Dog's Life!

by Peter Bently

  “Reckon he likes a game of tug of war, Ced!” said Patchcoat. “Just make sure you don’t pull too hard or—”

  RRIIIIPPP!

  The pillow burst in an explosion of feathers. They filled the room and covered absolutely everything.

  “Atishoo! Bad dog!” I said. “Now I’ll have to clear up before the baron’s soldiers sleep here tonight.”

  As Hercules merrily shook the last of the feathers out of the wrecked pillow, Patchcoat pointed to an old door.

  “Through here,” he said. “After you, Ced!”

  “Really?” I said. “I always thought that was just an empty cupboard.”

  I opened the door, which creaked on its rusty hinges. I held tight to Hercules’s rope as he stuck his head in and sniffed around. To my surprise I saw that it led into another chamber.

  “Ugh!” I said, brushing a cobweb out of my face.

  “Welcome to the oldest part of Castle Bombast!” said Patchcoat.

  I tried to ignore the squeaks and scuttling sounds that greeted us. The vast, gloomy chamber seemed to be full of junk. In the candlelight I could just about make out old tables and chairs with legs missing, empty barrels, threadbare tapestries and rugs, and chests of cracked crockery. Patchcoat spotted a dusty old candlestick and stuck the candle in it.

  “Blimey!” I said, dodging a startled bat. “Some of this stuff looks ancient.”

  “Probably is,” said Patchcoat. “The cellars are all that’s left of the original castle. Sir Percy’s ancestor built it hundreds of years ago. Sir Pancras the Preposterous his name was.”

  “There’s a painting of him in the Great Hall,” I said. “He’s the one dressed as a chicken.”

  We picked our way through the junk.

  “How much further do the chambers go on for?” I wondered.

  “Under the entire castle,” said Patchcoat. “There’s even supposed to be a secret passage down here somewhere. But that’s probably just an old tale.”

  CLANG!

  “Ouch!” I’d just stubbed my toe on something hard. I bent down to rub it and saw a pile of rusty old helmets and mailcoats. “Hey, look!” I exclaimed. “Perfect guard costumes!”

  “Excellent!” said Patchcoat. “And I’ve just spied some old spears and battleaxes. They’re a bit rusty but basically all right.”

  Suddenly Hercules gave a yelp of delight and shot ahead, almost yanking my arm out of its socket in the process. He was heading for something against the far wall. In the dim light it looked like a line of soldiers.

  “Calm down, Hercules,” I laughed. “It’s just a bunch of old jousting dummies, you dummy.”

  The dummies were made of painted canvas stuffed with mouldy old straw. The stuffing was coming out of them where they’d been hit during lancing practice. (Obviously not by Sir Percy. My master couldn’t hit a barn door if it was right in front of his nose.) Hercules merrily sniffed the dummies and widdled on one or two for good measure.

  “They did look real from a distance,” I said. “Especially in the dark…”

  Patchcoat grinned. We stared at each other, then at the dummies, then at the pile of old mailcoats and weapons.

  “Hmm,” I said. “Patchcoat, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “You bet, Ced!”

  “It’ll probably never work,” I said. “But anything’s worth a try. Come on, let’s get this stuff out of the cellar.”

  Our plan was to dress the dummies as soldiers and hope that the baron would believe there were a dozen guards up on the battlements. It would be getting dark when he arrived, so he might just fall for it.

  It took us nearly an hour to haul all the chain mail, helmets, spears and the dummies up on to the castle battlements. As I staggered up the steps under a heap of heavy helmets, one of them slipped off and clattered down to the courtyard below.

  A window opened above us. “Cedric, do keep the noise down, will you?” It was Sir Percy, blinking in the afternoon sunshine. “I was just in the middle of a – um – some, er, very important business.” He rubbed his eyes and stifled a rather obvious yawn.

  Ah yes, I thought. The very important business of having a nap.

  “Sorry, Sir Percy,” I said.

  Then Sir Percy spotted Patchcoat scratching Hercules’s tummy.

  “I say, whose dog is that?”

  “Yours, Sir Percy,” I said. “His name’s Hercules. He’s an Egyptian terrier-retriever-hound. Actually I had to pay for him myself, so do you think—”

  “Ah, splendid, splendid!” my master interrupted. “Looks like a fine specimen. Good work, Cedric. Now I simply must get ready for the baron. Where did you put my razor and aftershave?”

  “On the table in your chamber, Sir Percy,” I said. Something told me I wasn’t going to get my money back any time soon.

  “Excellent. Carry on, Cedric. But quietly, please!”

  He shut the window and we went back to our task. As Patchcoat lugged the last of the dummies from the cellar, I spotted something trailing out of a box of ancient books. To my surprise, it was an old dog lead.

  “Perfect!” I said. “Hold still, Hercules.”

  I undid the stump of rope and tossed it into the junk. While I was putting on the lead I glanced at some of the books. Most were musty manuals with worm-eaten covers and titles like Are You Sitting Comfortably? Garderobes Through the Ages and Pigging Out: Wild Boar Recipes of the Rich and Famous. Then something caught my eye.

  Just the thing! I tucked the book under my arm and headed outside after Patchcoat.

  “Look what I found,” I said. “It might give me a few tips on how to make Hercules more convincing as a guard dog.”

  “Looks a bit dog-eared to me,” Patchcoat said with a grin.

  I groaned. “Look, you start dressing up the dummies. I’ll come and give you a hand in a bit. I’m off to train Hercules.”

  “Righto, Ced. Oh, and what’s the difference between a knight and a warm dog?”

  “No idea,” I said.

  “The knight wears armour. The dog just pants. Cheerio!”

  I tied Hercules to an apple tree in the garden and sat down beside him with the book.

  I flicked through the yellowed parchment pages. There was some interesting stuff about tracker dogs in Chapter Four, but it was Chapter Five that really got my attention.

  “The simple act of chasing a stick,” I read, “is excellent practice for pursuing burglars, peasants and other undesirables.”

  I found a good-sized stick then untied Hercules’s lead and put it in my pocket. He was eagerly sniffing the air.

  I threw the stick across the garden and hollered, “Good boy! After it!”

  Hercules shot off – in completely the wrong direction.

  “Stop!” I called. “Come back, you daft dog!”

  I might as well have been shouting at the tree. I sprinted after him and managed to grab his collar, but stumbled on a fallen apple. Before I knew it, the manic mutt had yanked me off my feet and was towing me across the grass towards… Yikes!

  SPLAT!

  “Urghh!” I yelled, as Hercules charged straight through Grunge the gardener’s compost heap. I let go of his collar and heaved myself out of the stinky, steaming pile. Brushing off the worst of the muck, I spotted the dog in the turnip patch. He was digging furiously with his massive paws, scattering earth all over the place.

  “Stop it!” I cried, ducking as Hercules sent a muddy turnip whizzing past my ear. “Bad dog! Grunge’ll kill me!”

  Hercules suddenly stopped digging and emerged from the hole with an old sheep bone in his jaws.

  “Blimey,” I gasped. “D’you mean you could actually smell that bone from over there?”

  But I didn’t stay impressed for long. The door of the nearby hut opened and Grunge shuffled out carrying a spade. I hastily stepped in front of the hole.

  “Afternoon, Master Cedric,” he croaked. “’Ere, what’s that animal doin’?”

  “Oh, er, n-nothing!�
� I stammered. “It’s Sir Percy’s new guard dog. I’m trying to train it, you see…”

  “Well, train it somewhere else,” Grunge grumbled. “Margaret says we got extra guests for dinner. I needs to dig up another turnip.”

  “Er, I know!” I fibbed. “Look, I’ve saved you the bother!” I picked up a stray turnip and handed it to Grunge. “Here you go.”

  “Righto. Thank ’ee, Master Cedric.” Grunge took the turnip and shuffled off.

  I kicked the earth back into the hole as best I could and reattached Hercules’s lead.

  “Right, you hairy horror,” I said. “I think we’d better continue our training well away from the castle.”

  We made our way across the castle grounds towards Sir Percy’s woods. Plenty of sticks there, I thought. And no turnips or manure heaps.

  Hercules totally ignored the first few sticks. But then I threw another and he gave a WOOF! of delight and sped after it.

  At last he’s got the hang of it, I thought. But when Hercules reached the stick and carried on running, I realized it wasn’t the stick he was chasing at all but a rabbit. I watched in dismay as the bolting bunny scarpered into the trees and Hercules disappeared after it.

  “Stop!” I hollered, starting to run. “Hercules! Here, boy! Come back!”

  Hercules was already out of sight among the trees. I called his name but it was no use. He could be anywhere. As I stopped for breath, I heard a twig cracking. I peered through the trees and bushes. There seemed to be two people up ahead.

  “Hello!” I called hopefully. “Have you seen a dog?”

  There was no reply, and when I went to look the figures had vanished. I thought I must have been mistaken. But then I spotted something shiny on the ground. A coin! When I bent to pick it up I realized there were fresh footprints, too. So I had seen someone. The coin looked foreign, but it was definitely silver and I guessed it must be worth a shilling or two.

  As I slipped it in my pocket, I heard a woman cry out, “Hey! What’s that dog doing?”

  I headed for the voice and came to a clearing. In the centre stood a colourful caravan. A horse was grazing nearby. Beside the caravan stood a man and woman, both wearing headscarves, large earrings and bright, exotic clothes. The woman was holding Hercules firmly by his collar.

  “This your dog, dearie?” she said.

  “Yes! Thank you!” I said. “How on earth did you catch him?”

  “Easy,” she said. “He stopped for a widdle on our cart wheel.”

  “Oh,” I blushed. “Sorry about that.”

  “No harm done,” said the man, who was holding a short plank of wood. “But you ought to keep him under control. Not much good as a poacher’s dog if he won’t obey you.” He winked.

  “Eh?” I said. “But I’m not a poacher.”

  The pair laughed.

  “Very funny,” said the man. “Don’t worry, we won’t let on. We glimpsed your mates in the wood but they hid as soon as we came near. And you look like you’ve been sleeping outdoors for a week.”

  “An’ you smell like it an’ all,” said the woman. “No offence, dearie.”

  “Look, I’m really not a poacher,” I said. “I had, er, a bit of a collision with a compost heap, that’s all. I work for Sir Percy up at the castle. These are his woods. And he’ll certainly be interested to know that there are trespassers about.”

  The man and woman exchanged worried looks.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean you,” I said. “I meant those poachers you spotted. I’m pretty sure I saw them, too. I think they dropped this.”

  I held up the coin.

  “Phew,” said the woman, relieved. “Y’see, some folks don’t like havin’ us gypsies around.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t tell Sir Percy you’re staying here.”

  “Thank you, young master,” the woman said. “I’m Rosie, by the way.”

  “An’ I’m Jed,” said the man. “Is there anythin’ we can do for you in return?”

  Rosie pulled a polished glass sphere out of her pocket. “I can tell you your fortune, if you like, dearie,” she said, peering into the ball. “Hold on… I can see a couple of mysterious strangers headin’ your way…”

  “Er, no thanks,” I said. I remembered that I’d come across Rosie before. She’d been telling fortunes at the May Fair. While Rosie was staring into her ball, Jed took out a length of rope with knots in it and started measuring the plank of wood he was holding.

  “Are you a carpenter?” I asked.

  “Yup,” said Jed. “I’m just mendin’ a hole in the caravan floor. You want somethin’ fixin’?”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Actually, I do need somewhere for Hercules to sleep. Any chance you could knock up a kennel before tonight?”

  “Easy!” said Jed. “Plenty of wood around here, after all! I’ll bring it to the castle later. Who shall I ask for?”

  “Cedric.” I smiled. “Thanks, that would be brilliant. Here, you can have this as payment. It’s probably not enough but it’s all I’ve got.” I handed Jed the silver coin.

  “Thank ’ee, Master Cedric,” he said. “That’ll do nicely.”

  Rosie was still staring into her crystal ball. “Ooh!” she declared. “Well I never! I can see a man flying!”

  “Really?” said Jed. “Who is it?”

  “Dunno. He’s dressed like a knight or summat. Oh! He’s just landed in a river! At least, I think it’s a river…”

  I glanced at the ball. “I can’t see anything,” I said.

  “Ah, that’s coz you ain’t got the gift, dearie,” smiled Rosie. “The crystal ball never lies. But it only speaks to them that ’as the gift.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, trying not to smile. “Anyway, I’d better get back to the castle. Thanks again for catching Hercules.”

  “No worries!” said Jed. “We’ll bring the kennel along later.”

  As soon as I was out of earshot I burst out laughing. The gift, indeed.

  As I approached the castle I saw half a dozen dummy guards up on the battlements. Patchcoat poked his head over the parapet and waved.

  “What d’you think, Ced?” he called. “Just a few more to do.”

  I gave him the thumbs-up. “They look great!” I said. “I’ll come up and give you a hand with the rest.”

  I climbed to the battlements and began to help Patchcoat. To my relief Hercules lay down in the late afternoon sun and dozed off with his head between his paws.

  We had just dressed the final dummy in chain mail and plonked a helmet on its head when the door of the Great Hall opened below. A clean-shaven Sir Percy strode out into the courtyard. He was wearing his best tunic and a hat with a purple plume.

  “Good gracious, Cedric!” he called, spotting the dummies. “Where did you get these men from? You know I can’t afford to hire anyone. Dismiss them at once!”

  “It’s all right, Sir Percy,” Patchcoat laughed. “They’re not real.”

  “Not real?”

  Sir Percy climbed up to us. I got a whiff of his pungent new aftershave as he turned to stroll along the front battlements, inspecting the dummy guards.

  Patchcoat waved his hand in front of his nose and screwed up his face. “Phwoar!” he whispered. “Talk about a pong!”

  Hercules woke with a start and looked around. He started to growl.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” I said. “They’re not actual soldiers. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

  Sir Percy finished his inspection and turned to us. “Well, Cedric, I doubt if they’d fool anyone in daylight,” he said, ignoring the fact that it was daylight now and they’d just totally fooled him. “But I suppose they’re better than nothing.”

  There’s gratitude for you.

  Hercules suddenly sprang to his feet, barking furiously.

  “I say, what an awful racket,” said Sir Percy. “Do make him stop, Cedric.”

  I tried soothing Hercules, but it was no use.

  “So
rry, Sir Percy,” I said, gripping the dog’s lead. “I think he’s a bit spooked by the dummies.”

  “Well, really!” my master said. “Silly animal. Cedric, let him come to me. I’ll calm him down for you.”

  “Are you sure, Sir Percy?” I said doubtfully.

  “Of course, dear boy,” Sir Percy said breezily. “A dog instinctively understands the, er, natural authority of its master. Namely myself. All it requires is a firm hand and a stern tone. Untie his lead.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  “Hold on, Ced,” Patchcoat piped up, as I started to undo the lead. “Are you sure Herc’s bothered by the dummies? I mean, he didn’t bark at them earlier, when you first came back from the woods.”

  “Hmm. Good point,” I said. “You don’t think—?”

  “Cedric! What are you waiting for?” Sir Percy interrupted. He whistled and clapped his hands. “Here, boy!”

  “Er, Sir Percy, I think I’d better hold on—”

  But it was too late. With an extra loud WOOF! Hercules tore himself from my grip and hurtled along the battlements towards Sir Percy.

  “You see how he obeys his master?” beamed Sir Percy. “Now watch and learn, Cedric.” He fixed the pooch with a stern stare, pointed at the ground and ordered, “Sit!”

  But Hercules didn’t sit. He didn’t stop either. He just bared his fangs, snarled and kept on running.

  “Uh-oh,” said Patchcoat. “It’s not the dummies he’s after, Ced. It’s Sir Percy!”

  A few seconds earlier my master had looked rather smug. Now he looked distinctly alarmed.

  “Stop! Sit! Sit, I say!” he quavered. “Cedric! Call him off at once! Aargh!”

  “Hercules! Bad dog!” I cried, but it was no use.

  Sir Percy turned and fled along the battlements, with Hercules snapping at the seat of his best tunic. Patchcoat and I set off in hot pursuit, trying to get close enough to grab the dog’s collar.