by Jack Rylance
“Good boy,” I said menacingly. Then I stuck my face in his face and ran my tongue up and down his right cheekbone, adding insult to injury. After that, with the clock still ticking, I leapt off his upper body and was away out the door.
2
Out in the dimly-lit corridor, I shot left and then took another left, scampering as fast as my little legs would carry me. Basing these directions on what I’d learned from several overheard conversations in recent days. In this way, I’d built up a picture of the complex, and its surroundings, until I had the makings of an escape plan. Now, as I rounded one last corner and spotted a green door to the right of me, it was time to put that knowledge to the test.
Up above, one of the surveillance cameras swivelled on its axis, causing my heart to flutter violently. I could only hope the night watchmen were as useless as rumour had it – far more interested in playing poker than events on the ground. Equally, I was praying that this storage space was still doubling up as the guards’ unofficial smoking room. Its window left wide open to let in a constant stream of air.
But before I could confirm it, there was the small matter of getting the door open, which turned out to be a big deal for a pooch like me.
Sidling up to the metal barrier, I tried setting my shoulder against it, but my paws slipped and slid underneath me as I failed to gain any traction at all. Changing tack, I slowly reversed, took a run up, and tried barrelling my way through. But all that happened was that I bounced right off the door frame and landed in a stunned heap.
Getting to my feet, I moved in close again and tried reapplying my bodyweight – all twenty four pounds of it – straining with all of my might to work the hinges loose. Finally, one small crack appeared and I stuck my nose inside to keep it from closing on me. Then, with what little strength I had left, I pushed and pushed until I’d slipped through.
The stockroom was gloomy, lined with shelving units, the only light coming from a crescent moon that glimmered through the room’s single window. A window that stood ajar as I was very happy to see.
Less pleasing was the overall height of it – about six feet off the ground – which would have been child’s play a month ago, but now it left me with a small mountain to climb. Thankfully, there was a ready-made solution – three dozen toilet rolls stacked against the far wall in a pyramid shape.
Wasting no time, I rushed over to the bog-roll and began my ascent. The whole structure wobbling as I clambered up the left side of it. Then, on reaching the pinnacle, I looked upwards and saw that I was still a whole foot shy of where I needed to be. Preparing to jump, I got up on my hind legs and tried spring-loading them. Then I went for broke and leapt upwards, forepaws fully extended, desperate to get a hold on the all-important ledge.
With the tips of my claws finding the edge, I dug in frantically, employing them as twin grappling hooks. My future hanging in the balance as my back legs felt for the wall, desperate to gain a foothold on it. In that way I scrabbled furiously until I was able to raise myself level with the window.
Peering down and over the precipice, I spent a couple of moments considering the patch of grass below, and the kind of drop it represented. But there was no time to think about this or anything else. Throwing caution to the wind, I stepped off and went into free fall. Landing, a couple of seconds later, on all four feet. Clearly I was getting the hang of this man-trapped-in-a-dog’s-body malarkey.
Taking my bearings, I looked off at the perimeter fence and identified the darkest corner where the spotlights had petered out. The moon had disappeared beneath a thick bank of clouds and I was hoping my jet-black fur would blend in with the shadows there. Mumbling a last minute prayer, I broke cover and bolted for the patch of ground.
It was a fifty yard dash that set my heart racing again as I came within sight of a couple of sentry posts. Then, skidding to a halt, I arrived over by the westerly corner and started digging for my life. Maybe twenty-five minutes left to me if my luck continued and Nigel’s fear of rabies – or worse – held good.
With my paws going ten to the dozen, I kept turning the earth up – clumps of dirt landing away behind me – scooping out a dog-sized groove under the twelve foot high fence. It was another five minutes before I’d established a crude escape route. Then, with my spine set low and neck tucked in, I wriggled myself down, and through, and out into the open with nobody any the wiser.
Feeling elated, I took a split second to savour this first taste of freedom. Afterwards, I scanned the surrounding countryside and located Cambridge off in the distance. Then, without further ado, I struck out for the bright lights of the nearby city and the only person I could think of who wasn’t going to freak at what had happened or automatically turn me in.
3
It was a journey of three miles to the outskirts of Cambridge, and to Steve Winter’s place, which made it about eight times as far in real terms. What’s more, I was travelling across open country, with all the dykes, hedgerows, and ploughed fields to go with it. Inside of ten minutes, my coat was soaked in ditch water, caked in mud, and had countless hawthorns sticking out of it. It was also bloody freezing for a late October night, although I hardly felt the cold with the sweat pouring off my flanks.
Running flat out, I found myself thinking about all the other dogs it would have been better to morph into. Why not a whippet, a wolf-hound, or even a large mongrel for that matter? Breeds that could have bounded, or sprinted, or even thundered their way to freedom. Instead, being a French bulldog, I had no option except to scamper my way there. Still, at least I’d put the fear of god into my captor. That was the only explanation for the continuing silence all around me. A silence that lasted a quarter of an hour longer before the inevitable commotion started up.
At that point, the klaxon’s low wail punctured the night air, followed by a scatter of light beams breaking over the countryside. No doubt a search party was even now readying itself to come find me. Soon enough, there’d be a plane overhead, taking sweeps with a thermal imaging camera. By this point, I didn’t think I could move any faster, but I found another gear as all hell broke loose.
Finally, reaching the outer fringes of Cambridge, I found myself no more than a mile from Steve Winter’s place. Located within a large estate of near identical streets, it was an easy place to get lost in. But whether because of my canine intuition, or basic survival instinct, I knew exactly where I was going. And so I honed in on Waverley Avenue, trusting that my old school friend would be at home.
Of course, there was no knowing for sure, but Steve was as safe a bet as any. Somebody who conducted most of his life over the internet and didn’t even like venturing as far as the corner shop. It was something I’d lectured him about before, suggesting he should really broaden his horizons. But right now I was awful glad he was stuck in his ways.
That said, Steve Winter did have a very open mind when it came to weird phenomenon and was not one of life’s sceptics. Matter of factly, he allowed for the existence of ghost, elves, yetis, leprechauns, aliens, and a great many other strange beings. Basically, if it was uncanny and implausible then you could count Steve in.
Now I was hoping to tap into this same openness by turning up at his door in the dead of night and declaring the shocking truth to him. Due to some genetic jiggery-pokery, I’d been spliced with a small dog and turned into the most unlikeliest type of half-breed you were ever going to see.
Reaching No.34, I stopped and looked up at the window to Steve’s upper floor flat. There were no lights on, which wasn’t hugely surprising (it was past three in the morning), although it was also true that my friend was a notorious night owl.
Despite running on empty, I leaped up onto the dividing wall and walked the length of it until I was face to face with the house front. There I got up on my haunches, lifted my right front paw, and gave Steve’s buzzer a press.
Having rehearsed these moments countless times, I ran through a few of the options.
Impossible casual – “
Alright, Steve, how’s it going?”
Terribly earnest – “Now I know this is a bit insane, and will take some believing, but before you say anything, please hear what I have to say. . .”
Jokey – “You know that coven of local witches you were telling me about the other week?”
But at the moment I had no need of any explanation, because no answer came. Starting to panic, I rang the bell again, and then again, and then a fourth time as my fears started to kick in.
Finally, the hallway light came on and a shadowy figure descended the stairs, looming ever larger, and for a few seconds I thought I was saved. Then a woman in her thirties opened the front door. Tousled red hair, fluffy dressing gown, sleep in the corners of her eyes. Slightly startled, she looked down and batted her eyelids as if this was one more dream she might blink away. Then she looked about her for other signs of life. Finding none, she frowned slightly and examined me all the closer.
“Did you just ring the door bell?” she said doubtfully.
Of course, the woman wasn’t expecting an answer – and I didn’t give her one – but this was a human tendency I’d become acutely aware of. Ever since I’d found myself on its receiving end. People loved talking to dogs and delighted in asking them open-ended questions. Either that, or else sharing their lengthy opinions on every subject under the sun.
Back at the research facility, I’d tuned into this strange habit and gathered plenty of useful intelligence that way. Sitting in front of various scientists, I would adopt the look of an eager canine listener, encouraging them to level with me.
Now I wore that expression once more.
“Was that really you? Well aren’t you a clever boy!” Applauding my talent for ringing doorbells, the woman gave a delighted laugh.
“Clever boy” was a slight improvement on “Good doggy” – and at least she seemed to mean it – but I still wasn’t in any mood for compliments and so I gave her a sobering look.
Could this be Steve’s new girlfriend, I wondered. Yes, I was clutching at straws and couldn’t see how my bachelor friend had ended up with such a partner (with any partner, really), but that was the best case scenario here. As I considered the possibility, the woman leaned down and looked at me searchingly, her head tilted to one side as dogs themselves are meant to do.
“What is it? Are you looking for your old master? Was it that hairy oddball that lived here before me? Well he’s not here now. Buggered off round the world as I understand it.”
My mouth hung open as I tried absorbing the staggering truth. The thing was, my friend had been threatening to do this for as long as I’d known him – set off on a worldwide adventure. But there was no way I could believe it, given his reluctance to set foot outside the front door. For years then I’d thought nothing of it other than to tease him good naturedly (“Marco Polo”, I’d called him. “Bear Grylls”. And even “Scott of the Antarctic”). Now I realised I should have kept my mouth shut and my jokes to myself.
For the first time, the October cold really got to me and a shiver went down my spine. At the same time I peered inside at the hallway, imagining myself stretched out on the thick carpet, able to sleep there until morning. Waking with a fresh burst of energy and my spirits somewhat restored.
It was a longing that the new tenant picked up on but then rejected.
“Sorry, boy – the landlord couldn’t have been any clearer when I moved in here. No pets allowed. It would be more than my leasehold is worth to let you into the building.”
Having reached my wit’s end, I thought about trying to reason with her human to human. But despite the soundness of my argument, I couldn’t see that appeal ending well. So it was, accepting my fate with slumped shoulders, I turned around and headed off into the night with nowhere to go and no Plan B to fall back on.
No wonder I felt the first stirrings of despair.
Dog Rough - Chapter Two
Out in the dimly-lit corridor, I shot left and then took another left, scampering as fast as my little legs would carry me. Basing these directions on what I’d learned from several overheard conversations in recent days. In this way, I’d built up a picture of the complex, and its surroundings, until I had the makings of an escape plan. Now, as I rounded one last corner and spotted a green door to the right of me, it was time to put that knowledge to the test.
Up above, one of the surveillance cameras swivelled on its axis, causing my heart to flutter violently. I could only hope the night watchmen were as useless as rumour had it – far more interested in playing poker than events on the ground. Equally, I was praying that this storage space was still doubling up as the guards’ unofficial smoking room. Its window left wide open to let in a constant stream of air.
But before I could confirm it, there was the small matter of getting the door open, which turned out to be a big deal for a pooch like me.
Sidling up to the metal barrier, I tried setting my shoulder against it, but my paws slipped and slid underneath me as I failed to gain any traction at all. Changing tack, I slowly reversed, took a run up, and tried barrelling my way through. But all that happened was that I bounced right off the door frame and landed in a stunned heap.
Getting to my feet, I moved in close again and tried reapplying my bodyweight – all twenty four pounds of it – straining with all of my might to work the hinges loose. Finally, one small crack appeared and I stuck my nose inside to keep it from closing on me. Then, with what little strength I had left, I pushed and pushed until I’d slipped through.
The stockroom was gloomy, lined with shelving units, the only light coming from a crescent moon that glimmered through the room’s single window. A window that stood ajar as I was very happy to see.
Less pleasing was the overall height of it – about six feet off the ground – which would have been child’s play a month ago, but now it left me with a small mountain to climb. Thankfully, there was a ready-made solution – three dozen toilet rolls stacked against the far wall in a pyramid shape.
Wasting no time, I rushed over to the bog-roll and began my ascent. The whole structure wobbling as I clambered up the left side of it. Then, on reaching the pinnacle, I looked upwards and saw that I was still a whole foot shy of where I needed to be. Preparing to jump, I got up on my hind legs and tried spring-loading them. Then I went for broke and leapt upwards, forepaws fully extended, desperate to get a hold on the all-important ledge.
With the tips of my claws finding the edge, I dug in frantically, employing them as twin grappling hooks. My future hanging in the balance as my back legs felt for the wall, desperate to gain a foothold on it. In that way I scrabbled furiously until I was able to raise myself level with the window.
Peering down and over the precipice, I spent a couple of moments considering the patch of grass below, and the kind of drop it represented. But there was no time to think about this or anything else. Throwing caution to the wind, I stepped off and went into free fall. Landing, a couple of seconds later, on all four feet. Clearly I was getting the hang of this man-trapped-in-a-dog’s-body malarkey.
Taking my bearings, I looked off at the perimeter fence and identified the darkest corner where the spotlights had petered out. The moon had disappeared beneath a thick bank of clouds and I was hoping my jet-black fur would blend in with the shadows there. Mumbling a last minute prayer, I broke cover and bolted for the patch of ground.
It was a fifty yard dash that set my heart racing again as I came within sight of a couple of sentry posts. Then, skidding to a halt, I arrived over by the westerly corner and started digging for my life. Maybe twenty-five minutes left to me if my luck continued and Nigel’s fear of rabies – or worse – held good.
With my paws going ten to the dozen, I kept turning the earth up – clumps of dirt landing away behind me – scooping out a dog-sized groove under the twelve foot high fence. It was another five minutes before I’d established a crude escape route. Then, with my spine set low and neck tucked in, I wriggled myself down,
and through, and out into the open with nobody any the wiser.
Feeling elated, I took a split second to savour this first taste of freedom. Afterwards, I scanned the surrounding countryside and located Cambridge off in the distance. Then, without further ado, I struck out for the bright lights of the nearby city and the only person I could think of who wasn’t going to freak at what had happened or automatically turn me in.
Dog Rough - Chapter Three
It was a journey of three miles to the outskirts of Cambridge, and to Steve Winter’s place, which made it about eight times as far in real terms. What’s more, I was travelling across open country, with all the dykes, hedgerows, and ploughed fields to go with it. Inside of ten minutes, my coat was soaked in ditch water, caked in mud, and had countless hawthorns sticking out of it. It was also bloody freezing for a late October night, although I hardly felt the cold with the sweat pouring off my flanks.
Running flat out, I found myself thinking about all the other dogs it would have been better to morph into. Why not a whippet, a wolf-hound, or even a large mongrel for that matter? Breeds that could have bounded, or sprinted, or even thundered their way to freedom. Instead, being a French bulldog, I had no option except to scamper my way there. Still, at least I’d put the fear of god into my captor. That was the only explanation for the continuing silence all around me. A silence that lasted a quarter of an hour longer before the inevitable commotion started up.
At that point, the klaxon’s low wail punctured the night air, followed by a scatter of light beams breaking over the countryside. No doubt a search party was even now readying itself to come find me. Soon enough, there’d be a plane overhead, taking sweeps with a thermal imaging camera. By this point, I didn’t think I could move any faster, but I found another gear as all hell broke loose.