by Nikki Attree
Harry tries to picture his mum playing the sweet old lady role. It’s not that easy. Years of her eccentric behavior and hair-raising appearance have crushed all hopes of Pauline being any kind of maternal role-model.
Jack is, as ever, the optimist. “Surely she can pull it off mate? You told me she used to be the best con-woman in North London before she put all that weight on, and got hooked on beating up security guards. She’ll love it. It’ll be just like the old days for her. She can spin some story about how she’s not got enough money to feed her own dog, and how the reward money will change her life. She’ll have them eating out of her hands!”
Harry is still not convinced, but the Lad is right: who else can they trust? Anyway, it’s about time that Pauline helped him out for a change. He’s always been good to her - visiting her in the nick, arranging to have people beaten up for her ...
"Well, ma does owe me a favour. Last week I got ‘er a fifty inch flat screen for ‘er birthday.”
Jack is amazed: "mate, don’t tell me you actually bought an electrical appliance rather than nick it?”
His partner is admittedly a bit bashful: “a bloke down the pub was floggin ‘em off cheap. I’ve been thinkin I’d better stay out of trouble for a while like, and it was me old ma's birthday. She’s not a bad old bird you know."
Harry stares wistfully into the distance. As we’ve said before, the one soft spot that he still has left in him is for his dear old mum. Now it was time for her to do her bit for him.
Jack is pleased that they’ve sorted the next step of his plan. “OK, that's settled then. Phone Pauline, give her the number on that poster, and tell her to arrange a time to return Angus. Even if we give her a couple of hundred quid, that still leaves us with nine hundred each. Not bad for one little dog eh?”
He’s whistling ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ as they drive into the yard. (Jack is secretly a bit of a political animal. He’s always quite liked Tony Blair,3 but of course he’d never mention it to Harry, who thinks that Maggie was far too soft on “them thieving immigrants!” If Harry does have a hero it’s more likely to be Adolf Hitler.)
As soon as they get out of the car, Jack goes to check on Angus in his bedroom. The pooch is overjoyed to see him, but seems a bit lethargic. He’s wagging his tail, but the rest of him isn’t moving much, and he’s thrown up again - all over Jack’s bed.
"For feck’s sake" shouts Jack, "what the hell is wrong with this dog? It never stops chucking up.”
Harry sniggers. "Didn’t I tell you to keep it in the shed, mate?"
Jack cleans up the mess and takes Angus back to the shed. The dog immediately starts whimpering and tries to vomit again. Now he seems incapable of standing on his own four paws without Jack’s assistance, and the Lad is beginning to feel a bit worried.
He shouts to Harry: "I'm going to have to take Angus to the vet. He’s really not very well. Pauline can't take him back to his owner in this state."
His partner is not amused. "Bugger that! OK, please yerself, but it’s gonna come out of your share of the reward, mate."
Jack reluctantly agrees. “Yes, alright, whatever. We don't want the bloody pooch dying on us before we’ve had a chance to claim the reward, do we?"
* * *
That afternoon Jack takes Angus to the 'Pawesome Veterinary Clinic' on the High Street. The waiting room is packed with cats, dogs, a ferret (with what looks like a vacuum cleaner attachment dangling from his tail), and a couple of ex-parrots nailed to their perch (sorry, couldn’t resist :-)
Jack squeezes into the last available seat, next to the ferret, and politely asks his owner what happened. Mr Ferret looks at him with a resigned expression, shrugs his shoulders, and for the hundredth time that day tells his tale (or should that be tail?) of woe:
"Well, I was hoovering the living-room carpet and Fred decided to attack the hose. He’s never done it before. Normally he’s completely unfazed by the vac, but today for some reason he decided to declare war on it. They’re funny that way, ferrets, you know? Unpredictable and spontaneous. Maybe that’s why I love ‘em so much. I’m not very spontaneous you see ...”
Jack is gradually losing the will to live, but he feigns sympathy as he interrupts: “ah right, that’s a shame, anyway what happened next?”
Mr Ferret continues his sad story: “well, like I said, Fred spontaneously decided that he hated the vacuum cleaner. One minute he’s having a snooze in his favourite armchair, and the next he’s flying through the air! He landed upside down on the end of the hose, and before I had a chance to switch the machine off his tail was sucked into it! Now it’s stuck inside the brush thing, and I feel dreadful about it. I mean, just look at the poor little bugger ..."
Jack struggles to keep a straight face, but again manages to sound sympathetic. “Oh dear, that’s awful. But you mustn’t feel too guilty. It could happen to anyone. At least you had a good quality vac. It’s a Dyson isn’t it? And the bit where Fred’s tail got stuck is easily detachable, so at least you didn’t have to bring the whole thing in with you.”
Sitting opposite Jack are the two parrots. They’re both apparently alive, but hardly moving, and giving Angus the evil eye. He thinks about woofing at them, but to be honest he just isn’t up to it. He’s feeling sick as a dog, never mind a parrot.
"I should nae have eaten that third packet of biscuits underneath the Laddie's bed. Aye, but those wee bickies were damn tasty though!” he’s thinking as yet another irresistible urge to vomit strikes. He searches manically for bit of unoccupied floor.
“Och aye, here we go again. That’s a bonny pair of boots next to Laddie ... I cannae spew on them, but here it comes ..."
Jack hears the all too familiar rumbling, gurgling, heaving sounds, and tries to grab Angus before he throws up, but he’s too late. The young lady next to him stares ruefully down at her once shiny new leather boots.
Jack apologises profusely, but Boot Lady doesn’t seem to be too upset. In fact she’s more concerned about Angus: "don’t worry, it’ll wash off OK. Your doggie is obviously very poorly. He didn't mean to aim for my boots, they just happened to be in the way.”
They both laugh, and Jack thanks her for being so understanding. He fetches some tissues from the receptionist’s desk, and hands them to the Boot Lady, looking her in the eyes, and giving her his Jack-the-Lad appraisal.
“Never mind ‘Boot Lady’, she’s actually quite ‘bootifull’ ...” he thinks to himself, grinning, “I’m not sure about the dreadlocks, though.”
She is indeed beautiful, albeit in a rather ‘alternative’ kind of way. The locks in question are certainly distinctive, striking, but they don’t really provoke dread. They’re barely shoulder length, hardly Bob Marley-esque, and she’s more ‘English Rose’ than Rastafarian.
"What’s the matter with your pet?" he asks her.
"Oh, I‘m just waiting to collect my cat, Sparkle. He hurt his paw yesterday jumping out of a window. The vet said he’ll be OK though. Pawesome are very good you know. They may not be the cheapest, but you’ve definitely come to the right place.”
“Right. Thanks for reassuring me. It’s my first time here with Angus. I’m glad that Sparkle’s going to be OK.”
Jack might have been a bit put off by the dreadlocks initially, but now he’s really starting to warm to this attractive young woman, with her chestnut eyes, and winning smile. Before he can get to know her better, however, the receptionist calls: "Annie Capello? Sparkle is ready for you now."
The Lad says goodbye to Annie, and watches as she collects her moggie and leaves the clinic. He thinks about running after her and asking for her phone number, but as he gets up Angus gives him a look of severe disapproval. A look that says: “excuse me Laddie, you’ve got a poorly dog here. You’ll surely not be expecting me to run doon the street after that there lassie?” Anyway, that’s what Angus would be saying if he could, and he hopes that his expression says it all. It does. Jack is persuaded to remain seated in the waiting
room, but he’s definitely a bit disappointed. “Oh well, that’s one that got away” he thinks as he watches Annie disappear down the high street.
An hour goes by without much happening, except for a couple more projectile vomit incidents. The ferret has been extracted from the hose (without the need for a surgical extraction) and the parrots are long gone. The Lad has flicked through all the back issues of ‘Dogs Today’, ‘Cats Tomorrow’, and ‘Reptile Monthly’ and he’s just about had enough. He goes up to the receptionist and asks her how much longer until Angus can see the vet.
"Sorry sir, but Saturdays are always very busy. You could come back on Monday if you like?"
"No, I'll wait. My dog’s definitely not well. He’s throwing up far too much and I’d really like to know what’s wrong with him. I mean, he might not make it to Monday!"
Jack sits down again. He realises that he is genuinely worried about Angus, and it surprises him. He hasn’t felt anything like this for a long time. It’s not that he’s been suppressing his emotions, more controlling them, and he hasn’t allowed himself to feel much of a connection with anyone except his mother. Even that’s more of a practical connection. He looks after her; makes sure that she’s eating well; got enough money to go to the hairdresser; that kind of thing.
Other relationships have been short-lived. It’s not that he has any problems with the ladies. Quite the opposite in fact. He finds it easy to turn on the charm in that shy Hugh Grant / ‘Jack-the-Lad’ kind of way, and more often than not it works. He’s had plenty of girlfriends, but as soon as things get too serious and they suggest living together, he ends it. It’s never the girl’s fault. He just moves on to the next one before he starts to feel tied down. Now he seems to be getting attached to a dog, and it’s not even his!
Eventually it’s their turn to see the vet. "So, what's the matter with this little chap then?" he asks Jack.
"He’s been throwing up nonstop since yesterday morning."
The vet examines Angus, and the pooch licks his face enthusiastically. "Well, you’re a friendly little chap" he says, patting him on the head. He asks Jack whether Angus has eaten anything “unusual” in the last twenty-four hours.
"Umm, well, I did catch him eating a packets of biscuits ... actually I think it might have been three packets."
“Not to mention the wrapping paper” thinks Angus ... “but it was worth it!”
The vet shakes his head. "Oh dear, did the biscuits contain chocolate?"
Jack scratches his head. "No, I think they were ginger snaps ... or maybe custard creams. Why? Would it make a difference?"
"Well, chocolate can potentially be poisonous for dogs, but it sounds like Angus has just been a bit greedy and his tummy simply can’t hold that many ginger snaps. So, I‘m going to give him an injection to stop him being sick, and some re-hydration fluid. Don't let your dog have anything to eat for twenty-four hours, but make sure that he drinks some water every few hours. He should be fine, but if he's not getting any better, then come back.”
Jack is relieved. Thank goodness it’s nothing too serious. He’d never have forgiven himself. Now he understands why Mr Ferret was feeling so guilty. He looks at Angus and again he feels unfamiliar emotion tugging at his heartstrings. The pooch is so dependent on his human carers, and he’s just so damn cute!
The vet sits down at his desk and starts typing on the computer. “Right ... patient’s name: Angus; breed: Highland Terrier; age and weight ...?” There’s a pause. “Mr Jones - how old is your dog? And how much does he weigh?"
Jack hesitates for a few seconds as he calculates dog-years. "Oh sorry, Angus is six, and I’m afraid I don’t know how much he weighs. He’s not my dog you see. I’m just looking after him for a friend."
"That's strange. I wouldn’t have said that he was much more than eighteen months old. His teeth are in excellent condition for a six year old dog."
"Umm, well you see, the thing is ...“ Jack pauses again as he thinks on his feet, “my friend got him from a rescue shelter, and I don't think they knew his exact age."
"Is your friend registered with us? Which refuge did you say he got Angus from? It would help if I can look up his medical history. Just a minute, I’ll get the scanner and we can check his microchip."
The Lad is getting increasingly nervous now. He picks up the pooch before the vet can take things any further. “Look, my friend lives down in Devon, so there’s no way that he’ll be registered here. Thanks for your help, but I really have to go now. I’m late as it is."
He hurries out of the surgery and up to the desk to pay for the treatment. Noticing some tins of dog food for ‘sensitive stomachs’, he tells the receptionist that he’ll take a couple. She adds up the bill: “OK, that’s fifty pounds for the consultation, thirty pounds for the injection, twenty for the re-hydration solution, and two tins of dog food are another twenty ... which comes to a total of a hundred and twenty pounds. How would you like to pay, Mr Jones?"
Jack is flabbergasted. “No way!” he shouts in disbelieve. “A hundred and twenty quid! You’re ‘aving a laugh, surely?”
The receptionist isn’t fazed. She’s faced this kind of reaction before. “Mr Jones, please keep your voice down. There are sick animals here. I can assure you I am not having a laugh, as you put it. That is the total ..." she tells him sternly. “Now, will you be paying cash, or with a card?”
Luckily Jack has just enough money on him. He stuffs it into her hand, grabs the tins, and storms out of the clinic. Now he’ll be skint until they get the reward money. “I’m in the wrong game” he thinks, as he walks home. “Why didn’t that posh school teach me to be a vet? I’d be making a decent living helping sick animals, instead of trying to survive by stealing them.”
Not for the first time he feels twinges of regret at his choice of career, but they’re soon replaced by his normal Jack-the-Lad stoicism: “hey-ho, at least it looks like you’re going to be OK Angus, matey.” He pats the little terrier affectionately, and as they stroll along the high street together he realises that he’s going to miss the pooch when they have to give him back. Having a dog trotting along beside him somehow just feels right. “Not to mention the pulling power it seems to have with the ladies, eh Angus?” He grins as he thinks back to Annie, the “bootifull one that got away.” The only real downsides of dog ownership seem to be worry when they get ill, and the expense of dealing with it.
* * *
When he gets home, Harry is waiting for him. "Where the feck ‘ave you been Jack? I’ve been trying to ring you."
"Sorry mate, my mobile must’ve run out of battery."
"OK, whatever. Anyway, I spoke to my ma and she says she'll 'elp us out for a couple of ‘undred quid. So let’s get that bleedin mutt back to ‘Ampstead this evening."
“Sorry mate, no can do. Angus needs looking after for a little while. We can’t take him back yet, he’s still too poorly."
Harry puts on the whining mock-posh voice that means he’s being sarcastic: "oh deary me, didums likle Angus is still feeling poorly.” Then he reverts to his pseudo hard-man voice: “look mate, I don't give a toss if the dog is 'poorly’ or not, we need the reward money, Jack. I can't live on the dole. It barely covers me beer money, let alone a new van so I can pull that barmaid.”
“OK ‘Arry, I agree. I need the money as bad as you. I just emptied my wallet at the vet. But hey, one more day won't make any difference, and Angus’ owner will be even more keen to see him."
Harry can see that this is going nowhere. His dog-loving poncey git of a partner isn’t going to change his mind, and they’re stuck with the flea-bag for another night at least. He announces that he’s “going down the boozer to get a skin-full, and try and get me leg over that Rosie behind the bar.” He grabs his leather jacket, and slams the door in disgust.
Jack is left alone on the sofa with Angus. The pooch rests his head on the Lad's knee and soon starts snoring. Jack gently strokes Angus’ head as he talks to him softly: “look mat
e, I know this didn't turn out quite as planned, but the vet says you’ll be right-as-rain by tomorrow and then you can go home. Harry can be a bit scary at times, I know, but don’t worry, I won’t let him touch you.”
Confiding in Angus has made Jack feel even more guilty: “I’m really sorry about all this my furry friend, hope you can forgive me?” Angus snuffles a bit, but he‘s a lot happier now that the nasty human’s out of the way. This one’s not so bad. At least he’s got decent taste in bickies.
As he sits there, with the pooch snoring away on his lap, memories of his childhood suddenly flood Jack’s mind. Memories that he thought he’d erased, because they were too painful. Now he remembers that Angus isn’t the first dog in his life.
Jack actually had a pooch when he was a kid - for a few weeks at least. He’d been pestering his parents for ages to get one. His dad, Reg, wasn't too keen on the idea, but Jack's mum persuaded Reg that it would be good for the lad to have some company as he was an only child. So one day when he was eight, Reg brought home a gorgeous little Spaniel pup. Jack was over-the-moon and named him ‘Scruffy’.
Everything went well for a while. Even though Scruffy had a few accidents on his study floor Reg just about tolerated the dog, because he could see how much Jack loved the mutt.
One day Reg came home to find that Scruffy had destroyed his favourite business magazine (‘Wheeler Dealer’) before he could even open it. That was the last straw. Scruffy was out of the house within a week.
Jack was devastated. He pleaded with his dad not to take Scruffy away, but Reg was a man who prided himself on never doing a U-turn. His word was final and must be obeyed, however great his son’s anguish. Jack had loved that dog so much. He never really forgave his father for taking Scruffy away from him.