by Jean Gill
‘These your dogs?’ The man shouted, his voice hoarse from the terrifying experience. We didn’t wait to hear his thanks and our masters’ pride in us. Like true heroes, we barked, ‘Think nothing of it,’ and charged off to go back in the river further along. ‘Time dry is time wasted,’ was one of Porthos’ favourite maxims.
‘Get him out of here and clean him up! He’s filthy and wet!’ was the greeting we usually received when we got home after a river afternoon. ‘That means ‘Hi, did you have a good time?’ Marc whispered to me as he toweled me dry.
The wind grew colder, the trees barer and the river was out of bounds for the season – on-lead walks there only and we stopped meeting up with Porthos. Marc was wearing more and more outdoor clothing, warming his hands in the coat pockets I’d eaten through six months ago to eliminate the middle-man in getting some treats.
Then, one evening, the sky dropped on our head. It had been strange all day, blocking light instead of reflecting it, heavy, ‘gray’ according to Marc. We were walking towards the hall for training class when the sky bombed us with white rain that tickled my fur and burst in icy drops on my nose and tongue. I left my tongue hanging out to taste some more. The flakes whipped around faster and faster as the wind caught them and soon the street was dancing in white spots, lamp-posts curving madly as they flickered in and out of swirls. Marc had a sparkling moustache already, as if he’d been dipped in ice-cream, and smells were disappearing, underneath a numbing cold freshness, purer than water, an absence. I whined.
‘I don’t like it either boy. It’s heavy and it’s drifting and I don’t fancy walking back in an hour... for the sake of what, anyway. Let’s just go home, shall we?’ I couldn’t have agreed with him more. Don’t get me wrong – I loved the cold – but there was something wrong in the feel of it that evening. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with the snowstorm. Perhaps Marc already knew what he would find when he returned home.
Sometimes silence is worse than ‘He’s filthy, get him cleaned up.’ Especially when there’s silence where you don’t expect it and two voices where you’d expect silence – the bedroom. I knew Christine was with Things to Do because she’d told us so but I hadn’t realized that Things to Do was much the same height as Marc, smelled more of soap and could leave a house very quickly. Marc and I slept in the living room that night.
I will always remember the next day-break because it was dazzling white. I pawed to get outside to find out what was going on and my legs sank straight away up to my knees in wet cold white. Patou’s first snow! What water is to a Newfie, snow is to a patou. I rolled in it till I was tingling. I bounded in it, feeling ten times as heavy as usual with each leap. I jumped straight into a roll-landing on ground that was soft as a bed (I’d managed to climb up once or twice to test the bed out but Marc and Christine had strongly discouraged this so I’d left bed-training until they were older). Marc had put wellies on and come out to see what I was doing, so I rushed him and rolled him in the snow. He laughed, a little weakly, but he did laugh. And he rolled the snow into balls. ‘Still too powdery,’ he said but he threw them high in the air anyway for me to stand underneath as they came down and explode them on my nose or in my mouth. Even now, snow is all the excitement of puppyhood rolled into one great explosive ball of fun. At the first flake I could fight ten wolves, fifteen stray dogs, mate with three young bitches and still have enough energy to sit and stay for two minutes. In theory of course. But that first time, even snow couldn’t distract Marc for long.
A new atmosphere took over our home and went on and on, through the cold days, colder still with polite thank-yous during an attempt at a Christmas truce, while I chewed paper and got sticky tape on my fur. The truce lapsed again as the snowdrops came up. After the snowdrops, the freesias, then the daffodils and still no better at home. Christine and Marc would both shout then a silence would spread from where they were to poison every nook and cranny and it always reached me, wherever I hid. I inspected the house with my nose and peed in some key places, including against the bed, which still smelled of Things to Do, but it didn’t improve the ambience or cheer me up. I chewed the stairs again as that had always relieved stress when I was little but the effect had worn off. I carried on chewing anyway. I chewed on my own paws until I’d worn small patches of skin pink. But they didn’t notice.
‘It’s Mother’s Day,’ Marc pointed out. ‘Funny now I think of it but I had been wondering ... before... whether you might want to start a family...’ he laughed, the sort of laugh he gave these days, that sent splinters through my head and started me chewing, my tail this time.
‘You care more about that bloody animal than you do for me so what chance would a baby have?’ Christine had the last word that time and slammed the door as she left the room. Pleasing as it was to have Christine confirm my rank, that didn’t make up for the tensions in the pack. I couldn’t pull the two of them together, which showed weaknesses in my leadership.
If only things could go back as they were, to the days when the three of us would snuggle on the couch together. I remembered Marc throwing a stick for me and they both smiled when I fetched it and took it back to Christine. I wanted them both to smile again. So, if a stick was what it took, I’d find a stick. I whined and pawed the outside door to go into the garden. Marc opened the door without a word, his shoulders drooping.
A dog with a mission, I quartered the garden but there was nothing, absolutely nothing. I sat and scratched behind my left ear to help me think and looked around above ground level. A ray of sunshine illuminated the answer. Of course, it would mean some serious digging but no patou was ever averse to some hard work in soft earth so I set to with enthusiasm. Perhaps a little too much enthusiasm. Within minutes, I’d uncovered the root system of my chosen stick, and a den wide in either direction. Now all I had to do was get it free of the wall and there was no way I needed the top bit so I stood on my hind legs and chewed through the stick at an appropriate height. Now this really was a stick. She was going to be ecstatic.
I could hardly get the stick through the door it was so big and the roots made it clumsy at one end, bashing bits of earth around the hall but I waddled down the hallway, past the kitchen where Marc sat with his head in his hands and, as these were exceptional circumstances, I pushed into the bedroom and laid the stick on the bed beside Christine. The result was even better than I’d hoped. She screamed, ‘My wisteria!’ and burst into tears. I’m sure you know as well as I do that women often cry from overwhelming pleasure but I really hadn’t expected so much.
I was about to get Marc when he rushed into the bedroom of his own accord. He too was overwhelmed. ‘Oh Izzie,’ he said and he too burst into tears. Tactfully, I withdrew back to the garden, thinking they would make the most of their moment together and that perhaps I’d have more fun barking at the gate.
So I never will know what Marc did wrong but Christine left that very afternoon. And I moved onto Marc’s bed that same night.
Chapter 7.
We became seriously filthy. Without anyone saying, ‘He’s filthy!’ I didn’t get cleaned up, just brushed thoroughly once a week. Which was just perfect as far as I was concerned. Mother advised us to run away if ever our Humans threatened us with Shampoo as it would strip off all the oils that water-proofed our coat. A hose down with water was acceptable but not enjoyable so running away was still a good option. On the other hand, brushing was essential and a Soum de Gaia always stood still for grooming unless of course an incompetent Human hurt you, in which case clamping your teeth around her hand worked wonders – not actually biting of course, just pointing out that pain could go in two directions. I had trained Marc well as a groom. He would start at the bottom of whatever area he was working on, brushing out clumps and tangles at the ends first, then hum a little tune while he worked his way towards the root sections. He always worked along the direction the hair grew, lulling me half-asleep when he followed long sweeps along my back and haunches, until he was satisfie
d with his work. Then, he’d give a few strokes against the grain and finish off with a light massage with a rubber brush to remove any loose hairs. All very pleasurable. And after a week of splashing through puddles and rolling in anything that smelled interesting, I’d be willing to admit that my weekly brushing was a necessity. Marc never let me down but he was letting himself down, badly.
It’s possible that he was still grooming himself weekly but if he was, it didn’t show. His face was prickly against my tongue and his clothing was more and more rewarding to lick, salty and offering hints of egg or tomato sauce. ‘I’ve got to sort myself out,’ he told me. ‘Everything’s going to the dogs – no offence. Even the toilet’s so miserable that it’s stopped cleaning itself now she’s gone.’
If everything was going to the dogs, then that meant me so I made the most of it. The bathroom door was permanently open so I went back to drinking from the toilet. As the toilet seat was always up, there were no complaints this time about the water sprayed all around. In fact, there were no complaints. I was now comfortably installed on the sofa beside Marc in the evening as well as on his bed for the night. I knew that a paw wasn’t the same as a hand to hold but he’d get over her. He would start some new project. Perhaps something exciting would happen at that ‘work’ he went to every day. Little did I know.
I’d grown so used to being left alone that I could hardly be bothered chewing a bit of carpet or wallpaper. If I did, it was more for old times’ sake than for any real frisson. So I was a bit surprised when Marc came home, saw I’d torn just a teeny strip of wallpaper – and he tore a strip off me! I hadn’t been told off since Christine left. And for something so trivial! I didn’t understand it at all. And then he repaired the torn wallpaper! I just wasn’t in the mood to start the game again so I left it alone. I couldn’t work out what was going on. Marc was coming home from work and, after our walk, cleaning the house. He vacuumed, dusted, washed surfaces. He did some touching up on paintwork. He threw away the piles of newspapers and washed up the nine mugs that were all over the house, growing mould in coffee dregs (even I found the contents a bit off-putting). He cut our walk short, using words that filled me with dread, ‘Have to stop there today, boy. Things to do.’ He didn’t even seem to remember Christine’s Things To Do.
Then he came home from work for an hour, sometimes in the morning, sometimes afternoon, ‘to show people round.’ It reminded me of the Choosing when I was a pup. Even the voice Marc used was the same as our Human had used with the Choosers. Surely he wouldn’t sell me? Of course not. I put such an unthinkable idea out of my mind and made the most of our pre-breakfast walks, our evenings together and whole weekends of shared activities.
A man and a woman were ‘shown round’ twice. Then three times. Then Marc spent an evening stroking me beside him on the couch. There were tears in his voice when he spoke to me. ‘I’m sorry, old son. I know you don’t understand a word I’m saying but you’ve been my best friend and I’m going to miss you. But I’ve thought about it all and it just won’t work, taking you to live in an apartment. I’ve got to sell the house anyway, to give Christine her share, and then this promotion came up, Paris. It’s a big chance for me. I’ve got to get on with my life. But it wouldn’t be fair on you to take you with me. You’ll be better off with Jean-Pierre and Beryle. There’s no point drawing things out. It’s only going to be harder.’ Who for? I wondered, my head fuzzy with incomprehension.
The doorbell rang. Marc let in a loud jolly voice and a sweet, low one. ‘Oh the darling,‘ said the sweet, low one, stroking me under the chin just where I like it.
‘The kids will love him,’ said large jolly voice.
‘I’ll come and get you when I’ve got sorted out,’ Marc told me. ‘I promise.’ He clipped the lead to my collar and gave me away.
That was the start of the parallel universe. Everything was like what I knew but different. And I mean everything.
‘Get in the car, boy,’ loud jolly told me, and there was an open car boot, so I jumped in. But that wasn’t how it was supposed to go. It should have been Marc’s voice, saying, ‘Hup’ and ‘Good boy’ and the boot should have been lower and more homely, emitting old smells of wet dog – me – not aerosol gases and artificial orange. I stuck my nose to the window to see where we were going but it steamed up so quickly I could just see flashes of houses, lamp-posts, cars, houses, lamp-posts, cars.
And then front door, hallway, doors into a kitchen, a sitting-room. I knew what they all were and recognised none of them. My ears were on full alert so when Jean-Pierre shouted, I jumped backwards, starting a metallic clang from the radiator that caught me in the back.
‘Hey, kids we’re home!’ Jean-Pierre yelled up the stairs. His name, like everything else, tasted alien. Then there was noise everywhere, whooping and running down stairs and arms waving. I had nowhere to go so all I could do was lay my ears back and let my fur speak for me. It couldn’t have been more erect if twenty bears had turned pack and were charging at me, and I was just about to growl at them all to quieten down a bit and stay still, when Beryle did it for me.
‘Calm down now! It’s all new to him and he’s bound to be a bit nervous so just take things slowly.’
‘ Woooah, he’s huge! Can we stroke him?’ Before there was an answer, hands waved over my head like snakes and I had to duck so as to avoid them. If they didn’t get the message, I’d have to give a warning air-click with my teeth.
‘I don’t like the look of that,’ commented Jean-Pierre. ‘I thought he was supposed to be friendly and good with kids.’
‘Give him time. Let him sniff your hand first, underneath his nose not above it. Then if he’s happy, stroke underneath his chin...’
‘How can I tell if he’s happy?’
‘If he’s happy, he stays still, looks a bit more relaxed. Watch, like this.’ And once again, Beryle moved her hand gently towards me, let me sniff lavender and cinnamon, and then she stroked under my chin, calming me, so I hardly noticed the two squeaky ones putting their hands on me at the same time.
‘Let Sirius settle down for a while till he gets used to us.’ The pack moved towards the sitting-room so I followed and turned round and round in the doorway to make myself comfortable for a long sleep, somewhere I could keep half an eye out for trouble.
‘No, not there Sirius.’ A big hand grabbed my collar and stopped me lying down. I was too tired and confused to complain so I allowed myself to be dragged into a corner. ‘That’s your place.’ I closed my eyes, drifting into a world of endless puppyhood, sitting between Marc and Christine on a sofa that turned into swift river currents, Newfie barking ‘swim with the current, patou, don’t waste your strength crossing it till you have to.’ I could feel little fingers curling into my fur from time to time but it was Christine and Marc so that was all right and I let myself drift far away. Newfie would rescue me if the current was too strong.
Gradually, the strangenesses became ordinary. Food smelled as usual but it was difficult to relax and eat when the squeaky voices were jumping around and shouting. They moved so quickly that I was tempted to play with them, a little game of chase and catch their arms in my mouth, like I used to do with Marc. Then they flapped a lot, which was exciting so I’d firm up my hold a bit and give a little shake. They liked that and squeaked louder, but, ‘That’s too rough, Sirius,’ Beryle kept telling me. ‘Boys, Sirius didn’t mean to hurt you. He’s just learning what he’s allowed to do here.’
She was wrong. I’d learned pretty quickly what I was allowed to do. Absolutely nothing. Lying in doorways? No. Sitting on the couch? No. Bedroom? Absolutely forbidden, as were several other rooms. Digging? No. Playing? No. In fact, I hadn’t yet worked out anything that was fun, that I was allowed to do. And ‘No’ usually meant a big hand grabbing the back of my collar. ‘You have to be firm with a dog, especially one this size.’ I really didn’t like my collar being grabbed and I’d tried to tell Jean-Pierre that I preferred to be asked politely. When I fe
lt the yank on the collar, I’d turn my head, very sharply towards his hand, just warning him, but he never took the hint.
Essentials like sleep and food were permitted, in the prescribed places. Jean-Pierre took me out on the lead each day and, from the lamp-posts and verges, I worked out who my neighbours were. I could tell what their Humans had been eating from the dustbin scents, and if Jean-Pierre allowed me a sniff-stop, I knew where the rats and squirrels had crossed our path. All this was as it should be but it was as if there was a silent machine at the other end of the lead. Jean-Pierre was an enigma. He didn’t talk to me, he rarely touched me – apart from hauling on my collar.
Our walk always went the same way and the same distance, past two streets north, past four streets west, past one street south and then past five east, back to the house. I still couldn’t call it home. Sometimes on these walks, we’d meet someone he knew and then I’d hear Jean-Pierre speaking.
‘Beautiful dog you’ve got there.’ A strange hand would dive onto my head and I’d duck. Or someone I’d met a few times would do the same and I’d accept that. Or someone more polite would offer a hand to sniff and follow up with a caress along the side of my face.
‘A bit dominant,’ Jean-Pierre would say. ‘But nothing I can’t handle. You just have to wait till they show you proper respect before you reward them with affection. Wife and kids are a bit soppy with him but I keep the balance. Fantastic pedigree. His father’s a champion.’ And then they’d have a chat about their families, or work or fishing. I wasn’t well-enough behaved to be taken fishing, I’d heard Jean-Pierre telling Beryle.