by Matt Haig
Betray the Pact, betray the breed.
That is what we had been told, that is what had been passed down for generations, from mother to litter. One step out of line and the whole Labrador cause could be placed in jeopardy.
Betray the Pact, betray yourself.
Of course, this was the real clincher. Go astray and you will lose the chance to gain your Eternal Reward. To be reunited with your brothers and sisters, to run wild and free in a humanless universe. But where was the proof? The whole idea was starting to seem ill-conceived, arrogant even. Perhaps Falstaff had been right. I mean, who was I to say that the philosophies and belief-systems which united other breeds were wrong and ours were right? Why did we automatically write off the Rottweiler worldview as primitive and barbaric, or the poodle philosophy as too concerned with surface detail? The influence of the Springer Uprising was clearly a corrupting one, but at the same time, did we have the right to judge the actions of others?
As my side-fur danced in the chill wind, I remembered something Falstaff had told me. There is more to this world than can be explained by your Pact. And I had to agree with him, there were certainly things which didn’t make sense.
But the Pact still had some merits.
Families, at least the human variety, needed to be protected. There were too many dangers - both outside and inside - for them to survive independently. And they were worth protecting too. For all their lies and tensions and betrayals and injustices, there was a positive and powerful undercurrent beneath all the surface rituals, which any dog could detect. But what if the only way to save the Family was to break the Pact? What happened then?
There was no Henry. No Falstaff. No answers. I was on my own. I had to think for myself.
A voice, in the distance, broke my train of thought. The climber Simon had pointed out before was now walking with another man, in our direction. Both men were still too small and distant to be smelt or seen clearly, although the wind was carrying their voices ahead of them.
‘I mean that’s the whole point, isn’t it? If you just lie down and let the bastards walk all over you, you’ll get nowhere,’ said the man we had seen before.
‘Yeah, that’s what I reckon. You need to make unpopular decisions every now and again, take affirmative action,’ said the other man.
I had no real idea of what the men were talking about, but their words echoed in my brain. The whole point . . . you’ll get nowhere . . . unpopular decisions . . . affirmative action . . .
They were still far away.
Far enough away.
I looked at the ropes, moving in slight jerks, but remaining tight against the rock.
I had time.
I could still protect the Family.
collar
I tried to remember how Falstaff did it. I pictured him, the first time we met in the park, stretching his fat, scruffy neck in line with his body, twisting his head, reversing.
My collar was tight, a close fit, but I persisted until I felt it sliding over my ears. After much effort, the collar sprang off towards the metal pole I had been tied to, and I took two involuntary steps backwards. The ropes were a short jog away, and twitched nervously as I approached.
More voices now.
Simon and Adam.
I peeked over the edge, and saw the tops of their heads halfway down the rock face. My paws clenched as the wind tugged me forward. Simon kept pushing himself out, away from the rock, and dropping lower. Adam was attempting to do the same but without the confident leg power.
I moved back to where the ropes lifted, ever so slightly, off the ground. The rope twitches now made sense. Relaxed, then tight; rock, then air.
thread
Although it had no real smell, Simon’s rope did have a taste. Sour, synthetic, a tinge of human sickness. Man-made. And soon that taste mingled with something else: blood. The rope was so tight it cut my tongue as I chewed, carefully keeping the rhythm.
Relaxed, tight, relaxed . . .
The rope was tough, but thin.
Fibres snapped in my mouth.
I had him, his life dangling by a thread.
‘Wait, no!’
‘Come here, doggy, come here! Here, boy!’
The two men I had seen before were now running fast towards me.
I heard Adam: ‘What was that? Was someone shouting?’
I heard Simon: ‘Come on, pal, keep your mind on the job.’
So that is what I did, timing my last bite to perfection.
Twang.
The rope whipped out of my mouth and over the side, flicking my mouth-blood into the air.
‘Fuck!’
‘Fuck!’
‘Fuck!’
‘Fairrghhk!’
I stepped forward to see the damage. But he was still there. Sideways, screaming, bobbing up and down - but still there.
There was another rope. Why hadn’t I seen it? Two ropes each. Again I started to chew on the man-made fibres.
‘Help!’ screamed Simon.
‘Somebody help!’ screamed Adam.
‘We’re coming!’ screamed the other two men. And they were, running across the last stretch of rock. I was choking on rope, gagged by blood, tongue burning, fuelled by some unfathomable force within.
It could have gone either way. The two men could have been that little bit faster, that little bit more decisive in their attempt to grab the rope or declamp my jaws.
‘Hold onto the rock!’ shouted one of the men.
I felt several hands on my back.
Twang.
‘I ca-aaaaaghh!’
I rushed forward.
Adam’s hand reached out, helpless.
Simon fell with his back to the ground, arms stretched forward, legs bent up. Like a dog, asking for a tummy-tickle.
And then it was over.
And then he was over.
The ground met him with an indifferent thud. He lay broken, dark blood spilling out from the side of his skull.
We could see what he was made of.
‘No!’ Adam, still roped halfway down the rock face, couldn’t believe what was happening.
‘No!’ Neither could the two men, standing beside me.
Things happened, afterwards. Adam scrambled back to the top. The men explained. Adam looked at me, at my absent collar, trying to make sense. We walked back down. Ambulance men came. Police came. Everyone was confused. The body was taken away. The ropes were taken away, for tests. A Simon-shaped hole was left in the ground. And blood. The blood stayed where it was.
Questions. Answers.
‘The Labrador did it.’
‘He couldn’t have realised what he was doing, could you, boy?’
No. Of course I couldn’t.
‘It was just a game for him, wasn’t it, boy?’
Yes. Of course it was. A game.
When we were eventually able to head back home, I tried to smooth things over with Adam. It was hard.
For the first part of the journey he was beyond communication.
He pulled into the side of the road, his hands clutched his head. He howled. Tears streaked his hairless face.
Cars whooshed by, too fast to notice the crying man and the faithful Labrador parked in the lop-sided vehicle. Two wheels on concrete, two on grass.
I felt terrible, I really did, and for a moment believed I had made a mistake. An ugly, horrible mistake.
But after a while the howling stopped and he was able to wipe away the snot and the tears. The heavy smell of despair began to fade, and he managed to continue the journey home.
He was angry with me, I knew that, and I knew he felt his anger was irrational. I knew also that it was best to avoid his stare at least for the moment, so I kept my head out of the window and watched the grey-green landscape and breathed in its flavour. As the fast air hit my face and forced back my ears I could almost forget what I had done. In my head, I could almost stop him falling. I could almost stop the blood.
Almost.
A sharp turn caused me to choke on the window. I pulled my head back inside and ventured a tentative look towards Adam. Anger and tears had blotched his cheeks, and the eyes were fixed steadfast on the road ahead.
But even though he was angry and upset I knew it would be all right.
I had done my job.
I had breached the Pact, but the main threat had been destroyed.
The Family wouldn’t ever be able to thank me, but I had taken the necessary action.
That, for now, had to be enough.
sex
The evening after, Adam could still hardly talk. He could hardly move, either. He had just lain on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, like a hopeless, whimpering dog.
I lay with him for a while but I’m not sure if he appreciated my company. To be honest, I’m not sure if I appreciated my company, being so worn out after asking myself, over and over and over: did I do the right thing? Well, did I? I still don’t know. I craved the time when Henry had held all the answers, and when everything fitted into some kind of order. But that time had gone.
Simon was a threat to the Family, a threat which, given Charlotte’s vulnerable state of mind, could have also been a threat to her life. Is that what I really believe, that last part? Again, I don’t know.
What I do know is this: I had killed Simon and the reason I had killed Simon was because the Hunters were helpless. Choices had been made which they couldn’t undo, and it was left to me to undo them. With my teeth, as it had turned out.
But, unlike Adam, I wasn’t solely consumed with the past. The day before had been horrific, but it was over. The Family was safe, for the time being. In future, other situations would arise and what then? Although I had been acting on behalf of the Family, I had completely overruled the Pact. What was I going to live by now? Were there any boundaries left to cross? Had I placed the whole breed in jeopardy?
No answers, only questions.
My mind was in such turmoil that I almost didn’t notice Kate enter the room and sit herself down next to us.
‘Everyone’s in bed,’ she told him and then, realising Adam was not going to respond, she asked: ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m not,’ he answered. ‘Not yet. It’s all still a blur. What about you?’
‘I’m getting there,’ she said. ‘But it is going to be worse for you. You were always closer to him. And you actually saw it happen.’ Her voice had changed. It was softer, the love easier to detect.
She stroked me. It was my first stroke since yesterday morning. Since before. Not that she wasn’t shocked, when she found out. She was, or at least appeared to be. But while she may have found it difficult to come to terms with what had occurred, she was not grappling with grief in the same way as Adam. I knew what Kate was like when she was struggling with loss, I had seen it when her father died. I had smelt it too, a dense, unmistakable scent which had stifled the air, like when all the doors had been shut for too long.
This time, however, there was nothing like that. Faint sad smells lingered, but that was because she felt sorry for Adam. She seemed to feel guilty, too. As if she was trying to make amends, as if she had been responsible for Simon’s death. I should rephrase that. As if she knew she had been responsible for Simon’s death. I felt she was aware that I had managed to transform her darkest wish into action.
Because however sorry she must have been feeling, she could not hide from one simple truth. A truth which inevitably brought us closer, as silent allies.
She was glad Simon was no longer here.
And she must have been able, in her own mind, to justify Adam’s grief as a fraction of the damage which could have been caused if Simon had been able to say what he had wanted to say.
To ease the pain, she told Adam that she loved him. She had told him before, many times, but never like that. Previously, it had been said as a sigh, before going to sleep. The more times it had been said the less it meant. Now, however, it had new significance, as if she was telling him for the first time.
She stopped stroking me and started stroking Adam instead, rubbing his shoulder affectionately. He looked at Kate, and then at her hand. He smiled. Well half-smiled, but it was definitely progress.
‘I love you too.’
They hugged, awkwardly. Awkward because I was still lying between them. I took the hint and shuffled off, onto the floor.
‘Everything’s going to be OK,’ she said, as the hug became horizontal. And, to prove she was right, she started to unbutton his shirt. But when she came to the final button, tears welled in Adam’s eyes.
Kate told him: ‘I’ll stop if you want.’
‘No, don’t stop.’
And so she continued, even as the tears slid down his cheeks, until he was completely naked.
Then she stood up, away from the bed and undressed herself, leaving her clothes heaped randomly on the carpet.
‘I’ll put them away in the morning,’ she said, climbing back onto the bed. They hugged again, less awkwardly, although Adam was still crying. They waited, silent, motionless, letting the hug do the work, until the tears stopped.
I stayed with them, in the room, lying on the floor amid Kate’s clothes. Perhaps I should have gone, perhaps the intimacy of the moment was theirs alone. But somehow, this was my moment as well. Although I found no pleasure in the sight of their strange, hairless bodies joined together, I did feel a certain sense of satisfaction, or relief.
It was as if they were starting again, their relationship re-born. And they felt it too, I’m sure of that. As they kissed each other, first on the lips, and then elsewhere - the neck, the shoulders, the back - it was as though they were exploring new and exciting territory.
Kate, especially, was lost in this task and appeared, for the first time, unashamed of her naked body. Indeed, at no time did either of them attempt to lean over and switch off the bedside lamp.
‘Everything’s going to be OK,’ she repeated, between kisses.
She spoke so softly it seemed the words came from the room itself, as an echo, or from some supernatural presence reporting back from the future.
And then, as their bodies became closer still, words faded altogether. For the first time since I had known them they were having sex. Or, as humans often like to call it, making love, although love had already been made.
Sex with the light on, above covers, with their children only metres away, possibly asleep. Possibly not.
Animal sex. Sex without fear, or body-shame. But human in the way they touched, tenderly, with love. The best of both worlds.
Adam lay over her, closed his eyes, opened them again and kissed her, on the mouth, his body moving faster. The kiss ended but his face stayed close, to breathe in her scent. The noises they had so far suppressed started to rise up, released into the night along with all those untold anxieties.
They moved further down the bed and Kate turned over, eyes closed, her body rising up, resting on her knees. Adam held her, his hand across her middle, his kisses now on her neck. When they fell back down, Adam was above her, his stomach on her back, as they crouched on all fours.
And then, just at the moment love-sex smells had replaced everything else, it ended. Both of them panting, still holding onto each other, Adam’s ear rested on her back.
‘I can hear your heart,’ he said, breathless. Kate smiled, it was still too early for her to speak. ‘It’s beating fast, like it’s trying to get out,’ continued Adam.
Eventually she said, ‘No, it’s fine. It’s fine where it is.’
Adam disengaged himself gently and lay back.
Kate lay next to him.
I stayed with them, watching, protecting, as they shifted themselves beneath the covers. As they nestled into each other and as Adam kissed her forehead. A gentle, goodnight kiss.
‘I should take the dog down,’ Adam said.
‘He’s OK. Leave him. You get some sleep.’ She kissed him back and switched off the lamp. And then, as if already in
a dream, she spoke again. ‘He’s fine where he is.’
Adam didn’t respond, he was probably asleep. In fact, moments after, they both were.
After all, there were no more fears to keep them awake.
But sleep didn’t come so easy for myself. I was happy that Adam and Kate were now closer than they had ever been. This was good news for everyone. At the same time, I couldn’t take out of my mind the price of this closeness. Of what it might cost in the future, and whether I would always be around to save the Family from danger. Outside danger.
Yes, that is where danger is.
Always outside.
Always.
The Labrador Pact: Never sniff for pleasure
In our mission to protect our masters, the nose is our most valued weapon. However, it also holds the potential to lead us astray. The rest of the dog kingdom has already succumbed to pleasure-sniffing, but we must never give in to temptation.
Every Labrador must learn to appreciate the true value of our most powerful sense and remember: we sniff to find information, not to lose ourselves.
smell
‘Maaadwaaag! I’m going to kill yooou!’
It was a week later. The day after Simon’s funeral. I was hovering over a large unprickly flower, mid-dump, when I noticed Falstaff hurtling fast across the park, kicking up dirt.
I looked around, but there was nowhere to run. I’d left it too late. To be honest, I hadn’t expected to see him. Ever since Simon’s death, the park had been a Falstaff-free zone.
He slammed into me at full force, his fat old body knocking me sideways, into the flowerbed. I was shocked, not just from the impact but by the fact he was there at all.
‘You did it, didn’t you?’ he panted. ‘You killed my master?’
‘I, um, had to pro-’
‘To protect the Family? Don’t even say it.’
What had I done? I had destroyed his life.
Oh sure, the humans could shrug off what had happened as a freak accident, but there was no fooling Falstaff.