I made countless recordings of her as she began to speak. I wanted to cling on to every bit of her young life, to record her childhood for her. That way she would never find herself wondering, there would be no gaps, she could flourish. Will had a plan of what would help keep Sasha secure.
‘We just need to keep paying the rent so we can stay here,’ he said. ‘If we can get her to age sixteen still living in the countryside, she’ll have had a good start. I had the best country childhood.’
Sasha’s childhood was filled with animals, larger than life human visitors to the house, and too much laughing. It was perfectly normal for her to come back from school to find that I had taken in yet another stray, as was the case one February afternoon.
*
The dishwasher repair man eyed the greyhound suspiciously. He was kneeling down in front of, “Advanced Engineering from Germany”, that was so innovative it couldn’t cope with our hard West Country water.
Alarmingly for him, he was also on eye level with the latest of our canine strays, a poorly-looking, thin thing. Understandably, he was concerned.
‘So you found him in your barn this morning then?’ he asked, his voice becoming muffled as he half climbed into the wash compartment wielding a spanner.
‘I reckon he’s a traveller’s dog. You going to put that muzzle back on him when he’s had his breakfast?’ he continued.
‘Yes, we don’t know what he’s like yet, I suppose,’ I said.
I fussed over our new arrival, gently stroking his red fur, then slipped the muzzle back on, taking the opportunity to have a look at his horrid, yellowing teeth.
‘What shall we call him?’ I mused aloud, while making tea for the dishwasher man.
‘Tuesday? It’s Tuesday today.’
‘No – that’s a daft name,’ I said.
‘Well, whatever his name is, he doesn’t smell very special.’
I wrestled Tuesday into the bath. He looked a sorry state when dry, but once wet the poorness of his condition was evident. Tuesday had obviously never had a bath before but, as I scrubbed at his flea-bitten coat, he hung his head, tucking it under my armpit, relaxing slightly as the warm water warmed his bones. Bones that protruded, especially around his shoulder blades and rear end. He was at least a stone underweight. Exhausted after his bath, he collapsed on an old duvet next to a radiator and proceeded to sleep for a full eight hours. Clearly, he’d been straying for some time.
We fed him scrambled egg, but his stomach just wasn’t used to meals made in a kitchen. His previous diet had probably been vermin-based, so he immediately brought the whole sorry egg mixture back up.
By teatime, his flatulence had us evacuating the house. We stood in the porch, watching the sleet falling outside. I shuddered. I had smelt some dire concoctions when I worked at the wildlife park, but this surpassed anything we had sniffed before. We decided that his worrying windiness would need investigation from a vet.
The next day, Sighthound Rescue came and went. They were full of helpful advice. They could take Tuesday now if we didn’t want him, but he would have to go into a kennel until he could be assessed, then fostered into a home. Fostered? No dog of mine was going to be fostered.
‘If you could, say, hang onto him for three weeks, until a space becomes available, then one of our homes will have a vacancy,’ Minty the volunteer told us. ‘We’ll do all we can to help. After all, you didn’t really expect to find a stray on your farm did you?’
It was a bitter February day; we couldn’t send Tuesday to a kennel. So, we battled on. But over the next few weeks, it become apparent that we had taken on a big red dog that had no social skills, no training and definitely no manners. Tuesday had some pretty wayward habits. The trouble was, by then, we had fallen in love with him.
It seemed that his unpredictable behaviour stemmed from his fear, so we set about a programme of dog training classes. As we drove to the village hall where his education would begin, Tuesday was hot and panting. He licked the car window for the entire journey and raged at every passing dog, cat or car. When he saw a push bike, he went into a frenzy.
All things were strange to him: stairs, men with hats, collars and leads, vacuum cleaners, eating out of a dish, being loved. He was a puppy in an eighteen-month-old body with an aggressive attitude – a liability. It wasn’t his fault. But as my mum had made clear in one of her letters, ‘You mustn’t carry on with such a chancy dog’. And as she kept reminding me with her endless follow up phone calls, ‘I’m not interfering, love, but I do think Tuesday will have to sharpen up, or go to the kennel.’
Unfortunately, we managed to arrive at the village hall at the exact moment the local rugby team chose to jog out of their changing room for practice. This was too much for Tuesday, he tried to take off after them.
It took a while to unravel ourselves; in the end, neither of us knew who was leading who. I steered Tuesday through the door to the dog training class, but the sight of the other dogs and the associated barking did little for his, or my, mental health.
We walked in past the small serving hatch where scary dog women stood in a group, gossiping. They all seemed to be wearing the latest in blue body warmers, cream neck scarves decorated with red Scottie dogs, and brown corduroy trousers. Unsmiling, and as one, they dished out tea without sympathy. I smiled, trying to look in control, then gave my name and the registration fee, taking my eye off Tuesday for just five seconds. That was enough time to give him the chance to spot the plate of biscuits. Taking advantage of his long legs, he leaned over the hatch and gulped the lot. The obedience training women stared but made no comment.
Our first training exercise was to walk round the room, get to a certain point and make our beloved canines sit. A task that all the other dogs and owners in the room did with ease. Tuesday had other ideas. He didn’t know how to sit, he didn’t even know his name. In fact, I think he had forgotten which planet he was on.
We set off with a determined stride, getting in a few steps before we turned. By this point, Tuesday was straining to be at the very end of the lead that restrained him. In just a few seconds, and completely unexpectedly, he managed to bite a well-behaved black labrador called Dillon, which had been lolloping innocently ahead of us. Tuesday had Dillon by the throat and wasn’t letting go. The group of dog women leapt to the rescue. They must have had training, because their rapid response was exemplary.
We were ushered away from the scene of the crime to sit in the corner and take time out to think about our actions. Dillon’s owner was pacified with a chocolate digestive. To be fair, Dillon didn’t seem bothered; he just snuffled his nose along the floor hoping for a crumb of food, letting out the odd fart. Maybe his labrador brain hadn’t registered what had taken place.
By now, I had Tuesday in such a tight grip that I wondered if I was restricting his airway. I told him that biting Dillons wasn’t allowed, even if they did look like they were one Bonio short of a packet. ‘And you really mustn’t eat the tea-break biscuits,’ I said ‘at least, not unless they’re bone shaped.’ Tuesday gave my hand a lick. It was difficult to be cross for long.
The not-so-sympathetic trainer stomped over and declared, ‘There’s no hope for Tuesday, join the class near Bristol, for Damaged Dogs. You’ll never do anything with that Greyhound, it’s too late for him.’
Tuesday was still young, so I disagreed, but as he wasn’t welcome here we made our excuses. We began the recommended one-to-one classes for damaged dogs, even though it was like taking Tuesday to probation. We even thought they were starting to pay off. Unfortunately for us, though, he had merely been lulling us into a false sense of security. His next trick was to jump over the garden gate, effortlessly landing on a bloke who was innocently pedalling by on a push bike, knocking him to the ground before lying on top of him so he couldn’t escape. We heard the screams from inside the house and we rushed out to rescue the cyclist
from Tuesday’s grip. A Band Aid, a cup of tea and an apology later, found the furious man sitting on a garden chair while I bustled about unsure of what to do.
‘That dog’s dangerous. Look at my hand,’ he said.
He held up his left arm where the graze looked raw and weeping.
‘I’m very sorry, we’ve only had him a few weeks. He was a stray.’
‘I’m not surprised he was a stray. You should watch him with your little girl, he’s not safe. Take my advice and get rid of him.’
‘I don’t think he bit you, did he?’ I asked. ‘That graze is from where you fell off the bike.’
‘No, he bit me, he’s nasty. Anyway, I wouldn’t have bloody well fallen off the bike if he hadn’t landed on me. It’s enough to give someone a heart attack.’
Even though Tuesday regularly nipped friends and family, he never so much as lifted his lip at us. Still, with his recent victims playing heavily on our minds, we used a muzzle when Tuesday was outside and, as an emergency measure, I rigged up electric horse fencing to keep our spirited friend confined to quarters.
Tuesday never got a shock from the fence. He learned to limbo underneath. We, on the other hand, were electrified on an almost daily basis, if in a hurry, we forgot to turn off the battery. It was just as well that he never got a shock from the fence as, underneath his bravado, Tuesday wasn’t very brave – the smallest amount of pain, even a stubbed toe for instance, resulted in him taking bed rest to recover.
Will began walking him at six thirty in the morning so he didn’t meet other dogs, but Tuesday wasn’t happy at being evicted from his slumbers at such an early hour. We knew it wasn’t helping Tuesday by allowing him upstairs, but at least we knew what he was up to – especially as he was an accomplished food thief.
If he was in trouble, like the day he stole the bacon, he would sulk off upstairs to his duvet and pretend to be dead. He could lie very still and just move his eyes. On this particular day, he moved his eyes left to look at the bacon, shifted them right at me, then shut them tightly.
‘Don’t disturb him, Mummy. Tuesday’s pretending to be asleep.’
‘Thank you, Sash. Yes, let’s leave him to it.’
Tuesday’s favourite victim was a sales rep we nicknamed Bernard Bullshit. Bernard, large and jolly, made twice-weekly visits to the forge that Will ran from the farm. He tried over and again to become pals with our dog, we’d often find Bernard chatting to him through the fence, but Tuesday would not let down his guard.
‘Oh, you’re a good boy. I love dogs, come here fellow,’ he whispered.
It gave me the willies seeing his persistence: Bernard was going to get it, it was only a matter of time. Tuesday had memorised Bernard’s blue van. Emblazoned on both sides was “METALWORK SUPPLIES, ABSOLUTELY NO BULLSHIT, GUARANTEED”.
Keeping watch on Monday and Thursday lunchtimes, he would lie in wait for Bernard. As soon as he heard the familiar sound of the engine and the two beep beeps that signalled his arrival, Tuesday was off round the perimeter of the garden, looking for a way out, growling for the duration of Bernard’s visit.
One day, I forgot to put on the electric fence. I was upstairs when I noticed that Tuesday had escaped – he was lurking about in the field beyond the garden, partly concealed by the long grass, sniffing for mice in the hedgerows. But, unfortunately for Bernard, as soon as he heard the Bedford van’s horn he appeared – huge on the horizon like a beast. He started running full pelt back towards the driveway. I could see him approaching but was powerless to get to Bernard in time.
‘TUESDAY, NO!’ I yelled out of the bedroom window. ‘BERNARD, QUICKLY, GO THROUGH THE GATE.’
But Tuesday was gaining.
‘WILL… HELP! SAVE BERNARD…’
Bernard moved with some speed – which was unusual, given his size – but, too fat to run, he powered his short legs up the little garden path with Tuesday thundering down the driveway towards him. Just as Bernard pushed the metal catch shut behind him, Tuesday flung himself at the gate, then leapt up and nipped his finger. Will appeared out of the workshop and he too started running up the path.
I rushed out of the house. Now Tuesday was leaping up and down at the gate – he seemed to be getting higher with every one of his attempts to try to get over, and poor Bernard was trapped in the garden.
‘Did he bite you Bernard?’
‘No, gorgeous. He just licked me, he’s fine.’
‘I’m so sorry, Bernard,’ said Will, grabbing hold of Tuesday’s collar. ‘I’ll put him in the house.’
Tuesday and I both stared at Bernard’s podgy, pink finger as it started to swell and look like a fat chipolata. We watched, horrified, as his large, ungainly body wobbled back to the van.
I gave him some chicken’s eggs as way of admitting liability. The hens had the measure of him, always flocking around his van as he gave them bits of his sandwiches. They, at least, were Bernard’s friends.
We ordered dog training DVDs, but Tuesday refused to watch them. We tried clicker training, but it sent him into a deep depression.
Will decided that greyhounds needed a softer approach. So began the long and lonely rehab path. Meanwhile, our greyhound was getting a reputation. The local postman had reported Tuesday to the postmaster. The GPO declared the dog was “unreliable” and that post would be left in the forge.
*
Tuesday was proving too much for even the most committed dog lover. Over the next few months nothing changed so I phoned the ever-patient Minty.
‘He’s not the correct dog for you, Dizzy. Let us have him back. Could you drop him at the kennels tomorrow morning? Don’t worry, you’ve done well.’
All night long we hugged Tuesday close. He snuggled ever nearer, between us in our bed, his head resting on the pillow next to Will’s. This was his last night in our home.
In the early morning, we packed up his blankets, coats, and food.
Five-year-old Sasha couldn’t understand why her best friend had to go and live somewhere else. ‘No,’ we explained, ‘we won’t be able to visit him – it’s heartbreaking, but it’s the best thing for Tuesday.’
To the rescue came the long-suffering, ever supportive, Will.
‘I don’t think we ought to give up on him. We made a commitment, he shouldn’t be pushed from pillar to post. It’ll be awful for him to go to another home, and I can’t bear it. Let’s keep him, Diz: he can’t get any worse.’
Unaware of the grief we humans were going through, Tuesday took up his position on the sofa. Between naps, he watched daytime TV, gaining useful recipe ideas along the way, soothed by Lorraine Kelly. My mother arrived later that morning with one of her advice notes, a shepherd’s pie, and a clear plastic bag of grated cheese for the topping.
‘I’m sure you don’t feel like cooking after all the upset, love,’ she called through the porch door to me.
She hadn’t taken more than one step inside when Tuesday was up and on his feet. He snatched the grated cheese, devoured the contents, then finished off the bag. Horrified, we witnessed the last of the clear plastic being sucked in through his large grubby teeth.
‘I don’t know why you carry on with that dog, Dizzy. What’s his name? Tuesday? You should call him Merlin. He was certainly a wizard to find you.’
‘He can’t help it, Mum; look at those scars. The vet thinks he was shot with an air rifle in the past.’
Mum’s resolve weakened and she held out her hand to Tuesday by way of apology. Effortlessly, he lifted his front legs to rest them on her shoulders, licking her face in the hope of finding a crumb. I steadied mum as she fell back against the wall, not tall enough to be hugged by a long, lean dog.
‘You’re too soft, my girl,’ she said, straightening herself up, trying to regain her composure. ‘Still, I suppose you were a stray, and we’re glad we kept you.’
Her words hit
home. I realised then, that was why I was battling on with Tuesday; it was because nobody else wanted him.
From that day forward, Tuesday was renamed Merlin. I knew I could never part with him. We both had a hint of the unconventional, an angry attitude, an uncertain past. We understood each other perfectly.
Chapter 9
Meeting Tommy
Sometimes, extraordinary events take place on ordinary days. On this particular day, all seemed normal. From the forge came the clatter of hammers, punctuated by occasional cussing and swearing as Will and Nathan the “apprentice” wrestled with huge chunks of steel. Nathan had obviously dropped something, because I heard an awful crash, ‘For pity’s sake, Nathan, were you born yesterday?’ Will said… then silence.
On this particular day, we found ourselves outside – the weather wouldn’t allow Merlin and me to stay indoors – and it wasn’t long before I was staring through the open forge door. The temperature inside the building couldn’t be contained within the walls of the old milking parlour, it hit me – along with the deadening thud of the power hammer. The terrible working conditions – the daily physical grind – meant blacksmithing was becoming a dying art.
Will, bent double over the anvil, wiped the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve. He scraped a wire brush along a bar to remove the scale that had formed as it was heated. This bar was one of the many hundreds of railings that Will was making for a heritage project. This particular labour would take him eighteen months, and pave the way for changes in our lives which were as yet unseen.
I watched as Will plunged the bar into the fire and waited for it to turn from red to white, the colour he needed to fire weld it. Normally, the fire only needed to heat up the metal to scarlet. Most techniques could be achieved at this colour stage. Will had told me that once it reached the required white hot state there was only about thirty seconds when the metal was malleable. He said that you had only three attempts, the bar started to weaken after the first heat.
Strays and Relations Page 5