The dog regarded me silently for a few moments, then had a sniff around me.
‘There’s something funny about you,’ he announced finally.
I gulped at the understatement. ‘You don’t seem like the other dogs I know either,’ I said. And he wasn’t, I could sense it immediately. He was somehow brighter, or un-doglike, or . . . more human.
‘We’re all different. Some are more dopey than others, that’s all. But with you it’s something else. You’re definitely a dog, aren’t you?’
I nearly blurted out my problems to him there and then, but he suddenly lost interest in that line of thought and directed my own on to a much more basic level. ‘You hungry?’ he asked.
Only ravenous, I thought, nodding my head sharply.
‘Come on, then, let’s go and find something.’ He turned away and was off down the road at a brisk pace. I had to scamper to catch up with him.
He was a bony mongrel, about five or six years old, an amalgamation of several breeds. Imagine a Dalmatian without spots, just black all over, and without elegant lines, with turned-in toes, cow-hocked hindquarters, excessive angulation of the back legs (they stuck out backwards too far) and weak pasterns, then you’d have a fair impression of Rumbo. He certainly wasn’t ugly – not to me, anyway – but he wouldn’t have won any prizes, either.
‘Come on, pup!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘We don’t want to be late for breakfast!’
I drew level with him and said breathlessly, ‘Do you think we could stop for just a minute, I need to do something?’
‘What? Oh yes, all right.’ He stopped and I squatted on the ground before him. He turned away in disgust and trotted over to a nearby lamp-post, cocked his leg and relieved himself in a professional manner. ‘You’ll avoid accidents if you do it this way,’ he called over, as I tried to shift a leg that was being threatened by a spreading puddle.
I smiled back feebly, grateful that the streets were fairly empty and no human could see me in this undignified pose. It was the first time I’d felt self-conscious about that sort of thing, a sign of the dog versus human instinct conflict that was going on inside me.
Rumbo came over and sniffed mine and I went over to the lamp-post and sniffed his. When we were both satisfied, we went on our way.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked him, but he ignored me, his step becoming faster, excitement tightening his movements. Then I caught the first whiff of food, and my attention was captured.
The roads were busier now, yet the noise and the bustle didn’t seem to bother Rumbo at all. I stuck as close to him as possible, my shoulder occasionally bumping against his thigh. The roads still frightened me; the buses seemed like mobile blocks of flats and the cars like charging elephants. My supersensitive vision didn’t help matters much, the blinding colours heightening my fears, but nothing seemed to bother Rumbo. He skilfully avoided pedestrians and used crossings to negotiate the dangerous roads, always waiting for a human to cross first, then trailing behind him, with me trying to become an extension of his body.
We reached a thunderous place where, even though it was still early morning, there were masses of people, hustling, bustling, hurrying – worrying. The noise was deafening, with men shouting, lorries hooting and hand-pulled barrows grinding along the concrete. Rich scents filled the air – the tang of many different fruits, the more earthy smell of vegetables, raw potatoes. If it hadn’t been for the apparent chaos, I would have believed I’d found Heaven.
We were in a market, not a street-market, but a covered wholesale market, where restaurateurs, fruiterers, street-traders – anyone who sold fruit, veg or flowers – came to buy their stock; where growers and farmers brought their goods; where lorries arrived from the docks laden with food bought from exotic countries, and trucks departed, full to bursting point, bound for different parts of the country, or back to the docks where their contents would be loaded on to ships; where voices were surly as barter took place, as credit was extended – even as debts were paid.
A burly man, red-faced, bull-necked, wearing a dirty once-white smock, lumbered past us, pulling a barrow piled high with precariously balanced boxes, all packed with greenish-yellow bananas. He sang at the top of his voice, stopping only to swear amiably at a passing workmate, unaware that a hand of bananas was about to topple from the top of his load. As it did so I started forward, but Rumbo barked sharply.
‘Don’t you dare,’ he warned me. ‘They’d skin you alive in this place if they caught you stealing.’
Someone shouted and the man stopped his barrow, looking back round the stacked boxes to see the stray bananas. He cheerfully walked back to them and threw them high on to his load. He spotted us as he returned to the barrow’s handles and stopped to give Rumbo a hearty pat on his back. I think the pat would have broken my spine. My new friend wagged his tail and tried to lick the man’s hand.
‘Hello, boy. Brought a friend with you today, ’ave you?’ the market porter said, reaching out for me. I backed away; my young body was too tender for such rough treatment. The man chuckled and turned back to his barrow, resuming his tuneless tune.
I was puzzled by Rumbo’s attitude: why had we come here if we couldn’t sample the food?
‘Come on,’ he said, as if in answer, and we were off again, dodging round salesmen, porters and buyers, threading our way through the disorder, Rumbo receiving a welcome or a friendly pat now and again. Occasionally we would be shooed on, and once we had to avoid a malicious boot aimed at us, but generally my older companion seemed to be well known and an accepted part of the scene. Rumbo must have been working at it for quite a long time, for animals – apart from rat-catching cats – aren’t generally tolerated around food-markets, particularly strays.
A new overpowering smell reached my sensitive nostrils, easily defeating the tang of mixed fruit and vegetables, and much more enticing to my grumbling tummy: the smell of frying meat. I saw where Rumbo had been heading and raced ahead, leaping up at the high counter of the mobile snackbar. It was much too high for me, and I could do no more than rest my front paws against it and look up expectantly. I couldn’t see anything because of the overhanging counter, but the smell of frying wafted down over me.
Rumbo appeared quite angry when he arrived, and said through clenched teeth, ‘Get down, squirt. You’ll spoil everything.’
I obeyed reluctantly, not wanting to upset my new-found friend. Rumbo paced himself back so that he would be visible to the man behind the high counter and yipped a couple of times. A skinny old head peeked over the edge of the counter and broke into a yellow-toothed smile.
‘’Allo, Rumbo. ’Ow yer doin’ today? ’Ungry belly, eh? Let’s see what we can find yer.’ The head disappeared from my view so I rushed to join Rumbo, excitement at the prospect of food elating me.
‘Keep still, pup. Don’t make a nuisance of yourself or we’ll get nothing,’ he scolded.
I did my best to remain calm, but when the man behind the counter turned to face us, a juicy-looking sausage held between two fingers, it was too much for me. I jumped up and down in anticipation.
‘What’s this, then, brought a mate along? This ain’t meals-on-wheels yer know, Rumbo, I can’t start feedin’ all yer mates.’ The man shook his head disapprovingly at Rumbo, but nevertheless dropped the sausage between us. I made a grab for it, but my companion was quicker, snarling and gobbling at the same time – not an easy thing to do. He gulped the last morsel into his throat, smacked his thin lips with his tongue and growled. ‘Don’t take liberties, shrimp. You’ll get your turn, just be patient.’ He looked up at the man who was laughing at the pair of us. ‘What about something for the pup?’ Rumbo asked.
‘I suppose yer want something for the pup now, do yer?’ the man asked. His tired old eyes crinkled and his large hooked nose became even more hooked as his grin spread wide across his thin face. He was an interesting colour actually: yellow with deep mahogany etchings patterning his features, greasy but still somehow dry ski
nned, the oiliness being only on the surface. ‘All right then, let’s ’ave a look.’ He turned away again and as he was about to find me something a voice called out, ‘Cuppa tea, Bert.’
One of the porters leaned his elbows against the counter and yawned. He looked down at us and clicked his tongue in greeting. ‘You wanna’ watch this, Bert, you’ll ’ave the inspectors after you if you ’ave too many of these ’anging about.’
Bert was filling a cup with deep brown tea from the most enormous metal teapot I’d ever seen.
‘Yerse,’ he agreed. ‘It’s usually the big one on ’is own. Brought a mate today, though, probably one of ’is nippers, looks like ’im, dunnit?’
‘Nah,’ the porter shook his head. ‘The big one’s a proper mongrel. The little one’s a crossbreed. Got a good bit of Labrador in ’im and . . . let’s see . . . a bit of terrier. Nice little thing.’
I wagged my tail for the compliment and looked eagerly up at Bert.
‘All right, all right, I know what you want. ’Ere’s yer sausage. Eat it and then scarper, you’ll ’ave me licence.’
He threw the sausage down at me and I managed to catch it in mid-air; it burnt my tongue, though, and I had to drop it hastily. Rumbo was on it immediately. He bit it in half and swallowed. I pounced on the other half, but Rumbo stood back, allowing me to gulp it down. My eyes watered from the heat of it and I could feel its warmth working its way down my throat.
‘Sorry, squirt, but you’re here only because I brought you. You’ve got to learn respect.’ Rumbo looked up at the snackbar man, barked his thanks and trotted away from the stall.
I glanced at the two chuckling men, said my thanks, and chased after him.
‘Where we going now, Rumbo?’ I shouted.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he reprimanded, waiting so I could catch up. ‘The trick is not to be conspicuous in a place like this. That’s why they don’t mind me coming in, because I behave myself, keep out of their way and . . .’ he looked meaningfully at me, seeing I was about to run after a rolling orange which had fallen from one of the display stands ‘. . . and I never take anything unless it’s offered to me.’
I ignored the orange.
We left the market, accepting half a black soggy banana each on our way, and skipped along into the less cluttered streets.
‘Where are we going now?’ I inquired again.
‘We’re going to steal some food now,’ he answered.
‘But you just said back . . .’
‘We were guests there.’
‘Oh.’
We found a butcher’s on a busy main road. Rumbo stopped me and peeked round the open doorway. ‘We’ve got to be careful here, I did this place last week,’ he whispered.
‘Er, look, Rumbo, I don’t think . . .’
He hushed me up. ‘I want you to go in there over to the far corner – don’t let him see you till you get there.’
‘Look, I’m . . .’
‘When you’re there, make sure he does see you, then you know what to do.’
‘What?’
‘You know.’
‘I don’t know. What do you mean?’
Rumbo groaned aloud. ‘Save me from stupid mutts,’ he said. ‘Your business, you do your business.’
‘I can’t. I can’t go in there and do that.’
‘You can. You’re going to.’
‘But I’m not in the mood.’ The thought of the danger had put me in the mood, though.
‘You’ll manage,’ Rumbo said smugly. He sneaked a look back inside the shop. ‘Quick, now’s the time! He’s cutting meat on his slab. Get in there, quick!’
He bustled me in, using his powerful jaws to nip my neck as encouragement. Now, I’m sure you’ve never seen two dogs act this way outside a butcher’s shop before, but there aren’t many dogs like Rumbo and me around, just the odd few. You’ve seen dogs mugging kids for their ice-creams and sweets, though, and I’m sure you’ve caught your own dog stealing at some time or other. What you haven’t seen – or perhaps noticed – is organized canine crime. Most dogs are too stupid for it, but I can assure you it does exist.
I entered the shop and slunk along under the counter where the chopping butcher couldn’t see me, looking back pleadingly at my forceful partner. There was no reprieve in his dark brown eyes. Reaching the end of the counter, I cautiously looked up, the sounds of that falling chopper making my body judder with every blow. I made a dash for the corner and squatted, squeezing my bowels to make something happen. We were lucky it was still early morning and there were no customers to complicate things. After a few strained grunts, I began to have some success. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to draw attention to myself and could have squatted there in peace for quite a long while had not Rumbo lost patience and begun yapping at me.
The butcher stayed his small meat chopper in mid-air and looked over to the doorway.
‘Oh, it’s you again, is it? Wait till I get hold of you,’ he threatened.
He hastily placed his chopper on the counter and started making his way round towards Rumbo. That’s when he saw me.
Our eyes met, his wide and disbelieving, mine wide and knowing only too well what was going to happen next.
‘Oiii!’ he cried, and his journey round the counter took on a new pace. I half rose, but running was a problem at that particular moment. Instead, I did a sort of undignified shuffling waddle towards the open doorway. Rumbo was already up at the counter, sorting out the nicest cut for himself while the butcher’s whole attention was focused on me. The red-faced butcher had picked up a broom in the course of his journey, one of those heavy jobs used for scrubbing floors as well as sweeping. He waved it in the air before him like a knight’s lance, its base aimed at my backside. There was no avoiding it and my awkward predicament didn’t help matters.
Thank God the broom had a multitude of bristles, strong and hard but not as strong and hard as the handle would have been. I yelped as they cracked down on my rump, the butcher extending his arm so I was sent scuttling across the floor. I skidded and rolled but was up like a rabbit, running for the open doorway, Rumbo close on my heels, at least a pound and a half of raw steak hanging from his jaws.
‘Oiiii!’ was all I heard from the butcher as I flew down the street, my partner-in-crime keeping pace and chuckling at his own cleverness.
Men and women hastily stepped to one side when they saw us coming and one man foolishly tried to snatch the dangling meat from Rumbo’s mouth. Rumbo was too wily for that and easily avoided the grasping hand, leaving the man sprawled on hands and knees behind him. We ran on, Rumbo keeping a measured pace beside me and much amused by my panic. Finally he called out through his clenched mouth, ‘This way, squirt, into the park!’
The urge to go my own way, to get away from this thief, was great, but my appetite was greater; besides, I’d earned my share of the booty. I followed him through rusted iron gates into what seemed to me to be acres and acres of lush greenery surrounded by giant foliage, but what must actually have been a fairly small city park. Rumbo disappeared into a clump of bushes and I chased after him, flopping into a panting, eyes-rolling heap on the soft soil two feet away from the spot where he’d decided to go to earth. He looked at me in a smirky way as I heaved in great lungfuls of air, nodding his head at some inner satisfaction. ‘You did all right, pup,’ he said. ‘With a little bit of guidance you could amount to something. You’re not like the other stupid dogs.’
I didn’t need to be told that, but his praise pleased me all the same. Nevertheless, I growled at him. ‘I could have been hurt there. I can’t run as fast as you.’
‘A dog can always outrun a man. He’d never have caught you.’
‘He did, though,’ I retorted, wriggling my rump to make sure nothing had been seriously damaged.
Rumbo grinned. ‘You’ll learn to take more than that in this life, pup. Men are funny creatures.’ He turned his attention to the meat lying between his front paws, nudging it with his nose t
hen licking the juices on it. ‘Come on, come and get your share.’
I rose to my feet and gave my body a shake. ‘I’ve got some unfinished business first,’ I said huffily, and slunk off further into the bushes. When I returned only a few moments later, Rumbo was well into the raw steak, chomping and sucking in a disgusting manner. I hurried forward lest he swallowed the lot and launched myself into the meat in an equally disgusting manner. It was a fine meal, the finest I’d had since being a dog. Perhaps the excitement of the chase, the tension of the robbery, had increased my appetite, for even Bella’s sausages hadn’t tasted as good.
We lay among the bushes smacking our lips with satisfaction, our mouths still full of the steak’s juicy blood flavours. After a while, I turned to my new companion and asked him if he often stole food in that way.
‘Steal? What’s steal? A dog has to eat to live, so you take food where you find it. You can’t rely on what man gives you – you’d starve if you did – so you’re on the lookout all the time, ready to grab anything that comes your way.’
‘Yes, but we actually went into that butcher’s and stole that meat,’ I insisted.
‘There’s no such thing as steal for us. We’re only animals, you know.’ He looked at me meaningfully.
I shrugged my shoulders, unwilling or too content for the moment to pursue the matter further. But all the same I wondered just how aware Rumbo was.
He suddenly jumped to his feet. ‘Come on, pup, let’s play!’ he shouted, and was gone, streaking through the bushes out on to the open grassland. A burst of energy swept through me as though a switch had been turned on somewhere inside, and I dashed after the older dog, yapping joyfully, tail erect, eyes gleaming. We chased, we rolled, we wrestled, Rumbo teasing me mercilessly, showing off his skills of speed, manoeuvrability and strength, submitting to my wilder onslaughts and tossing me aside with the slightest shrug just when I began to feel his equal. I loved it.
The grass was wonderful to wallow in, to rub our backs against, to breathe in its heady fumes. I’d have been happy to have stayed there all day, but after ten minutes or so a surly park-keeper came and chased us away. We mocked him at first, taunting him by coming within easy reach then dodging just as he took a swipe at us. Rumbo was the more daring, actually leaping up and giving the man a gentle push in the back when his attention was on me. The park-keeper’s angry curses made us roar with laughter, but Rumbo soon tired of the game and was off through the gates without a word, leaving me to chase after him.
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