animal species, over three quarters of which are insects — the more advanced of us.’

‘Insects are the more advanced?’ I asked in a flat tone.

‘That’s right. But let me answer your first point. This planet of ours is very old and it’s been washed clean many times so that life can start all over again, a constant cycle of evolvement which allows us to learn a little more each time. Our civilisation, as you call it, has not been the first by any means.’

‘And these… these people are still coming back, still… learning?’

‘Oh yes. Much of our progress owes itself to race memory, not inspiration.’

‘But no matter how long ago it all began, man evolved from animals, didn’t he? How could animals have been reincarnated humans if they were here first?’

He just laughed at that.

You can imagine the state I was in by now: half of me wanted to believe him because I needed answers (and he spoke in such a soothing, matter-of-fact way), and the other half wondered if he was demented.

‘You said insects were more advanced… ‘ I prompted.

‘Yes, they accept their lives, which are shorter and perhaps more arduous. A female fruit-fly completes her whole lifecycle in ten days, whereas a turtle, for instance, can live for three hundred years.’

‘I dread to think of what the turtle has been up to in his previous life to deserve such a long penance,’ I said dryly.

‘Penance. Yes, that’s a good way of putting it,’ he said thoughtfully.

I groaned inwardly and was startled when the badger laughed out loud. ‘All too much for you, is it?’ he said. ‘Well, that’s understandable. But think about it: Why are certain creatures so repugnant to man? Why are they trodden on, mistreated or killed, or just plain reviled? Could these creatures have been so vile in their past lives that the malignancy lingers on? Is this their punishment for past crimes? The snake spends his life crawling on his belly, the spider is invariably crushed whenever he comes into contact with man. The worm is despised, the slug makes humans shudder. Even the poor old lobster is boiled alive. But their death comes as a blessing, a relief from their horrible existence. It’s nature’s way that their lives should be short, and man’s instinct that makes him want to crush these creatures. It’s not just abhorrence of them, you see, but compassion also, a desire to put an end to their misery. These creatures have paid their price.

‘And there are many more, Fluke, many, many more creatures below the earth’s surface. Beings that no human ever laid eyes on; bugs who live in fires near the earth’s core. What evil have they done to earn such an existence? Have you ever wondered why humans think of hell as an inferno, why its direction is always "down there"? And why do we look skywards when we speak of "Heaven"? Do we have an instinct born in us about such things?

‘Why do many fear death, while others welcome it? Do we already know it’s only an enforced hibernation, that we live on in another form, that our wrongdoings have to be accounted for? No wonder those who have lived peaceful lives are less afraid.’

The badger paused at that point, either to regain his breath or to give me time to catch up with him.

‘How do you explain ghosts, then? I know they exist, I’ve seen them — I keep seeing them,’ I said. ‘Why haven’t they been born again as animals, or have they passed that stage? Is that the level we’re reaching for? If it is, I’m not so sure I want it.’

‘No, no. They haven’t even reached our stage of development, I’m afraid, Fluke. They’re closer to our world though than their previous one — that’s why it’s easier for us to see them — but they’re lost, you see. That’s why there’s such an aura of sadness about them. Confused and lost. They find their way eventually with a little help. They get born again.’

Born again. The words struck me. Was this why my vision, the colours I could see, was so incredible? Was this why I could appreciate scents — the most delicate and the most pungent — so fully? Was it because I’d been born again yet still retained vague memories? I had past senses to compare with the new! A newborn baby sees freshly but quickly learns to adapt his vision, to mute colours, to organise shapes — he learns not to accept. That’s why you’re nearly blind at birth; it would be too much for you otherwise. Your brain has to sort things out first, then let you in on it gradually. My own sight was now nowhere as clear or unprejudiced as it had been when I was a young pup. Nor was my hearing. My brain which had been born with the ability to appreciate my senses was now organising them so they were acceptable to it, so they no longer dazzled it as much as before.

I shook the train of thought from my head and said, ‘But why can’t others remember? Why aren’t they the same as me?’

‘I can’t answer that, Fluke. You’re different and I don’t know why. Perhaps you’re the first of a new development. An evolvement. I’ve met others similar, but none quite like you. Perhaps you are only a fluke after all. I wish I knew.’

‘Aren’t you the same as me? Wasn’t Rumbo almost? And a rat we met once, he seemed like us.’

‘Yes, we’re a little like you. I suppose me more so than your friend Rumbo and the rat. But you’re special, Fluke. I’m special too, but in a different way, as I told you: I’m here to help. Rumbo and the rat may have been similar, but I doubt they were the same. I think perhaps you’re a kind of forerunner; everything may be about to go through a change.’

‘But why do I only remember fragments? Why can’t I remember it all?’

‘You’re not supposed to remember anything. Many creatures carry the characteristics of their past personalities, many may even have vague memories j but they don’t think as you do, not in human terms. There’s a struggle going on inside you — man versus canine — but I think it will eventually resolve itself. You’ll either become a dog completely, or a balance between the two will be reached. I hope it’s the latter — that could mean a development for all of us is taking place. But listen to me: you’ll never be a man again physically in this life.’

Despair gripped me. What had I expected? That some day, by some miracle, I might return to my old body? That I would live a normal life again? I howled into the night and wept as never before.

Finally, and with no hope in my voice, I said to the badger, ‘What do I do now? How can I live like this?’

He moved closer to me and spoke very quietly. ‘You accept now. Accept you’re a dog, accept you are a fluke — or perhaps not a fluke. You must live as a dog now.’

‘But I have to know who I was!’

‘No, it won’t help you. Forget your past, your family — they’re nothing to do with you now.’

‘They need me!’

‘There’s nothing you can do!’

I rose to my feet and glowered down at him. ‘You don’t understand. There’s someone evil near them. They need protection from him. I think he killed me!’

The badger shook his head wearily. ‘It doesn’t matter, Fluke. You can’t help any more. You have to forget your past, you might regret it if you go back.’

‘No!’ I growled. ‘Maybe this is why I can remember, why I’m different. They need my help! It stayed with me when I died! I’ve got to go to them!’

I ran from the badger then, afraid he would make me stay, afraid to hear more, but when I was a safe distance away, I turned and called back.

‘Who are you badger? What are you?’

There was no reply. And I could no longer see him in the darkness.

Sixteen

Pretty heavy stuff, right? A bit frightening? Well, it scared me. But do you see the sense of it? If there is this great goal we’re all reaching for — call it perfection, happiness, ultimate peace of mind, whatever you like — then it seems right that it doesn’t come easily; we have to earn it. I don’t know why and I’m still not sure I believe it myself (and I’m a dog who was once a man), so I don’t blame you for doubting. But, like I keep saying: keep an open mind.

I found myself in Edenbridge High Street a day or so later. I’m not sure just how long it took me to get there because, as you can imagine, my mind was in a turmoil after my meeting with the badger. I had to accept that, as a man, I was dead (if I were to believe the badger revelations), and there would be no return to normality for me. But if I were dead, then how did I die? Old age? Somehow, I doubted it. My wife seemed fairly young in my memories of her, and my daughter could have been no more than five or six. Illness? Possibly. Yet why did I feel so strongly against this mysterious man? Why was he so evil to me? Had he killed me?

I felt sure this was the answer, otherwise why should I feel such hate for him? I was determined to find the truth. First, though, I had to find my family.

The High Street was fairly busy with shoppers and delivery vans and the scene was vaguely familiar to me. I must have lived here, I told myself, or why else would I have been drawn to the little town? It wouldn’t click though, it just wouldn’t click.

The shoppers must have been puzzled by the thoughtful-looking mongrel who paced up and down that street, peering up at passing faces, snooping into shop doorways. I ignored all enticements, for I had more serious things on my mind than playing games.

By late afternoon I was still no better off. I just couldn’t remember clearly any of the shops, pubs or people, although everything appeared too frustratingly familiar! That old teaser hunger reminded me he was still around and had no intention of letting me off the hook just because I had problems. The shopkeepers shooed me away as soon as I put my sniffing nose through their doorways, and a sudden jaw-snapping thrust at an overloaded shopping-basket earned me a sharp smack on the snout and a lot of abuse.

Not wanting to cause a fuss (I didn’t want to be picked up by the police since I needed to stay around that town until something happened to restore my memory) I left the main street and wandered on to what looked like a vast council estate. Then something did click, although it wasn’t particularly helpful to me: many South Londoners had been moved down to Edenbridge over the last twenty or so years, away from their slums into modern estates surrounded by good countryside. Many had taken to their new environment, while others (like Lenny, the Guvnor’s man) had still yearned for their old surroundings and spent much of their time to-ing and fro-ing from the two vastly different communities. I was conscious of all this because I’d obviously lived in the town and knew of its history, but where had I lived? On one of those estates? No, it didn’t click; it didn’t feel right.

I followed a couple of small boys home, much to their delight, and managed to scrounge a few scraps from their scolding but kind-hearted mother. The food wasn’t much but enough to keep me going for a while, and to the boys’ disappointment I scampered out of their back garden and towards the High Street again.

This time I drifted down all the side-streets on one side, then all the side-streets on the other, but nothing jarred that tiny trigger in my mind which I knew would unleash a flood of memories.

Night fell and so did my spirits. Nothing had happened. I’d felt so sure that when I reached the town it would be easy to find my home, familiar things would guide me to it, but it hadn’t happened. I was still in the dark mentally, and now physically.

I wandered down to the very edge of the town, passing pubs, walking across a bridge, past a big garage, a hospital — and then the buildings ran out. There was only black countryside ahead. Utterly dejected, I entered the hospital grounds, found a quiet corner in the yard at the rear of the white single-storey building, and slept.

The smell of lovely cooking awoke me the following morning and I sniffed my way over to an open window from which it wafted. Rearing up on my hind legs, I rested my paws on the window-ledge. Unfortunately, the window was too high for me to see into the room beyond, but, sticking my nose into the air, I drank in the delicious smells, then cried out in appreciation. A huge round brown head suddenly appeared above and white teeth flashed a startled welcome at me. Reds and oranges shimmered in the woman’s huge face as she grinned even more broadly.

‘You hungry, fellah?’ she chuckled, and I wagged my tail in anticipation. ‘Now don’ you go away,’ she told me.

The beaming head disappeared then reappeared almost instantly, the smile now threatening to split the face in half. A thin, partly burnt slice of bacon was dangled before me.

‘You get this down you, honey,’ she said, dropping the hot finger of meat into my open mouth.

I spat the bacon out instantly as my throat was scorched then drooled saliva on the piping meat to cool it before wolfing it down.

‘Good boy,’ came the woman’s voice from above, then another piece of bacon plopped on to the gravel beside me. This lasted for about as long as the first and I looked up hopefully, tongue hanging out.

‘You’s a greedy dog!’ said the coloured (multicoloured) woman, laughing. ‘O.K., I get you one more, then you scat — you get me into trouble!’

The promised third slice appeared and disappeared almost as quickly, and I looked up for more. Still chuckling, the woman waggled her index finger at me and then closed the window as a final word.

It wasn’t a bad start to the day and my spirits rose as I trotted round to the hospital’s main entrance. Hot food in my belly and a day for discovery ahead of me! Perhaps life (or death) wasn’t so bad after all. Dogs are born optimists, as I said.

I reached the entrance and turned left, heading towards the High Street again, sure it was my only chance of finding someone or something I knew.

Without thinking, I wandered into the road and screamed with fright as a green monster roared down on me. The single-decker bus screeched to a halt as I scurried to the other side of the road, tail between my legs and hair on end, and the driver hurled abuse at me, thumping his horn angrily. I cowered in a hedge and rolled my eyes at him, and with a final threatening gesture he threw his vehicle into gear again and slowly moved off.

As the row of windows went by, accusing faces glared down at me while others shook in pity. And one small pair of eyes locked into mine and held my gaze until the progress of the bus no longer allowed them to. Even then, the little girl’s head craned round and pushed itself against the glass so I was visible for as long as possible.

Only when the bus had disappeared over the hump-backed bridge did I realise just whom I had been looking at and had been returning my stare. It was my daughter, Gillian, only I called her Polly because I preferred the name! I had been right! Edenbridge was my hometown! I had found them!

But I hadn’t found them. The bus was gone and no memories came flooding back. I remembered the names, the minor disagreement over my daughter’s, but that was all. I waited for the visions to appear, sure they would, but they didn’t.

I groaned in disappointment and longing, then set off after the bus, determined to catch it, refusing to throw away such a chance encounter. As I mounted the hump of the bridge I saw the bus at a stop in the distance. Barking in my eagerness, I increased my speed and hurtled down that High Street like a bullet from a gun.

It was no use, though; the bus lurched forward and continued its journey down the long road. I watched it getting smaller and smaller and my legs grew wearier and wearier until I came to a panting halt.

It was hopeless. The bus — and my child — had got away.

Two more days of anguished searching went by — searching of the town and searching of my mind — both of which proved fruitless. I had eaten regularly at the hospital, having my breakfast and evening meal there thanks to the generosity of the coloured cook, and had spent the rest of the time looking through the town and its outer fringes, but all to no avail. Then on the third day, which must have been a Saturday judging by the amount of shoppers there were around, I struck lucky.

I had been wandering up and down the High Street, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible (a few people had already tried to catch me now I was becoming a familiar sight around the shops), and had glanced down the small side-turning which led to the car park at the rear of the shops. There I caught a glimpse of a small familiar figure skipping alongside the much taller figure of a woman. They disappeared around a corner but I knew instantly who they were. My heart tried to escape through my throat and my knees suddenly went wobbly.

‘Carol.!’ I gurgled. ‘Carol! Polly! Wait for me! Stay there!’

The shoppers must have thought they had a mad dog amongst them, for they all froze at the sound of my barking and stared in amazement as I staggered into the small side-turning. It was like a bad dream, for the shock had turned my legs to jelly and they refused to function properly. I took a grip of myself, realising this was a chance I just could not afford to miss, and willed the power to flow through my quakey limbs. It did, but I had lost valuable seconds. I set off in pursuit of the two figures, mother and daughter, my wife and my child, and was just in time to see them climbing into a green Renault.

‘Carol! Stop! It’s me!’

They turned and looked in my direction, surprise then fear showing in their faces.

‘Quick, Gillian,’ I heard my wife say, ‘get in the car and close the door!’

‘No, Carol! It’s me! Don’t you know me?’

I was soon across the car park and yapping around the Renault, frantic for my wife to recognise me.

They both stared down at me, their fright obvious. I didn’t have the sense to calm down, my emotions were running too high. Carol rolled down the window on her side and flapped a hand at me. ‘Shoo, go away! Bad dog!’

‘Carol, for Christ’s sake, it’s me — Nigel! (Nigel? I remembered that was my previous name; I think I preferred Horace.)

‘Mummy, it’s the poor doggy I told you about, the one that nearly got run over,’ I heard my daughter say.

Then I did a quick double-take. Was this my daughter? She seemed much older than I remembered; at least two or three years older. But the woman was Carol, and she had called the girl Gillian. Of course it was my daughter!

I leapt up at the side of the car and pushed my nose against the bottom of the half-open window.

‘Polly, it’s your daddy! Don’t you remember me, Polly?’ I pleaded.

Carol smacked me on the top of the head, not viciously but defensively. Then the car’s engine roared into life, the gears clunked, and the vehicle began slowly to move away.

‘No!’ I screamed. ‘Don’t leave me, Carol! Please don’t leave me!’

I ran alongside the car, dangerously close, but it gathered speed and soon outpaced me. I was sobbing by now, seeing them slip through my paws like this, knowing I could never match their speed, realising they were driving from my life again. I felt like throwing myself beneath the wheels to make them stop, but common sense and my old chum, cowardice, prevented me from doing so.

‘Come back, come back, come back!’

But they wouldn’t.

I saw Polly’s wide-eyed face as the car twisted its way round the winding road that led from the car park to the outskirts of the town, and willed her to make her mother stop the car; but it was no use, they sped away.

Many onlookers were regarding me rather nervously by now and I had the good judgement to make myself scarce before I was reported. I took off after the Renault and, as I ran, memories began to pour into me.

Soon, I remembered where I had lived.

Seventeen

Marsh Green is a tiny, one-street village just outside Edenbridge. It has a church at one end and a pub at the other, one general store in the middle and a few houses on either side. There are other houses hidden away at the back of these, one of which I stood gazing at now.

I knew this was where my wife and daughter lived — where I had once lived. My name had been Nigel Nettle (yes, I’m afraid so) and I had originally come from Tonbridge, Kent. As a boy, I’d spent a lot of time working for local farmers (hence my knowledge of the countryside and animals), but careerwise I’d turned to — of all things — plastics. I’d managed to set up a small factory in Edenbridge on the industrial estate leading to the town and had specialised in flexible packaging, branching out into other areas as the firm prospered and grew. Speaking as a dog, it all seemed very boring, but I suppose at the time the company meant a lot to me. We had moved to Marsh Green to be near the business, and I had found myself taking more and more trips up to London for business reasons (which is why the route was so familiar).

As far as I could remember, we’d been very happy: my love for Carol had never diminished with time, only grown more comfortable; Polly (Gillian) was a delight, our home was a dream, and the business was expanding rapidly. So what had happened? I had died, that’s what.

How, and when (Polly seemed so much older than I remembered) I had yet to find out; but I was even more convinced my death was connected with the mysterious man who floated into view so often, yet eluded me before recognition. If he were still a threat to my family (and that thought still clung to me), and if he had had something to do with my death (something told me he had been the cause of it), then I would find a way of dealing with him. Right now, though, I just wanted to be with Carol and Polly.

It was mid-afternoon, I think, and the sun was hidden behind heavy clouds. I was at the bottom of an unmade road and staring at the detached house before me. The walls of the ground floor were constructed of red brick, while the upper floor’s surface was covered with red clay tiles; the doors and window-frames were painted white. A feeling of warmth spread through me and I swallowed hard.

I had to steady myself, it was no good acting the way I had in the town; they would only become frightened again. Keep yourself under control, I told myself, act like a normal dog; there’ll be plenty of time to let them know who you really are once they’ve got used to you.

Pushing the latch of the garden gate down with a paw, I nudged my way in and trotted up the path, keeping a firm rein on trembling body and quaking nerves. I reached the front door and scratched at its surface with a paw.

Nothing happened. I tried again and still nothing happened. I knew they were in, because the Renault stood in the open garage to my left.

I woofed, quietly at first, then louder. ‘Carol!’ I called out. ‘It’s me, Carol, open the door!’

I heard footsteps inside, footsteps coming along the hall towards me. With a great effort of will, I stopped my barking and waited. The door opened slightly and a solitary eye peered through the two-inch crack.

‘Mummy, it’s that dog again!’ Polly cried out. The crack shrunk to an inch, the eye now regarding me with both excitement and trepidation.

More footsteps sounded down the hallway, then Carol’s eye appeared above my daughter’s. She looked at me in amazement.

‘How did you get here?’ she said.

‘I remembered where we lived, Carol. I couldn’t follow the car, but I remembered. It didn’t take long!’ I was finding it hard to contain myself.

‘Scat! Go away now, there’s a good dog,’ Carol urged.

I whimpered. I didn’t want to go away; I’d only just found them.

‘Oh Mummy, I think he’s hungry,’ Polly said.

‘It might be dangerous, dear. We can’t take chances.’

‘Please,’ I wailed, giving them my most beseeching look. ‘I need you. Don’t turn me away.’

‘Look, Mummy, I think he’s crying!’

And I was. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

‘That’s impossible,’ Carol said. ‘Dogs don’t cry.’

But they do. In fact, I wasn’t just crying, I was blubbering.

‘Let him come in, please, Mummy. I’m sure he doesn’t mean us any harm,’ Polly pleaded.

Carol looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t look very dangerous, but you never know with dogs. They’re a bit unpredictable.’

I was really snivelling by now and looking as pitiful as I could. The hardest heart would have melted and I knew my wife’s heart was by no means hard.

‘All right then, let it in,’ she said with a sigh.

The door flew open and I flew in, crying and laughing at the same time, kissing and licking hands and legs. They were startled at first and leapt back in alarm, but soon realised I was only being friendly. ‘He’s lovely, Mummy!’ Polly cried, and knelt on both knees to cuddle me. Fear showed on Carol’s face for a second but she relaxed as I smothered Polly’s face with wet kisses. It’s impossible to tell you how wonderful that moment was — even now it gives me a choking feeling — but if parts of your lives closed in episodes as in a book, then that would have been the end of a chapter. Maybe the end of the book.

My wife joined my daughter on the floor, ruffling my hair with a gentle hand, and I made the mistake of trying to take her in my arms and kiss her on the lips. She screamed in horrified glee and we became a struggling heap of squirming, giggling bodies on the hallway carpet. Polly tried to pull me off and her fingers dug into my ribs, making me shriek with laughter. The harsh tickling continued when she realised she had found my vulnerable spot. The fun stopped when the first sprinkle of water jetted from me (I tried hard but I’ve never been on the best of terms with my bladder) and Carol leapt to her feet, caught hold of my collar and dragged me towards the door.

I found myself outside on the path again, and to convince my wife I was really quite clean I went through the exaggerated pantomime of cocking a leg (an art in itself) and sprinkling her flowerbed. She wasn’t too pleased about the flowers, but understood I was trying to prove something. I waited patiently, beaming up at her, tail wagging itself into a blur, wanting desperately to hug her and tell her I still loved her, until she invited me back into the house.

‘Thank you!’ I barked, and shot past her legs down the hallway.

Polly chased after me, her laughter beautiful to my ears. I skidded to a halt when I reached the kitchen and my eyes drank in the room, the memories returning like old friends from an outing: the huge old black fireplace with its iron oven, a relic of the past which we decided to preserve; the round pine table, deliberately scored and scratched with initials, noughts and crosses, I LOVE YOUs and HAPPY BIRTHDAYs, and any messages we cared to mark for posterity; the antique clock which always informed us the time was a quarter to four, but did so in such an elegant way; the blue-and-yellow vase on the window-sill that looked as if it had been made up from a jigsaw, the result of my patiently piecing it together after Polly had knocked it on to the floor in her ‘just-about-walking’ days. There were new items around the kitchen, of course, but these seemed alien, an intrusion upon a memory. I sighed, ready to burst into tears again, but a hand grabbed my collar and interrupted my nostalgia.

‘Let’s just see who you belong to,’ Carol said, tugging the nameplate round into view. ‘Fluke? Is that your name?’

Polly cupped a hand to her mouth and tittered.

‘No address? Nobody wants you, do they?’ Carol said, shaking her head.

I shook my own head in agreement.

‘Can we keep him?’ Polly said excitedly.

‘No,’ was Carol’s firm reply. ‘We’ll take it to the police station tomorrow and see if it’s been reported missing.’

‘But can we keep him if no one wants him?’

‘I don’t know, we’ll have to ask Uncle Reg.’

Uncle Reg? Who was he?

Polly seemed pleased enough with that and began to run her fingers down my back. ‘Can we feed Fluke, Mummy? I’m sure he’s very hungry.’

‘Let’s see what we’ve got for it, then.’

Please call me him, or he, Carol, not it. I’m not an it. I prefer Fluke to it. I prefer Horace to it.

Carol went to a freezer, a new item in the kitchen, and looked thoughtfully into it. ‘I’m sure you’d like a leg of lamb or some nice juicy steak, wouldn’t you, Fluke?’

I nodded, licking my lips in anticipation, but she closed the freezer and said to Polly, ‘Run down to the shop and buy a tin of dogfood. That should keep him happy until tomorrow.’

‘Can I take Fluke with me, Mummy?’ Polly jumped up and down at the prospect and I began to get excited at her excitement.

‘All right, but make sure he doesn’t run out into the main road.’

So off we set, my daughter and I, girl and dog, down the lane that led to the main road and the village’s only shop. We played as we went and for a while I forgot I was Polly’s father and became her companion. I stayed close to her skipping feet, occasionally jumping up to pull at her cardigan, licking her face anxiously once when she tripped and fell. I tried to lick her grazed knees clean, but she pushed me away and wagged a reprimanding finger. While she was buying my dinner in the grocery I stayed on my best behaviour, refusing to be tempted by the pile of within-easy-reach packets of potato crisps, ‘all flavours’. We raced back down the lane and I let her beat me for most of the way, hiding behind a tree when she reached the garden gate. She looked around, bewildered, and called out my name; I remained hidden, snickering into the long grass at the base of the tree. I heard footsteps coming back down the lane and, when she drew level with my hiding-place, raced around the other side, scooting towards the gate. Polly caught sight of me and gave chase, but I was an easy winner.

She reached me, giggling and breathless, and threw her arms around my neck, squeezing me tight.

We went into the house — my home — and Polly told Carol everything that had happened. Half the tin of dogfood was poured on to a plate and placed on the floor, together with a dish full of water. I buried my nose in the meat and cleared the plate. Then I cleared the dish. Then I begged for more. And more I got.

Everything was rosy. I was home, I was with my family. I had food in my belly and hope in my heart. I’d find a way of letting them know who I was, and if I couldn’t… well, did it matter that much? As long as I was with them, there to protect them, there to keep the mysterious stranger at bay, my true identity wasn’t that important. I wasn’t worried about the police station tomorrow, for there’d be no one to claim me, and I was sure I could ingratiate myself enough for them to want to keep me. Yes, everything was rosy.

And you know how things have a habit of turning nasty for me just at their rosiest.

We’d settled down for the night (I thought). Polly was upstairs in bed, Carol was relaxed on the settee, her legs tucked up beneath her as she watched television, and I lay sprawled on the floor below her, my eyes never leaving hers. Occasionally, she would look down at me and smile, and I would smile back, breathing deep sighs of contentment. Several times I tried to tell her who I was, but she didn’t seem to understand, telling me to stop grizzling. I gave up in the end and succumbed to the tiredness that had crept up on me. I couldn’t sleep — I was too happy for that — but I rested and studied my wife’s features with adoring eyes.

She’d aged slightly, lines at the corners of her eyes and at the base of her neck where there’d been no lines before. There was a sadness about her, but it was a well-hidden inner sadness, one you had to sense rather than see; it was obvious to me why it was there.

I wondered how she had coped without me, how Polly had accepted my death. I wondered about my own acceptance of the badger’s pronouncement that I certainly was dead as a man. The lounge still contained all the cosiness I remembered so well, but the atmosphere of the whole house was very different now. Part of its personality had gone, and that was me. It’s people who create atmosphere, not wood or brick, nor accessories — they only create surroundings.

I had looked around for photographs, hoping to catch a glimpse of my past image, but to my surprise had found none on display. I racked my brain to remember if ever there had been any framed photographs of myself around, but as usually happens whenever I try consciously to remember, my mind became a blank. Perhaps they had been too painful a reminder to Carol and Polly and had been put away somewhere to be taken out only when they could cope.

Whether my plastics business had been sold or was still running I had no way of knowing, but I was relieved to see my family seemed to be under no great hardship. Various household items confirmed this: the freezer in the kitchen, the new television set here in the lounge, various odd items of furniture scattered about the house.

Carol was still as attractive as ever, despite the telltale lines; she’d never been what you might call beautiful, but her face possessed a quality that made it seem so. Her body was still an inch away from plumpness all round, as it always had been, her legs long and gracefully curved. Ironically, for the first time as a dog, I felt physical feeling stir, a hunger aroused. I wanted my wife, but she was a woman and I was a dog.

I quickly turned my thoughts towards Polly. How she’d grown! She’d lost her baby chubbiness but retained her prettiness, fair skin and darkening hair emphasising her small, delicately featured face. I was surprised and strangely moved to see her don brown-rimmed spectacles to watch television earlier on in the evening; it seemed to make her even more vulnerable somehow. I was pleased with her; she’d grown into a gentle child, with none of the petulance or awkwardness so many of her age seemed to have. And there was a special closeness between her and her mother, perhaps a closeness born out of mutual loss.

As I had noticed before, she appeared to be about seven or eight, and I pondered over the question of how long I had been dead.

Outside, the sky had dulled as night bullied its way in, and a chill had crept into the air with it, an agitator urging the night on. Carol switched on one of those long, sleek electric fires (another new item, for we’d always insisted on open fires in the past — logs and coal and flames — but maybe that romanticism had gone with me) and settled back on the settee. Headlights suddenly brightened up the room and I heard a car crunching its way down the gravelly lane. It stopped outside and the engine purred on while gates grated their way open. Carol craned her head around and looked towards the window, then turned her attention back towards the television, tidying her hair with deft fingers and smoothing her skirt over her thighs. The car became mobile again, the glare from its lights swinging around the room and then vanishing. The engine stopped, a car door slammed, and a shadowy figure walked past the window rattling fingers against the glass as it did so.

My head jerked up and I growled menacingly, following the shadow until it had gone from view.

‘Shhh, Fluke! Settle down.’ Carol reached forward and patted the top of my head.

I heard a key going into its latch, then footsteps in the hallway. I was on my feet now. Carol grabbed my collar, concern showing on her face. My body stiffened as the door of the lounge began to open.

‘Hello .. .’ a man’s voice began to say, and he entered the room, a smile on his face.

I broke loose from Carol’s grip and went for him, a roar of rage and hate tearing itself from me. I recognised him.

It was the man who had killed me!

Eighteen

I leapt up, my teeth seeking his throat, but the man managed to get an arm between us. It was better than nothing so I sank my teeth into that instead.

Carol was screaming, but I paid her no heed; I wouldn’t let this assassin anywhere near her. He cried out at the sudden pain and grabbed at my hair with his other hand; we fell back against the door jamb and slid to the floor. My attack was ferocious for my hate was strong, and I could smell the fear in him. I relished it.

Hands grabbed me from behind and I realised Carol was trying to tug me away, obviously afraid I would kill the man. I hung on; she didn’t understand the danger she was in.

For a few snap seconds I found myself eye-to-eye with him and his face seemed so familiar. And strangely — perhaps I imagined it — there seemed to be some recognition in his eyes too. The moment soon passed and we became a frenzied heap again. Carol had her arms around my throat and was squeezing and pulling at the same time; my victim had his free hand around my nose, fingers curled into my upper jaw, and was trying to prise my grip loose. Their combined strength had its effect: I was forced to let go.

Instantly, the man slammed me in my under-belly with a clenched fist and I yelped at the pain, choking and trying to draw in breath immediately afterwards. I went straight back into the attack, but he’d had a chance to close both hands around my jaws, clamping my mouth tightly shut. I tried to rake him with my nails, but they had little effect against the suit he was wearing.

Pushing myself into him was no use either; Carol’s restraining arms around my neck held me back. I called out to her to let me go, but all that emerged from my clenched jaws was a muted growling noise.

‘Hang on to it, Carol!’ the man gasped. ‘Let’s get it out the door!’

Keeping one hand tight around my mouth, he grabbed my collar between Carol’s arms and began to drag me into the hall. Carol helped by releasing one arm from my neck and grasping my tail. They propelled me forward and tears of frustration formed in my eyes. Why was Carol helping him?

As I was dragged towards the front door, I caught a glimpse of Polly at the top of the stairs, tears streaming down her face.

‘Stay there!’ Carol called out when she, too, saw her. ‘Don’t comedown!’

‘What are you doing with Fluke, Mummy?’ she wailed. ‘Where are you taking him?’

‘It’s all right, Gillian,’ the man answered her between grunts. ‘We’ve got to get it outside.’

‘Why, why? What’s he done?’

They ignored her for, realising I was losing, I had become frantic. I squirmed my body, twisting my neck, dug my paws into the carpet. It was no use, they were too strong.

When we reached the front door he told Carol to open it, afraid to let go himself. She did and I felt the breeze rush in and ruffle my hair. With one last desperate effort I wrenched my head free and cried out, ‘Carol, it’s me, Nigel! I’ve come back to you! Don’t let him do this to me!’

But of course all she heard was a mad dog barking.

I managed to tear the sleeve of the man’s coat and draw blood from his wrist before being thrust out and having the door slammed in my face.

I jumped up and down outside, throwing myself at the door and howling. Carol’s voice came to me through the wood; she was trying to soothe Polly. Then I heard the man’s voice. The words ‘mad dog’ and ‘attacker’ reached my ears and I realised he was speaking to someone on the phone.

‘No! Don’t let him, Carol! Please, it’s me!’ I knew he was calling the police.

And sure enough, not more than five minutes later, headlights appeared at the end of the lane and a car bumped its way towards the house. I was underneath the ground floor window by now, running backwards and forwards, screaming and ranting, while Carol, Polly and the man watched me, white-faced. To my dismay, the man had his arms around both Carol’s and Polly’s shoulders.

The little blue-and-white Panda car lurched to a halt and doors flew open as though it had suddenly sprouted butterfly wings. Two dark figures leapt from it, one carrying a long pole with a loop attached to it. I knew what that was for and decided not to give them a chance to use it. I fled into the night; but not too far into it.

Later when the police had given up thrashing around in the dark in search of me, I crept back. I’d heard voices coming from the house, car doors slam, an engine start, then tyres crunching their way back down the lane. No doubt they’d be back tomorrow to give the area a thorough going over in the daylight, but for tonight I knew I’d be safe. I’d wait for the man to come out of the house and then I’d do my best to follow him — or maybe get him there and then. No, that would be foolish — it would only frighten Carol and Polly again, and Carol would probably call the police back. Besides, the man was a little too strong for me. That would be the best bet: follow him somehow — maybe I could even track his car’s scent (even cars have their own distinct smell) — then attack him, the element of surprise on my side. It was a harebrained scheme, but then I was a pretty hare-brained dog. So I settled down to wait. And I waited. And waited.

The shock of it hit me a few hours later: he wasn’t coming out that night. His car was still in the drive so I knew he hadn’t already left, and there would have been no reason for him to have gone with the police. He was staying the night!

How could you, Carol? All right, I’d obviously been cold in my grave at least a couple of years, but how could you with him?

The man who had murdered me? How could you with anyone after all we’d shared? Had it meant so little that you’d forget so soon?

My howl filled the night and seconds later curtains moved in the bedroom window. My bedroom window!

How could such evil exist? He’s killed me, then taken my wife! He’d pay — oh, I’d make him pay!

I ran from the house then, unable to bear the pain of looking at it, imagining what was going on inside. I crashed around in the dark, frightening night creatures, disturbing those who were sleeping, and finally fell limp and weeping into a hollow covered with brambles. There I stayed till dawn.

Nineteen

Have patience now, my story’s nearly done.

Do you still disbelieve all I’ve told you? I don’t blame you — I’m not sure I believe it myself. Maybe I’m a dog who’s just had hallucinations. How is it you understand me, though? You do understand me, don’t you?

How’s the pain? You’ll forget it later; memories of pain are always insubstantial unless you actually feel the pain again. How’s the fear? Are you less afraid now, or more afraid? Anyway, let me go on: you’re not going anywhere, and I’ve got all the time in the world. Where was I? Oh yes…

Dawn found me, full of self-pity again, confused and disappointed. But, as I keep telling you, dogs are born optimists; I decided to be constructive about my plight. First I would find out a little more about myself — like exactly when I died — and then the circumstances of my death. The first would be easy, for I had a good idea of where I would find myself. You see, now I was in familiar surroundings, memories had started to soak through. Well, perhaps not memories, but — how can I put it? — recognitions were soaking through. I was on home ground. I knew where I was. Hopefully, memories of events would soon follow.

The second part — the circumstances of my death — was more difficult, and because I felt familiar places would begin to open memory valves, a visit to my plastics factory might help.

First, though: When did I die?

The graveyard was easy to find, since I knew the location of the dominating church (although the inside wasn’t too familiar to me). What was hard to locate, was my own grave. Reading had become difficult by now and many of these gravestones were poorly marked anyway. I found mine after two hours of squinting and concentrating, and was pleased to see it was still neat and tidy in appearance. I suppose to you it would seem a macabre kind of search, but I promise you, being dead is the most natural thing in the world, and it disturbed me not in the least to be mooching around for my own epitaph.

A small white cross marked my resting-place, and neatly inscribed on it were these words: ‘NIGEL CLAIREMOUNT’ — I’m not kidding — ‘NETTLE. BELOVED HUSBAND OF CAROL, BELOVED FATHER OF GILLIAN. BORN 1943 — DIED 1975.’ I’d died at the age of thirty-two, so it seemed unlikely it was from natural causes. Below this, two more words were carved out in the stone, and these made my eyes mist up. These simply said: ‘NEVER FORGOTTEN.’

Oh yes? I thought bitterly.

The plastics factory was easy to locate too. In fact, as I trotted through the town, I began to remember the shops, the little restaurants, and the pubs. How I would have loved to have gone in and ordered a pint! I realised it was now Sunday, for the High Street was quiet and in the distance I could hear church bells start their guilt-provoking ringing. It was still early morning, but the thought that the pubs would not be open for a few hours yet did not lessen their attraction; I remembered I had always enjoyed my Sunday lunchtime drink.

The sight of the one-floor factory itself, almost a mile beyond the town, stirred up old feelings, a mixture of pride, excitement and anxiety. It was small, but modern and compact, and I could see a fairly substantial extension had recently been added. A long sign, itself made of plastic and which I knew lit up at night, stretching along the face of the building, read: ‘NETTLE & NEWMAN — ADVANCED PLASTICS LTD.’

Nettle & Newman, I pondered. Newman? Who was Newman… ? Yes, you’ve guessed it. My killer had been my partner.

It all began to take shape, all began to fall into place; and the thing that hurt most of all was that he wasn’t content just to take my business — he’d taken my wife too. I remembered him clearly now, his face — his person — clearly formed in my mind. We had started the business together, built it up from nothing, shared our failures, rejoiced together in our successes. He had the shrewder business brain (although he could be rash), but I had the greater knowledge — an almost instinctive knowledge — of plastics. It seems crazy now, a silly thing to be proud of, but proud I had been of that knowledge. Plastics! You can’t even eat them! We had been good partners for a time, almost like brothers, respecting each other’s particular flair. It was often I, though, as smart as my partner had been, who had a hunch on business matters and, as I remember, could be very stubborn if I considered a certain direction was the right or wrong one to take. I believe it was this stubbornness which began to lead to our disagreements.

The facts of the disputes hadn’t swung into focus yet, but the image of heated arguments in the latter days of our partnership clung heavily to my mind. It had seemed our disagreement would lead to the breaking up of the company at one time, but then what had happened?

Obviously I’d been murdered.

Newman. Reginald Newman. Uncle Reg! That’s what Carol had said to Polly when she’d asked about keeping me — ‘Wait till Uncle Reg gets home’. Something like that! The creep had really crept in! Had I been aware of his intentions before I’d died? Was that why I was different? Was I like one of those unfortunate ghosts I’d seen, tied to their past existence because of some grievance, some undone thing holding them? Had I been allowed (or had my own natural stubbornness caused it?) to keep old memories in order to set things right?

I stood erect, vengeful, defiant of the odds. I would protect my own. (There’s nothing worse than an idiot ennobled by revenge.)

The factory was closed for the day, but I sniffed around the outside wondering about the new extension built on to the back of the building. Business must have been good since my death.

After a while I got bored. Strange to think that an interest which had been a large part of my life should seem so uninteresting, so trivial, but I’m afraid after my initial stirring of emotions it all seemed very dull. I went off and chased some rabbits in a nearby field.

I returned to my home later on in the day and was surprised to find it empty. The car was gone from the drive and no noises came from the house. It seemed an empty shell now, just like the factory; they had both lost their meaning. Without their occupants, without my direct involvement, they were just bricks and mortar. I don’t remember being conscious of this sudden impersonal attitude in me at the time, and it’s only now, in times of almost complete lucidity, that I’m aware of the changes which have taken place in my personality over the years.

Starvation became my biggest concern — at least, the prevention of it — so I trotted back to the main road through the village and the ever-open grocery store. A lightning raid on the ‘all-flavours’ secured me a small lunch although a hasty departure from Marsh Green.

I took to the open fields when a blue-and-white patrol car slowed down and a plod stuck his head out of the window and called enticingly to me. After my attack on dear Reggie the night before, I knew the local police would be keeping a sharp lookout for me; you’re not allowed to attack a member of the public unless you’ve been trained to do so.

A romp with a flock of longwools (sheep to you) passed a joyful hour for me until a ferocious collie appeared on the scene and chased me off. The derision from the sheep at my hasty retreat irritated me, but I saw there was no reasoning with their canine guardian: he was too subservient to man.

A cool drink in a busy little stream, a nibble at a clump of shaggy inkcaps — edible mushrooms — and a doze in the long grass filled out the rest of the afternoon.

I awoke refreshed and single-minded. I returned to the factory and began my vigil.

He showed up early next morning, much earlier than any of our — I mean his — employees. I was tucking into a young rabbit I’d found sleepy-eyed in the nearby field (sorry, but canine instinct was taking over more and more — I was quite proud of my kill, actually), when the sound of his car interrupted me. I crouched low, even though I was well hidden in the hedge dividing field from factory, and growled in a menacing, dog-like way. The sun was already strong and his feet disturbed fine sandy dust from the asphalt as he stepped from the car.

The muscles in my shoulder bunched as I readied myself to attack. I wasn’t sure what I could do against a man, but hate left little room for logic. Just as I was about to launch myself forward, another car drew in from the main road and parked itself alongside Newman’s. A chubby grey-suited man waved at Newman as he emerged from the car. The face was familiar, but it was only when an image of the chubby man in a white smock flashed into my mind that I remembered him to be the technical manager. A good man, a little unimaginative, but conscientious and hard-working enough to make up for it.

‘Scorcher again today, Mr Newman,’ he said, smiling at the foe.

‘No doubt of it. Same as yesterday, I reckon,’ Newman replied, pulling a briefcase from the passenger seat of his car.

‘You look as if you caught some of it,’ the manager replied. ‘In the garden, were you, yesterday?’

‘Nope. Decided to get away from it all and take Carol and Gillian down to the coast.’

‘I bet they appreciated that.’

Newman gave a short laugh. ‘Yes, I’ve spent too many weekends going over paperwork lately. No fun for the wife.’

The manager nodded as he waited for Newman to open the office entrance to the factory. ‘How is she now?’ I heard him say.

‘Oh… much better. Still misses him, of course, even after all this time, but then we all do. Let’s go over this week’s schedule while it’s still quiet… ‘ Their voices took on a hollow sound as they entered the building and the door closing cut them off completely.

Wife? She’s married him? I was bewildered. And hurt even more. He’d really got everything!

My fury seethed and boiled throughout the day, but I stayed well hidden as the factory buzzed into activity and became a living thing. A coldness finally took over me as I waited in the shade of the hedge: I would bide my time, wait for the right moment.

Newman emerged again around midday, jacket over his arm, tie undone. There were too many factory workers around, sitting in the shade with their backs against the building, munching sandwiches, others lounging shirtless under the full blast of the sun; I stayed hidden. He climbed into his car, wound down a window, and drove off into the main road.

I gritted my teeth with frustration. I could wait, though.

The murderer returned about an hour later, but again, there was nothing I could do — still too much activity.

I slept and evening came. The workers — many of whom I now recognised — left the building, relieved to escape its exhausting heat. The office staff, consisting of two girls and an administrator, followed shortly after, and the chubby technical manager an hour after that. Newman worked on.

A light went on when dusk began to set in and I knew it came from our — his — office. I crept from my hiding-place and padded over to the building, gazing up at the window. I stood on my hind legs and rested my front legs against the brickwork, but even though I craned my neck till the tendons stood out I could not see into the office. The fluorescent light in the ceiling was visible, but nothing else.

I dropped to all fours and did a quick tour of the building looking for any openings. There were none.

As I completed the circuit, I saw the lone car standing where he had parked it face on to the building. And as I approached, I noticed the window on the driver’s side had been left open. It had been a hot day.

The thing to do was obvious: the means to do it a little more difficult. It took four painful attempts to get the front portion of my body through that opening, and then a lot of back leg scrabbling and elbow heaving to get my tender belly over the sill.

I finally piled over on to the driver’s seat and lay there panting, waiting for the pain from my scraped underside to recede. Then I slid through the gap between the front seats into the back and hid there in the dark cavity on the floor, my body trembling all over.

It was at least an hour before Newman decided he’d had enough work for one day and left the office. My ears pricked up at the sound of the front door being locked and I slunk low when the car door jerked open and a briefcase came flying through on to the passenger seat. The car rocked as he climbed in and I did my best to contain my eagerness to get at him. He started the engine, clicking the light switch, and reversed the car from its parking space. A hand fell over the back seat as he reversed and the temptation to bite his fingers off was almost overpowering, but I needed something more than my own strength if I were to claim retribution.

I needed his car’s speed.

He swung into the main road and sped towards the town. He had to pass through Edenbridge to reach Marsh Green and, as town and village were not too far apart, I knew I hadn’t too long to make my move. There was a long straight stretch of road leading from the town before it curved to the left towards Hart-field, and a smaller road to Marsh Green joining it from the right on its apex. Most cars speeded up on the clear stretch before the bend and it seemed likely he would do the same, for the road would be fairly empty at that time of night. That was where I would go into action — even if it meant being killed myself. I’d died before; it would be easy to do so again. After all, what did I have to lose? A dog’s life?

The thought of what this evil man had reduced me to made the blood rush through me again, and the anger beat against my chest. A low rumbling started way down in my throat and began to rise, molten lava full of hate, seeking an opening, gushing up the hot passage of my throat and finally bursting through to the surface with a scream, an eruption of violence.

I saw the fear in his face as he looked back over his shoulder, his eyes wide and white-filled, forgetting to take his foot off the accelerator, the car speeding on unguided. I had time to see the bend was almost upon us before I lunged forward and bit into his cheek.

He went forward, trying to avoid my slashing teeth, but I went with him, catching and tearing his ear. He screeched and I screeched and the car screeched. And we all went crashing off the road together.

My body hurtled through the windscreen and suddenly I was bathed in a blinding whiteness as I skimmed along the bonnet and into the beam of the headlights. For a split second, lasting for at least a year, I felt as if I were floating in an incandescent womb; until darkness and pain hit me as one.

Then I remembered all and knew I’d been so very, very wrong.

Twenty

Reg Newman had been a true friend. Even after my death.

The realisation hit me along with the pain as I lay there stunned and breathless in the dusty lane — the small lane rutted and stone-filled, which ran directly on from the main road, used only by residents who lived further down its length. We’d been lucky: instead of running into the trees lining the sides of the bend, the car had plunged straight ahead into the lane, the rough bank at one side bringing it to a gut-wrenching halt.

The fragments joined; pieces merged, the jigsaw made a whole. I knew why the bad memories of Reg had lingered on after death, why my very death had confused and distorted those memories. I saw how the stupidities of life could warp the senses in the afterlife, unsettle a soul’s peace. I lay there and let my mind welcome the memories, ashamed and relieved at the same time. I saw the images of my ex-partner had been only vague because he’d been connected with my death and part of me had wanted to forget why and how I had died. Because I had only myself to blame.

We’d had many disagreements in our partnership, but one or other of us had usually given way out of mutual respect for the other’s special qualities: Reg’s business acumen or my knowledge of plastics. Only this time it had been different. This time neither of us was prepared to back down.

The argument was one we were bound to reach at some time in our growth: level out or expand. I was for levelling out, maintaining our position in soft plastics, improving and diversifying only in certain areas. Reg was for expanding, going for hard plastics, investigating the qualities of polypropylene in this area. He maintained that eventually glass would be a thing of the past, that it would be replaced by the more durable plastic, first in the container market, then in most other areas where glass was now used. Polypropylene seemed to possess most of the qualities needed: clarity, strength, the ability to withstand a variety of temperatures, and it was durable to most conditions.

We were using polythylene mainly at that time for flexible packaging such as carrier-bags, frozen food pouches and containers for garden feed produce; to change from this to hard plastics would have meant a huge investment. While I agreed with my partner about the future of plastics, I argued we were not ready to venture into that field just yet. The company would need new extruders for the raw materials to be softened and moulded, the factory itself enlarged or a complete move made to a bigger site. In addition new technical staff and engineers would be required, and transport costs would rocket because of the larger delivery bulk. It would take an investment of not less than one and a half million pounds to bring it off. And that would mean bringing in new partners, perhaps even merging with another company. The business, I argued, was fine as it was; let other companies pave the way into these new areas. It would be foolish for us to take expansion risks so soon after the oil crisis anyway. If it happened again, or if there were serious delays in bringing home North Sea oil, then many companies would be left out on a limb. Now was the time to maintain our growth, reach a good economic level, and bide our time. But Reg wouldn’t have it.

He blamed my ego, my unwillingness to allow strangers into the business we had built up ourselves. He blamed my failure to see beyond the specific product I was dealing with, to see it in future business terms. He blamed my stubbornness, my lack of imagination. I scoffed and blamed his greed.

We were both wrong about each other, of course, and secretly we both knew it, but you need words to sling in arguments, and words so often exaggerate.

It all come to a head when I discovered he had already begun undercover negotiations with a hard plastics company. ‘Just sounding them out’, he had told me when I confronted him with my discovery (I had taken a call when Reg had been out from a director of the other company who was unaware of my resistance to my partner’s plans), but I wouldn’t be pacified. I had a suspicion of business ‘practices’ even though I had a genuine respect for Reg’s flair, and now I began to be afraid that things were running too fast for me, that my technical skill was no match for business politics. Anger, spurred on by this fear, poured from me.

Reg had had enough: so far as he was concerned he was acting in the company’s best interests, negotiating for our growth, afraid that if we didn’t expand into other areas we would eventually be swallowed up by the bigger firms. It didn’t worry him that we would lose much of our independence: there was no standing still in business for him, only progression or regression. And here I was holding him back, content to let the company slide into mediocrity.

He threw the telephone at me and stormed from our office.

It caught me on the shoulder and I fell back into my chair, stunned not by the blow, but by his irrational behaviour. It took a few seconds for my temper to flare again, then I tore after him.

I was just in time to see his car roar off into the main road. I yanked open the door of my own car, fumbling angrily for my keys as I did so, and jumped in. I gunned the engine as an expression of my rage and swept from the factory yard after him.

The red tail-lights from Reg’s car were two tiny points far ahead and I pushed down hard on the accelerator to make them grow larger. We sped through Edenbridge, down the long stretch of straight road that followed, and round the curving bend at the end, then on into the unlit country darkness. I flashed my lights at him, commanding him to stop, wanting to get my hands on him there and then. His car pulled into a side road which would take him across country to Southborough, where he lived, and I slowed just enough to allow me to take the turn.

I jammed on my brakes when I saw he had stopped and was waiting. My car rocked to a halt and I saw him climb from his car and stride back towards me. As he drew near, his hand stretched forward, he began to say. ‘Look, we’re acting like a couple of ki… ‘ But I ignored the look of apology on his face, his outstretched hand which was ready to take mine in a gesture of appeasement, his words that were meant to bring us both to our senses.

I threw open my door, striking his extended hand, and leapt out, hitting him squarely on the jaw all in one motion. Then I jumped back into the car, snapped it into reverse, and raced backwards into the main road again. I looked forward just in time to see him raise himself on to one elbow, his face lit up in the glare of my headlights. I saw his lips move as though calling my name, and a look of horror sweep across his features.

Then I was in the main road and engulfed in a blinding white light. I felt the car heave and heard someone screaming and through the searing pain that followed I realised I was listening to myself. And then the pain and the light and the screaming became too much and I was dead.

I was floating away, and my car was a mangled wreck, and the cab of the truck that had hit it was buckled and smashed and the driver was climbing from it, his face white and disbelieving, and Reg was crying, trying to pull me from the wreck, calling my name, and refusing to admit what my crumpled body swore to.

And then there was a blankness; and then I was reluctantly pushing myself from my new mother’s womb.

I staggered to my feet, all four of them. My head was dazed and spinning, not just with the physical blow it had received, but with the facts that had been revealed to me.

Reg was not the evil man of my dreams: he had been a friend in life and a friend in death. He’d succumbed to my wishes, kept the company small; the extension was a sign that the company was still profitable and growing in the way I had wanted, for it meant no drastic development had taken place, only improvement to existing production. Had he kept it this way out of respect for me, or had his business venture merely fallen through without my added strength? There was no question in my mind;

I knew the former was the case. And Reg, the lifelong bachelor, the man I had teased so often about his unmarried status, the friend who had admitted quite openingly there had only ever been one girl for him and I had married her, had finally taken that plunge. Not just for me, a noble act in taking care of my bereaved family, but because he had always loved Carol. He’d known her long before I had (it was he who had introduced us) and our rivalry for her had been fierce until I had won, and then he had become a close friend to both of us.

Our business partnership had often been stormy, but our friendship had rarely rocked. Not until our final conflict, that is. And that was a conflict I know he regretted bitterly. As I now did.

I looked back at the car, its engine dead but the lights still blazing. Disturbed dust swirled and eddied in their beams. Blinking my eyes against the brightness, I staggered forward, out of their glare and into the surrounding darkness. My eyes quickly became used to the sudden change in light and I saw Reg’s body slumped half out of the smashed windscreen across the car bonnet. He looked lifeless.

With a gasp of fear, I ran forward and jumped up at the bonnet. One of his arms dangled down the side of the car and his face, white in the moonlight, was turned towards me. I stretched forward and licked the blood from his gashed cheek and ear, begging forgiveness for what I had done, for what I had thought. Don’t be dead, I prayed. Don’t die uselessly as I had.

He stirred, groaned. His eyes opened and looked directly into mine. And for a moment I swear he recognised me.

His eyes widened and a softness came into them. It was as if he could read my thoughts, as if he understood what I was trying to tell him. Maybe it was only my imagination, maybe he was just in shock, but I’m sure he smiled at me and tried to stroke me with his dangling hand. His eyes suddenly lost their sharpness as consciousness slipped from him. There was little blood on him apart from the gash in his cheek and ear caused by my teeth in our struggle inside the car; my body had broken the glass of the windscreen, he had merely followed through. The steering wheel had prevented him going further and I checked to see it had done no serious damage to his body. It was of the collapsible kind and so he would have a massive bruise across his stomach the next day, but probably nothing more serious. His head must have struck the top of the windscreen frame as he’d gone through and this had caused his blackout. There was no smell of death on him.

Voices came from further down the lane as people left their houses to investigate the sound of the crash. I decided it was time for me to leave; there was nothing here for me any more.

I stretched forward and kissed Reg on his exposed cheek. He stirred but did not regain consciousness.

Then I dropped to all fours and padded away into the night.

Twenty-One

So there you have it, old man. That’s it.

Do you believe me?

Or do you think your pain is driving you mad?

Dawn is creeping up on us now, and death — for you — is creeping with it. I knew when I found you here by the roadside last night it was too late to find help for you; the cancer in your stomach had already made its claim.

How long have you walked the roads, caring for no one and no one caring for you? What did life do to make you flee from it? Well, it’s over for you now; your years of wandering are done.

I wonder if you do understand all I’ve told you? I think your closeness to death had made our communication possible. You’re in that transitive state which helps the dying receptive to many things they’ve closed their minds to before. Do you still think there’s only blackness waiting for you? Or hell? Heaven? If only it were that simple.

There’s not much more to tell you now. I waited, hidden in the darkness, until they had pulled Reg from the car and saw he had regained consciousness again. He actually walked himself to the ambulance which had arrived by then, and I could see him twisting his head, peering into the gloom, looking for me. The people helping him must have thought he was concussed when he kept asking about the dog he’d seen.

I left the area shortly after, paying one last visit to my own grave before going. I don’t quite know why I went there; perhaps in some strange way it was to pay my last respects to myself. It was the end of something for me. The end of a life, possibly.

Fresh flowers had been placed at the graveside, and I knew I had not been forgotten. The memory of the husband, the father, the friend, would dull with time, but I’d always be somewhere in a corner of their minds.

For me, it was to be different. The memories might still linger, to surface occasionally, but the emotions had changed. My emotions were fast becoming those of a dog, as though, now my search was over, a ghost had been vanquished. The ghost was my humanness. I felt free, free as any bird in the sky. Free to live as a dog. I ran for nearly a day and, when I finally dropped, the last remnants of my old self had been purged.

That all happened at least — in your terms — two years ago. Memories and old habits still visit me from time to time and I remember myself as a man. But now they only return to me in dreams. Finding you last night, tucked away in this hedge by the roadside, dying and afraid of death, stirred those hidden feelings again. Your dying, the aura that’s now around you, drew those feelings out, and with the feelings came the old memories, so clear, so sharp. Perhaps you’ve helped me too, old man; it would never do for me to relinquish my heritage completely. What was it the badger had said? ‘You’re special.’ Maybe he was right. Maybe everything he told me was right. Maybe I’m meant to remember. Maybe I’m here to help those like you. Maybe.

All I know is that I forget more and more what I was and become what I am.

And by and large, I enjoy what I am. I see life now from a different level: knee-level. It’s surprising the difference it makes. It’s like always approaching a place from the same direction, then suddenly coming from the opposite way: the familiar changes shape, looks different somehow. It’s still the same, but has taken on a new perspective. Know what I mean?

I’ve travelled the country, swum in the sea. Nobody’s ever owned me again, but many have fed me. I’ve talked with, ate with, and played with so many different species my head aches trying to remember them all. I’ve been amazed at and chuckled over the neuroses in the animal world: I’ve met a pig who thought he was a horse; a cow who stuttered; a bull who was bullied by a shrew he shared a field with; a duckling who thought he was ugly (and he was); a goat who thought he was Jesus; a wood-pigeon who was afraid of flying (he preferred to walk everywhere); a toad who could croak Shakespeare sonnets (and little else); an adder who kept trying to stand up; a fox who was vegetarian; and a grouse who never stopped.

I’ve fought a stoat (we both broke off and ran at the same time — otherwise we’d have both been slaughtered), killed an attacking owl, battled with a rat-pack, and been chased by a swarm of bees. I’ve teased sheep and irritated horses; I’ve philosophised with a donkey on existentialism’s possible influence on art, ethics and psychology. I’ve sung with birds and joked with hedgehogs.

And I’ve made love to seven different bitches.

Time’s running out for you now; death’s nearly here. I hope what I’ve told you has helped, I hope it’s made some sense to your feverish brain. Can you smell that heavy sweetness in the air; it means I’ve got to go. It’s a lady friend, you see. She lives on a farm three fields away and she’s ready for me now. It’s just a matter of getting her out of that shed, away from the jealous old farmer; but that shouldn’t be too difficult for a smart dog like me.

One other thing before I go: I met Rumbo again the other day. I’d been sleeping under a tree when an acorn hit me on the nose; when I looked around I heard a voice call out ‘Hello, squirt,’ and there he was above me, grinning all over his little squirrel face. He showered me with a few more acorns, but when I called his name he looked blank, then scurried off. I knew it was him because the voice — thought pattern if you like — was the same; and who else would call me ‘squirt’?

It made me feel good, although I had no desire to follow him. It was just good to know someone like Rumbo was around again.

Excuse me now, my lady friend’s scent is really becoming too much to ignore. You don’t need me anymore anyway, the next part you have to do on your own. At least, I hope I’ve helped. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again sometime.

Good-bye.

Hope you’re a dog!

The tramp tried to follow the dog with his tired old eyes as it scampered away, through the broken hedge, into the fields beyond. But the effort was too much.

His body twisted with the pain and seemed to shrivel within the rags he wore as clothes. He lay on his side, his grizzled cheek resting against the damp grass. A solitary ant, not three inches from his eye, gazed at him without expression.

The tramp’s lips tried to smile but the pain would not allow it. With his last remaining strength he brought a shaking hand up, and with all the concentration he could summon he placed a finger carefully over the creature’s tiny body, but the ant scurried away and hid in the forest of grass. With one last painful shudder, the old man’s breath left him and took his life with it.

He died. And waited.