The Plague Dogs

by Richard Adams

  Saturday the 20th November

  PLAGUE DOG "DANGEROUS BRUTE"

  Former Master's Sister Tells Why She Sold It to Research Station

  Office executive Mrs. Ann Moss, of Dalton-in-Furness, got a shock yesterday. The reason? She learned that "Snitter," the fox terrier formerly belonging to her solicitor brother before his tragic death in a traffic accident, was none other than one of the escapees from Animal Research (Scientific and Experimental), Lawson Park, Cumberland, better known to millions as the "Plague Dogs." The two dogs, which are widely believed to be infected with bubonic plague contracted in the course of their nocturnal escape, have inaugurated a reign of terror throughout the Lakeland, indiscriminately killing sheep, ducks and hens and terrifying farmers and their wives by their ruthless attacks on lonely homesteads.

  Not to Blame

  "I can't really think myself to blame," said handsome, dignified Mrs. Moss, interviewed yesterday at her Dalton-in-Furness home. "The dog had always been dangerous--wild and hard to control-given to attacking cats and making trouble for my brother and myself. It was really only kept on because my brother had such a kind heart and couldn't face the idea of getting rid of it. After the accident--which was actually brought about by the dog itself, but I can't bear to talk about that--I was left with the responsibility of dealing with my poor brother's things and had to do as I thought best. Naturally, I couldn't be expected to take such a dog into my own home. I was going to have it put down, but when my sister's husband, who is a vet, told me that Animal Research were seeking an adult, domesticated dog for experimental purposes, that seemed better for everyone concerned, including the dog. Of course, I never had any notion that my well-meant idea would have such terrible results, or that the Research Station would allow it to escape. I really think they ought to have taken more care."

  Capable of Savagery

  Mrs. Moss left me in no doubt that "Snitter" is a dog capable of savagery and one that--

  "Oh, hell!" said Digby Driver, putting out his cigarette with a hiss in the slopped saucer of his teacup. "All this is beginning to smell of day jar voo. What we need now is something new--pep the whole thing up to a higher level. A photograph of the dogs in action--some indiscretion by the people at Lawson Park--an official statement by a Minister; not that I could cover that from here--but some bloody thing or other we need, to get a fresh driving force behind the story. Undiagnosed illness somewhere round about? No, that's no good-only fall flat when it's proved not to be plague--as of course it would be. Hell's bells, let me think, let me think--"

  "I can't tell, Rowf. It's puzzling, and I'm afraid I'm not making much sense after wandering about all night in this cold. But perhaps the people in the cars aren't looking for us after all. They all go by at such a rate. If they were after us they wouldn't have far to look, would they?"

  "Damn them, they all look as fat as castrated Labradors. Why can't one of them stop and give us some food?"

  "I'm starving, Rowf. I'm perished with this cold. It's a long time since sunrise now, but it doesn't seem to get any warmer. Can you feel your paws?"

  "Don't be silly. They must have dropped off hours ago."

  "Rowf, let's find a house, or a farm or something and give ourselves up. Licking men's hands would be better than licking this cold stuff off our paws. They might feed us before they took us back to the whitecoats, you never know. Otherwise we'll die out here for sure."

  Rowf threw back his head and barked at the close, muffling sky. The snow, which had ceased during the night, had been falling steadily again for the past hour, and in the swirling confusion neither dog could make out either the hills whence they had come or what lay beyond the main road, where the cars and lorries went whang-whanging past behind the dismal sheen of their lights in the gloom.

  "Rowf-rowf! Rowf-rowf! Go on, pour down the lot and bury us underneath it, blast you! I don't care! You're not as cruel or contemptible as the whitecoats who used to put me in the tank! They were supposed to be masters--you're not! I'm just a dog, starving to death, but I'm still better than you, whatever you are! You're licking the whitecoats' hands. Aren't you ashamed? Miles of bitter sky and freezing cold powder against a couple of starving dogs! Rowf-rowf! Rowf-rowf!"

  "Rowf, even a whitecoat indoors would be better than this cold stuff out of doors. If only I had my head in a decent kennel, it'd be a lot less mad than it is now."

  "I shan't say any more. I never barked when they drowned me: I knew my duty all right. I can die out here as well as ever I did in there."

  "I say, Rowf, there's a car stopping! Look, it's pulled in to the side, just up there. Can you see?"

  "Don't care. Let it."

  "D'you think they're looking for us?"

  "If they're looking for me they'll find a lot of teeth."

  "There's a woman getting out. She looks a bit like Annie Mossity, in that fur coat. It isn't Annie, though. Oh, look, Rowf, she's gone up behind that rock to pee! I always wondered how they did it. Look at the steam! It seems rather a funny bit of ground to want to lay claim to--still, I suppose she knows what she wants. What's the man doing? He's got out, too. He's looking at the lights or something on the car. Oh, Rowf, can you smell the meat? Meat, Rowf, meat! There's meat in that car!"

  "Snitter, come back!"

  "I'll be shot if I come back! Look, you can see into the back of the car! That's a shopping basket. My master used to have one. It's full of things to eat--they always wrap them up in paper like that. Wherever there's men there's paper-and food!"

  Rowf caught up with him. "Snitter, stop! They'll only hurt you or shut you up again, like they did in that shed."

  "They won't! I'm desperate, I'm mad, I'm dangerous--remember me? They throw chickens after me to get rid of me faster! I'm bold untold in the great white cold, I'm the dread with the head, the nit with the split! Here I go, who dares say no!"

  Capering, ears erect, staring white-eyed, rolling head over heels, wagging a frothing muzzle, curling his upper lip until the black gums showed above his teeth, Snitter, out of the thickened gloom, came mopping and mowing down upon the car. In the sight of the driver (a young man named Geoffrey Westcott), starting in surprise and peering quickly round with vision half-dazzled from his examination of the alignment of the headlight beams, his eyes were two full moons, he had a thousand noses, horns whelked and waved like the enridged sea. Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar, and the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of Snitter. So did Mr. Westcott. With a spasm of horror he recognized the features of which he had read in the paper--the green plastic collar, the split head, the air of gaunt, crazy savagery. Even as he cried out and ran, Snitter leapt into the car, jumped over the back of the driving seat and, slavering, began to drag the soft, squashy, meat-reeking parcels out of the wicker basket on the back seat. Rowf, up beside him in a moment, gripped a joint of mutton in his jaws and sprang with it out of the car door. As they gulped and chewed, the snow grew dappled red with blood, brown with fragments of sausage, chocolate and kidney, yellow with butter and biscuit-crumbs. Plastic wrappers and shreds of paper blew away on the wind.

  "Look out, Snitter, the man's coming back!"

  "I don't care. Tell him I want a blanket as well! A cloud would do--ashes, hay, newspapers tell him--"

  "Snitter, he's got a gun! That's a gun!"

  Snitter looked up quickly. "No, it isn't. I've seen those flat, black boxes before. Lots of men have them. My master had one. They just make little snicking noises, that's all."

  "But he's pointing it at us!"

  "I know. I tell you, they do that. You needn't worry: it's not a gun. There--did you hear that little click? That's all they do. Anyway, that's the lot now, except for what's left of this great lump of meat here. You licked up the eggs off the back seat, didn't you?"

  "Of course I did. What d'you take me for? Better than the tod's eggs, those were. You grab that soft stuff and I'll carry this great bone here. Come on!"


  They vanished into the whirling desolation as Mr. Westcott supported his sobbing, trembling lady passenger back towards the road. It had indeed been a terrible experience, and Mrs. Green might very well have wet her knickers if she had had anything left to wet them with. The driving door was swinging ajar and the back seat looked like a field of war and if it was not Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer, that redoubtable pair would certainly not have been ashamed of the job. Shocked and dazed, but nevertheless deeply thankful at least to have escaped contact and infection, the two of them left the deadly, contaminated vehicle where it stood and set out to walk the four miles to Keswick through the snow.

  Five minutes later Snitter reappeared, followed by the reluctant Rowf, and set to work to finish off the scraps.

  "I'm not leaving anything, I tell you!"

  "It's not safe, Snitter! They'll come back, or another car will stop."

  "I don't care! I shall have eaten the lot, and nothing can alter that."

  "Come on! Don't overdo it! There's a man coming!"

  "I'll sing him a song!

  "O I'm a bold dog with a skull like a drain, (Sing chompety, chumpety, piddle-de-dee!)

  I'm horribly wild and completely insane, (Sing wiggety waggety, hark at him braggety, Mumble a bone on the lea!)"

  Nevertheless when, a minute later, the police Jaguar drew up to see why an empty car, with headlights on and driving door wide open, was parked on the hard shoulder, the only canine traces were two lines of paw-marks disappearing into the mirk.

  The telephone rang. Digby Driver picked it up.

  "Driver Orator."

  "Is that Mr. Digby Driver himself speaking?"

  "It is indeed. Who might I--"

  "Mr. Driver, you don't know me, but my name's Westcott, Geoffrey Westcott, and I believe I've got something of considerable interest both to tell and to show you. My landlady and I were attacked and robbed this morning by your Plague Dogs. They drove us off and then ransacked my car."

  "Christ Almighty! Where?"

  "It was during a snowstorm, near Smaithwaite Bridge, a little north of Thirlmere. We'd stopped the car and got out for a minute, when the dogs just appeared and fell on it."

  "But you say ransacked and robbed? What of, for God's sake?"

  "All my landlady's shopping, out of the back of the car. Everything that was edible, that is. They ate the lot."

  "You're sure it was the Plague Dogs?"

  "I'm as good as certain, Mr. Driver. But more than that, I've got several photographs of them, taken from about twenty-five to thirty yards' distance. Would you be interested in acquiring those for your paper?"

  "I'd like to meet you right away. Where are you?"

  Mr. Westcott gave an address in Windermere.

  "I'm on my way," said Digby Driver, and slammed down the receiver.

  Vaguely aware of the two glimmering squares of the casements opposite and of the wash-basin between and below them--its waste-pipe an elephant's grey trunk curving downward into the floor--Mr. Powell staggered on through the snow, shivering with fever and tormented with a sick headache that never left him. Sometimes he clutched a drift of cotton snow about him for warmth. Anon, he flung it aside as he clambered, sweating with the effort, out of the piled heap of snow into which he had fallen and become engulfed to the neck.

  He was at Stalingrad, lost, out of touch with his unit and as a last hope making his way back to 6th Army headquarters. The enemy were shaggy, black dogs, armed with casks of hot whisky slung round their necks, the terrible effect of which was to intensify headache and induce nausea and vomiting. They could be seen everywhere--dark shapes scudding down from the bitter hills to cut communications on the roads, or skulking in the balance-cupboards behind isolated cylinders, to ambush any fugitive who might try to seek shelter. All organized resistance had broken down and the stragglers were wandering to the rear in desperate search of relief. But there was no relief for Mr. Powell.

  "The tanks!" muttered Mr. Powell, tossing from side to side. "Too many tanks--too many dogs in tanks!"

  As he spoke he came in sight at last of headquarters, a huge, grey ruin standing alone in an expanse of white snow. He floundered towards it, scratching, through his sweat-sodden pyjamas, at his unwashed, itching body, and as he came closer saw that it was, or had once been, a cathedral. Struggling, he turned the heavy, iron ring of the door and stumbled inside.

  At first he could perceive nothing, but then, raising his eyes to the source of the dim light, he saw, with a sense of recognition and relief, the rabbits--row upon row of them--gazing gravely down from the hammer beams and the lamp-lit reredos. Even here it was very cold and throughout the building there was not a sound save that of his own coughing, which echoed in the nave.

  "Help me!" cried Mr. Powell to the ranks of silent heads.

  They gave no sign of having heard him and he fell on his knees.

  "Help me! I'm ill! Can't you see me?"

  "We can't see you," said a rabbit. "We can't see anyone. We're drafting a personal letter to the Secretary of State."

  "I've brought you some tea," said a dog with a slung tommy gun, entering the nave from behind him. "How are you feeling?"

  Mr. Powell sat up, coughed, spat yellow into his handkerchief and looked confusedly round the cold, darkening room.

  "Oh, fine. I'll be all right a bit later, love," he replied. "Sorry-I had a lousy dream--not too good at all. Must be time to draw the curtains, isn't it? Tell Stephanie she's a sweetie, won't you, and I'll try to be fit enough to read her some more about Dr. Dolittle tomorrow? I must aim to get back to work by Tuesday, I really must."

  FIT 9

  Sunday the 21st November

  (From the Sunday Orator)

  AT LAST! THESE ARE THE PLAGUE DOGS! ASTONISHING PHOTOGRAPHS BY BELEAGUERED MOTORIST

  Windermere bank executive Geoffrey Westcott and his landlady, Mrs. Rose Green, returning home by car through snow which for the past twenty-four hours has held Lakeland in its icy grip, got a terrifying shock yesterday. The reason? You can see it here, for bankman Geoffrey possesses not only courage and presence of mind, but a camera in whose use he is expert, for which the public have much cause to be grateful to him.

  "You could have knocked me down with a feather," said Geoffrey, depicted here recovering yesterday from his ordeal at his comfortable flat in Mrs. Green's Windermere home, where he is a lodger. "I'd driven Mrs. Green over to Keswick to do some shopping and pay a visit to a friend, and on the way back we'd just got out of the car for a moment, about five miles north of Dunmail Raise, when all of a sudden I saw these mad dogs--and that's what they were, make no mistake--rushing down on us. There were two of them, both as wild and ferocious as wolves on the Russian steppes. I don't know if plague sends its victims mad, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that it does--not after what I've seen. They tore every scrap of Mrs. Green's shopping out of the car--meat, butter, biscuits, the lot--and ate it in about three minutes flat. In fact, they were so busy that I risked getting close enough to take some photographs. The car? Oh, it just about breaks my heart--my super-tuned Volvo sports--but I'll just have to write it off. I could never bring myself to risk sitting in it again, whatever tests the local authority may carry out and whatever assurances they may see fit to give me. I mean, you never know, do you--bubonic plague?"

  Time for Action

  You never know--that shrewd comment of bankman Geoffrey, ace amateur cameraman and sports car driver, might well go for many other people in England today. You never know--where these dangerous brutes--themselves insane from the terrible disease they are carrying--may attack next: what harm they may do; and who may be their victims. SEE these ghastly photographs of wild beasts at large--supplied exclusively to the Orator by intrepid Geoffrey Westcott. HEAR what the Orator has to say about the danger to our fair land and its people. SMELL the stink of evasion and bureaucratic We-Know-Best which is still drifting, all-pervasive, from Lawson Park to Whitehall and back. Suppose your child were to TOU
CH one of these dogs? No danger of that, you say? But how can you be sure? And others may well be less fortunate. The TASTE of danger is all abroad in Lakeland, and where its deadly flavour may next seep--

  "Yeah, well, all right," said Digby Driver, throwing down his copy of the Sunday Orator with satisfaction. "And the photographs look first-rate. Lucky the bigger dog's in front--it looks a lot fiercer than the little one. Tom's touched out that cleft in the head quite a bit, too: good idea--some readers might have started feeling sorry for it. O.K., let's get on the blower to old Simp, the agony king."

  Digby Driver made his way to the hotel call-box and reversed the charges to the Orator.

  "Desmond? Yeah. Yeah, I've seen it. Glad you're pleased. Oh, fine, thanks. What now? Well, I thought Westcott might be good for a bit more, properly shoved and guided from behind, you know. What? Yeah, he's stimulatable all right. Sure. A yibbedy yobbedy, ought to be clobberdy, up in the courts young man. What? Patience, Desmond. No, I said Patience. No, not patience, Patience. Oh, skip it! Oh, you don't think he'll do? You want it stronger? Stronger than that? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I see--force their hand, eh? But that's a bit of a tall order, isn't it? Well, dammit all, Desmond, I just got you the photographs, didn't I? O.K., O.K., never mind. You say Sir Ivor wants a disaster? Something the Government can't duck out of? Well, that is a tall order, Desmond, but I'll do my level best. Yeah, that's about it--pray for something to turn up. Never know what the dogs themselves might get up to, of course, specially if this snow goes on. Father forgive them for they know not what they bloody do, eh? O.K. Desmond, do my best. Talk to you soon. Bye-bye."

  Having rung off, Digby Driver remained musing in the call-box for fully half a minute, tapping his front teeth with his pencil. At length he once more, and resolutely, grasped the receiver.

  "The time has come the walrus said," he remarked, and proceeded to put a call through to Animal Research.