George trotted into his study and got onto his chair. He reached a paw across to switch on his laptop. So far so good. But the mouse was not at all helpful. Disconnect that. His long and pointed jaw could achieve that, at the risk of ripping out the wire and its connection. No problem, all done safely without any damage. Now the keyboard…hmmm. It took a lot of trial and error and much discipline on his part but George could eventually switch on, find his way through to his e-mails and send a message to his employers. He thought carefully how he could send an essential message in as few words as possible. This was it: Very sick. Will come in when I can. Potts.
Getting that written took almost an hour. The capitals were the most difficult to pawdle but he was determined to do it and make it look as genuine as possible. Then he switched off and retreated from the study. It was time to go out and greet the day. A bright spring morning was calling unrestrainedly to this new dog on the block. What adventures awaited him outside?
Chapter 4
George appraised the back door. Getting out was no problem, just depress the handle, but once he was in the garden it would not be easy to return – the door could only be opened from the outside by a key. Well – nothing for it but to take his keys outside and bury them somewhere in the hope that, if the door was shut and he wanted to return, he could somehow solve that problem if and when it arose. George lifted the keys from his desk in his mouth, ran up to the back door, pawed the handle down, and sauntered out into the morning.
The back garden was far too ordered and arty-farty for any self-respecting canine. He looked about to see where a dog might bury a bone, or bunch of keys. Near the back gate, where the dustbin resided behind a little fence of its own (ugh!), there was a patch of bare earth where Annabel would never tread, nor think to plant a flower. George got his front paws into it and scratched away until he had dug a reasonable hiding place. He dropped the keys in and then turned to cover it up. As he finished doing this he noticed a movement in the garden next door, or rather, along the top of the fence that separated that garden from Smarmy Stephen’s.
A rush of adrenalin surged through George’s veins. He was now a greyhound, a sight hound – a breeding stock trained over millennia to chase any smaller creature on sight. In a split second he found himself flying down the garden path, leaping over the first fence and straight-way bounding over the next with the cat dead-centre in his radar. He caught it hiding behind Smarmy Stephen’s grotesque fountain. The cat was cornered and rose up on all fours, hairs standing on end, spitting and swearing and doing everything in its power to save its life.
George skidded to a halt. What was he doing? He had no intention on ripping this poor animal apart, despite every doggy instinct within him egging him on.
The cat interpreted this pause as a sign of weakness on his assailant’s behalf. “Yes, back off, you fiend – before I scratch your eyes out!”
George smirked. This was of course sheer bravado on the cat’s part, but he had to respect this feisty feline – staring death in the face but determined to go down fighting.
“Sorry, puss!” George apologised. “Dunno what came over me for a moment but I don’t mean you any harm. Really…I guess I just wanted to play.”
“Don’t you ‘puss’ me, you monster,” came back the cat, spiritedly. “And don’t pretend you want to play games – I can guess the sort of bloodthirsty games you like. You’re not taking me without a fight!”
“No, no, you don’t get it. I know you. I like you. Any enemy of Smarmy Stephen is a friend of mine.”
The cat looked at him suspiciously. “Waddya mean? You know me? I’ve never seen you before in my life…and what’s this about Smarmy Stephen?”
George sat down on his back quarters – hardly a threatening pose – and tried to reassure his furry friend. “Yes, I know you – you’re Mr Tibbs and you belong to the lady over the back. And Smarmy Stephen here hates having you amongst his roses and will gladly strangle you if given a chance. You ran off into my garden last week to escape him. Don’t you remember I stroked and looked after you?”
“That was George. He’s alright, he is. Can’t stand his lady, mind.”
“That was me. I’m George. I’m a greyhound now.”
Mr Tibbs was quite taken by this news. “Oh yeah? Since when?”
“Since I woke up this morning. I was George the man yesterday. I’m Greyhound George today.”
“An’ what you gonna be tomorrow? A friggin’ cart horse?”
“I dunno about tomorrow, and there’s no call for that language. I don’t mean you any harm so there’s no need to get all catty with me!”
“Can’t much do anything else, me. I don’t claim to change from one animal to another like you…but you’re right, I’ve got no cause to act insulting. It’s just that you gave me the fright of my life.”
“Sorry, like I said. I’m still learning about my doggy side. I’ve never had the urge to chase cats before!”
“Well, my reactions are usually pretty quick but this Smarmy Stephen, as you call him, he damn near broke my leg yesterday, hurling a stone at me. So you caught me before I could get away…an’ you’re telling me you were George yesterday?”
“I’m still George today…only different.”
“I can see that.”
“Smarmy Stephen hurt you?”
“Yeah, caught me on the back leg here when I wasn’t looking. The bastard! It only makes me even more determined to shit in his garden!”
“Good for you, Tibbs!” George was struck by an idea. He was goodness knows how many times bigger than his feline partner in crime and if he summoned it up he was sure he could leave Smarmy Stephen a much bigger reminder of his presence than any cat. He looked about for the prime location for his intended present. He asked for Mr Tibbs’ opinion since the cat was a more frequent visitor to this location than he.
“An interesting question, George.” Mr Tibbs had now been won over by his larger companion. “As an artistic feature, slap bang in the middle of the circular lawn there would the ideal spot that many would recommend…but I’m of the opinion that it is not art but sheer, bloody-minded revenge that is of the order of the day. In which case, why not there – just outside the back door where he’s likely to step out unawares right into the middle of it? Yes. That’s definitely the place: X marks the spot!”
Smarmy Stephen had a new doormat outside his backdoor with his own name: S. Maxwell emblazoned upon it. How pretentious! It was just asking for it. George padded over to the back door and poised himself carefully over the mat. He shook his behind as if to encourage his rear end to do its business. He was conscious that his toiletry aim so far today had been spot on and he wanted to maintain a one hundred per cent record.
Mr Tibbs was much impressed. “Go, George!” he called out. “Stand and deliver!”
George had not eaten much recently so it was a bit of a sweat but determination won the day and it wasn’t long before the X spot was covered.
“Bull’s-eye!” called out Mr Tibbs. “Well done, George! Turn round and admire your work.”
George did as he was bid. S. Maxwell was now more like S. MooOwell. For the second time that morning, George was proud of his physical prowess. If this was a dog’s life, he was beginning to enjoy it.
“OK, Tibbs, time to get out of here and leave Smarmy Stephen to it. That’ll teach him not to attack us poor dumb creatures. Look after yourself!”
Mr Tibbs the cat was accustomed to prowling back gardens. He could disappear easily since he was adept at climbing fences, and could thus reach the roof of the next-door garden shed and thence carefully down onto the access road behind or alternatively climb into the neighbour’s apple tree. For a large greyhound, albeit one in prime physical condition and anxious to take on any challenge, escape was not so easy. Metre-high wooden fences were no problem to him, as he had already demonstrated – though he had to be careful he didn’t vault straight into a rose bush on the other side. Painful! But the thr
ee adjoining gardens all had high rear walls with sturdy two-metre-high gates preventing any passer-by from gaining access. In his own garden, George had a gate that had an indoor handle…but it was also bolted – he had done that himself earlier, not anticipating that he would turn into a greyhound. Now, no dog could get in or out.
George bounced over to the next garden in line to inspect any possible exit. No luck: try the next. Yes! At last a way out. The back gate in this property was the stable-door sort, the bottom half bolted shut, the top half slightly open. With a bit of encouragement, the top half could be swung right back and then with a run and a jump George could leap over the bottom gate and thus gain freedom. With an excited bark he was out!
The wide world beckoned. George shouted out goodbye to his tabby friend, sitting now on top of the garden shed, and he galloped down past the garages to where the access road emerged onto the street. He was anxious to explore further afield and exploit his newfound dogginess. It was still early morning and most people he reckoned would still be having breakfast or just setting off to work, so where might he join them?
The revenge he had just exacted upon Stephen Maxwell opened up interesting possibilities. He was now, in all appearances and in the opinion of all dumb humans, just a stray dog on the streets with no possible understanding of the ways of men and women. This was an entirely liberating thought: he could visit mayhem on whomsoever he chose, doing things as a greyhound that he would never have the nerve to do as George the respectable accountant. So – who and where next?
The answer was obvious – St Bartholomew’s!
The college was about a couple of miles away but there was no rush. It would be at least another hour before people were moving about in large numbers so George had plenty of time to wander along, down and through the village and eventually to the fields at the other end that separated them from Durham city. Meanwhile, he was intrigued by the olfactory sensation of just passing by houses and gardens that he’d seen thousands of times before but never knew they conveyed images to his nose that were more colourful than the array of goodies in a confectionary shop window.
He stopped at one remarkably aromatic and diverting gatepost a hundred yards or so downhill from the terrace where he lived. He reckoned two or three brother dogs had visited this spot, though his nose was not so well-trained as yet to put a time upon it – maybe a day or even a week ago? His canine urges now got the better of him and he felt an irresistible impulse to leave his own particular scent in this highly attractive outpost – so he lifted a leg…just as the owner of the house emerged, coming down the front garden path with the resident hound: a big, heavy Alsatian.
The Alsatian erupted in a fit of barking just as George was dousing their exit route with his own distinctive brew. “Gerroff! Get away! This is my territory – I’ll chase you to the ends of the earth and bite yer balls off!”
Alsatians were noisy dogs and George resented such aggression directed at him in a heavy Franco-German accent.
“You great hairy mutt!” he called back. “Who do you think you are barking at? You couldn’t catch me even with a rocket stuck up your backside!” He bounded away a couple of yards, stopped and leered back at the Alsatian with his head on one side, his tongue lolling out the other and his eyes rolling insanely. It was the closest he could think of to blowing a raspberry but he had produced a dreadful, manic, unsettling grimace that came straight out of a rabid dog’s worst nightmare. The Alsatian howled like a foghorn, broke away from his owner and rushed blindly at George as if he wanted to eliminate all memory of him. George cantered away at half speed, looking over his shoulder and laughing all the time. The madder his pursuer got, the more George laughed and the more he bounded out of reach; twenty-five yards of this and then George thought he’d give it full power – he wanted to know what he could manage if he really put his mind to it.
Greyhounds have the fasted acceleration of all animals on the planet, with the exception of cheetahs on the African savannah. They can reach speeds of over 40mph in a couple of seconds and George wondered if he could do it. For a middle-aged man with a paunch and no athletic background such speeds were only possible on four wheels and with a lot of horsepower under the bonnet, and even in his Land Rover he wouldn’t be able to catch himself now. George was away like a bullet. Sheer exhilaration drove him on and the poor, overweight Alsatian came to a despairing halt, watching his persecutor dwindle into a speck in the distance. There was simply no contest.
Tearing along at high speed, George came to a crossroads and had to put the brakes on. He skidded around the house on the corner, claws scratching the pavement and he strained to realign himself to enter the side road without smacking into several parked cars that, despite his rapid deceleration, threatened to bring him to a dead, bone-crunching stop. Phew! He had to be careful he didn’t get carried away with his newfound abilities.
He could hardly say that he didn’t know the layout of the roads around here – but in his doggy excitement, and with a much lower eye-line, George was experiencing an entirely new world. As if to confirm that, the next sensation to assault his senses was the wonderful smell of fried sausages, egg and bacon. Super-sensitive nostrils were telling him that breakfast was cooking up. The utterly bewitching scent came wafting towards him from somewhere over the other side of the street and it drew him in like an angler reeling in a salmon. He hopped and leapt in delight, nose in the air, as he followed the tell-tale aroma towards a little detached bungalow opposite, sitting in a pretty garden with a yellow privet hedge fronting the pavement. A small wooden gate was half-open, inviting him in to this wonderful place.
The smell was strongest emanating from the rear of the bungalow. The garden stretched all around the property, so George gambolled around with it until the lawn opened up at the back. There, at the head of the back garden, through open French windows he could see an older man seated at a table and watching the morning television news. He was obviously waiting for his fried breakfast, the bewitching scent of which was issuing from the kitchen behind him where presumably it was his wife wielding a large and extremely interesting frying pan.
George reckoned that good behaviour was the order of the day if he wanted to gain anything from this encounter. He trotted up quietly and sat down just outside the windows, looking in at the television. The morning news bulletin was showing. The anchorman was giving the latest report on a meeting of European Finance ministers and their views on the future economic prospects of the European Union. George could guess the outcome – disagreement on what policies should be implemented and when the anchorman gave his summing up, George uttered an annoyed “Wuff!” The stupid politicians could always be relied upon to do too little and too late. The politics of the EU were as overly cautious and exasperating as ever.
The man of the house looked quizzically across at his new four-footed companion, quietly sitting close by him and following every word of the television broadcast. He picked up the remote control and changed channels. George gave another annoyed “Wuff” and stared at the older man. He told him, in as clear as animal-speak could convey, that changing channels whilst he was absorbed in what the newsman was saying, was really a bit off. One doesn’t do that sort of thing with one’s guests. The older man got the message. He switched the channel back. George nodded his thanks and gave a friendly grunt.
The news now moved on to consider that evening’s football match – a local derby between Newcastle United and Sunderland. Since half of George’s office would be rooting for one team and the other half for the other, this was a news item of considerable interest to George: raised on the Tyne and a black and white supporter since he had first learned to sing The Blaydon Races as a child. He shuffled forward and peered intently at the TV set. Even the captivating smell of fried sausages could not distract him from the next few minutes of commentary.
“Elizabeth!” called out the man at the table. “Come and see the most remarkable pooch I have ever seen. Look: I swear h
e understands everything that is going-on on the box.”
“Oh don’t exaggerate, Geoffrey. He’s just some dumb stray off the street. I don’t know why you encourage them!”
George was rather put out by this remark. He thought of himself as a distinguished and elegant hound of aristocratic breeding. He looked back disparagingly at the lady of the house and told her just what he thought of that comment.
Geoffrey senior retorted, “There you go, Elizabeth. He knows what you said and thoroughly disagrees. Look at him. The most intelligent hound I have ever met.”
George wuffed kindly at his host. Clearly the man was an educated and discriminating individual.
Elizabeth came closer to look at George. George stayed on his haunches but turned his head to give this woman the benefit of the best and most gracious smile he could summon up.
“Hmmm,” she murmured, “I have to say he is not your average stray. He does have a look about him that I find…different.”
George got to his feet and bowed. This woman may not have been quite as convinced as her husband as to his exceptional qualities but, whatever, she controlled access to the frying pan. A most important person to win over.
Geoffrey looked at his wife. Elizabeth looked back. This dog was certainly no ordinary animal – he really did seem to understand what was going on. The couple laughed.
“Elizabeth – you must go and put another sausage or two in the pan. We cannot let this creature leave us without some sort of reward!”
George gave an excited and most appreciative bark. If asked, he would gladly jump hoops for these two.
And so the next half hour was passed in a most agreeable and stomach-satisfying fashion. George was in need of rest and refreshment after his early-morning dash and this kind couple had shown no hesitation in sharing their breakfast with him. After demolishing the sausages and other leftovers they gave him, George offered to clean the plates that his hosts had served themselves. He licked them spotless. Then he nosed round the garden and picked a spot that was warm and comfortable in the rising sun so that he could lie down and have a sleep. He first thanked his hosts for their impeccable hospitality, and then he left them to go and stretch out and take a quick nap.
Greyhound George Page 4