Soldier Dog

by Sam Angus

  Stanley stared at the thick cream card, blinking fiercely. Tom wasn’t coming home. He was all right, but he wasn’t coming. Stanley breathed slowly in and out; he must be brave or Da would lash out.

  When Stanley looked up, he saw that Rocket had slipped in too when he’d come in. She sat at Da’s feet, and he was glaring at her sturdy belly, her dull coat. Rocket’s nose was tilted upward towards Da. Though Da no longer fed her, though he’d turned from her, still she followed his every movement, still he was the sun around which her earth moved.

  ‘Come the time, the tinkers’ dogs’ll go where they belong. Aye, the tinkers’ll take ’em.’ Da had risen and was standing by the opened door, his face to the night, Rocket at his side, immediate as a shadow, tail quivering. ‘No one else’ll have them, not with the Dog Tax set to rise again – from seven shillings and six to ten shillings it’s due to rise, and who’ll be paying that for bastard half-breeds?’

  Da clamped the door shut behind him, grazing Rocket’s nose. He always used to walk her at this time before putting her in the kennel for the night. Now he’d ignore her and wander out alone. Stanley looked at Rocket, hovering, nose to the crack of the door, keeping vigil for her master’s return, and he blinked back the tears that rose. He knelt by Rocket, holding her, but his eyes strayed to the photograph on the mantel – Tom in his uniform, earning his own wage, free and far from here.

  ‘Lucky Tom,’ he whispered to Rocket, smiling sadly and tousling her ears. ‘If it weren’t for you –’ he laid his head against her long neck – ‘if it weren’t for you and your puppies, I’d go away too . . .’

  10 July 1917

  Lancashire

  The days were still long and lovely, but after dark there was no escape from Da. He’d grown stiller and somehow more combustible. As Stanley did his homework at the table, Da sat with his back to his son, that hunched form radiating scorn.

  Stanley finished his equations. He twirled his pencil, thinking. There’d been eight knots in the twine yesterday, the increases bigger now and Rocket restless, her eyes strange and dilated. Today she’d refused her food.

  Later, Stanley lay on his bed. There was a good haul of moths around the ceiling light above him. July was a rich month for moths and it was a good, warm night. There were two heart-and-darts up there, plus a mottled rustic and a brown house moth. Lacanobia thalassina. He tongued its Latin name as he watched the house moth. He had a good head for Latin names, liked they way they sounded.

  Stanley sighed and rolled over to face the magazine cuttings on his wall of Egyptian tomb carvings of greyhounds. The dogs were described in stone with a clarity and precision and economy that Stanley loved. Rocket was like that, as noble and ancient and perfect as the Egyptian tomb carvings. She’d once been, he thought guiltily, the perfect specimen, the perfect greyhound, descended in a pure line through three thousand years of history from the dogs of Pharaohs.

  To the right was a postcard Tom had sent earlier in the year, of an ambulance dog. It was a rough-haired collie dog with white-tipped tail feathers and smart saddlebags with a large cross on them. She stood in profile to the camera. Tom always found special things to send. Without taking it down, Stanley could picture the neat hand squidged in right to the edges, below ‘ON ACTIVE SERVICE’, the military Field Post Office number and the one-shilling stamp. Looking at the collie, he mouthed the words he knew by heart:

  ‘I will always be thankful that you were too young to fight.’ Did Tom not think that Da could be dangerous too? A knot tightened in Stanley’s belly. Too young to go to war but not too young to be left alone with Da.

  There was a rap on the door. Stanley started and sat bolt upright, heart racing. Da never came into his room.

  ‘She’ll be about ready now.’ The words were mumbled. ‘The log shed’ll happen be warm and dry.’

  Stanley catapulted himself out of bed and flew down the stairs, then turned and ran up again. Da was excited about the puppies, he would love them. He, like Stanley, must have been watching and waiting. From under the bed Stanley grabbed a small tin box, and as an afterthought, the jersey strewn across his chair. He hurled himself down the stairs, then turned and ran up again to snatch the towel hanging under the washbasin. Cotton, iodine, towel – did he have everything? He lost his footing on the narrow treads, saving himself with a clutch at the banister, stubbing a bare toe on the iron boot-pull.

  He hobbled round to the shed and edged the door ajar. A lozenge of moonlight slipped through and rested on Rocket who lay panting on a straw litter.

  Stanley squatted on his heels, his bare feet on the stone floor, the lantern above him casting a warm glow. No light shone from the Hall or the cottage. Only the log shed was warm and light and alive. An occasional shiver rippled along Rocket’s flank. Shreds of mist curled in, hugging the stone and dissolving in the cosy fug of the shed. Da had prepared this moonlit bed for Rocket. He’d known the right time, known where she’d want to be; Stanley, for all his book, thermometer and twine, hadn’t.

  Tremors shuddered through Rocket, one after another in quick succession. Violent quaking overtook her. Her hindquarters convulsed. There was something there beneath the rigid tail, sheathed in a white cocoon – the crown of a tiny head. ‘Anterior presentation’, the library book had called it, the right way for a puppy to come out. Rocket’s body juddered again – it was out, its eyes and ears sealed shut, all perfect rosy paws and folded limbs. Rocket put herself to a vigorous, workmanlike licking. The tiny thing yelped and yelped again and it was breathing on its own. Rocket chewed its cord and nuzzled the pink-nosed, pink-bodied pup towards her. It squirmed closer on its belly and then it was suckling.

  Rocket tensed again, her body in spasm, legs rigid. One more cocoon emerged – it was all happening so quickly. Rocket was licking and chewing and there it was, wriggling, sightless, towards a teat. Two minutes passed, then Rocket convulsed again and there was one more. Three healthy pups. Were any still to come? Rocket’s tapering head, more slender even than her neck, rose and she looked at Stanley, bright and intent, her open jaws now tensing, now panting.

  Still with wonder, chin cupped in his hands, Stanley gazed at the little nativity. Rocket’s body made a wreath around her brood. The puppies, all bitches, jostled in this perfect crib, their mewings and cawings, a tiny choir.

  Stanley longed for Da to come. He’d love them, he’d love their gypsy coats, their splodges of colour like spilt paint, couldn’t not.

  A sudden movement from Rocket jolted him. Her legs were in spasm. Something was wrong – she needed help – there must be a puppy stuck in the birth canal. It could be fatal if she’d been straining too long – twenty minutes at least had passed since the last pup. Beneath her tail Stanley glimpsed a white sac and his heart stopped: he could see one tiny outstretched paw – one foot first was dangerous. Rocket’s eyes were still intent on his and they were too brilliant, brilliant with fear. Should he run for Da? Would she be all right while he was away? He heard footsteps. Da had come. Somehow Da had known Rocket needed him.

  Even in her distress, Rocket uncoiled herself in welcome, her jaws half open in a valiant smile.

  ‘Tinkers’ dogs. Thieving dogs, that’s what they are.’

  Rocket’s eyes never left Da, but the pistol whip of his tone made her smile grow hesitant.

  ‘Quick, Da, something’s wrong.’

  Da grunted. He made no move for a second, then grunted again and knelt. He leaned forward and with one finger inched the tiny limb back in. Da waited. Minutes passed. Rocket shivered, then as she contracted, Da pulled the towel from his son’s knees, ready for her. This time there were two tiny paws, two tiny folded limbs, and between the tips of two fingers Da held them and began to pull with a hold so sure that he seemed not to be pulling at all. The drawing out of the puppy was imperceptible; the movement of Da’s arms in an arc across the belly, towards Rocket’s head, imperceptible.

  There it was: a sightless, soundless bundle. Da laid it between Rock
et’s forepaws. Watching his father, a tentative smile formed on Stanley’s lips. Da rose. His fists clenched and he turned his head away from Rocket’s shining head. He shifted and stood hunched under the lintel, eclipsing the light, throwing Rocket into darkness.

  ‘It’ll never live . . .’

  The puppy was there between Rocket’s forelegs, but it lay still and silent and she’d made no move towards it. Stanley must do something. With a pounding heart he gathered it up and held it cupped in the palm of one hand. He rubbed it with a corner of the towel until the downy coat was clean. It was greyish white from nose to tail, the only puppy to have no markings, and Rocket’s only son.

  Stanley heard a sort of snort from the shadows behind him and hesitated, stalled by the force of Da’s scorn. Rocket lifted her snout, brows arched, dark eyes bright and questioning. The plain white pup lying in the palm of Stanley’s hand was too still. Rocket nosed the palm that held it. He must do what Rocket trusted him to and save this puppy. He lowered it to his lap and with hurried, panicky fingers, pulled some cotton from his tin box and tied a knot around the cord. Feeling Rocket’s eyes follow his every movement, he cut the cord on the far side of the knot and placed the pup beside Rocket. The others mewed and cawed and sucked, but the weak pup was still motionless, inert. Amidst the strident mews and bleats, that tiny body was silent, lifeless.

  Rocket nuzzled the puppy to separate him from the sibling scramble, to stir him to life. She licked and nosed him but after a little while, her head sank, disheartened.

  A few seconds passed.

  Again Rocket raised her head and nosed the weak one. Stanley’s breath stopped as she opened her jaws and picked him up. Hampered by the freight of bodies tugging at her, she clawed her way to Stanley and placed the pup on his lap. Stanley hesitated. Rocket nudged the lifeless bundle closer, eyes intent on the boy’s face.

  Rocket was asking for help. Stanley’s fingers began to move before his head knew what to do. He’d already lifted it to his ear. It wasn’t breathing – there was no heartbeat. He must move fast – the book said blocked airways could cause this, that you had to act quickly. There was no time to be squeamish. Stanley raised the tiny pink nose to his face, joined his own mouth to the minute nostrils and sucked. Nothing. He sucked again. That was it. Such a tiny amount you could hardly tell. He spat, then held the little body to his ear. Still nothing. He must get it breathing. With the pads of his thumbs, he rubbed it all over, rubbed again, then held the pink nose to his own mouth to suck again and as he did, it squirmed and cried.

  Stanley held out Rocket’s son in the cradle of his palm. Her tail rose and fell with soft slapping as she sniffed and licked and sniffed and licked. She looked up at Stanley and her jaws opened and the warmth in her eyes felt like sunlight to the boy.

  ‘It’ll never be any good. It’ll never live unless you’ll be giving it a bottle.’ Da kicked the door open. ‘All of ’em. Manky Gypsy dogs, all of ’em.’ His voice boomed. Stanley shivered in the rush of damp air, his toes and fists clenching. ‘No one’ll take ’em. Only the tinkers’ll have your manky half-breeds.’

  He tramped away. Rocket’s head followed her master’s steps, her tail faltering, then falling and lying still. The footsteps stopped. Da’s voice blasted out as though to rattle and shiver the stars above. ‘If the Gypsies won’t have ’em tha’ll drown ’em.’

  24 July 1917

  Lancashire

  Stanley collected the child’s bottle from the draining board and, casting an apprehensive look towards the door, filled it with Lactol. There’d been no more talk of drowning but he lived in fear of Da’s threats. He fetched the white pup from the kennel. The extra vitamins were doing him good; the pup would survive, whatever Da said. Every day all of them were heavier, their eyes open now, their bodies still soft and helpless and sleepy. Stanley settled down at the table.

  The front door banged open. Stanley started, lifted the pup to his chest. Da saw it and scowled. One of his lightning rages was about to strike. Stanley’s arm tightened involuntarily around the puppy.

  ‘I should’ve drowned ’em. They’ll only end up shot. The police are out there collecting every mangy half-breed dog from every street in every city in the land, and do you know what they do? They shoot ’em. Bang.’

  Da’s rage had collapsed as quickly as it had erupted but weeks had gone by and he hadn’t spoken a word. His absences from the house had grown longer, and his silence somehow more malevolent.

  The white pup was tugging at Rocket’s blanket, trying to wrest it out of her basket, his unsteady legs skating and slipping on the worn slabs. That little tail would be long and feathery like a Laxton dog’s. Stanley grinned, remembering the dog on Rocky Brow. It was a good thing Da didn’t know the sire was a cross-bred dog. Stanley knelt. The pup abandoned the blanket, bounded forward and hurled himself at Stanley. Stanley put his nose to the pup’s and they kissed like Eskimos.

  ‘It’s your last day on Lactol.’ Stanley ran his fingers along the pup’s belly, down his haunches. ‘Five weeks old. Too big for Lactol. Almost time to wean you.’

  ‘Soldier,’ Stanley whispered. ‘Soldier.’ He’d named all of them now. Bentley was to be Tom’s dog. She had a rough white coat, speckled with flecks of tan and a tan saddle. Tom had always loved Lord Chorley’s ivory automobile, the one with the tan leather trimmings. Tom would be so chuffed when he saw her. Biscuit and Socks were both tricoloured, with black upper coats and white socks. Biscuit had a tan eyepatch. Only Soldier had a coat the colour of porridge, and eyes as dark and soft as sable. Soldier would be Stanley’s own dog.

  ‘Soldier,’ he whispered again. ‘Soldier, you’re named for my brother Tom . . . He should have been home by now . . .’

  Da appeared, sudden and glowering, lurching at Soldier, swinging him up by the scruff of his neck, his tiny legs rigid and jumbled together. Da marched to the door and tossed Soldier out on to the cobbles. Stanley gasped, but in an instant, Soldier was up, bewildered, skittering lopsided towards the kennels, tail tucked down, anxious eyes and head curved to the door. Da tramped across the room and up the stairs.

  Stricken, Stanley went to the pup. ‘He doesn’t mean it . . . Da’s only trying to hurt me.’ Filled with flinty anger, Stanley grew defiant. ‘But I’ll go, run away, go and find Tom.’ Stanley’s words took root. Yes, he thought, kneeling and stroking the pup. Yes, I’ll go away from here, then how will Da feel?

  Soldier licked Stanley’s cheeks and that tiny, solicitous tongue, troubled eyes and milky breath put an end to all thoughts of leaving home.

  Sunday, 21 August 1917

  Lancashire

  Outside all was grey midsummer mizzle, but Trumpet’s box was golden and warm. Stanley was filling some hessian sacks he’d taken from the potato shed with straw to make the puppies’ bedding plusher. Trumpet was harrumphing and tossing his head, displeased at so much commotion in his box.

  Stanley watched entranced as Soldier skittered about, raising dust that glittered like confetti. Soldier feinted a crouch, sprang away, then crouched again, inviting Stanley to play. Rocket unravelled herself, legs stacked just so, a reclining empress surveying her mischievous troops with amused tolerance. Stanley stuffed a final handful of straw into the last sack. Tom said he slept on a palliasse, that the Army gave one to each man, and Soldier, too, would have a palliasse. Stanley pulled the string tight and knotted it, watching as a pup jumped up at Trumpet’s feathered forelegs.

  ‘Six weeks old today and you’ll have rabbit for lunch. Your first rabbit meat.’

  Stanley stood and turned to Trumpet and blew into his large nostrils. Trumpet held his great head still. He liked it when Stanley did that. Stanley turned and unlatched the door of the box to fetch some water. His step faltered as he found himself face to face with Da.

  ‘Put the ’orse in the harness.’

  Da’s voice was a guillotine. Soldier grew tremulous, and cowered. Wary, watching Da, Stanley fetched the harness. Why wasn’t Da in his Sun
day bezzies? Weren’t they going to church? Eyes still on his da, Stanley fitted the harness.

  ‘It’s to Birdy Brow and the tinkers we’ll be going the day with your half-breeds.’

  Stanley clenched his fists, flint flashing in his eyes.

  ‘N-no, no!’

  ‘You’ll do as I’m telling you, you daft clod. An’ stop your gabbing and sputtering. The tinkers’ll take ’em and they can take them for nought if there’s not a word said. I’ll have no Gypsy dogs in our house.’

  Motionless with rage, frustration and fear, Stanley’s unformed words dried in his throat.

  ‘One hundred hounds shot last week. Hounds with thoroughbred in their veins. A fifty per cent reduction – aye, fifty per cent – in the numbers of hunting dogs, is what’s ordered. Breaking men’s hearts as have tended and fed those pure-bred packs – built them up over generations and – bang! – horse meat for France. An’ you’re thinking to keep mangy, good-for-nothing half-breeds, when thoroughbreds are being shot?’

  Stanley looked at the pups, saw in a sickening rush how small they were, only two handspans high. Too, too early to take them from their mother. Da stepped forward and raised his arm.

  ‘I’ll clout you . . .’

  Stanley turned away, his heart pounding, flashes of anger breaking over him in waves of molten lava.

  He had no choice. If the pups went to the Gypsies, they would, at least, be safe, they wouldn’t be drowned. He’d lose Soldier, but this would be the last time he’d obey Da. Ever. If Soldier was given away, if they were all given away, then Stanley would leave home.

  Pulling his cap over his eyes, Stanley backed Trumpet up to the trap, and spread some matting down. He lifted a pup and placed it in the trap. Rocket circled, nose raised. Avoiding Rocket’s eyes, Stanley gathered Socks and Biscuit, so small he could hold them both with one arm. Only Soldier still to find – there he was, beneath Rocket, tugging at her, struggling to keep up as she paced to and fro, her searching head straining up at the trap.