The Plague Dogs

by Richard Adams

  "So the man and his mate, with faltering steps and slow, took their solitary way. And ever since that day all the birds and animals have feared man and fled from him; and he exploits them and torments them, and some of them he has actually destroyed for ever from the face of the earth. He bruises us, and those of us who can bruise him. It's a bad world for animals now. They live out of his way, as best they're able. I believe, myself, that the star dog's given it all up as a bad job. He must have, for what good are men to animals?"

  "Yon's a fine tale noo," said the tod. "Ay, a reet dazzler, an' yer a grrand hand at tellin' it."

  "Yes," said Snitter, "you told it well, Rowf. And you're quite right--I have heard it before. Only you left out one very important bit, which they told me. When the man was disgraced and told to go away, he was allowed to ask all the animals whether any of them would come with him and share his fortunes and his life. There were only two who agreed to come entirely of their own accord, and they were the dog and the cat. And ever since then, those two have been jealous of each other, and each is for ever trying to make man choose which one he likes best. Every man prefers one or the other."

  "Well," said Rowf, "if that is the moral-and I don't believe it is--then I've just had my trouble for nothing. I suppose you can twist a story to mean anything you like. But all I can say again is, no more men for me--"

  "If you did find a master, Rowf--I mean, just suppose you did--what would he be like? What would he do?"

  "It's a stupid idea."

  "Well, but go on--just for fun--just suppose! I mean, suppose you found yourself sort of forced to be with a man who turned out to be--well, you know, decent and good and honest--what would he be like?"

  "Well, first of all, he'd have to leave me alone until I was ready--and take no notice even if I barked the place down. If he tried to force himself on me or started messing me about, I'd bite his hand off. And I'd judge him on his voice as well as his smell. He'd have to let me take my own time about smelling him--his hands and his shoes and all that. And if he was any good, he'd be able to tell when I'd begun to feel all right about him and then he'd say, 'Hullo, Rowf, have a bone,' or something like that; and then he'd give me a good one and let me alone to gnaw it while he went on with whatever he was doing. And then I'd lie down on the floor and--oh, what's the use? Snitter, you're just tricking me into making up a lot of rubbish!"

  "I'm not--but it only shows you've got some sort of idea at the back of your mind--"

  "Isn't it time to go out and hunt yet?" interrupted Rowf. "I'm hungry."

  "Why, let's away noo. Yer in gud fettle then? Ducks an' gimmers'll sharp put ye reet, Ah warr'nd."

  Monday the 1st November

  "Well, Stephen, you'll be delighted to know that your ideas were entirely the right ones." Dr. Boycott seemed positively jovial.

  "Sorry, chief, which ones were those?"

  "About the dogs."

  "The smoking autopsies? Well, if we--"

  "No, no, no--the dogs that got out. Seven-three-two and that other one of Fortescue's."

  "Oh, those, chief. But as far as I remember the only idea I had was that we should say nothing at all about them."

  "Yes, and you stuck to it very sensibly. And the--"

  "But--excuse me, chief--what do I say to this Mr. Williamson when we ring him back?"

  "I'm coming to that. I was saying, the Director thinks yours is entirely the right line. So all you have to do now is telephone Mr. Williamson and tell him."

  "What, tell him the dogs are ours and we're not going to do anything?"

  "Good gracious, no! After all, how do we know that the dogs are ours? You don't know, and neither do I: it's only a guess. And from what you tell me, there may not even be any dogs at all. No one seems actually to have seen them. No, you simply tell Williamson that we have nothing to say in reply to his question."

  "But--but I mean, won't he think that's very suspicious?"

  "He may, but he's just as likely to be wrong as right. The sheep-killings may stop of their own accord. If they are in fact due to a dog or dogs, they may get themselves shot and turn out not to be ours. Even if they are ours, they may not be traceable to us, if Tyson's got any sense. They may have worried their collars off by now. The Director thinks it's unlikely that anything embarrassing could be laid at our door, and more than unlikely that any of these farmers could or would sue us. They're much more likely to claim their insurance and let it go at that. Whereas if we stand in a white sheet, start admitting liability and try to take some sort of step towards helping in a search, we shall only attract adverse publicity and put Animal Research in the wrong when it may be nothing of the kind. Besides, if we were to incur any expenditure in that way, how would we justify it at audit?"

  "But what about Tyson, chief? He may already have spilled too many beans outside for us to be able to take the line that we haven't lost any dogs."

  "We're not taking that line, Mr. Stephen, my good sir. We're simply saying we've nothing to say. Let them take it from there. I've already had a word with Tyson--pointed out to him that the most he can truthfully say if he's asked is that two pens were found empty. I stressed that it would be quite unjustified on his part to put two and two together and make five, and that the Director would be most upset to think that anything of the kind was being said. Most upset, I said. I think he got that message all right."

  "Nudge nudge wink wink say no more, eh? But is that quite fair to Williamson?"

  "My dear chap, we're under no more obligation to stand and answer Williamson's questions than any private person would be. If he thinks evil, let him prove evil--if he can. I repeat, it's all very unlikely to come to anything."

  "I just don't particularly fancy ringing him back, that's all."

  "Well, in this place we all have to do things we don't like sometimes, don't we? Even the animals, ha ha. Anyway, cheer up. You'll be pleased to hear about the dogfish. The colour-plate tests on the eyeless ones show--"

  "Williamson sounded hellish angry," said Mr. Furse, the assistant editor of the Lakeland News, downing the last of his second pint. "In fact, I couldn't really get an awful lot of sense out of him, for that reason."

  "Well, wouldn't you be?" replied Mr. Weldyke, the editor. "What's his damage--three sheep, did you tell me, and a chicken pen smashed in or something? Oh, nice of you to come over, Jane. Two pints as before, please."

  "Ay, but I mean he doosn't have to take it out on me, now, dooz he?"

  "Y' shouldn't be standing in the road, should you?" said the editor. "Anyway, what's your notion--are you going to do a piece on it?"

  "Short piece, ay, might as well. 'Mysterious sheep losses in Dunnerd'l'--you know the sort of thing. Thanks, Jane. Cheers, Mike! But it'll all blow over. Happen fella whose dog it is knows very well already; and he's keeping his mouth shut. If it goes on, he'll maybe go out himself one night by moonlight, find it and get rid of it--shoot it himself, as like as not, and no one the wiser."

  "But you said Williamson was accusing the Animal Research place at Coniston. Did you ask them about it?"

  "Oh, ay--rang 'em up. They'd nothing to say at all. 'No comment' Just what I'd say in their position. I can't see much point in pushing any harder where they're concerned, can you? I mean, God knows what they have to do to all those poor brutes up there. I know it's in a good cause; you've got to have science and progress; but I mean they very probably don't know from day to day what's dead and what's dying and just how many they have got. You can bet your boots the N.F.U. wouldn't want them pushed around--they must be far too useful to farmers in general. So it follows that we don't, doesn't it? Ours is a farming area and our readers are farmers."

  "Ee--yes, I can see that," replied the editor reflectively, looking out at the men striding like scissors down Market Street to get out of the rain. "So we cover it without mentioning the research station, right? N.F.U. or no N.F.U., farmers are entitled to expect this sort of thing to be covered in their local paper. If there is a
dog gone feral, playing merry hell in Dunnerd'l or Lickledale or somewhere, we ought to find out as much as we can and print it, if only so that local chaps can get together and organize a hunt with guns if they think it's worth while."

  "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Nice to see you. How are you?"

  Mr. Weldyke and Mr. Furse looked up to encounter the smile of a dark, very much dressed man of about forty-five, who affably waved a hand beringed with two large stones set in gold. (His other was holding a double whisky.)

  "I couldn't help hearing what you were saying," said this gentleman ingratiatingly. "We haven't actually met, but you'll remember my name, business-wise--it's Ephraim, manager of the Kendal branch of Suitable Suits. You've kindly printed a lot of our advertising, of course, as you'll recall."

  "Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Ephraim," said Mr. Weldyke, his gaze, as it returned for a few moments to his pint, encountering en passant a dove-grey waistcoat adorned with mother-of-pearl buttons and a thin, long-and-short-linked gold watch-chain. "Nice to meet you. Are you going to join us?"

  He drew back a chair and as he did so his eye caught Mr. Furse's for the briefest of moments. That eye said, "I don't have to tell you that local newspapers never disoblige their regular advertisers."

  "Well, thanks, if I may. Only for a moment."

  "We've just slipped out for a jar and a snack. It's my round--that's whisky you're drinking, isn't it? Good. And can I get you a pork--" (Mr. Furse kicked him under the table.) "I mean, they have some good chicken sandwiches, or there's hot Scotch eggs in that glass thing there, if you prefer."

  "No, no, thanks, I've had lunch. I'll only stay for a quick one with you." As Mr. Furse departed from the bay-window table to attract Jane's attention once more, Mr. Ephraim went on, "It was just an idea that occurred to me, Mr. Weldyke, for a little stroke of business--business with benefit to the community, one hopes, and perhaps a bit of sport as well. As I said, I couldn't help hearing what you were saying about the wild dog down Dunnerdale way and how the farmers might be wanting to organize a hunt. Now my idea is this. By the way, is it quite convenient to put this before you now? Have you time?"

  "Oh, yes, certainly, Mr. Ephraim. We should be most interested to hear your idea."

  "Ah, you're back quickly, Mr. Furse. Easy to see you're a favoured customer, eh?"

  "Oh, me and Mike here practically support th' place. Cheers!"

  "Good health! Success to journalism! Well, now, we're anxious to expand business a bit in that western area--you know, get some fresh custom, let the locals know who we are and all that. Of course, I know hill-farmers aren't millionaires, but even they're spending a good deal more on clothes than they used to and we feel there's a potential. Affluent society, you know, and all that. What I feel we've got to do is meet the country farmer half-way--show him we're offering value for money and nothing up our sleeves--let him see we're human, you know. So--tell you what I'll do! Suppose we were to organize this dog hunt--with your help on the publicity side, of course. Just thinking aloud, we'd provide six--well, say five cartridges for every man taking part, and offer each gun, up to twenty, his choice of either two hard-wearing shirts or a pair of good, serviceable trousers. And then for the one who actually kill the dog--have to think how we're going to be sure he's killed the right one, of course--a ready-made two-piece suit, with a free fitting thrown in. You do the photographs--the lucky farmer shaking hands with me over the body and all that, eh? What you're thinking, eh?"

  "Well, I should think it's worth it from your point of view, Mr. Ephraim. From ours, it's a whale of an idea. There's one or two details we'd have to work out, of course--"

  "Of course, of course. But we're wanting to move fast, eh? The dog might stop raiding or maybe someone else shoots it before we do--you know?" (Mr. Ephraim waved his hands expressively.) "You get something in the paper Wednesday, our Mr. Emmer goes round the farms Thursday, gets it all set up for Saturday--I'll be out there myself, of course--"

  "Fine, Mr. Ephraim, fine. Now look, can you just come back for a minute to the office? Then we can get the thing roughed out, and young Bob Castlerigg can get to work on a piece--you'll see it before publication, of course--"

  Fridaythe 5th November

  "Where did you say we were going, tod?" Snitter shivered in the chilly evening rain and sniffed at the sheep-rank turf, where even now a few late tormentils and louseworts were in bloom. They were crossing Dunnerdale.

  "Ower to Eshd'l. Bootterilket groond--ay. Noo whisht a bit! Haald on!" The tod looked one way and the other, north to the Leeds mountain hut at Dale Head and south to Hinnin House and the dark, coniferous plantation rising up the fell behind it. Other than cows, no living creature was in sight. The tod slipped across the road in front of the gate and cattle-grid and Rowf and Snitter followed him along the line of a dry stone wall which led them across the pasture and down to Duddon tumbling noisily over its stones among the ash trees. On the bank, Rowf checked.

  "Water? Look, I told you--"

  "Haddaway! There's mair stones than watter. In w' goin' fer a duck!"

  The tod slid almost daintily into the edge of the main channel, swam the few yards across and ran over white stones to the peaty bank on the farther side.

  "Oh, look!" said Snitter suddenly, "a fish--a big one!"

  "Ay, sea troot. It's upstream they go aboot noo."

  Snitter, fascinated, watched the iridescent trout as it almost broke surface in a shallow place before vanishing into deeper water.

  "D'you ever eat fish, tod?"

  "Ay, Ah've had a few deed 'uns as th' folks has thrown oot."

  "Dead? Where d'you find them?"

  "Middens--dustbins. Are ye comin'?"

  Rowf set his teeth, hit the water with a splash and was out on the further bank. Snitter followed.

  "My head's an umbrella, you know," said Snitter. "It opens and shuts all right--it's open now, actually--er--forbye there's a rib broken. The water runs from front to back and trickles down inside the crack."

  "Mind yer a fond boogger, ye, an' not ower strang neether, but yer ne fyeul."

  "Thanks, tod," said Snitter. "I really appreciate that."

  They skirted the edge of the plantation along the foot of Castle How and turned westward again, leaving Black Hall to the north.

  "I'm sorry," said Snitter three quarters of a mile later, as they reached the crest of the steep slope. "I'm not built for this, you know. The dilapidation--no, the degradation--I mean the destination--oh, dear." He sat down and looked about him in the failing light. "Wherever have we got to?"

  "Hard Knott. Bootterilket's doon bye. Yon's Eshd'l, ye knaw."

  "What happens now?" asked Rowf.

  "Hang on a bit till neet-time, then we can run doon th' fell an' take th' forst yow ye fancies. By, yer a grrand provider." The tod looked at Rowf admiringly. "Ah've getten a full belly runnin' wi' thoo."

  "Going to make us wait, are you?" said Snitter, sitting back on his haunches in a wet brush of ling. "You'd better sing us a song, tod, to pass the time. Do tods have songs?"

  "Ay, we do, noo an' agen. Ay, Ah mind our aald wife made up a bonny 'un, lang time back."

  "Your dam? Did she? What's it called?"

  The tod made no reply. Snitter recalled its confusion when he had asked its name and hastily went on, "A bonny 'un?"

  "Ay, it wez a canny bit song. She wad sing it on shiny neets."

  "Well, never mind shiny neet," said Snitter. "Can ye not remember noo? Come on, Rowf, you ask him."

  "Oh, may as well," said Rowf. "Can you smell that yow down there? I'll tear it, you see if I don't."

  "Ay, it'll be varry soon felled an' fettled when us gets at it. Just tappy lappy doon th' bankside an' grab it b' th' slack o' th' neck."

  "Well, sing up, then, tod," said Rowf. "If it's going to be that easy, you've got something to sing about."

  The tod paused a while, rolling on its back and scratching on a patch of stones. Snitter waited patiently, the rain running down his
nose from the trenched gash in his head. He could be no wetter. A car churned slowly up the pass and as its sidelights topped Fat Betty Stone and it started to creep away downhill in low gear, the tod began.

  "A hill tod it wor layin'

  Atop a roondy crag.

  An' niff o' powltry doon belaa

  Fair made its whiskers wag.

  Th' farmer's canny lad, ye ken;

  Geese fast i' th' hemmel, ducks i' th' pen.

  Then fyeul shuts henhoose less one hen!

  Begox, yon tod wez jumpin'!"

  "Terrific!" said Rowf. "Go on!" The tod obliged.

  "Next neet th' farmer's woman,

  By, ye shud hear hor bubble!

  'Ah'll skite th' Jugs off yonder tod

  That's puttin' us te trouble!'

  She's roond th' stackyard i' th' rain,

  She looks i' th' barn an' looks again.

  She nivver stopped th' back-end drain!