Nobody's Poodle

by Nikki Attree

  I might have stayed longer in El Blowo but disaster struck. I was parted from my amiga Katy. We’d just finished off someone’s discarded pizza, and were wandering down towards the beach. Katy went ahead for a pee behind a rock, and just as she finished a van drew up beside her, and two men dressed in official looking uniforms got out. I didn’t like the look of these guys so I woofed at Katy to run, but she was paralysed with fear and just stood there shaking. The men trapped Katy in a net and bundled her into the van. It was the feckin dog catchers!

  I ran towards the van as fast as I could, but it was too late. They were already speeding off into the distance. Eventually I stopped running when I couldn’t see the van anymore, and lay down on the pavement panting heavily. My little amiga had been taken away, and I was alone again. Waves of sadness swept through me. I missed her already. I hadn’t realized how much I’d got used to waking up next to her, and having a soul-mate to share my thoughts with.

  I decided to leave El Blowo. I really liked the town, and we’d had some good times there, but now there were too many sad feelings drifting around the place. So I said my adios to Stitch and the three hundred Yorkies that lived in El Blowo, and wandered off towards the hills. I’d heard that there were lots of dogs living up there in big houses, surrounded by fields, called ‘fincas’. Maybe someone on a finca could give me a home. After all, they should have plenty of space for me, and the grass would surely be greener up there.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fighting for Life

  I set off up the hill out of El Blowo heading for the mountains, clear air, and new adventures. Perhaps there was a new home for me up there. Maybe up among the trees that I could see way in the distance. Hopefully I’d find someone to look after me. Maybe there’d even be fields and mud and stuff. So I trudged on, onwards and upwards, until I came to a dusty farm track leading off towards some fincas.

  When we come to cross-roads like this in our lives, we have to take a decision: do I take this path into the unknown, or stay on the well-trodden highway? OK, what the hell, I decided to chance my luck with whatever was down the track. Actually, being a dog, the decision wasn’t so existentially tricky as the track smelt the better option: intriguingly rural, with some kind of exotic animal dung, and a faint aroma of food lurking in the distance.

  I’d got a fair way into the countryside when I saw this small human coming towards me. He seemed friendly, and he had a piece of cake in his hand, but for some reason my canine instincts told me not to trust him, and I started to back away. He kept talking to me softly, and then he opened his rucksack and brought out a salami. That did it. I hadn’t eaten in three days and the smell of the salami was overwhelming. I sidled up to him and grabbed the salami from his hand. He let me munch it for a while, and then he slipped a rope around my neck. To be honest, I was so relieved to be eating at last, that I wasn’t too bothered.

  When I’d finished eating, he led me down the track to a run-down old farmhouse surrounded by several beaten-up outhouses. There were rusting old trucks with cactuses growing in them, and a smell of decay everywhere, but hey it had to be better than sleeping on the street. I thought: “this ain’t too bad. Maybe I’ve fallen on my paws this time, and I’ll be living with a family again”. But the bad-vibe doggie instincts kept creeping back into my mind, despite my dogged determination to ignore them.

  As we came closer to the farmhouse, I could hear barking coming from one of the outhouses. “Wooftastic, I won’t be an only dog here. But hang on … those woofers don’t sound very happy to meet me.” Nope, it definitely wasn’t full-of-joy, excited-that-someone-new-has-arrived woofing. They should have been telling me: “this is our home, and we’re in charge here. We guard the place for the boss, but hey we haven’t got a bone to pick with you. Let’s have a look at you, and if we like what we see we may even give you a friendly lick.” Nope, this woofing was nothing like that at all. It was a woof of desperation, of dogs who haven’t been let out to play. It was a we’re-bored-out-of-our-minds woofing. These dogs were prisoners!

  There was a shout from inside: “Miguel, where the hell have you been? have you found another mutt for us?”

  Panic hit me. Time to get out of here. I pulled on the rope around my neck and tried to slip out of it, but it was too tight and the little boy (Miguel) had a firm grip. He dragged me through the back door of the house and into the kitchen.

  There were four men seated around the table drinking and talking loudly. These guys were a bit how-can-I-put-this: ‘ruff and ready’. They all had tattoos and the sort of stubbly hair that humans grow when they want to look ‘well ‘ard’. Their clothes had seen better days - like some time the previous century, and the air was a heady mix of garlic, tobacco, alcohol and sweat. Actually their whiff was the only thing that I liked about them.

  At the head of the table was an extra mean-looking small hombre (yet again the villain is the little guy. It’s always the same: Hitler, Stalin, The Poisoned Dwarf … all vertically challenged. OK, I made up the last little chap, but you get the picture). He seemed to be the boss of this motley crew. As we came through the door he jumped up, glared at us menacingly, and shouted angrily at Miguel: “what the fuck are you doing with this dog? He’s no use to us. Look at him! How many times have I told you - we need ugly, fierce dogs. What are we going to do with this pathetic runt? He’s some kind of fucking Poodle!”.

  I was thinking: “hey, now hang on señor Fur-for-Brains, “pathetic runt” is one thing, but I’m nobody’s feckin Poodle! (as I’ve already explained, I’m a Doodle). As you guys have noticed, I’m definitely not ugly, and I’m not particularly fierce (although by now I was starting to feel ready for some serious snarling). I obviously don’t fit the job description, and I don’t recall answering any ad that said: “Wanted: Ugly Fierce Dogs for Exciting New Opportunity”. So now we’ve got that straight, maybe your son can untie me and I’ll leave your house with the greatest of pleasure.”

  Unfortunately Miguel choose that moment to put his spoke in: “papa I really like this one. He looks so sweet. Can’t I just keep him in my room?”.

  The other guys around the table fell about laughing at this. Miguel’s father (the mean-looking stunted hombre) scratched his stubble for a moment, then said to his son: “OK, come to think of it, it might be good to have a pretty dog in the ring for a change. Maybe that would bring the punters back”.

  This seemed to upset Miguel, and he pleaded with his father: “no Papa, please, not this dog! He won’t last two minutes in the ring. I’m really sorry I brought him back. It’s my fault, I won’t do it again. I can take him back to where I found him, and just let him go.”

  “Sounds like a very sensible suggestion” I thought, “cos this ring place doesn’t sound too friendly to me”.

  Miguel started to undo the rope, and I was just about to make my escape, but his father grabbed me by the scruff off my neck and dragged me out to the sheds where all the woofing was coming from. Miguel was crying and pleading with his father to let me go, but all he got in return was a vicious slap around the head. This hombre sure was one mean bastard, and from then on I decided to call him: ‘El Bastardo’.

  He opened the door of the shed and shoved me inside. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, the sight that met me was horrific. Rows and rows of cages full of dogs, all chained up. So these mutts were chained up, locked in cages, inside a dark stinking shed … just as I’d thought: these poor pooches were prisoners. My fur froze with fear, and I did something I hadn’t done since I was a pup, I wet myself. This didn’t go down too well with El Bastardo. He aimed a kick at my head and threw me into one of the cages. There was just one other dog in there - an ancient Pit-bull. He was covered in scars, and looked like he’d been in plenty of scrapes and seen better days.

  Now, obviously a Pit-bull wouldn’t have been my first choice of kennel-mate, and to put it mildly I was shitting myself (again something I tried not to do since my puppy days). I got ready for the inevitable su
bmissive roll-over, but as I looked into this old warrior’s eyes, I realized that there was no need to worry. There was no fight left in the old boy. His expression was one of hopeless despair, rather than aggression. I didn’t need to woof with him to know that he just wanted to be left alone.

  I curled up in the far corner of the cage and hid my head, which was still throbbing from El Bastardo’s kick. The din of desperate woofing had calmed down when this nasty little man slammed the shed door shut. There was just the sound of whimpering, snuffling and snoring as most of the dogs fitfully slept.

  Some time later I was woken up by a sort of doggie hissing sound, and to my amazement discovered that the mutt in the cage across from me was none other than my old mucka from the aeroplane: Rambo! (You remember him: the Rottweiler with the ‘fur of flying’ and a closet pink-frilly-outfit wearer). He might not have topped my list of acquaintances to share this hell-hole with, but having listened to his confession on the flight, I knew that he was a fellow traveller. I felt like shit, but at least there was now an audience for my rather individual ‘humour’.

  “Hey amigo, fancy meeting you here. It’s a small world eh? There again, I know you like to hang out in all the trendiest spots”.

  Rambo woofed back: “yeah, right Gizmo, very funny … Not!”.

  I asked him what on earth he was doing here?

  “Well, my owner was short of cash, so he decided to sell me for fighting and he brought me up here. I’ve been locked up in here for ages. I haven’t had a fight yet, but I’m shitting myself just thinking about it. I may look tough, but you know me Gizmo, I’m really just a big pussy-cat.”

  “Umm, yes, not really … not too many cats can slobber quite like you mate, but I know what you mean” I thought.

  “I only pretended to be fierce to please my owner. It’s all bark and no bite with me. Last night El Bastardo tried to get me to attack this other dog, but all I could manage was a bit of barking and spitting. He beat me with his belt, but I still couldn’t do the fighting, so I just lay on the ground until he stopped”

  I wasn’t liking what I was hearing, but Rambo carried on woofing and it got worse …

  “Our cages only get cleaned once a week. Just look at the filthy mess we’re in. The only excercise we’re allowed is the fight training. He starves us, and keeps us chained up, then he puts us in the ring with a rabbit or a cat, and expects us to pull it to pieces. The chains are suppose to build up our muscles so we fight better, but all it’s doing for me is making me weak.”

  “Feckin ‘ell, I’m in deep doodies here” I thought. “Now I understand the stuff about me not being ugly or fierce, and why that kid wanted to keep me out of the ring”. Rambo wasn’t finished yet though, he’d saved the worst for last:

  “I just want it to be over Gizmo. The best way is to let yourself be killed in a fight, cos unless you’re bloody good at it, fighting back will only prolong your stay in this hell-hole. Anyway, even the champion dogs don’t get treated much better.”

  I got the message now: “Woof-Bloody-Tastic, so we’re between a rock and a very hard place here. Give in and get torn to pieces, or fight back and you live to fight again - if you can call it a life.”

  Rambo was in full flow, slobbering and snarling now: “it’s not a life! Every day’s the same - pain, pain and more pain. It’s not even a dog’s life, we barely exist! That poor mutt in your cage fought back, and just look at the state he’s in.”

  Bruno, the Pit-bull, lifted his head wearily, turned to look at us and said: “listen to Rambo - he’s right. A pooch like you Gizmo, you haven’t got a hope in hell amigo. In the beginning I thought that my owners would come and rescue me, but now I know they’re not coming. I don’t think they even know where I am.”

  I asked Bruno how he’d ended up in El Bastardo’s shed. “I was stolen from my back garden when my owners were out shopping. Just ‘cos I’m a Pit-bull, El Bastardo thought I’d be good in the ring. So he came up to the back gate and threw me some meat. Then before I knew what was going on, him and his mates put a sack over my head and I was chucked in the back of their van. For a while I did what they wanted and fought back in the ring. I thought it would buy some time for my owner to find me. But now I know I’m on my own. I’ve been bitten half to death in that ring. I’m exhausted. I’ve given up now. It’s all over for me.”

  So, as the politicians like to say: we were all in the deep doodies together. No way out. A wave of deep depression washed over me and like Bruno, I just felt done in.

  “I’m going to sleep now Gizmo. It’s the only pleasure I’ve got left. Maybe I can dream about my old life, when humans loved me. My family used to take me for long walks. They gave me hugs and I even slept in the same bedroom as them. We were hardly ever apart.”

  He sighed: “happy memories - that’s all I’ve got left now. That’s all any of us have in this hell-hole. Buenas noches mi amigo.” He flopped back into his corner of the cage and we both fell into a fitful sleep.

  I was woken up a few hours later as the door of our cage was opened. Bruno was being lifted out. El Bastardo shouted to his partner in crime: “get your arse in here, we’ve got a dead one to chuck out, and he’s fuckin ‘eavy.”

  I licked Bruno’s nose before he was hauled out. At least his pain was over now. He was out of this hell and away to a better place where all dogs run free. His story was so sad. If his owners hadn’t gone out that day he’d still be with his family, enjoying a life that every woofer deserves. You know - where the humans actually take care of us and love us, instead of hating us.

  “Rest in peace my furry amigo. I’ll be seeing you soon. I won’t survive long here either.”

  El Bastardo turned his attention to me. “Well now my pretty Poodly one, you can have the cage all to yourself now. Enjoy it while you can. Your turn for fun-and-games soon!”

  The days passed in a haze of loneliness, hunger, and pain. I didn’t talk to Rambo anymore. My fur was caked with dirt and I started to smell pretty bad. Normally smelly is no problemo for us dogs, but this was way beyond acceptable. After all, they wouldn’t let me out of the cage to do my business and they only cleaned it once a week.

  Miguel gave me scraps of food occasionally, when El Bastardo was out looking for more dogs to kidnap. He always cried when he saw me. I felt sorry for the kid. It wasn’t really his fault that I was in here. He’d wanted me as an amigo, to care for and play with. Poor kid didn’t have much joy in his life either, with a bully like El Bastardo for a father.

  We didn’t see much of his mother. She used to wander around aimlessly with her head bowed, never saying anything. Sometimes she’d have a black eye or bruises on her face. I was pretty sure she was also on the receiving end of El Bastardo’s fist.

  I really don’t understand you humans sometimes. I mean, how can you do stuff like that to your own family? Humans often call other humans ‘animals’ when they’re talking about their bad behaviour. They say things like: “that so-and-so is a real animal - he broke his wife’s nose just cos she burnt his dinner”. But you know, us actual animals would never be cruel to our pups or partner. In the animal world, we’re always very protective of them.

  One day both doors of our prison were opened and I saw daylight for the first time in ages. El Bastardo and his cronies put ropes round our necks and led us outside. I could barely walk I was so weak. The weeks in that cage had drained my strength and my will to live. A large van drove into the yard, and we were stuffed in the back. We drove along bumpy tracks for ages, and eventually arrived at a bar somewhere up in the hills. It was cold and dark. I could hear a lot of drunken men shouting, and the sound of dogs fighting. The humans shoved us into more cages, and left us alone.

  “So this is it” I thought. The end had come. It was all over. It’s funny how your life flashes past at times like this. I thought about the good times … when I arrived as a pup at my new home; the walks, chasing cats, the tasty treats, playing ball on the beach, and sharing time with Ka
ty on the street. I really hoped that she’d found a good home. “It hasn’t been such a bad life, eh?” I thought, but I could have done with it going on a bit longer.

  My thoughts were cut short as rough hands grabbed me and threw me into the ring. There was a lot of laughter at my entrance, and the audience were calling bets on how long I’d last before I was torn to shreds.

  “What odds do I get on a minute? Reckon he’ll last that long?” someone shouted.

  I was praying that it wouldn’t take that long as I waited, frozen with fear, for my ‘opponent’. Finally the dog that was going to end my life was led into the ring. Yep it was one mean brute of a Rottweiler, all snarls and slobber. I looked up at my executioner, and I couldn’t believe my eyes … it was Rambo! We gazed at each other dumbstruck.

  “Mate I can’t fight you”, he whispered.

  “Rambo, you have to. You’ve got no choice. Either you fight me, or they’ll just kill both of us anyway. Look, don’t worry, I’m ready to die.”

  “No no, mate, I just can’t do it - you’re an amigo, and anyway you know I’m not a fighter.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see El Bastardo starting to move towards us.

  “Come on Rambo. Just go for it. El Bastardo is getting angry. Get it over quickly for my sake, please.’”

  “OK” said Rambo.

  I closed my eyes waiting for the first bite, and the searing pain, but all I could feel was a lick on my face.

  “Rambo, mate, this isn’t going to work. You’ve just got to attack me.”

  “Gizmo, I don’t care. He can beat me to death, but I’m standing my ground. I’m not going to do it. Not all Rottweilers are killing machines”.

  “Wow, he’s one brave pooch!” I thought.

  There was a lot of disappointed shouting from the punters. This was not what they’d come to see. El Bastardo strode into the ring, undid his belt, and started beating Rambo. I couldn’t look, and curled up in a ball.