by Peter Martin
So, the next morning I brought her down with her basket and food, had a cup of coffee with the Shaws, and hoped that we had indeed found a good solution this time. It was a perfect arrangement: Perth could stay in Bury and still be able to come and go as she pleased. The Shaws were quiet and steady, liked dogs and had no children. It was a good sign that after I told her to “stay,” Perth did not try to follow me when I left.
The following day was Sunday. After church we devoured one of Cindy’s roast lambs for lunch and were taking up our positions in the garden to read when the phone rang. It was an unknown woman’s voice, frantic.
“Will you come down immediately to get your dog. There’s been an accident.” She hung up.
“Oh no, I think something’s happened to Perth,” I cried, running into the garden. Cindy looked horror-struck. Andrew and Claire shouted for more information.
“Some woman told me there’s been an accident. That’s all I know. I’m going right down.” I sprinted across the meadow and down to the Shaw’s house. In three minutes I was there. Pausing at the front gate to catch my breath, I could hear nothing. Nobody seemed to be at home. I lifted the latch and opened the gate. The front door was wide open. As I approached it, Perth walked out.
“Perth, you’re all right! Thank God!” I shouted as I took her in my arms. “Somebody said there was an accident. I thought you’d drowned in the river or something. Where are the Shaws?”
She was strangely passive. I walked up to the door, which led directly into the kitchen. When I stepped in, the sight shocked me. I could scarcely believe what I saw. There was blood everywhere. There was blood on the floor next to her food bowl, and a trickle of it led to the basin, which was spattered with it. The phone book was open and also stained with it, as if someone panicking had leafed through it to find a number. It was open to the yellow pages with the numbers of doctors.
I had no trouble piecing together what had happened. The “accident” had occurred by Perth’s food bowl. She must have been eating when someone came up to her from behind and tried to grab hold of her. Probably not hearing the person approach, she had swung around and sunk her teeth into something. From the amount of blood and the stained phone book and telephone, it looked to me that she had found a hand or wrist. But whose hand? And how badly was it wounded?
Moaning to myself and imagining the worst, I staggered outside. There was Perth, waiting, the picture of guilt. She lowered her head. Her tail was between her legs.
“Perth, how can you do this?” I was almost crying. “You’ve gone too far this time, you wicked dog. This may be the end of you. You’ve spoiled everything.” I walked out and she followed behind meekly with her tail between her legs.
At home the scene was dismal. Cindy was desperate with worry over who had been hurt and how badly. Andrew and Claire were talking to Perth on the sunny grass. The contrast of that scene with what I had just seen on Church Lane was stark. We had trouble getting information but finally tracked the Shaws down by phone at St. Richard’s Hospital in the old Roman town of Chichester. I assured the nurse that Perth had had all the vaccinations she was supposed to have.
Perth had sunk her teeth into Alistair’s right hand. He was having stitches and would not be home until the evening. Having imagined something much worse—I do not know what—we were momentarily relieved. But it was bad enough. In the evening, I rang up the Shaws and talked to Stella, who understandably sounded cold and unfriendly. I went straight down. They had cleaned up the kitchen and were both sitting by the table. Alistair’s hand was heavily bandaged. I sat down with them and we talked.
“Well,” Alistair began, “I guess it was my fault because I did just what you told me not to do. You warned me. I tried to pick her up. But that dog of yours is something else. You know, I don’t think you should ever leave her with a friend. An enemy, perhaps. Anyway, I’ll be all right. It doesn’t hurt.”
“I’m so sorry, Alistair, and you too, Stella. Cindy is in anguish over this. It was all my fault because I wanted so much to find a nice place for her. It’ll be so long, you see, that we’ll be gone. I should have known better. Please forgive me.” I was still trembling.
We kept talking and eventually calmed down. I rang Cindy to tell her how things were.
“The problem is,” said Stella, “Alistair now can’t work at the vineyard for about three weeks. Our unemployment insurance covers only sixty per cent of his wages there. He can still be a chef, but that’s only on weekends.” I was hard at work on a project that summer and every minute was precious, but I did not hesitate.
“Don’t worry. I’ll work for you, Alistair.”
They stared at me. “How could you?” Stella asked skeptically. “You have to be trained in the vineyard.” I think she thought I was just trying to make myself feel better by offering, when in fact I was perfectly serious. How could we let the weeks roll by knowing that they were out of pocket because of Perth?
“Can’t you train me, Alistair, just enough to help you keep on top of things there? Let’s drive over tomorrow and you can explain everything to me.”
“Well, that’s very decent of you. I won’t pretend it won’t really be helpful to us. Can you spare the time?”
“Yes, of course. If I do okay, I can stick with it until you can start back.”
We settled on it. As I walked home, I wondered if I hadn’t been too impetuous in offering. This would play havoc with my own work. I’d have to work late into the nights for a long stretch to make up for time lost. But it had to be. Cindy thought I had done the right thing.
“As for you,” I said to Perth firmly when I got home, “you’re going with me to the vineyard. I don’t see why I have to be there on my own all day while you’re having a great time here.” She knew I was extremely angry with her. There was no point in trying to punish her physically, though. She was penitent enough and at her age there was nothing any of us could do to make her mend her ways. Part of her strength was part of her liability. We could only hope that this sort of thing would never happen again. It was lucky it was not worse.
Alistair taught me the mysteries of viniculture and I ended up working at the vineyard for three solid weeks. It was tedious work. Most of what I did every day was “tuck” the vines behind wiring, up and down monotonous rows of plants. One benefit, I suppose, was that it got me out of my study and into the fresh Sussex air. Perth came with me every day and I forced her to sit around and do nothing hour after hour. It was the worst kind of punishment for her. At the end of the three weeks Alistair’s hand had healed well enough to allow him to return to work. He was very grateful. In three months his hand was perfectly restored. There was no sign of Perth’s attack except the stitch marks which were fast disappearing. Stella remained cool and distant. She never resumed her friendship with us. Neither of them ever wanted to see Perth again.
20
AFTER THAT DEBACLE we were no nearer to finding Perth a place for nine months. We would be gone in late August and time was wearing thin. A private family was now out of the question. There was nothing left but to find a kennel. But this time we were lucky. Before our feet life’s pearls were cast. The logical choice was Barbara Stapeley, who in addition to keeping beautiful and rumbustious cows ran a small business on her farm called Hollow Farm Kennels, only two hundred yards down from the bottom of our garden.
Barbara Stapeley was one of those unforgettable characters such as you read about in popular human interest magazines. She was in her seventies and very robust. A large round woman with a florid, circular face, she had short gray hair that was always tousled, as if she had just emerged from a violent windstorm. I do not remember ever having seen her in any fine clothing. She wore plain shirts and dungarees, jeans, or denim overalls wherever she went. For decades in Bury she had bred smooth fox terriers and curly-coated retrievers, for which she was famous throughout the world, winning prize after prize for them at the prestigious annual Crufts Dog Show in London. She was no-nonsense
and plain-speaking, highly educated and extremely intelligent.
People were always surprised by how brusque she could be. The people in the company that for fifty years picked up her milk to transport it to the dairy decided one day that her driveway was too narrow for their trucks. The trucks had not widened, neither had her driveway narrowed, but for some reason they felt they needed more room. She refused to do anything to her driveway. They informed her then that they could no longer collect her milk. With a wave of her hand she said, fine, sold her cows, and went out of the dairy business permanently. Rather than bicker with fussy administrators whose arrogant ideas of modern methods and conveniences she found irritating and a threat to old rural ways and values, she said to heck with them and concentrated on her kennel. She kept a few of the cows dearest to her for old times’ sake.
Late one November night one of these cows got through her fence into the sloping meadow between her cottage and ours. Awakened by her dogs, Barbara followed the beast by moonlight and found that it had worked its way through some other fencing at the upper part of the meadow. It was paralyzed in fear between the fence and the edge of the greensand stone cliff, thirty feet above the Hollow. Barbara could not budge it, so at about midnight she knocked or rather beat upon our back door for my help. I came out with Perth, who did her bit by howling at the cow to get her to move. The three of us struggled for an hour, under the cold November moonlight, before we were able to coax the cow back to safety. Barbara was like that. She never stood on ceremony or wasted time with decorum.
Many people were offended by her brusqueness and candor. We loved her big, compassionate heart. And she understood dogs better than anyone I have ever known. She had fathomed the mysteries and eccentricities of Perth from the moment we moved into the village. What she recognized in her was an indomitable will and a keen intelligence, a restless animal with a triple portion of pluck. She could see that Perth had to be given unlimited space, and she had little patience with anyone who suggested that the dog should be tied up. But she also detected a streak of nervousness, a fierce impatience, that she thought could be traced to the number of times we had abandoned Perth for travel over the years.
“If Perth were average, a regular and docile pet,” she once said to us, “you wouldn’t have had any trouble. But the way you’ve brought her up to believe that she is entitled to perfect freedom has made her not only a survivor but also hard to control. She also trusts you profoundly. That’s another problem. I think she thinks you let her down sometimes.”
Now Perth was sixteen and we had to leave her behind again. It was out of the question for her to come with us, not unless we were willing to put her into quarantine for six more cruel months when we returned. At her age, that would kill her. We were all deeply dejected not only over the whole idea of abandoning her, but also over the prospect of being without her for so long.
In the early part of what was a cold August, shortly before the wheat and barley were harvested and with only two weeks to go before we were to be wrenched away, something both comic and pathetic occurred that made it still clearer to us we could never leave Perth with a family, however well-meaning and capable the family might be. Apart from her hearing and grayness, it was a sign that she was getting older. Barbara Stapeley played the comic part in this, Perth the pathetic part.
Again, in the dead of night, we were awakened by the telephone ringing. It was Barbara.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t you hear Perth out in the wheat howling? She’s lost in it. Grab your flashlight and get out there and find her. The poor animal.”
“Barbara,” I replied croakily and disbelievingly, “if there’s one thing Perth could never be it’s lost in the wheat. She must have cornered a vole or something. It’ll be over in a minute. Let’s go back to sleep.” I could now hear Perth. She certainly was raising a din.
“Peter, you grab your flashlight and get out there,” she said impatiently. “I know that beagle of yours and I can tell a frenzied howl when I hear it. If you’re too lazy to rouse yourself, ask your better half to explore. Can’t you hear Perth? She’s frantic.”
“I don’t think we have a flashlight,” I answered, truthfully.
“Then come down here and borrow mine!” She hung up.
When Barbara commanded, one obeyed. So Cindy threw on her clothes and hurried down the pitch darkness of the Hollow to the kennels, walked around the back and knocked on Barbara’s kitchen door. She answered immediately. She was wrapped up in a large, tattered fur coat.
“Well, what took you so long? Hurry, here’s the flashlight. Go on, go on. This cold will be the end of me. I’ve got absolutely nothing on under this coat. And when you find her, pick her up and carry her across the wheat. There’s something the matter with her.”
Without looking too carefully at Barbara in her coat, Cindy hurried back up the Hollow. I was dressed by then, and together through a gap in the hedge we stepped out into the field. Perth was still howling. Immediately, we almost stumbled on a rare sight. There in front of us the wheat had been leveled down in a small circle, in the center of which lay a family of hedgehogs—mother, father and four babies. They were all looking up at our bright flashlight, their beady eyes wide open, gleaming in the light. We had momentarily disturbed their cozy nest.
“How sweet!” Cindy whispered. “Careful, don’t disturb them.” We moved on into the dark, walking through the tall wheat along a tractor track in the direction of the noise. Perth was not hard to find. In about five minutes we came upon her. She was just standing there, surrounded by the wheat, thoroughly disoriented, howling. She had no idea which direction was the way home. Something had failed her. She stopped the noise when she saw us and melted in our arms. I gathered her up and with Cindy leading with the flashlight we made our way back to the garden. When I put her down on the grass, she was perfectly all right. The three of us got back into bed quickly and Perth took up her usual position between the sheets. The children were still asleep, having heard none of the commotion.
Nothing like this had ever happened to Perth. Her nose, eyes and ears had failed her. Was it a sign of things to come? Could we no longer rely on her sense of direction? What if this happened to her one day three miles from home? Barbara had heard the sounds and known what they meant.
I also knew that Barbara liked a pint of cider at the Black Dog and Duck across the lane around lunchtime, so Perth and I tracked her down there the next day. She was sitting in the small saloon “Juscumin” bar with a friend.
“Barbara, I’ve been looking for you. May I join you for a minute or two?”
“Of course. Hello, Perth, are we all right now?” She was in a good mood, I could tell. Perth sat down next to her feet.
“After that incident last night, I need to talk to you about Perth. We’re in a fix. You know, we’re leaving for America in a couple of weeks.”
“Yes, I know, I know. And you want me to take Perth.”
“Perth is a remarkable dog, you know, Barbara.”
“She has to be a remarkable dog to have a master like you.” Her friend got a chuckle out of that.
“We were hoping to leave her with a family, but that fiasco with the Shaws killed that idea.” I scratched Perth’s head.
“Peter, you should’ve asked me sooner. You were insane to think you could leave a dog of that age with a young couple who know nothing about dogs, especially one with a mind of her own like Perth. Of course I’ll take her, though I’ve never before taken a dog for that length of time. I’ll do it for Perth.”
“I could kiss you!” I blurted out recklessly.
“If you do, the deal is off,” she shot back with a smile. “You realize she’ll stay in the kennel, not in the house?”
“Yes.”
“But I’ll take good care of her. She’ll go on walks, I’ll bring in a strong heat lamp and she’ll get the best food. I’ll bring her into the house, too, from time to time. And you can pay me the going quarantine rates.”
/> “Perfect.” Perth was listening to this, undoubtedly understanding the arrangement, apparently untroubled.
“Well, old girl,” Barbara said to her as she stroked her head, “what do you think about that? You’ll be all right with me, don’t you worry.” Looking at me, she added, “I know you like Perth to run loose, but I can’t accept the responsibility of allowing that. You’d never forgive me if she fell down a well or was hit by a car.”
“I know. It’s a rotten thing we’re doing leaving her.” In my guilt, I had to justify myself. “But, Barbara, I can’t pass up this opportunity in the States.”
Shades of past summer agonies darkened my mind as I spoke to her. Was I actually going down this path again, only in reverse? I could not bring myself to tell her of my past peregrinations during Perth’s early years in America.
“Fine, fine, come down and we’ll work out the details. I know you and Cindy love Perth. I can tell it runs deep.” The next few days passed quickly. On our last day in England we took Perth down to Barbara.
“Don’t worry about her,” Barbara said cheerfully. She could see we were in a bad way. “I’ll keep her warm, and she’ll be among friends. Right, old girl? Write to me from time to time, and I’ll write back and let you know how she’s doing. She looks perfectly fit, so she’ll do fine.”
“Thanks, Barbara,” Cindy replied, her eyes moist. “She’s our first child, you know.”
“Come on, I’ll show you right now where she’ll be living.” She took us into what used to be a barn for the hay. It was dry and sweet-smelling. There was only one other, very quiet, dog in there. Perth’s cage was large. Its floor was covered with fresh straw and there was a spacious dog house inside the cage for her to curl up in. From an adjacent barn we could hear the sounds of hens and geese. Close by in the fields were horses and cows. It could not have been better. She was safe, loved and comfortable in a farmyard setting, so unlike that agrarian Hades in Vermont from which she had fled so many years before. The only thing she lacked was perfect liberty to come and go.