by Matt Haig
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ he growled.
‘Nothing. I’m sorry. I was just -’ I sniffed anxiously for Adam. He smelt miles away.
‘It’s all right, Prince,’ Henry said as he stepped forward.
And then, to the Rottweiler: ‘My friend and I are minding our business. We do not want any trouble.’
‘Fuck off, you fucking fuck. The park belongs to me. Can’t you fucking smell? This is my fucking kingdom and I don’t want to share it with two gay fucking Labradors. Now fuck off or I’ll bite your fucking throats out.’
This, I felt, would have been a good time to make our exit. Henry, however, had other ideas.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘I wondered who you were? What you were called?’
‘I’m Lear. Not that it is any of your fucking business.’
‘If you say this is your park, my friend, it is all of our business.’
White globs of saliva dropped from Lear’s vast jaw.
‘Er, Henry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we should go somewhere else.’
But Henry was not intimidated. ‘Why does it always have to come down to territory?’ Henry asked with an inquisitive sniff. ‘I mean, why is it so important to you? What are you scared of ?’
‘Scared?’ said Lear. ‘Scared? Fuck off. I’m not fucking scared of anyfuckingthing.’
‘Please, would it be at all possible for you to mind your language?’ said Henry. ‘We’re Labradors.’
‘I wouldn’t give a fuck if you were the fucking ghost of Lassie, to tell you the fucking truth.’ Lear inched closer to Henry, gaining mass as he did so.
‘And why do you feel the need to resort to such aggressive behaviour? Shouldn’t you be devoting your time to looking after your master, rather than worrying about what other dogs do in the park?’ By now, Henry was clearly pushing his luck. An ominous growl could be heard coming from somewhere deep inside Lear’s expansive bulk. I took a few steps back away from the scene and started to sniff an almost scentless patch of grass. The distant voices of Adam and Mick, who were still apparently oblivious to our situation, were carried across on the morning breeze.
‘You don’t have a fucking clue, do you?’
‘No. I don’t. Which is why I asked.’
I sensed Lear look away from Henry and over towards me. Perhaps I would make for a tastier breakfast. ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘look at the two of you. Is this the sad fucking state this species has come to . . . ?’ I looked over at Henry, perplexed. ‘. . . Look at you, you’re both fucking powerless to do anything. You think you can change things with a wag of a tail or a soppy-eyed stare? Don’t make me fucking laugh. I tell you, life is fucking tough. It’s dog eat dog out there. You’re either the prey or the predator, whichever way you choose to look at it. Humans don’t give a shit, either. In fact, they’re the ones taking our power away. They want the only ones with any sense of pride left to be muzzled. But, you see, my master’s different . . .’ He angled his massive head over to his owner, a pale-looking man with a beard standing a few paces behind. ‘He wouldn’t ever muzzle me because he understands . . .’
‘Lear,’ shouted his master, walking lopsidedly towards us. ‘Away.’
The Rottweiler snarled his farewells and dutifully trotted over to his master.
‘That was close,’ I said, when I had walked back over to Henry.
‘Not really,’ sniffed Henry. ‘Underneath all the talk, there seems to be sense of a morality. Not our morality, certainly, but a morality all the same. He seems to be quite unaffected by the Springers. And he’s not as much of a psychopath as he likes to make out.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ The voice wasn’t mine. It belonged to Joyce, a stray Irish wolfhound, who we often chatted to in the park. She emerged from one of the bushes to our left. ‘I see him all the time, fellas. He’s a flaming eejit, so he is.’
She stood in front of us, covered in leaves and dirt. Although her hair was even messier than usual, she still held an eccentric beauty. We respected Joyce, and valued her judgement. She knew things we could never know about this park and its many secrets. And unlike the other strays we often encountered she never attempted to make us feel small or belittle our Family concerns.
‘How come?’ I asked her.
‘OK, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you about last week when he threatened to kill a little Yorkshire terrier. I mean, a terrier for dogs’ sake. About one hundredth of his size. He could have gobbled him up whole. I mean, what possible threat could a little scrap of a dog like that be to such a massive beast, fellas? Tell me. The poor terrier was, well, terrified if you can pardon the phrase. Yes, terrified.’
‘So what happened?’ I said, pissing abstractedly on the patch of ground where Rottweiler scent still lingered.
‘Well, nothing. But only because the Rottweiler’s master told him to back off. I tell you, if there’s ever an attack in this park, you know where to point your nose . . .’
‘Henry!’
‘Prince!’
Our masters were walking over. Henry seemed anxious for Joyce to finish her sentence. But instead she said: ‘I’ll be off then, fellas. See you.’ And she disappeared into the camouflage of the bushes, as she always did when humans were around.
‘We will continue our lesson tomorrow,’ said Henry, completely unruffled by the whole Rottweiler experience.
‘OK,’ I said, as Adam took hold of my collar. ‘I’ll see you.’
And on the walk home, I was already thinking of it, my next lesson. I breathed in the morning air - car fumes, chip papers, cat shit - and tried to make sense of it. I breathed in further. I could pick out Henry, Lear, Joyce - their scents all still evident in the morning air. As we turned the final corner, I could still identify other park smells. They stayed with me, as strong as ever. Ugly, putrid smells. Squirrel blood, human vomit, and something else. Dank and heavy. Something I didn’t recognise. And yet, I couldn’t help thinking that this unidentified smell was the key.
This was the thought that kept with me all day.
If I could work it out I could predict the future.
I could stop the bad things.
I could protect the Family.
The Labrador Pact: Resist the Springers
Springer spaniels are a danger to our mission. They no longer view themselves as the guardians of the human Family, and have proved willing to sit by and watch its destruction. Furthermore, the mutinous propaganda which fuelled the Springer Uprising now holds an influence over other breeds.
In particular, these are the key aspects of Springer behaviour which must be resisted at all costs: • Escaping leads
• Ignoring danger-signs
• Exploiting the kindness and generosity of our human masters
• Failing to nurture the canine powers of secret diplomacy
Labradors are encouraged to avoid all forms of contact with this increasingly hedonistic and debauched breed. Whenever a Springer approaches, turn the other way. Whenever you detect their scent, spray your own in its place.
Reckless Springerism will never be tolerated among Labradors.
We will never be weakened.
Our duty will prevail.
sigh
Adam let out a sigh that lasted so long he had nearly transferred the entire contents of the kitchen table to the dishwasher by the time it had been fully exhaled.
During the sigh Charlotte screeched her chair back, stood up, and walked out of the room, typing into her phone as she went.
Table cleared, Adam tightened his tie and gave me a look which asked: What have we done to deserve this?
He fed me. My bowl of meat jelly and biscuit.
A dog’s dinner.
A dog’s breakfast.
I wolfed it down.
More morning sounds upstairs: footsteps in hurried competition. The whole house getting louder and louder, as it did on the mornings when Kate went to work at the gift shop,
when she joined the other members of the Family getting ready for their busy day. The noise reached its thunderous peak as everyone, in quick succession, riverdanced their way downstairs and slammed the front door behind them.
Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam.
After that last slam the house was never more quiet. As I slumped back in my basket, as I settled back and washed my paws, the silence seemed to be speaking to me. Whether it was canine intuition or delusion I cannot be sure. But it seemed to be telling me that this routine, the routine which bored and warmed me at the same time, was not going to survive. All of a sudden, the entire room was full of secrets, concealing its advance knowledge within every object. And this feeling stayed with me for some time before I decided to bark for the rest of the day. To shut up the silence and its unwelcome premonitions.
smell-heap
That evening, Adam was still not in stick-throwing mood, no matter how many I dropped at his feet. Instead, he went over and sat on the empty park bench.
I kept a close watch while sniffing my way around the damp flowerbeds. He was looking at the big new house, its windows glowing orange in the dark. But then, suddenly, he flinched away. A door closed.
Someone was coming.
I stood, motionless, and observed as a dog emerged from one side of the house, leading a woman to the gate in the fence separating their garden from the park. With the gate closed behind them, the woman unclipped the dog. The dog, not having noticed me, flew off towards the oak trees and the smell-heap behind. Of more interest was the woman, who was taking slow, but deliberate, steps towards the bench.
Adam, I could see, was making an anxious effort to look relaxed. He leaned back. Then forward. Then back again, resting an elbow on the top of the bench.
I can’t remember what was going through my mind as I jogged over to join them. I certainly had no idea that this was a turning point, the start of my true mission and the battles which it involved.
Lying down in front of them I could take it all in. I could take her all in. It was the smell that first hit me. It wasn’t her natural scent, of course, but a bizarre mixture of perfume and something else. Something strong enough to make me feel slightly dizzy.
But Adam wouldn’t notice. He’d notice how she looked. I knew that, even then. And so, how did she look? By human standards, I suppose she was attractive. Long hair, as golden as Henry’s. Large, puppy-dog eyes. Her skin was tight and glowed with health. She must have been half his age.
I sat up and waited with him by the bench. Not because I was particularly worried. I wasn’t. It’s just that you have to be careful, don’t you, not to breach the Pact. But the thing is, from the moment I had made my decision to wait with Adam and the woman, I realised I had made a mistake. Rather than protecting him from any potential threat of conversation, I realised I had given her an excuse to lean over, stroke the back of my neck, and say: ‘Wow! She’s a lovely dog, isn’t she? What’s her name?’
‘Yes, yes. She is, isn’t she,’ Adam paused, as if making a silent calculation. ‘Actually, it’s a he. Well, a half-he. He’s had the -’ He completed the sentence with a mime of scissors snipping the air.
The woman laughed. ‘Oh poor thing, poor -’
‘Prince, he’s called Prince.’
I tried my best not to encourage further conversation and focused instead on the woman’s dog, who was stalking a squirrel from behind one of the flowerbeds. And then I realised. I caught his scent. He wasn’t just any old dog. He was a Springer. A Springer. This was not good at all. We had to leave; I had to do something. I started to bark at Adam and the woman, but they paid no notice. Their conversation continued.
‘I’m Emily.’
I turned to see her hold out her hand.
‘I’m, um, Adam. Adam Hunter.’
Emily’s Springer, who had been throwing me the odd glance as he sniffed his way around this new territory, now trotted over.
‘Wah-hey, a Labrador!’ I did my best to ignore him as he sniffed around me. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Loosen up. I don’t bite.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re a Springer. I cannot talk to you.’
‘Oh yes, the Labrador Pact, of course. Well, it may put your mind at rest to realise I’m only half there.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m only half-Springer.’
‘What’s the other half?’
‘A complete mix - a canine cocktail. You see, with me, old chap, anything goes.’
‘Really.’
‘Listen, like it or not, we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other, so we might as well try and get on,’ he said. ‘After all, I think you and me could be good friends.’
‘Do you?’ I asked, trying to sound doubtful.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, as Emily fastened his lead. ‘You see there’s a lot you could learn from me, madwag. A lot you could learn.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘Like what?’
He looked up towards Emily and, realising she wasn’t paying attention, tilted his head, pulled back on the lead and reversed out of his collar.
‘Like that,’ he said, galloping off.
Emily apologised to Adam and went after her unruly dog. ‘Falstaff! Come here! Falstaff!’ As we watched them run halfway around the park Emily tried to trick Falstaff by taking a shortcut between two of the flowerbeds. He managed a double bluff and headed towards us, his tongue lolloping side to side, eyes wide in triumph.
‘Waaah-hey!’
Adam dropped my lead, leapt out and grabbed him by the back of his neck. ‘Gotcha.’
Emily walked back over to us, hand on hip, and smiled at Adam. A smile of gratitude but also of something else.
‘Wow, you’re a fast mover,’ she said, now fixing his gaze. For some reason this statement, or maybe the way she said it, robbed Adam of the power of speech. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Pisces. I bet you’re a Pisces.’
‘Um, no. Gemini, actually. Not that I -’ he stopped, smiled. ‘Anyway, I suppose I’d better be off.’
‘You see,’ Falstaff said, as Emily put his collar and lead back on. ‘Lots of tricks, madwag. Lots of tricks.’
Emily laughed again, and this time it was clear she was flirting. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow, same time.’
‘See you,’ said Adam, still mesmerised. ‘Same time.’
He stood motionless, with me next to him, his eyes following her as she poodled over to the gate. She was conscious of being watched, I am sure, or why else would she have paused, let her head roll back and run her free hand through her golden hair. But it was even more than that. The deliberateness of this action suggested she wanted to let Adam know that she could feel he was still there, watching, and that she was enjoying his attention. Anyway, whatever her intention, the moment had a profound effect on Adam who, unlike Emily, did not seem to be enjoying himself at all. He swallowed, as if trying to get rid of something he wished he hadn’t tasted. I could still sense his anxiety. Regaining my sense of duty, I got up and started to tug on the lead.
‘OK, boy, OK. I’ll take you home.’
horlicks
Later that evening, Adam had even less to say. While the rest of the Family’s voices competed with the sound of the television downstairs, Adam was nervously interrogating his face in the bathroom mirror. I stared in amazement as he carefully examined each side profile.
This was very unusual behaviour.
You see, up until that day Adam had treated his appearance with an almost canine practicality. Unlike his son, who could hold conversations with his reflection for hours at a time, Adam only looked in the mirror as a matter of duty. To shave, to straighten his tie maybe or, if prompted by Kate, to comb his hair. But that was as far as it went.
Yet here he was, analysing every detail, his mouth dropping in surprise at each new discovery. And there was a lot to discover. The thing which seemed to cause the most immediate distress was his hair, which was beginning to whiten around the temples.
<
br /> ‘Oh my God,’ he mumbled. ‘When did that happen?’
But there was more. Nose hairs, creased forehead, crinkled eyes, blotched cheeks, saggy neck, and other irreparable damage. In desperation, he unbuttoned his shirt.
‘Come on,’ he said, as if praying for good news. ‘Come on.’
When he reached the last button he made a noise, a brief but unmistakable whimper of disappointment.
His pink, hairless body could hide nothing away. No matter how much he tried to tense his whole upper body, he was confronted with a bitter certainty. He was, officially, past it. Again, I thought about the fundamental sadness of humans. Their inability to understand their own nature, their reluctance to grow old, their concentration on one sense at the expense of all others.
So concerned was I with Adam’s desperate state of mind that I had failed to notice Charlotte’s footsteps as they made their way upstairs. It wasn’t until she was standing right behind me, in full view of her shirtless, muscle-strained father, that I realised. Faced with this distressing sight her first instinct, as was so often the case, was to call for her mother.
‘Mum! . . . Mum! Dad’s being weird in the bathroom.’
Adam, suddenly aware of his audience, quickly shut the bathroom door. ‘I, um, won’t be a minute, Charlotte.’
Moments later the toilet flushed and he reappeared wearing an awkward smile and a buttoned-up shirt.
‘It’s all yours.’
Charlotte tutted her response and grimaced as he tried to place a friendly hand on her shoulder. The bathroom door was already closed, with Charlotte behind it, when Kate appeared at the top of the stairs.