by A Long Walk in the High Hills- The Story of a House, a Dog
Perhaps his luck with women has something to do with the fact that he, like me, has no electricity. There are not many high-maintenance girls prepared to go without hair dryers or washing machines or irons no matter how sexy or romantic the man. I guess Ramon and his friends must have figured this out, which is why Ignacio is prepared to dig up the road to get his lovelorn cousin powered up, first. Ramon is always telling me he’s ‘looking out for me’ and if he gets electricity he’ll ‘make certain’ I get it too. Which of course makes me like him all the more even though I know it’s bunkum. Ramon is not at home today so I can’t ask if he has any news of electricity or when it will arrive. Which is perhaps just as well. I’m getting so that this Mallorquín way of showing a girl a good time – fibbing outrageously – is wearing thin.
It is while I’m contemplating the improbability of ever having electric light if I have to wait for Ignacio, that I think I hear Kendi yelping. It is definitely her. Her cries are carrying clearly on the air so I have to hurry, all the time wondering what on earth can have happened. As I get close I can see Kendi crouched in the dust, wincing as an angry Nico stands astride her, ready to whack her again. ‘No, don’t!’ I manage to shout.
He spins round, surprised I’m here. ‘She has been bad,’ he tries to explain. ‘She kill my chicken which has babies.’
The hen is laid out at his feet, dead, from a bite to its neck, its tiny chicks scudding around. Oh dear. ‘She’s a dog and she can’t help it,’ is all I can muster.
Nico shakes his head. ‘My father he won’t be happy. I let her off her chain for you and she does this. She no be trusted.’
Now is not the time, I know, to explain to Nico why a dog with her energy should never be cooped up. She’s been used to coming on long walks with me, but while I have been away she’s obviously had no exercise. As Nico hitches Kendi, roughly, back on to the chain, I tell him I understand why he is upset and hope his father won’t be too cross. I can sense it’s best not to ask if Kendi can come with me. Better not push it and hope he cools down. I am determined not to leave until I know Kendi will be okay and soon Nico does turn sunny although the day for me has suddenly become dull.
By evening I’ve decided what’s to happen. I’m going to ask Nico if I can buy Kendi from him, although I know if he sells her, he’ll find another dog to tie up, another poor animal with which to torment me, but at least, I tell myself, Kendi will get a second chance. While I have been away I have steeled myself to accept that Kendi has to be found a new home on the island, no matter what. I cannot take her with me, the journey is too fraught.
‘Hola, Selina.’ In the half-light at the end of the day Nico is calling. He has Kendi on a rope. Why he has negotiated the difficult track just as darkness falls, I can’t fathom but Nico wastes no time. He walks in and proffers Kendi. ‘If you want her, you can have her,’ he says firmly.
‘But why?’ This is something I hadn’t foreseen.
‘My father has to go into hospital again and I give you Kendi. She will guard the house.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ is all I can say.
Nico’s brown eyes start to glisten and it strikes me in spite of all that has happened, he is fond of her. ‘But she’s yours, are you sure?’
‘Sí,’ he says, ‘she better with you.’
He turns to go, leaving me, oddly deflated, with Kendi.
She’s sitting on the kitchen floor, head on one side, looking at me as if to say ‘so what now?’ Do I feed her and if so, on what, and where is she going to sleep tonight? None of this has troubled me before. I’ve always made sure Kendi got back to her kennel at night and although I’ve slipped her treats I’ve been careful not to upset her tummy with food she’s not used to. Now she’s apparently mine, which I still somehow can’t believe, I’m going to have to think of what to do with her. A momentary panic sets in. Who is going to take her and look after her? How on earth am I going to find her a good home? Somehow I manage to obliterate my worries and concentrate on more immediate things like finding somewhere for her to kip down. The implications of Nico’s impulsiveness can be dealt with in the morning.
My sitting room has a huge sofa covered in broad cream and grey striped linen with massive feather-down cushions that fills half the room. It’s heaven to collapse in and the room in all its sumptuousness has been out of bounds to Kendi in all the time we’ve known one another. Tonight, however, as it looks like she’s here for good and as I have some writing to do and I can’t very well banish her, I’ve invited her in as long as she’s on her best behaviour.
Lying carefully on the floor, she places her head between her paws, positioning herself perfectly. Her limpid eyes fix on me and she begins to whine. She’s not housetrained. I wonder if she needs to go out. Moths flutter in as I prise open the heavy front door but Kendi’s not for budging. No matter how much I cajole and encourage she’s decided she’s staying put. So here’s a new revelation, Kendi hates the night, which means I’ll have to accompany her. Out in the blackness my eyes take a while to adjust but when I finally manage to focus, Kendi’s disappeared. The next time I look she is lying, head deep in the cushions, on my sofa, eyes closed, her feet in the air.
Bedtime is another eye-opener. The stairs leading up to my bedroom curve from the old entrance hall, and without light can be tricky. Kendi soon gets the hang of them, however. I find an old blanket and lay it outside my bedroom door so she can feel safe, close to me. She doesn’t object and is there early next morning, stretching and wagging her tail. I’m not quite sure whether she thinks she’s protecting me or me her. Either way this sleeping outside my bedroom on the landing floor is I think a good solution until I discover a few days later she’s never spent a single night on the tiles but is instead kipping down on the sofa, creeping upstairs early when she hears me stir.
If she’s crafty she is, however, clean. Each morning I expect to find a puddle or worse but she doesn’t let me down. For a dog who’s been reared in a kennel in a field this is amazing. In any case I walk her as soon as the sun comes up and the dew soaks my shoes as we sludge through the long grass. She hurls herself to the top of the field and waits for me to open the gate, then she’ll run on again and round, doing a loop, loping back as quickly, to heel. Kendi has a way of concentrating on my feet, like a wolf circling its prey, which makes her look more ferocious than she is. I guess this is part of being a good-looking Alsatian.
These early morning walks are special mainly because the weather is often benign as the year heads towards its end. It also means we can stop and make new friends along the way. Kendi is very taken with a small hairy dog who ventures out the same time as us each morning bringing along a cheery, round-faced man who strides along on a couple of walking poles. We usually bump into one another under the holm oak marking the divergence of the paths and after a chorus of holas and hasta luegas go our different ways. Kendi likes small dogs. She doesn’t feel threatened and is always happy to wag her tail at this particular bit of scruff.
Along with Kendi has come her vaccination record, an important-looking document, bound in green with a gold and red Reino d’Espana stamped on its cover. It was given to me with much solemnity by Nico a couple of days after he’d handed her over. It records the number of anti-rabies injections she has had over these last few years and I guess will come in very useful for whoever ends up with Kendi. I am trying not to dwell on our parting but, soon, I must push myself into approaching anyone with any inclination to offer her a home. Nico’s lucky, he seems to have got over his anguish at saying goodbye to his dog. I suppose he has other more important matters to worry about.
His father is now in Son Dureta and Nico has to visit regularly because of his ‘pulmo’ problems. His lung complaint. I think it’s cancer. Kendi, whenever she sees Nico, still gives him a huge welcome but has now, thankfully, settled away from him, as well she might with all the walks and fine food I am giving her. Her coat, once so harsh and dry, is now silky and with her blossoming I’m fin
ally ready to visit the vet for a thorough check.
Port d’Andratx is busy with trucks unloading provisions and cleaners on ladders washing windows as Kendi and I fall out of the car outside Petra’s surgery. I can’t believe how good Kendi is, walking to heel, following my lead, being so well behaved that going to the vet’s feels somehow less fraught. The feral cats are growling over their breakfast trays on the street as usual as we wade through and into reception, setting off the tinny chimes over the front door, to wait in a fug of antiseptic for Petra who has just finished operating and is in a back room, stacking cages with bandaged and knocked-out cats and dogs awaiting their owners.
There are a couple of other casualties before us in the queue. A fluffy, bad-tempered cat with her doting owner and a tearful English girl who’s found four adorable puppies with floppy ears dumped in a rubbish bin near her holiday villa and doesn’t know where to turn. She has them in a cardboard box, their appealing eyes and wet noses peeping over the side. Someone suggested the girl bring them here but soon Petra is spelling out the harsh facts of life. If she takes the pups to the municipal pound they’ll be killed and incinerated in two weeks because no one wants them, five thousand a year are destroyed like this. The only other suggestion Petra has, trying to console the girl, is that she takes them to an animal rescue which has been set up in Calvia a few miles away. She doesn’t want to distress her any more but I know, as does Petra, that this sanctuary, like so many others, is overflowing with strays. A German woman started it, hoping to save the lives of animals locked up in the council’s dog pound. This council, Calvia, one of the richest in Spain, whose massive revenue is generated from visitors, seems to have hardly a conscience when it comes to wiping its streets of strays.
The girl with the pups trudges away to waste a day trying to find an unhappy solution and Kendi and I get to see Petra. I had hoped to ask Petra, amongst other things, if she might know of someone who could give Kendi a home but the box of pups has left me dejected.
Petra says what a lovely dog she is as she runs her hands along Kendi’s tummy and haunches and lifts her, gently, on to the scales to weigh her but when she touches her ears, Kendi squeals, so now she has to have a blood test because mosquitoes can transmit disease and Kendi may have to have her ears amputated. I have to lean against Petra’s desk to absorb this new piece of information. Surely not? Only when the test comes back, Petra tells me, can she decide what treatment to give her. Her ears are very sore, she has had a lot of flesh eaten away by the flies. To depress me even more she then says Kendi will need a ton of injections including an anti-rabies shot and have to be checked with more blood tests at regular intervals if she’s going to have a pet passport. ‘I haven’t thought about taking her back to Britain,’ I say weakly.
‘Well, what are you going to do with her?’ asks Petra.
Out on the street, the cats have sloped off along with the vans and the cleaners. Visitors and locals are out shopping in the sun, unhurried, taking time to talk to one another and exchange gossip about the goings-on of the district. From the restaurants there’s much chattering and laying of tables as Kendi and I find a berth in a café on the quayside to discuss where we’re to begin to find somewhere nice for her to live.
There is so much energy in the port, piles of swish new homes going up, there surely must be someone here who could care for her. I know she doesn’t have much kerb appeal with her wolverine looks and scruffy coat and although I love her I can see she’s not to everyone’s taste. Perhaps if I parade her someone might take a fancy to her. You never know.
Just as I’ve anchored Kendi, tying her lead to a chair leg, telling her to be good, a black-and-white spotty dog pees on a menu board across the road. Kendi is not pleased. The café whose board it is, is getting a reputation for serving good food even if the chef is a bit dictatorial towards his customers. I hope he’ll make an appearance soon and tell the dog to clear off because Kendi’s howl has gone up an octave and is beginning to unsettle the well-heeled customers at the adjoining table.
I try ignoring her as the conversation at the next table gets louder. They’re discussing their disappointment in the local fish they’d had for dinner last night. I know what they mean. Fish caught in a warm Mediterranean Sea, even if presented beautifully with too much garlic in Mallorquín restaurants, is not the same as newly landed haddock caught in the cold waters of the North Sea. They’re on to the subject of bacalao now, dried salted cod from Iceland sold in the markets of the island and steeped overnight in water, which they say is interesting. Not as interesting to Kendi, however, as the dog across the road, who is now loitering with intent. Kendi drops, ready to pounce. Too late, she’s off with the chair through the tables, across the road up the hill, and after the hound. She does let me down sometimes.
Once I’ve retrieved the chair, Kendi and I hoof it up the hill away from the quay, to cool off. She knows she’s blown it but I’m not cross for long, this place needs a bit of a jolt.
On our way home we pass the old cinema, which is now, I notice, a classy wine store. There are new top-end boutiques selling designer gear along with beauty therapists touting cosmetic surgery, all for a wealthy and mainly German clientele, it seems. Curvy iron street lamps and colourwash is displacing the drabness of new-build much to the consternation of the older locals who still park their small boats and bait their lines amidst the shops of azures and lavenders, oxblood and buttermilks along the sea front.
Only the Café Samoa, as an odd bookend to a particularly racy collection of new cafés on the outskirts of the port, still sits as a beacon of simple fare. Its owner, a chirpy and friendly Mallorquín, has been dishing up egg and chips and cheese toasties from dawn to dusk for years now to his mainly English clients, welcoming them as though they are family. John Noakes, who Shep the sheepdog once made famous when they worked together on BBC’s Blue Peter, is having coffee there with friends. I am so tempted, but no, I can’t barge in and ask him if he fancies another dog, that would be too cheeky. In any case he has the look of someone who doesn’t want disturbing, but I’m not ruling him out for Kendi either.
Ramon is galloping up the track in a state as Kendi and I march back into the village. He’s leaning out of his van shouting something about how the trench will soon be dug for electricity. He’s certainly very merry. I can’t say I’m thrilled for his good fortune but congratulate him and walk over to Emmy Lou’s to see if she has anything to add to this new development as she’s been in charge of negotiations with Ignacio in my absence.
Emmy Lou is busy cooking for her Thanksgiving party because feeding the five thousand is her thing. Cars will arrive through the day, children run round the hills, and then they’ll eat and drink and make music into the early hours. Bob Dylan covers are a great favourite. Emmy Lou is a good cook, able to creatively put together a banquet out of the simplest ingredients, and this year’s Thanksgiving looks set to be like all the rest.
Emmy Lou has a pile of endive on a chopping board, which she’s tossing into a wooden salad bowl when I arrive. Soon she’s confiding that she’s been talking to a newish neighbour called Heinrich who has come to live in a house on the other side of the hill. She’s discovered he wants electricity as badly as us and he’s getting mad that he’s not down to get it when Ramon does, as he lives only a couple of hundred metres away. Emmy Lou says she thinks we should go and talk to him and then fills me in on how Jesus the shepherd has fallen out with Heinrich over a footpath on Heinrich’s land. Apparently Jesus uses the footpath to take his sheep up the valley but Heinrich has commandeered the path and fenced it off, preventing Jesus and other locals using it.
It has naturally caused an enormous rumpus, stoking the general suspicion round here about foreigners who fence and wall off their property so that no one can see in. Looking into a neighbour’s field is an essential part of village life. What use is a walk if you can’t nose around? How can you know anything about anyone if you haven’t seen it with your own eyes?<
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Anyway, Emmy Lou has decided we should make an effort to see Heinrich before work begins on the road so we troop down the hill and round to Heinrich who is sitting in his walled enclosure with a bottle of plonk. Heinrich is in his fifties, portly, has something to do with marketing in Palma and is soon regaling us with how the local ‘mafia’ have ganged up against him. I presume, by this, he means Ignacio and Ramon. He is a bit bombastic and certainly angry and keeps threatening much malice upon Ignacio if the road is dug up and he, Heinrich, doesn’t get the electricity supply he wants.
It is all a bit robust for my taste but we’re stuck. As the moon rises, Emmy Lou lights up and settles in for an evening chewing over tactics with Heinrich while the bottle lasts. When we finally make our exit an entente cordiale appears to have been agreed, which means Heinrich has decided he is going to put the boot in while we sit back and watch the fireworks.
Kendi is hiding behind the shutters when I get back. I know she doesn’t like the dark and when she’s frightened she’s now begun to crow like a cockerel. Strange this, but she does ‘cock a doodle doo’ to perfection. It must be the hen run in her upbringing which sparks off her versatility because she does a ‘doodle doo’ first thing in the morning and all through the day and night whenever the occasion demands, rising to the challenge most infuriatingly when the phone rings and I’m answering it. Sometimes I feel sad that this lonely dog’s only role model in life has been a cockbird.
The good news is her blood test has come back and it’s fine. There is no hideous disease lurking in her ears but I’ve decided to go through with the expensive procedure of getting her a passport. I keep telling myself if she has an EU document it will help sell her to a prospective owner, it shows she’s kosher, a fully paid-up member of the international doggy brigade, but in reality I guess I’m just hedging my bets because the truth is, I’ve already set my sights on Gunther. I’ve decided he is the one who should have Kendi.