Hyde and Seek
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Copyright © 2013 by Jordan Taylor. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Cover photo of Australian Cattle Dog “Silverbarn’s Paavo” by Eva Holderegger Walser through Wikimedia Commons, licensed under the Creative Commons.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
No trees were harmed in the creation or publication of this work.
Short Stuff Press
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Hyde and Seek
About the Author
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Hyde and Seek
The two boys raced after Catherine as she turned left by the corner of The Serpentine, near the park’s southern edge.
“Wait, miss! Please!”
Catherine kept walking. “I said, ‘No.’ I’m not taking it. I should report you to the RSPCA just for asking me. Do your parents know where you are?”
The boys jogged beside her, sweaty-faced and gasping. Frayed strings flapped from their clothes. Behind them, they pulled a big puppy on a discolored rope.
“Report us for what, miss?” the older asked. “We’ve done nothing but try to find him a good home.”
Catherine rounded on them. “Like this? By accosting strangers in a public park and asking them to take him?”
She glanced at the gangling puppy, all legs and paws—panting, wilted under August sun.
The smaller of the two boys, no more than six or seven years old, had tears in his eyes as he clutched the rope against his thin chest.
The other looked from the dog to Catherine. “We can’t bring him home. We wasn’t supposed to have him. Mum says she’s never to set eyes on him again. He likes you. He ran right up to you. If you can’t keep him, won’t you find him a place? He’s a purebred German Shepherd. He’s a good dog.”
The younger nodded, wiping the back of one filthy hand across his eyes.
“Listen—” Feeling as if she was in a Dickens novel, Catherine took a deep breath. “You can’t run after people on the street to give away a dog. Take him to Dogs Trust or Battersea—” She stopped. What was the use? They didn’t understand or they would have already rung Dogs Trust.
The younger boy was crying in earnest now. The puppy sat at his feet, licking little hands. The boy put his arms around the fuzzy neck.
Catherine opened her mouth to ask where they got the dog, decided it was best if she didn’t know, and closed it again.
“Please,” the older boy whispered. His hands shook as he twisted fingers and rope together.
Catherine looked around, but, as when the boys first approached her a few minutes ago, there were no parents in sight. Tourists crowded the waterfront, snapping pictures on their phones, feeding ducks.
Another long, slow breath. She faced boys and dog. “I don’t even live here. I’m in London to see family and I’m starting back north tomorrow. I don’t need a puppy and I’m not taking yours on a five-hour car trip. But … I’ll get him to a reputable organization like the RSPCA for you. They’ll find him a great family. Okay?”
Both boys nodded.
“They won’t kill him?” the older asked. “Bobby says dogs there get put down.”
“No.” Catherine shook her head. “He’s a puppy. They’ll be queuing up to adopt him.”
The tear-streaked face turned up to hers. “Promise he’ll find a home? Promise you’ll be good to him?”
“I promise that if you promise me you’ll not take in more pets you shouldn’t have. And go home straight away.”
Again, they nodded.
Catherine held out her hand. The boys pushed the rope into it and the younger hugged her legs.
“Thank you, miss.”
They patted the dog, gave Catherine shy, fleeting smiles, then fled.
The puppy turned to follow, hitting the end of his rope and looking around to find Catherine attached to him. When she knelt, he walked to her, wagging his thin tail. She felt all his ribs and each bump along his spine. His coat was dull and dusty. Hipbones and shoulder blades stuck out with uncomfortable clarity.
“You poor thing,” Catherine whispered. “Wherever did you come from? And how are we going to get you somewhere else?”
From her crouching position, she looked at the tourists, joggers, bicyclists: paths, grass, The Serpentine with waterfowl and boats and sunlight reflecting off the water’s surface in a blaze. Hyde Park, in all its summer bustle, suddenly seemed very lonely.
~ ~ ~
She called him her Hyde Park Puppy, then just Hyde. Silly, since he wasn’t hers and she only needed to pass him to a rescue group.
Not in the city. She was getting ready to leave for her long drive home. She would take him out to Luton, even Northampton, on her way. She could look online for a Dogs Trust location and ring them. It wouldn’t matter if she had to go a bit out of her way.
Not on the drive. He fell asleep on the blanket her sister-in-law sent with them. And he slept. And slept. She couldn’t wake him to give him away to strangers in a kennel. At home then. She would take him all the way home to Cumbria and figure out the best place there. There were rescues around Kendal. Someone there would be delighted to adopt her puppy.
Not right away at home. He did, after all, need feeding up. He needed good puppy food, protein, fat, vitamins. He had to see a vet. He had probably never received vaccinations. He needed a bath with good quality shampoo and lots of brushing so his coat could grow in healthy. And housebreaking. And plenty to chew on. Once at his best—glossy, bright-eyed, fed, healthy—he would be ready to move on. Ready to find a new home around Kendal. In a few weeks.
Not in a few weeks.
Hyde sprawled across her legs one night while she tried to finish homework on her laptop. She was working toward becoming a certified estate agent and it was down to the wire. She hoped to pass by the end of September.
Hyde’s head flopped onto her keyboard. He lashed his tail as he mouthed her hands.
Catherine stared at him. He looked awfully large. Maybe she should get him his own bed. But that, like naming him, seemed silly. Silly for a dog who would be moving soon.
She pulled the laptop from under him and shut it with a snap, then dropped her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes.
“Oh …” she groaned, feeling Hyde sit up to watch her. “Who are we kidding?”
Not ever.
By the time Hyde was a year old, he had grown into a tall, heavy-boned, beautifully marked German Shepherd Dog with a big head and intelligent brown eyes always either watching Catherine or scanning the horizon.
She took him everywhere: around in the car while she met clients—windows down as he sat upright in the back in his own seatbelt, huge ears half back, mouth open—out to her uncle’s farm in the Duddon Valley, south to London for her biannual trip, where she never failed to visit Hyde Park with him. Their greatest joy, however, was fell walking.
They walked all the way around the shores of Windermere. They covered the narrow footpaths around Grasmere and climbed the Old Man of Coniston, bowing their heads together against savage winds in winter and blazing sun in summer. They gazed at their own reflections in the tarns, scaled steep slopes, marveled at spectacular vistas.
Catherine had grown up in London suburbs, visiting the Lake District only on holiday when her family stayed with her aunt and uncle, or grandparents before they had to move into a home. Now they were gone, but Uncle James and Aunt Lilian
still managed a big, old farmhouse and guesthouse, a few dozen chickens, two Border Collies, and over sixty sheep.
As a girl, Catherine had sobbed on the last day of these holidays. Once she was older, able to pull her weight around the farm, her childless aunt and uncle invited her to stay during summers. The happiest times of her life. She endlessly roamed the valley and fells, never with less than one dog by her side, sometimes three or four. Whip-smart and trained to whistles, Catherine imagined herself with her own Border Collie one day. Her own home in the Duddon Valley, even her own farm.
The lure of farm life faded with time. The backbreaking labor, 24/7 work life in all weather, few hours of sleep—all with a return so low that feeding your family could become problematic—were brought home to Catherine as she grew and watched farm dramas unfold.
She saved money, toyed with different career ideas, finally started down the real estate path. She would live in Cumbria. She would walk those trails again. But living in town and working a steady job that allowed her plenty of fresh air and days off wasn’t a bad idea either.
There was one thing she missed about the farm life from her perfect summers: fell walking with the dogs.
As she worked and studied through her first years in Kendal, she had no time for such luxuries. She rented a first-floor flat in town. She had limited resources, limited time. A dog could come later.
Catherine sat on the sofa one evening, watching Deal Or No Deal,pondering fate as Hyde took up the two cushions beside her, stretched out like a bear skin rug. There were so many reasons she shouldn’t have this dog. Yet, even her landlord had said it was okay as long as she paid a sizable deposit—for which she had to dip into savings.
He brought so much to her life, she could no longer imagine it without him. Far from an aloof, protective Alsatian, Hyde adored everyone he met. He would nearly flatten children on the sidewalk as he leaned against them for rubs. He wagged his tail and licked the hands of anyone who reached for him. He kept Catherine company on long days in the car and long walks among the Lakes.
He even brought her home one day.
Disoriented with a longer walk than usual beyond Coniston, Catherine took a shortcut she imagined would lead to a path she knew. Failing this, she continued hunting until she realized she had no idea where either trail lay.
After searching with a growing sense of panic in that vast, exposed wilderness, Catherine turned to Hyde. She gripped his face in both hands, looked into his eyes, and said, “Hyde, go home.”
Stupid, she thought. People say that to dogs on TV. He wouldn’t know what to do. Home was miles away.
Hyde gazed back, swished his tail, then turned and trotted off.
Startled, Catherine ran after him. In three minutes, Hyde had returned them to a path which he followed to the main trail, then started down that, back the way they’d come. Catherine called him to her and hugged him.
There had been one thing that worried her on hikes with her big puppy when she first resigned herself to keeping Hyde. Every other week, it seemed, there was a story in the paper about a dog worrying sheep. Belonging to locals and tourists alike, these dogs could be legally shot and killed by any farmer who thought the dog appeared so much as interested in their sheep, which shared space with hikers and campers on the fells. If Hyde even pricked his ears at the sight of a sheep, Catherine was afraid he could never be allowed off the lead, no matter how many miles they hiked together.
This fear was assuaged after her first visit with Hyde to her uncle’s farm. Uncle James encouraged her to let the puppy out of the car so his own dogs could greet the newcomer.
After a couple of quick nose snaps and tail wags, the two older Border Collies went on about their business. The puppy, already as big as them, bounded clumsily after, tripping over his own feet. Grip turned and regarded him with a disgusted eye, then trotted away to the house. Moss seemed more tolerant, but finally showed him her teeth as he smothered her. He backed off, sat down, then caught sight of the sheep.
A group was penned in the sheep fold, ignoring the goings on of car and puppy.
“Hyde!” Catherine called.
Too late. Hyde bounded through the fence and rushed among them, wagging his tail, wriggling all over.
The ram took one look at Hyde, sized up the situation, then smashed into the puppy like a speeding car.
Hyde yelped, flying through the air, paws over ears, scrambling up as the ram made another charge. This time, he was struck in the ribs. Crashing into the fence, Hyde squirmed through, still crying, mouth wide, eyes panicked.
Catherine ran for him, grabbing her puppy and pulling him against her.
He whined, trembling, while she soothed and fussed over him until he stopped crying. He pressed tight against her, staring back at the ram.
Uncle James looked on, knocking his cap against his dusty knee to clean it, leaning on the hood of Catherine’s car.
“Reckon Bill did you a favor,” he murmured.
Only in retrospect did Catherine realize Uncle James was right. Bill may have been the most important part of Hyde’s first year of training and socialization.
To this day, Hyde—seven stone of bone and teeth and muscle sprawled on the couch beside her—was so terrified of sheep, he would go fifty yards out of his way, even abandoning Catherine, to skirt them on footpaths. He would not look at them directly, but slink away, body hunched low, ears twisting to listen in case they made any sudden moves.
When he rejoined Catherine after such a covert operation, he greeted her with joyous wags, leaping up and spinning in circles as if they had been parted for days.
It was summer again. And Catherine had big ideas for herself and her Hyde Park Puppy. She read the websites, rang the people, met the trainers with Hyde. It was all arranged.
Hyde was to start search and rescue training this week.
Catherine had never trained a dog to anything beyond sit or come. She had never been a part of a cause dedicated to saving lives. But she had known about Lake District search dogs all her life. The idea of getting in touch with them had grown in her since the day Hyde led her down from the Coniston fells.
She had her doubts. Mostly, she wasn’t sure her gregarious bear of a dog could take work seriously enough to complete training. Search dogs needed to be nimble, fast, and focused in this rugged landscape. Then there was his breed. Ninety percent of the regional search dogs were Border Collies. Among them, a few crossbreeds, a few English Shepherds, sometimes a Labrador Retriever, and, now and then, a German Shepherd Dog. Would her Hyde even be taken seriously next to the flitting, workaholic Border Collies they would train beside?
When the first day arrived, Catherine felt too nervous for breakfast. She crammed her bag with snacks for Hyde and herself.
He was bouncy as ever, leaping in the car, wagging his tail, smearing his wet nose across the glass so she would roll it down.
She looked around at him as she started the engine. “Ready to be a working dog?”
He seemed to smile as he panted in the warm car.
“I hope so.” She reached back to poke his chest. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
He made one valiant effort to scramble into the front seat, gave up, restrained by his seatbelt, and sat down.
Catherine sighed. “Just do your best.”
She held her hand out to him. He dropped his big paw in it and they shook.
~ ~ ~
Rain hammered into her eyes. Wind bit across her skin. Catherine bowed her head, fumbling to pull her scarf up and her hood down against the headlamp attached over her fleece skullcap.
“Seek, Drummer!” Oliver McKnight shouted through the wind ahead of her.
Only by squinting through that terrible rain could Catherine see Oliver’s neon orange vest and reflectors against her own headlamp and the torch clutched in her gloved hand.
Far ahead, Drummer ran through the storm. The quick Border Collie also reflected back to them with a glowing vest. He boun
ded up boulders as if they were his own front steps. His black parts vanished into the night so Catherine could only see four white legs and gleaming reflectors.
“He’s got something, Catherine! Let’s go!” Oliver called back to her.
What did he think she had been doing?
Catherine tightened her grip on Hyde’s leather leash, looping it through her right hand, torch in left.
Hyde glanced up, ears pinned down and eyes nearly shut in the rain. He, like Catherine, Oliver, and Drummer, wore a neon reflective vest which proclaimed: RESCUE.
Catherine was proud of that vest. Even though they were only trainees, even though Hyde had just six months of training with the search dogs and she couldn’t be sure he would ever make the grade and qualify. Every time she strapped that vest on him, her heart leapt. They were doing something important together. A team.
At least, they tried. Right now they were shadowing Oliver and Drummer, and doing a poor job of it. The last thing the team needed on a November night like this was for their own members to become casualties.
Catherine lengthened her stride, Hyde pulling ahead. The rough ground twisted and heaved below them: a steep uphill angle, an endless array of rocks and boulders in all shapes and sizes, a churning current of mud running between them. This was the other side of the meaning in that vest.
Not for the first time, Catherine wondered what had possessed her to think she should train to be on call at all hours, in all seasons, under all conditions, in the most dramatic and hostile landscape in England. Madness.
She moved faster after Oliver, panting, stumbling through mud and rocks.
They were seeking a little boy.
A family from Preston had been for a day’s outing on the fells. The mother and older boy split up from them when the father wanted a detour for photographs. All with the intention of meeting back at the car in a couple of hours.
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