Doofus, Dog of Doom

by Emma Laybourn

  Chapter Four

  “That’s the last time I take that dog out for a run!” declared Mum. Her hair was wild and her glowing face was rosily fierce. She threw her water–bottle at the sink and glared at Doofus, who had trotted in behind her, spattered with mud, and was now scratching himself absently. “You’re a bad dog, Doofus! No use looking so innocent!”

  “What was the matter?” asked Matt. “Couldn’t he keep up?”

  “Oh, he could keep up all right. Runs like a flipping greyhound!”

  “Ah, that’s the trouble,” said Matt knowingly. “He was too fast for you.”

  “It’s not that at all! He was supposed to be keeping me company – but no sooner had we got into the forest park than he galloped off into the trees and disappeared!”

  “Maybe he saw a squirrel,” said Holly doubtfully, although Doofus had never tried to chase squirrels before.

  “It wasn’t a squirrel!” said Mum heatedly. “It was a pack of dogs that he ran off to meet!”

  Dad looked up. “What, a pack of dogs in Miller’s Clough?”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure that’s what they were, though I couldn’t see them properly. They were slipping through the trees. I called and whistled for all I was worth, but Doofus wouldn’t come back!”

  Dad frowned. “A pack of dogs running wild is the last thing the farmers need right now,” he said. “It’s too near lambing time. We’d better let Ailsa know.”

  “But Doofus came back to you,” said Holly, as she watched him drinking noisily from his bowl.

  “Yes – in the end he did! But not until I was nearly home. Heaven knows where he’d got to. He’s filthy. You’ll have to give him a bath, Holly.”

  Doofus emptied his water bowl, pushed it over to the doorway and lay down next to it with a sigh. He looked satisfied, thought Holly. As if he was contented at a job well done… But what had he been up to, apart from running off to meet a few stray dogs?

  “That’s me done,” said Mum emphatically. “I’m not taking him with me again until he learns to stay at heel!”

  “He’s already learnt. He stays at heel for me,” said Holly.

  “Does he indeed? Well, from now on, exercising him is your job. He’s your dog, after all.”

  “But I can’t go for ten mile runs!” protested Holly.

  “Why not?” said Mum.

  “A good trot around the park’ll be enough for him most days,” said Dad. “You can take him for a proper run up on the moor at the weekends.”

  “That’ll be fun for you,” Matt told Holly, smirking. “It’ll do you good.”

  Mum rounded on him. “It’ll do you good as well, Matthew, instead of lounging around in front of that computer all day like a crisp-munching zombie. You can go with her.”

  Matt shot himself with his fingers and fell sideways out of the door.

  Holly was dismayed. Her occasional walks around the local park with Doofus had been very slow ones, because she was usually pushing Nan out in the wheelchair to get some fresh air. She knew her dog needed more exercise than that. She just didn’t want to be the one to take him.

  But Mum insisted. She reminded Holly endlessly until Holly gave in and announced that she would take Doofus for a long walk up to Whitten Moor.

  So she and Matt donned scarves and anoraks and trudged along the bootlace of the village to its last knot: a huddle of new, small, tidy houses. From there, the road wound steadily up the hill before threading its lonely way across the empty moor on the top.

  It was a long uphill slog. This would be the first time Holly had been right up to the top since last November. In summer, she’d be cycling up and down here all the time, but in winter the bleak and treeless moor was not a welcoming place.

  On the way up, though, there were plenty of trees: bare of leaves, they hunched in groups, leaning away from the wind. While the gardens down below were bright with bulbs, further up little was growing. The houses gave way to fields bleached with cold and patched with dull brown heather. When Holly listened for larks, she heard only the wind complaining.

  However, this landscape suited Doofus. Since the road across the moor went nowhere in particular, meandering from farm to isolated farm, there was hardly any traffic; so Holly let Doofus off the lead. He set off as if shot from a catapult, looking almost eager as he loped effortlessly up the road ahead of them, his long tail flying in the wind.

  Then he stopped and waited patiently for the children, his eyes still fixed on the road further along. They ran to catch him up; but as soon as they reached him, he set off again.

  “I’ll have to rest,” Matt panted. “I’ve got stitch.”

  “You should be fitter than me,” said Holly, who enjoyed running, though not uphill. “Your legs are longer.”

  “But they’re growing too fast.” Matt flexed one leg. “Hear it clicking? That’s because my joints don’t fit any more. So I have to take it easy.”

  Holly had no patience with him. To prove what a feeble wimp he was, she raced on at full speed to where Doofus was waiting. Together they ran round the edge of the hill, and came to a halt by a Landrover backed up against a gate.

  “Hi, Ailsa,” gasped Holly, glad of the excuse to stop and lean on the gate for a while. Ailsa did not turn to greet her. She was trying to shove a reluctant sheep into the back of the Landrover.

  “Give us a hand!” she commanded, and Holly grasped two handfuls of tangled wool and helped her push until the protesting sheep was in the Landrover, its hooves clattering. Then she quickly took hold of Doofus’s collar in case he tried to get into the field to chase the other sheep. But Doofus wasn’t paying attention to them; he was still intently gazing up the road.

  “So that’s your new dog, is it?” said Ailsa curiously. Under her old woolly hat, grey-speckled hair stuck out in startled tufts around the farmer’s weather-wrinkled face. She stood back to take a proper look at Doofus.

  “That’s quite a dog,” she said. “Glad to see he’s not a sheep-worrier.”

  “Mum says to watch out for your sheep, because there’s a pack of dogs running wild in the forest park,” said Matt, dragging himself up to the Landrover with heavy feet.

  “Is there indeed? They’d better not come round here,” said Ailsa sternly.

  “Would you shoot them?” Holly asked.

  “Not me. I don’t have a shotgun licence. But there are a few farmers who would – that new man up the road being one of them. Jarvis Turnpike: he’s old Jim’s nephew. He took over the farm at the end of last year. Being doing a load of work since, clearing the fields and mending walls.”

  “That’s good,” said Matt.

  “I suppose,” said Ailsa doubtfully. “He’s a wee bit short-tempered. Not keen on dogs. He’s already shot one stray.” She nodded at Doofus. “If you’re going up to Barges Bridge, best keep him on a lead.”

  “All right. But he’s very good,” said Holly. “He’s very well-behaved.” Except when he howled, she thought; which he did a few times a day. She knew that you could hardly blame a dog for howling, even if it seemed to freeze your heart and darken the skies.

  But no matter how she scolded Doofus, he still howled. In fact, Holly sometimes wondered if he was only obedient in other respects because it suited him.

  Ailsa gazed at Doofus. “Here, boy. Here!” she said, and whistled, until Doofus turned his head and looked straight at her.

  Ailsa’s expression changed. She looked puzzled and wary. “Where did you get him?”

  “The dogs’ home. They said he was abandoned up on Whitten moor.”

  “Was he? I’ve seen one like him once before, up there,” murmured Ailsa. Then she shook her head. “But that was years ago. More years than I care to remember.”

  Doofus turned away again, straining beneath Holly’s hand. He wanted to run on, and she staggered under the force of his pull. “We’d better go,” she said.

  As soon as she released him, Doofus was away, sprinting up the road as if it was a race-
track. Holly jogged slowly after him, over the last rise and onto the top of the moor.

  The road was a thin grey ribbon weaving away from them through a bleak expanse of rough pasture and rusty heather. Reeds marked the boggy patches. The wind rampaged unchecked: a wild restless presence endlessly combing the land in search of something.

  Just over one horizon, Holly knew, were the friendly streets of Sheffield, and beyond the opposite horizon was the busy sprawl of Manchester. But up here, those cities might as well have not existed. They were alone but for a pair of swooping lapwings that rode the wind as if they were stunt aircraft. Ahead, the moor dipped and rose like a stormy grey sea. There was only one lonely farm in sight, close to the bridge.

  “It’s a bit parky up here,” panted Matt, “and I’ve got homework. How far are we going?”

  “Just to Barges Bridge. We’ll turn round there.”

  Matt groaned as Doofus streaked on ahead. Mum was right: he was as fast as a greyhound, thought Holly, though stronger, more muscled. Like a black panther.

  Then she caught up with herself. What was she thinking? Doofus was just an ordinary dog.

  The ordinary dog ran to the low stone hump of Barges Bridge, which was too narrow for two cars to pass each other. Doofus stopped in the middle of the bridge and lay down.

  “What are you doing there?” gasped Holly, jogging wearily after him. “Come on, Doofus! Shift! What if a car comes?”

  “They hardly ever do,” said Matt.

  From up here, the village was invisible. They could not see a single building apart from the hunched, grey bulk of Barges Farm and its ramshackle barns. There was no sound but the wind whistling in the reeds, and the chatter of the narrow, deep-cut stream, talking quietly to itself below the bridge.

  Holly draped her arms over the parapet and gazed down at the water where it pooled.

  “Frogspawn!” she exclaimed. “I’ll get some of that for Clive.” She scrambled down to the water’s edge to fill her water bottle with a clump of frog-spawn, until it held about twenty cloudy, dotted blobs.

  Meanwhile Matt was frowning at the track that led to the lonely farmhouse.

  “I thought it was Barges Farm?” he said. “They’ve changed the name.”

  Turnpike Farm, the new sign read, in spiky, narrow letters.

  “The new farmer’s Jarvis Turnpike,” said Holly. “I suppose we ought to go and say hallo.”

  “No need for that,” objected Matt.

  “But Jim was nice. I think I will.” Holly had enjoyed a few free rides on old Jim’s tractor in the past. Jim had been a friendly, deaf, slow-moving man. It seemed only right to say hallo to his nephew, and maybe ensure future tractor rides.

  “Come here, Doofus! Heel!” she called.

  Doofus didn’t budge. Holly grasped his collar and pulled until he reluctantly got up and left the bridge with a longing, backwards look.

  As they walked up the farm track, three border collies bounded out of a barn and stood guard, barking warnings. Holly felt like a footballer being jeered onto the pitch; but Doofus, with barely a glance at the sheepdogs, walked over to investigate a water trough.

  A man emerged from the barn.

  “Shut up, dogs,” he commanded. He was young and wiry, wearing red overalls that clashed with his orange hair, and had deep frown lines between his eyes. He carried a very small lamb awkwardly in the crook of one arm.

  “Yes?” he said curtly.

  “Mr Turnpike? We’re Holly and Matt. We used to know your Uncle Jim…” Holly’s voice tailed away under the man’s unchanging scowl.

  “Great-uncle,” he said. “And he left this place in a right state and all. I’ll be lucky to make any money this year. What do you want?”

  Holly opened and closed her mouth, not sure how to answer.

  Matt came to her rescue. “Ailsa down the road sends her regards, and did you know there might be some stray dogs wandering around?” he said.

  “Think you’re telling me anything I don’t know already?” He glowered at them, his pale eyes disappearing in a suspicious frown. “Found one of my ewes dead yesterday, and another two lost their lambs thanks to dogs worrying them – and now this one’s arrived too early!”

  “Is it all right?”

  “No, it is not! I’ve heard a pack of dogs a few times,” snapped Jarvis Turnpike, “but I haven’t seen them, and they’ve always scarpered by the time I’ve got my gun. If they come back, though, I’ll be ready.”

  “We’d better go,” said Holly. She found Mr Turnpike a little scary. “Come on, Doofus. Here, boy!”

  The farmer’s eyes widened as he noticed Doofus for the first time.

  “Get that ruddy dog on a lead!” he yelled. “If I see it anywhere near my sheep, I’ll shoot it on the spot!”

  “He wouldn’t chase sheep,” said Holly, looping her fingers tight around Doofus’s collar.

  “Oh, wouldn’t he? He’s the very spit of a dog I found roaming round my land at Christmas! Ruddy great black devil.”

  “A black dog?”

  “I shot that one,” snarled Jarvis Turnpike. “Get yours out of here before I shoot him too!”

  “Hey, we came to do you a favour,” said Matt indignantly.

  “You’re doing me no favour, bringing that dog here! Get out!”

  Holly began to drag Doofus back down the track. He did not like being dragged. The farmer grunted sourly and turned back towards the barn.

  “Come on, Doofus,” hissed Holly. “Don’t be a nuisance!”

  But Doofus resisted her pull. And then he did the thing she dreaded. He dug his feet in and lifted his nose to the sky.

  “No, Doofus!” said Holly frantically. “Bad dog! You mustn’t!”

  Doofus closed his eyes, opened his mouth wide – and howled. The mournful sound twined up to the grey clouds, and seemed to pull them down to settle coldly round her heart. The sheepdogs all stopped barking and began to whimper.

  An instant later, Jarvis Turnpike came out of the barn again at a run. He was blazing mad.

  “That’s done it! That’s the last straw. Another one dead – that early lamb just died. That ruddy dog probably gave it a heart attack. You get it out of here before I–”

  So they did, before he did.