A Dog Called Perth

by Peter Martin

  Our day finally arrived. We boarded the plane and headed for the Old World, which for us was the Brave New World. Eight hours later we were in London. Four hours after that we were in West Sussex, fifty miles south of London. Luckily, in a newspaper I bought at the airport, I saw an advertisement for a modern cottage in the little village of Bury, not far from Arundel, available immediately We also saw an old Volkswagen beetle parked outside the airport with a for sale sign on the windshield. A Dutch hippie, frayed around the edges, was leaning against it. After a little negotiation, we bought it from him—he clutched at the money—piled our bags in, and made straight for Bury.

  The cottage was perfect, modern yet tasteful and picturesque, with a small garden and the greenest grass. I looked in the garage and found countless garden tools, types I had never laid eyes on before. And the village was gorgeous, the quintessence of village Englishness, a picture from a storybook. Twelve hours of travel had exhausted us, but we unloaded our baggage, pulled out the map, found Alton on it, hopped in our beetle and headed west. That August in England was beautifully dry and warm, and the winding route to Hampshire we traced across the countryside on such a flawless sunny afternoon took our breath away. Everything was so neat, so green, so clean.

  “How exciting,” Cindy exulted. “Here we are in England, the perfect expatriates, traveling across this heavenly landscape, about to see Perth!” For people who had romanticized about it for years, the landscape was all we could have wished for. One after another the sumptuously luscious fields followed each other in an endless succession of glorious images. Stone walls, trim hedgerows—those were the days when farmers and county councils were more assiduous in trimming and protecting them—neat roadsides, charming thatched and tiled stone cottages, picturesque copses, rolling common land, the occasional country house set in its extensive ancient paternal acres, and deliciously inviting pubs created scenes that were obviously nurtured by a society that treasured its countryside. This landscape was unmistakably loved. It was an extension of English identity, all laid out on a human scale without the severe encroachments of commercial billboards and without offensive housing developments raised by rapacious money-makers at every turn. And it was so accessible. You could easily walk through it. Seductive footpaths abounded on every side.

  We had no idea what to expect at the kennel. The place was set among some beech trees just off the road. The first thing we noticed was the incredible noise of the dogs, a fury of panic and frenzy. In the small office we found a man who confirmed that Perth had arrived and that we could see her straightaway since fortunately we had arrived during the afternoon visiting hours. He led us through a corridor outside into a large and cold cement square or yard surrounded by the eight-foot stone walls. The only piece of furniture in the yard was a single wooden bench. There was green moss and algae on the floor and walls where the sun’s rays never reached. The stench of dog excrement was overpowering. This was the high-security receiving area where people could be reunited with their beloved pets. It was not a place where you wanted to linger, however, even with your dog. In fact, the man told us later that owners did not come often to see their dogs, if they came at all. So far, we were the only visitors that day.

  We wanted to come with the man to see where Perth was, but he stopped us. “Government regulations, I’m afraid,” he said. We waited while he fetched her. We both felt distinctly glum. Neither of us spoke. All that we could have said was written on our faces. Ten minutes later he reappeared through a green door with Perth on a leash. Without ceremony, he took it off her and disappeared.

  She looked up, saw us and flashed across the yard to the bench where we were sitting, howling in frantic excitement. As she often did when she was keenly excited, like on the frozen lake in Cazenovia, she did not immediately jump into our arms but ran in circles around us several times and up and down the yard, in a frenzy of delight. Then in this desolate space we embraced each other for the first time in England. Her warm and smooth body felt reassuringly familiar. Surprisingly, she looked fit and smelled clean, with even a little of the groggy-doggie about her.

  “Dear dogge,” Cindy mumbled in her ear. “Are you okay, are they treating you well? We miss you so much.” I massaged her shoulder muscles and pressed her head against mine. Her eyes were bright and wide open with understanding and excitement. After a while, she stretched herself out on Cindy’s lap, happy just to feel her warmth and comfort. We told her about our cottage, Bury, the garden and the beautiful world that spread itself out all around the village. We talked on and on, and she listened.

  “It’ll be wonderful, dogge, when we’re all together in our cottage,” Cindy said. “You’ll love it. Plenty of rabbits and lots of hills to explore. We need to be patient. Before you know it we’ll be taking long, fresh walks together.” We gave her a tidbit to eat. The minutes ticked away, many of them silently as we lost ourselves in thought.

  The man reappeared at four to ask us to leave. Perth allowed him to put the leash on her.

  “Don’t despair, Perth, we’re all in this together,” I said to her strongly, as the man tugged at her urgently. “Eat your food and when they give you a chance to exercise, run like mad all around. Keep fit.”

  We squeezed her and then the man walked off with her through the green door back toward the howling cacophony of cages. Just before she was out of sight, she turned and took one last look at us. We left, dejected and worn out. We would not be allowed to see her again for a month.

  13

  OUR GLOOM EVEN SURVIVED the lovely drive back to Bury, but we had lots to do at home and we set about it briskly. In the days that followed, the nagging thoughts of Perth’s misery and the month of forced separation from her cast a lingering shadow in the sunshine of our new habitation. But we had to look around us and begin our new lives. We discovered the village, our fellow villagers and the endless footpaths through meadows and hills and along the River Arun that glides gracefully past the village down by St. John the Baptist parish church.

  The word got around that some “Americans” had moved into the village, and before long several longtime residents were dropping by to say hello. It is unique to an English village that once you have settled into it you may feel you have been there for ages, that you have had dreams about it, that in a mysterious way it is your natural and predestined home. It is like an ancient myth of memory and tradition that recurs so often in the imagination and becomes so familiar as an idea of human need and reassurance that you recognize it instantly. You put it on as naturally as you do an old shirt or coat. It makes you feel like yourself.

  The typical English village of course is both ancient and very much part of the real world. In its ideal, unspoiled state it is complete and independent, a beautiful and fruitful place to live. You scarcely need to step out of it, except to work perhaps, as I had to in nearby Arundel. Bury is still like that. It has its own church, school, pub, shop, post office, farm (where we can buy milk, cream and eggs) and kennel. It also has an array of societies and clubs like the horticultural society, toddlers’ play group, music appreciation society, tennis club, ramblers’ or hikers’ organization, cooking club, cycling club and the Women’s Institute. And the village governs itself with a Parish Council that tries to make everyone happy with a minimum of controversy. The Council also strives to fight off hostile “townie” money-makers who cruise in to buy this or that cottage or piece of land for renovation and development and in the process threaten to destroy the very ancient village myths and traditions from which they think they can make money. In recent years that has been like trying to plug up multiplying leaks in a crumbling dike.

  Cindy and I quickly detected in Bury another presence that people who do not live in a village can easily miss, an impalpable aura of safety and protection hanging in the air. More than just a sanctuary or retreat, Bury exuded permanency, because of its place in the landscape. Embraced by nature, it was in tune with its cycles and seasons as it had been for centurie
s. It was a sense of security that neither of us had ever had before. I understood for the first time an essence in the literature of England, what writers from Chaucer to Shakespeare, Jane Austen, John Keats, Kenneth Grahame and the great poets of the last hundred years have described and celebrated: the deep sympathy and affection the English feel for their landscape and how they use it to explain themselves to themselves.

  Bury is fortunate. It sits silently at the feet of the South Downs, a wide, expansive, rolling stretch of hills eighty miles long where almost nobody lives except farmers. To the east the village unfolds down a slope of meadows and fields of barley and wheat toward the river, beyond which stretch water meadows and the green Downs beyond. Lik a perfect stage set, in the distance Amberley village with its medieval castle is perched harmoniously in the middle of the picture. To the west a little lane winds through a series of sequestered villages and hamlets, all silently tucked under the Downs. Along this lane footpaths lead off either up into the hills or into the adjacent pastures. In the village itself the thatched and tiled cottages are strung sociably along the two lanes that intersect it, so that from the gardens of most the surrounding country-side is open to view. In a minute, footpaths from any part of the village lead you into the freedom of the open landscape.

  All in all, it was a paradise made for us and Perth, clouded for the moment with the melancholy fact that she could not enjoy it for six months. But the weeks passed quickly and around midday one Saturday a month later we were beating the path to the kennel again, the dark spot in our imagination. When we arrived, we were ushered unceremoniously into the cement yard where we waited for Perth. The smell was no better than on our first visit. The minutes ticked away and then there she was at the door. The man unhooked her from the leash, her head darted up, she saw us on the bench and in a second she was with us.

  “What a wonderful dogge,” Cindy shouted as she wrapped her arms around Perth on her lap. “Have you been all right all these weeks, without us? Do you think about us? We miss you terribly, sweet, courageous Perth.”

  Still not one for licking anyone wildly with a flapping tongue, not even us, Perth showed her emotions by looking straight into our eyes with the deepest and most loving look, breathing heavily. She stepped back and forth between my lap and Cindy’s, occasionally letting out a howl. The tenseness in her body gradually dissolved and after a few minutes she settled down on Cindy’s lap. None of us said much, but there was no need to speak.

  Seeing her there, strong and still beautiful, I realized how much we had missed her. We sat for a half hour without stirring. My eyes traveled dejectedly over the lifeless, cold, uncompromising cement enclosing the yard. “Five more months of this, Perth—can you take it?” I whispered as I stroked her head and back, massaging her shoulders. Then my eyes fixed on the eight-foot walls on the other side of the yard from the main building. I could see the tops of the tall pines beyond it. On the other side of the wall was open common land, miles of it, with no roads or people. A dog could lose herself in it. I sprang to my feet, grabbed Perth off Cindy’s lap, and carried her to the wall.

  “Run like mad, Perth, and don’t come back here!” With that, I put my hands under her chest and stomach and with all my strength threw her up toward the top of the wall. If she could just clear the eight feet, she would fall outside the compound and could make her escape through the trees, shrubs, and ferns. We could then later drive the car down the road, double back by foot, and look for her. It would be easy to find her.

  But I could not throw her quite high enough. Her front legs reached the top of the wall, but the rest of her body dragged her down again and she fell onto the hard cement, unhurt and rather excited. Howling at me, she wanted me to try again. I was about to when Cindy ran over and grabbed my arms.

  “Are you mad? Do you want to wind up in prison, too?” she said desperately. “What would you tell the man when he came back to fetch Perth? How could you explain why she wasn’t here?”

  “I could tell him anything. I could tell him that a man we didn’t recognize had come in to take her back to the cage. Or we could simply tell the man in the front office that she was still in the yard and make a hasty exit.”

  “But they’d track us down in Bury and find her. Then where would we be? In real trouble, that’s where. She’d have to start her six months all over again. Or worse yet, they might put her to sleep, put her down. Don’t be insane!”

  I was about to argue that we could hide her, that after several weeks they’d give up looking for her. I was sure I could throw her over the next time. But then the fit passed and I walked back to the bench, defeated. Perth and Cindy followed. We quietened down and Cindy reached into her basket, pulling out a large lamb bone from last Sunday’s lunch. Perth took it gingerly and began to rip the meat off it over by the wall, taking time and doing it thoroughly. Her teeth had had no real exercise for a month. It was strangely satisfying to watch her do it, a kind of primitive and instinctive act that made her seem more part of existence.

  Perth was still at the bone when we left a couple of hours later, and finished it off, splinters and all, in a day or two. “Be brave, dogge,” Cindy said. “We’ll be back next Saturday morning.” Perth looked at us with feeling, telling us she knew we had tried to free her, that we felt as miserable as she did. Without fail, every week after that—for now we could visit her anytime we wished—we returned and reenacted this ritual of quiet commiseration. I never tried again to throw Perth over the wall. One bright spot was that the kennel hired a young woman named Allison, who took an immediate liking to Perth and tried to make her life easier. Several times she joined us on the rigid bench in the yard.

  Another bright spot was that after three long months we heard of another quarantine kennel with a vacancy in the village of Elsted just ten miles from Bury. We rushed there to inspect it, for anything would be better than where she was; and since the new kennel was so close to home we would be able to visit her at least twice a week. When we saw the kennel we knew Perth had to be there. Elsted Village is in an even more remote and rural setting than Bury, away from any major roads and at the end of a winding lane that stops at the Downs. The kennel itself is flanked by the Downs on one side and surrounded by rolling common land. Instead of traffic, there were only the sounds of birds, sheep, cows and a distant rooster. Occasionally a horse trotted by on a bridle path. It was also a smaller kennel with a staff who understood the hardships that the owners of the animals suffered and did all they could to make life more pleasant for them.

  We made the arrangement to have Perth transferred immediately, and within the week, one day in late November, she was brought to Elsted in a high-security van with bars on the rear window. We were not there when she arrived, but we saw her the next day. The front office was clean and well lit, and several pleasant young girls were bouncing around cheerfully seeing to this and that. One of them took us to Perth’s cage, which we had never been allowed to see at the other kennel. There she was, beneath a heat lamp, lying on a floor covering that kept away the cold of the cement floor. The cage was spacious, fifteen feet long, though narrow. And luxury of luxuries, there was piped-in music. There were also fewer dogs and little noise. Three times a day they took her out to an exercise yard where she could breathe some fresh air. She looked tired but happier.

  “Perth, we’re here,” I yelled when I saw her in the cage. She howled her hello. “Hold on, dogge, hold on. We’re going out to the yard. They’ll bring you there.” We hurried to the yard, a fenced grassy area five times the size of the walled cement prison-like yard in which we had spent so many hours. Through the fence you could see the hills and ferns, rabbits and birds playing in the bushes and (if you were lucky) an occasional deer.

  “I feel like I’m in a garden,” I said gleefully to Cindy.

  “It’s so much better and so close to home. We could dash out here every day if we had the time!”

  Perth joined us in a few minutes and we spent some joyful ro
mping time with her that first morning in her new home. She was transported, sprinting on the smooth grass up and down the length of the enclosure. Always a sign of her happiness, she rolled over and over on the grass, rubbing into her coat its purities and refreshment. She howled at the rabbits and sniffed the wind off the Downs.

  It was very cold so we did not stay more than an hour, but we were there long enough for us to get another inspiration. Standing by the cage saying goodbye to Perth, I said, “Let’s buy a really comfortable, stuffed armchair for her to curl up in. You know, with fat arms and a thick cushion. I think the cage is wide enough for us to squeeze it in. I don’t think they’d mind. The cold months are coming on.”

  “Genius. A great idea. It would be a lovely Christmas present for her. What do you think, Perth, would you like an armchair like that one you chewed up in Ohio?”

  Apparently nobody had ever suggested such a thing before, but the manageress thought about it and saw no problems, provided we could squeeze the chair in. We went straight out and bought one from a second-hand furniture shop in nearby Petworth. With some shoving and pounding, we managed to cram it tightly into the cage just under the heat lamp. Perth jumped up on it instantly, curling up against one of the arms on the soft cushion. Beneath the benign warmth of the heat lamp, she closed her eyes. It was the most comfort she had felt in more than three months.

  That winter was one of the most severe in southern England for a decade. The ground hardened before Christmas, the hare “limped trembling through the frozen grass,” and ramblers decided it was too frigid even for them to wander over the icy landscape. There was no heating in the kennel except for the heat lamps, and the cold floors were painful for the dogs. Perth was lucky. We brought in a couple of blankets for her which, with the heat lamp, kept her cozy in her armchair. The armchair eventually became legendary in the kennel. Many years later at a university in America we ran into a girl who, long after Perth’s time at the kennel, had become a kennel maid there. When we mentioned the chair to her, her mouth fell open, her eyes widened and the blood rose to her face. The chair was still there, she said, gasping. It had been used by generations of dogs in that particular cage. Since it was so tightly squeezed into the space, nobody had bothered to try to get it out. Scores of dogs had been grateful for it even during the time she worked there. It was Perth’s comforting legacy to countless dogs in that part of southern England.