Tea and Dog Biscuits (23 page)

‘This is a bright dog,' had been Dorothy's assessment of her. ‘She learns quickly.'

And she was very inquisitive, wanting to inspect everything, also a sign of her German Shepherd intelligence. When she saw Thor for the first time she ran away and hid behind Dorothy's leg, but even then her sense of curiosity overcame her and she kept peeping out to look at this huge creature.

The figure left the porch and came across to greet us. ‘Hello, I'm Doreen. I've come to see the pup. Oh, and to be vetted, of course.'

Dorothy and I introduced ourselves, Doreen shaking each of our hands vigorously.

‘I'm so pleased to meet you and I'm so excited.'

I said I was pleased to meet her – and I was, too. Her cheerful enthusiasm was medicine for our depleted spirits.

‘Oh I do love a real fire,' she exclaimed when we went through into the living room. ‘I'm sorry if I'm early. I sat at home with my hat and coat on for a while but then I just couldn't contain myself any longer.'

Over tea and chocolate digestives Doreen told us her life story. We didn't have to go through the usual question and answer session. It was over a year since her last dog had died and it had taken her until now before she felt she could have another.

‘I know some people can go and get another dog the next day, but I just couldn't,' she said. ‘I needed time to grieve – I don't know if that sounds silly.'

Not to us it didn't.

She ran her own smallholding, mostly growing fruit and vegetables, with a few free-range chickens.

‘So she'll have plenty of room to run about for exercise – there's eight acres – although of course I'll take her out for walks every day. Because I've got land for her to run about, that's one reason why I want a young one.'

‘Well,' I said, ‘we've certainly got a young one…'

Doreen towered above Dorothy and me, and was heavily built; I guessed that her smallholding work had helped to develop her big arms. Cradled in those arms, the puppy looked even smaller than before.

‘Oh, she's utterly gorgeous. What's her name?'

Like Thor, she had undergone a name change. Sniffy had now become Bliss.

Dorothy had of course bought from the pet shop an assortment of toys and we watched as Doreen lay on the floor, immersed in the joys of playing with a puppy.

I was thinking that time was getting on and we had dogs to walk when Doreen said, ‘I'm taking up so much of your time. But it's a long while since I did this. My last girl was ten when she died – and ten weeks when I got her.'

She left Bliss and sat down on the settee, gazing at the fire. Dorothy and I looked at one another. The bounce seemed to have gone out of Doreen.

‘Would you like another cup of tea?' Dorothy offered.

Doreen shook her head. ‘I'm sorry,' she said, ‘but it brings back too many memories. She's just so like my old dog, Chrissie.'

She suddenly stood up. ‘I've made a mistake – I can't have another puppy.' She looked at me and then at Dorothy. ‘I'm so sorry I've wasted your time.'

She took out a handkerchief, blew her nose, and hurried out.

It must have been a couple of hours later that I heard a tapping on the living room window. I'd had time since Doreen left to walk Lottie, the Lurcher, and feed the others, Larry, the brown Labrador cross, tiny Millie, Thor and Bliss. The nights drawing in so early made it seem later than it really was and it was a surprise to see the clock in the hall tell me it was only eight o'clock. I opened the front door and was about to step out to see who was at the window when I stopped myself just in time, to avoid colliding with a Christmas tree. A Christmas tree that was taller than me.

Doreen appeared out of the darkness.

‘I heard you say you hadn't got your Christmas tree yet, and you always have a real one, so I've brought you this one.'

Dorothy appeared beside me.

‘Did you hear that?' I said. Her mouth was open in astonishment.

‘It's a wonderful tree,' she said. ‘I can't normally afford one as nice as this.'

‘No. We normally end up with some straggly thing,' I said, ‘that we get on Christmas Eve.'

I leant round the tree. ‘But Doreen, what's this for – why have you brought us this?'

‘My uncle grows them and I sell a few for him as part of my farm-gate sales. I felt so guilty at having wasted your time I wanted to get you something to say sorry.'

‘Oh, how lovely!' said Dorothy. ‘And how kind.'

‘We both love having a real Christmas tree,' I said.

‘You must have so much pressure on your time, helping these dogs,' said Doreen, ‘and I felt awful afterwards at wasting it. I'll help you carry it in, if you like.'

I took one side of the pot and Doreen the other. It took some lifting and manoeuvring to get it through the door.

‘Dorothy and I needed this to cheer us up,' I said to Doreen as I shuffled backwards.

‘Why is that, my darlings?' she said.

Dorothy pushed open the living room door. Through the open door Thor could be seen lying stretched out in front of the fire. Dragging the pot down the hall I paused. ‘We'll tell you about it over a Christmas drink. It's that lad, there,' I said, nodding in the direction of the dog sprawled out on the fireside rug.

‘Oh bless him,' said Doreen. ‘What's wrong with him?'

‘What's right with him?' I said.

She left me grappling with the tree, went to Thor and stood gazing down at him. He lifted his head from the rug, looked up at her for several moments, then managed a wag of his tail.

It was love at first sight for them both.

Christmases since then always make me think about Doreen and her Thor. There was much to think about.

This woman had come to us for a young dog yet she had given a home to an old-age pensioner. We can all of us make seemingly rational judgements about what dog would suit us and our home – but in reality our emotions are our boss. In the comparatively short space of time Thor was with Doreen he brought immense pleasure into her life, and when the day came that she had to say goodbye to him she told us, ‘He was the greatest dog I've ever known. He was such a character. I loved him dearly.' And it was her act of kindness, coming back to give us a Christmas tree, that caused Thor to come into her life.

Perhaps Thor had never before known a loving, caring home, for how else do we explain his rejuvenation? Or perhaps it was the herbal remedy Doreen gave him. Or the friendship he struck up with Lucky, her cat. So for once, just once, Melissa was wrong: it wasn't just weeks. He made it through the winter, enjoyed the spring and was fortunate to experience one of those glorious English summers we have from time to time, when he could be seen sprawled out under his favourite tree, Lucky beside him, sunbathing.

He died in his sleep, under that tree, in late autumn.

He had given Doreen companionship, laughter and even a little exercise throwing his ball for him. She had given him some life.

And she had given us not only a Christmas tree but the present of a home for Thor. It had been the best Christmas present we could have had.

The two men opened the back doors of the truck. Along either side of the interior was a row of built-in cages. Two or three of the cages were empty but in each of the others, some seven or eight, a dog looked out at us.

I looked down the rows.

‘Yours isn't in those,' said one of the men. ‘We'd have to let him out if he was.' He clambered into the truck and went to the back where I could make out in the gloomy interior a free-standing cage on the floor. As he dragged it forward I could see the Shepherd inside. At the doors of the truck the man paused for us to get a look at the dog in daylight. He sat on his hindquarters, his head lowered, taking no interest in us, his eyes glazed, staring vacantly ahead of him. He made the effort to stand on all fours but his back legs wouldn't support him and he slipped down.

Some of the other dogs were barking, some whining, some silent.

‘Where are all these others going?' I asked the man in the wagon. He was the older of the two and I surmised the younger man with him was his assistant.

‘A bloke at Yarborough,' said the older man. ‘When he can, he takes some of the seven-dayers.' He jumped down out of the wagon.

‘Seven-dayers?'

‘Under our contract with the council, at the end of the seven days we can dispose of them. If it's an old one, or it's sick, we're not likely to home them. Usually we only destroy the others if we're full.'

‘But we're nearly always full,' said the young man.

The older man tapped the cage with his finger. ‘This one would have had to go, as he's a biter. He would have gone weeks ago if it wasn't that they were hoping to prosecute.' He ran his fingers backwards and forwards across the bars of the cage. The dog tilted his head a little to one side in an effort to see what the man was doing. ‘I think he's starting to come out of this – we need to get him out of the cage and into wherever you want him quick. I assume you've got somewhere nice and secure for him.'

‘We've been told he can be a bit aggressive,' I said.

‘He'll have you,' said the man. He looked at his young assistant. ‘That reminds me – don't let me go, Lee, without giving him the paperwork.' He looked at me. ‘You'll have to sign our lawyer stuff that absolves us from all legal liability for what the dog does to you.'

Dorothy had been at work when the two men brought our latest arrival, so naturally as soon as she got home she had hurried off down to the pen to see him. I explained that the dog pound had given him some stuff to sedate him.

‘Presumably he doesn't travel well, then, if they've had to sedate him for the journey,' said Dorothy.

Hmm. I doubted whether it was for the journey that the men had sedated him. They had carried the cage into the pen, upended it to tip the dog out, and were then in such a hurry to get out of the pen that they collided at the door. Not that the dog looked to be any sort of a threat. He stood in the middle of the pen, a dreamy look on his face, swaying slightly – how I looked after two glasses of wine. I'd decided to leave him for a few hours to recover and acclimatise himself to his new surroundings.

As we approached the pen now we could see him lying close to the door, curled up.

‘What's his name?' asked Dorothy.

‘They called him Growler at the dog pound,' I said.

Dorothy pulled a face. ‘We can't call him that.'

I'd been watching the telly when Dorothy got home – a repeat of one of my favourite shows of all time,
The Dukes of Hazzard.
I usually found it hard to come up with names for the dogs but today I had a source of inspiration.

‘What about Bo?' I suggested, thinking of one of the lead characters in the show.

Dorothy's expression indicated that she was not impressed. We were at the pen now and the dog remained curled up but looking at us, eyeing us suspiciously I thought.

‘What about Denver?' I said after the actor who played my favourite character.

Dorothy knelt down to talk to the dog. ‘I think,' she said to him through the wire mesh, ‘that we ought to get to know you a bit better so we can find something suitable.'

‘Or what about Rosco?' I said. ‘He's the Sheriff.'

‘Yes, I know,' Dorothy said.

I dropped down on my knees beside her. The dog leapt to his feet so suddenly and with such alacrity it made me jump and I toppled over backwards. He erupted into a frenzy of furious barking, his lips turned back as far as he could manage, to show his teeth, his jaws snapping shut, his eyes wide. Even Dorothy was momentarily taken aback.

I scrambled up. The dog flung himself at the wire mesh, tilted his head and grabbed the wire with his teeth, tugging it to get at me. Despite the strong wire between me and the dog I took two or three steps backwards.

Dorothy got slowly to her feet and also stepped back from the wire.

‘Goodness,' I said, ‘I wasn't expecting that.' I could feel my heart beating from the unpleasant jolt.

The dog let go of the wire, spun round in a circle, then grabbed it again.

‘Let's move away,' said Dorothy. ‘He's getting himself in a frenzy.'

We walked off a few yards to watch him at a distance. But neither the barking nor the pulling at the wire subsided.

‘We'll have to leave him for now,' said Dorothy. She turned and set off back to the house.

I stayed for a few moments, watching the spectacle of this dog snarling and barking and frantically clawing at the wire.

I followed after Dorothy. ‘Whatever are we going to do with him?' I said.

‘For now, all we can do is leave him to calm down,' said Dorothy. ‘Tell me more about what we know of him.'

What we knew of him had come via Cecilia, who knew somebody who did rescue work, who knew somebody who did rescue work, who knew about this dog. Taking a dog that came through Cecilia always had an element of uncertainty: you couldn't know what you were getting until it arrived. But it was so difficult to say no to Cecilia, plus she had found us an A-starred home for Bliss the pup with a retired RAF police dog handler.