George stopped immediately and glared at Carol in annoyance. Had she no respect? He pranced outside in a huff. There was nothing for it now but to remove himself from this place and find his way back to his own home. He greatly regretted leaving the bottle of single malt whisky behind and he barked at the girls to ensure that they knew it was his property and that he expected to come back for it someday and find it undisturbed. Well, that was his meaning – whether or not they understood, he could not say.
George said a fond goodbye to Rosie. He said he hoped she understood that their friendship could only be platonic and that he regretted he was too capricious a being to offer her a stable and meaningful relationship. He nonetheless would return to see her sometime, either in canine or human form, and would always value her company. Then with a last bark of cheerio he set off home.
It took him less time trotting as a greyhound to return that it did walking out earlier in the day as an ordinary pedestrian. As he eventually found himself back in his home village, the problem George was now confronted with was that he had had no means of calling his wife in advance; he carried no keys to enter his house and even if he could gain entry somehow it was going to be difficult to persuade his nearest and dearest that he was indeed her spouse and, yes, he did live there.
Such thoughts troubled George’s mind as he turned the last corner before home. What was he to do? Well, the front door was no use. It would be locked, of course, and the doorbell was too high for him to reach. He stopped outside his front room window and tried to peer in. Nothing. Annabel’s net curtains prevented any inquisitive passer-by, man or dog, from seeing anything. Better try round the back. Off George went to the access lane which led to the row of garden gates at the rear of each property. Again, frustration reigned – all the back garden gates were shut tight, even the stable door of the Forsyths, two doors down. What was a greyhound to do?
Then he heard a sound above in the apple tree between his garden and that of Smarmy Stephen. It was a miaow!
“Hello, is that you, George?” Mr Tibbs cautiously called. He wasn’t in the habit of being friendly with dogs.
“Yeah. Am I glad to see you, Tibbs. I’m stuck here and I want to get in to my back garden.”
“Dunno if I can help, pal. All the ways-in I know need decent, retractable claws to climb up. Dogs don’t have ‘em. You’d be better off changing back to a man.”
“Can’t control that, I’m afraid. But can you see if my wife – that’s Annabel – is in the house? Maybe we can call her somehow?”
“Nah! She ain’t in. I saw her leave some time ago. She’s in with Smarmy Stephen now, and when she’s in there she don’t leave. Not for some time, anyway.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yeah. Happens regularly whenever you ain’t around. Didn’t you know?” Mr Tibbs looked down at the puzzled face of the black greyhound. “Sorry if this news to you, an’ all, but I’m always here, prowling around like, and I see it often.”
Of course he would. Mr Tibbs was a regular visitor and spectator along these gardens, as George well knew. He must have the inside story on all the houses along this street, including his own. So…a regular liaison between Smarmy Stephen and Annabel, eh? George wasn’t too surprised. How did he feel about that? He wasn’t too sure…but now he was absolutely determined to get inside the back garden and see if he could see for himself.
“You OK, George? Not too shocked, like?”
“No, I’m OK, thanks, Tibbs. Good of you to ask. But I am getting angry…as if I want to batter the gate down.”
“Don’t try it, mate. Solid wood – you’ll get hurt!”
George had an idea. He had deliberately left his own back gate unbolted – he must have subconsciously known that some such occasion as this might occur – so it would open if someone could depress the door handle on the inside. He wondered if Mr Tibbs could do it – a difficult manoeuvre, but he was a very resourceful cat.
“Tibbs, old chum, I wonder if you could help…” George explained what was necessary.
His tabby friend understood right away what was needed and George sat back and watched appreciatively as his furry accomplice set to work. Tibbs carefully dropped down out of the tree onto the neighbour’s garden shed and from there tiptoed along the back wall then across to his own back gate. Poised directly above the door handle, George watched Tibbs slowly slide his top half down out of sight and then, with a scratching and a scrabbling, the rest of him disappeared from view and…wonder of wonders…the back gate swung silently open. Success! Tibbs must have landed on top of the handle and borne it down under his own weight.
George yapped in excitement and applause. Well done, Mr Tibbs!
George lost no time in entering his garden and saluting his friend. He congratulated himself that he had always kept the gate’s lock and hinges well-oiled, otherwise this would never have worked. So now he was back on familiar soil and could take stock of the situation.
Mr Tibbs looked up at him. “What you gonna do, George? The wife’s out canoodling with Smarmy Stephen so you can’t get in to your house here. Wanna see what the two of them are up to over there?” Tibbs nodded in the direction of two gardens down.
Yes, George did. If they were up to no good then he was jolly well going to make them realise what he thought of it.
“C’mon, Tibbs, let’s go a-visiting!” He leapt over the first fence and then the second until he was standing plumb in the middle of Smarmy Stephen’s back garden. A couple of seconds later Mr Tibbs was with him, as curious as any cat would be, waiting to see what George was going to try.
The back dining room window was the first port of call. It was dark inside but there was no net curtain obstructing the view so George put his front paws up and craned his neck forward to get as close to the glass as he could. There was no movement he could detect in the interior.
“Can’t see a thing here, Tibbs,” George called down. “Are you sure they are both in?”
“Yeah…I think so. I suppose they could have gone out the front, but she don’t usually do that…Here, let me have a look.”
With that, Mr Tibbs ran up George’s back and gingerly perched on his shoulder, peering into the window, his face close beside that of George’s. Unorthodox, but neither of them could see a thing.
“Ow! Watch out!” George complained. “You’ve got sharp claws!”
Tibbs grinned: George could see his leering reflection in the window. “Never thought I’d ever do this to a dog!” Tibbs said. “Here we are, face to face, me sitting on your shoulder like a circus monkey!”
George dropped back down onto all fours. He shook Tibbs off at once.
“Brrr! Don’t ever say that! I’ve had enough of circus jokes.”
“Sorry. Touched a raw nerve?” Mr Tibbs picked himself up as if being tipped off window ledges was nothing unusual for him. It probably wasn’t.
“Well they don’t seem to be downstairs at least,” said George. “I wonder if they are inside, but we just can’t see them.”
“Try to rouse them out of their hiding place, maybe? Kick up a racket?” Mr Tibbs was a practised renegade. He opened up his throat and let out an unearthly wail.
“Good idea, Tibbs. Let me try!”
George set off barking as loud as he could and then the two of them let rip together. It seemed like it was an awful noise from where they were standing in the enclosed space by Smarmy Stephen’s back door but it still gained no reaction.
This was a direct challenge to the two animals’ inventiveness. For Mr Tibbs in particular – who had had a cat’s lifetime experience of annoying the neighbours in the dead of night – there was no holding back: he suddenly lit off around the garden howling like a demon and leaping on and over flowerpots, plants, watering cans, whatever he could find. It was truly inspirational and George just had to chase after him, barking maniacally and knocking into and over anything that was in his way. When the dustbin was bowled over with a tremendous clang! – spreadin
g rubbish all over – that finally gained the desired result. A window opened above and a dishevelled head was thrust out, shouting angrily.
“Get out! Go away! What the hell…?” Smarmy Stephen was unexpectedly faced with a large greyhound that he’d never seen before in the process of wrecking his beloved garden. In amongst the utter chaos of a once-ordered environment he didn’t notice Mr Tibbs, he saw only this half-crazed dog, bending down and getting hold of the spout of a watering can, growling and worrying it like a mad dog with a bone. It was enough to send him into apoplexy. Then a woman’s voice shrilled out behind him.
“It’s that black dog! The one which wrecked the college dining hall! Stevie! It’s here!”
George looked up. He couldn’t see her but it was his wife alright. His wife in Smarmy Stephen’s bedroom! He erupted into a frenzy of barking.
“The dog’s loopy! Completely nuts! And look what it’s done to my garden – it’s got to go!”
The head popped back into the bedroom and the window was shut. Smarmy Stephen was on his way downstairs and George readied himself outside the back door. It took a few moments before George could hear the clattering of feet. There was a momentary pause as the door was unlocked and then it flew open as the occupier charged out, brandishing a broom, expecting to confront the object of his fury somewhere down the garden. He did not expect a black greyhound flying past him, determined to gain entry to the house he was leaving.
George bundled his way past Smarmy Stephen, shot through the kitchen and bounded up the stairs. The internal layout of the rooms was exactly the same as his own house so he lost no time in reaching the bedroom and finding his wife. She to her horror was confronted with a large, angry dog that leapt onto the bed and, just a few feet from her face, gave vent to his feelings again in no uncertain manner.
Annabel shrunk back against the wall, her face draining of all colour. With Greyhound George facing her on the bed in the middle of the room she sidled around, anxious to reach the door and get away from this rabid nightmare. At the same time, Smarmy Stephen was on his way back upstairs, drawn by the noise. George was never going to attack his wife but he was so upset at what he had found, seeing her only half–dressed, standing as he was on the rumpled bed sheets that must have been the scene of his spouse’s infidelity, that he couldn’t hold back from shouting at her and driving her from his sight. Annabel suddenly made a bolt for freedom just as her associate in debauchery came running into the room. Bang! They collided together and both fell over, rolling on the floor.
“Good grief!” hollered George. “Can’t you two stop going at it, even for a second?”
Annabel scrambled on all fours out of the doorway, kneeing her partner in the groin as she clambered over him in her hurry to escape.
“Uuurgh!” Smarmy Stephen curled up in pain.
An appropriate goodbye present, thought George. Annabel had a habit of cleaning up and leaving no stone, so to speak, unturned wherever she visited.
But he wasn’t done with her yet. George leapt over the grovelling carcass of Smarmy Stephen and, still barking crazily, chased his errant wife down the stairs, outside and through the rubbish-strewn garden and then through the back gate into the access road at the rear. Poor Annabel was clutching her clothes, and what decency she could muster, about her person as she scuttled along the back lane and from there, via the gate that Tibbs had opened, she fled into her own territory where she hoped to escape from persecution. But she wasn’t quick enough. George was right behind all the way making horrible snarling noises, gnashing his teeth and trying to catch any trailing item of clothing. His anger had now subsided and what he really wanted was to get Annabel to run for shelter in her own home – thus allowing George to gain access himself. What Annabel would do when she realised she still couldn’t shake off her pursuer he would have to wait and see.
Annabel scrabbled for her keys. Her denim jeans, pulled on in haste, were not completely zipped up and, frantic to get her hands into her pockets, she succeed in grasping her keys but only at the expense of pushing her trousers down just far enough to make her trip over. She found herself by her back door, rolling again on the ground with one hand trapped inside her jeans, the other trying to prop herself up and all the while a mad, noisy dog gambolling about all round her.
She whimpered in fear, frustration and desperation. It was such a plaintive and wretched sound that George almost felt sorry for her. Almost. He backed off to allow her to regain her feet but then he darted up and gave her a nip on the bottom.
“Go on, suffer, you unfaithful woman,” he barked at her. “Don’t think I’m leaving you and letting you get away with this yet!”
With a yelp, Annabel jumped forward, banging her head on the back door but finally withdrawing her keys. She fitted them in the lock, turned and opened up – then tried to get in and close the door behind her. George could see that coming and launched himself at his wife’s rear end again, determined to jet-propel her into the kitchen and stop her from shutting him out. It worked. Annabel squeaked and flew into the house, holding on to an ample buttock to save if from further assault. She scampered straight through into the hallway and then, still screeching in alarm, she ran out of the front door, slamming it behind her. George caught sight of her terrified face rushing down the street outside; presumably back to the house and the arms of her chosen mate and partner in illicit enterprise.
George relaxed. His mission of gaining entry to his home had been accomplished, though it had to be said it wasn’t in the way he had expected. He turned round and trotted out into the garden, being careful to ensure the back door remained open. He had a debt of gratitude to Mr Tibbs that he really had to pay off. He called out over the fences.
“Tibbs! You still there?”
“I should say so!” Tibbs jumped onto the fence to face his friend. “That just has to be the most entertaining episode to have occurred in this terrace in my entire life. And it’s not just me who thinks so. Half the occupants of the houses around here have all been hanging out o’ their windows enjoying the spectacle. George, old chap, why haven’t you changed into dog more often before? This is tremendous! You’re gonna be famous! Just wait ‘til word gets around the low life that hangs out along these alleys and byways of the village. You’ll have lines of admirers all waiting to see what you get up to next…”
George snorted. He thought Mr Tibbs was overdoing it a bit. “Come off it, Tibbs! You’re a more disreputable character than me in these parts and with years more experience at it, too. I’m just bigger. And with a degenerate wife who needed some sorting out…not that she’s seen the error of her ways, it seems. She back in there, d’you know?”
“Yeah. I heard their voices sounding off again just a moment ago.” A thought struck Mr Tibbs. “Do you wanna come back and start all over? Go on!”
George gave a wry smile. “No – I’ve had enough of ‘em. I’m back in my place now, so I’ve got what I want – but you start a caterwauling again if you want to. Let ‘em know what us dumb animals think of their behaviour!”
George thanked his feline partner for all his support and went back indoors. His study was calling him. After an energetic day on the beach and now this climax of frenzied activity on his return home he decided it was time to rest. He could do with a shot of malt whisky to really finish him off but he sprawled out on the carpet below his desk without that pleasure and was anyway fast asleep within minutes.
In his slumbers, time passed and George became lost in dreams. Completely lost. He didn’t know if he was an accountant at home, dreaming he was a dog; or a dog at home dreaming he was an accountant. In his troubled sleep he opened his eyes and thought he saw a trousered leg. Was he perhaps a man, dreaming he was a dog and that dog was dreaming he was a man? Certainly he felt as if he was a figment of someone else’s dreams, if only he could find out who that someone was.
Now whether man or dog, in dreams or not, George had always liked puzzles – logical conundrums that ne
eded a little concentration to figure them out. Suppose he was a greyhound, and had been all along, but had recently taken to dreaming he was a man. Then in his dreams the man-like world would seem very real…except on those occasions when the man of his dreams dreamt he was a dog. Would he then think the world was a very doggy sort of place but not believe it because he was dreaming? Somewhere in all of this, reality had gone missing.
George opened his eyes again, or dreamed he did. Looking about, he recognised his study which seemed reassuringly familiar – except that from his floor-level point of view it did have a sort of surreal quality about it. This was mildly disturbing. He closed his eyes.
Problems of logic did have an appeal to George’s accountant mind. His job, or at least the one he dreamt he had, was all about sorting things out, putting the right figures in the right places and making sure they all added up as they should. But dreaming of the last few days and weeks he found himself being drawn to resort to ever-increasing anarchy – actually shaking things loose from their proper and comforting resting places and seeing what happened. It was an entirely creative process with absolutely unpredictable outcomes. One saw the world completely differently as a result, George realised. People, events, phenomena that previously acted and reacted in known and fairly well-worn trajectories now crashed about unhinged, releasing forces and bringing about consequences that were truly convention-shaking. It was inspiring!
Then George stood up. He stretched his arms and legs, shook his head a little and sat in his favourite study chair. His dogginess had worn off, or so it seemed. The house was quiet; it was early evening but still light in the long summer evenings. He wondered when Annabel would come home. He checked his pockets – there were his keys and his mobile phone, all of which had returned to him as he returned to human form. He really did wonder if he was dreaming: could such appearances and disappearances happen any other way? Atomic physics and research into parallel universes were not his particular forte so he couldn’t answer that question. But he could phone Annabel – she had promised tea when he returned.
Greyhound George Page 10