Doglands

by Tim Willocks

  In short he had everything that any pet dog could wish for. Yet bit by bit Furgul realized that if you want a share of the treats from the Grown-Ups’ table, your soul has to pay the price. And day by day he felt as if his spirit was dying inside him.

  In his first few days in the Household—after he’d recovered from the sleepy drugs the Vet had given him—Furgul had found that he had a lot to learn. He found himself living in a world of rules. Rules that either didn’t make much sense or, even worse, were completely unfair. These rules were as follows.

  Don’t do this and don’t do that.

  Don’t go here and don’t go there.

  If you have an impulse, restrain it.

  If you want something, you can’t have it.

  Keep quiet.

  Don’t disturb the Grown-Ups when they’re staring at the noise-screen.

  Don’t lick your sack in front of the mistress.

  And even if Grown-Ups do something, it doesn’t mean that you can.

  As Kinnear put it: “If you have the natural urge to do something fun—anything fun at all—then it’s a safe bet that you’ve broken another rule, even if no one has told you what it is.”

  First of all came the rules of peeing. Furgul learned—after much yelling, shock and horror from the Grown-Ups—that he couldn’t pee on tables or chairs, on Harriet’s bike, on the piano, or on Gerry’s leg. Indeed, he couldn’t pee anywhere inside the house at all. The Grown-Ups could, but they had special peeing rooms, called bathrooms, which the dogs weren’t allowed to use. He couldn’t even pee on the grass in the garden, or on the gardens of any of the neighbors, even though it was clear to Furgul that plenty of other dogs were doing it when Harriet wasn’t looking.

  Kinnear, who was an expert on every aspect of life in the Household, explained that the Grown-Ups—that is, Gerry (who was often called “You Idiot”) and Harriet (who was often called “Yes, Darling”)—were “responsible” dog owners. So Furgul and Kinnear had to be “responsible” dogs. They could pee on lampposts, parking meters, car tires and fire hydrants, and sometimes, if they were lucky, even on trees, but not on grass because their pee was “acidic” and would kill it. Since there was so little grass around—pathetic little squares of it called lawns—Furgul could understand why it had to be protected, so he learned to hold his pee in for hours and hours.

  Taking a dump was even more complicated.

  Taking a dump in a wardrobe, which Furgul tried just once—when he was desperate, and because it seemed like the least offensive spot—caused more uproar and panic when it was discovered than anything he’d ever seen, even in the Household. Kinnear pointed out that Grown-Ups didn’t like the smell of dog poop, which Furgul thought was strange because he liked to sniff it. Yet even though they hated the smell, the Grown-Ups carried plastic bags and picked up the poop outside whenever Furgul or Kinnear got the chance to dump some. Furgul had never seen anything like it in his life. If the Grown-Ups couldn’t find a plastic bag, they looked all around as if terrified that someone had seen them with the pooping dogs. Then they scurried away from the poop as fast as they could. Grown-Ups were weird.

  Furgul decided there was no point trying to figure them out.

  During this time, Furgul had to come to terms with a great humiliation.

  Gerry and Harriet started saying the word “Rupert.”

  To Furgul it seemed like they said it all the time, at least when he was around. They said it, they murmured it, they muttered it, they shouted it, and most of all they repeated it. At first he had no idea what they were talking about.

  They yelled “Rupert!” a lot when he peed on the piano and when he took that dump in the wardrobe, so he thought it was all about peeing and dumping.

  Then there was the time he jumped onto a chair in the kitchen and found two enormous raw steaks on the counter. Strangely, the room was lit with candles and filled with flowers, while next door Gerry and Harriet laughed and drank fizzy liquid from a bottle that went “POP!” Furgul had wolfed down one steak—very tasty it was too—and was halfway through the second when the yelling started, louder than ever.

  “RUPERT! RUPERT! RUPERT!”

  They wagged their fingers and got red in the face. Harriet burst into tears and ranted at poor Gerry for the rest of the night. Furgul was sorry for upsetting them. But those steaks were the most delicious food he’d ever tasted.

  Gradually Furgul realized that they both said “Rupert” every time they spoke to him, even when he hadn’t done anything wrong. Even when they petted him.

  “Rupert and Kinnear,” they’d say. Or “Kinnear and Rupert.”

  Finally, Kinnear—who had watched these disasters with amusement—explained it to him. “Don’t you get it?” he said. “Rupert is your new name. Your pet name.”

  “Rupert?” said Furgul, horrified. “That’s even worse than Kinnear. Or Tic and Tac. It sounds like a bear’s name. A bear who wears checkered pants.”

  “They can call you whatever they want,” said Kinnear. “They own you.”

  “I don’t want to be owned. And I don’t want to be called Rupert.”

  “Well, you better get used to it—Rupert.” Kinnear chuckled.

  Furgul showed Kinnear his teeth. “I can’t stop the Grown-Ups’ calling me that,” he snarled, “but if you ever call me Rupert again, I’ll bite your ears off.”

  “Okay, Furgul,” cringed Kinnear. “Righty-ho!”

  Then there was walking.

  You would think that walking was the easiest thing in the world. But no. Walking was a whole new dimension of yelling and rules. First of all Furgul had to wear a collar all the time, which he hated. Then, whenever the dogs went outside, a leash was attached to the collar, so that Furgul had to walk in step alongside a Grown-Up. Whenever he stopped to examine an interesting, unusual or delightful smell—like another dog’s pee—the Grown-Ups would tut and mutter and pull him away.

  Kinnear’s golden rule was correct: “If something is fun, it’s wrong.”

  Grown-Ups walked very slowly, though not quite as slowly as Kinnear. Whenever Furgul pulled on the leash to walk a little faster, the Grown-Ups would pull him back until he was choking, while shouting another word he grew to hate.

  “Heel!” they’d yell. “Heel! Heel! Heel!”

  Kinnear explained that the “heel” was the back of a Grown-Up’s shoe and that this was where a good dog learned to walk. A Grown-Up’s shoe was the most boring place in the world—especially as they wouldn’t let you chew on them—but for some reason, if Furgul shuffled along at their heels, it made them happy.

  Other dogs—stranger dogs, also trudging along at the heels of their masters—were another problem.

  What could be more natural, when two dogs met, than to have a good old sniff of each other’s butts, get to know who was who, have a little chat and maybe even have a playful scrap to see who was the boss? But no, this broke numerous rules because the masters got all flustered and afraid, and they quickly pulled the dogs away from each other and hurried on. The masters with dogs didn’t even talk to each other much, except to mutter, “Sorry.” Furgul heard them say it so often, it was one of the new words he learned the fastest.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” they said. “Ever so sorry.”

  The walks always took them past rows and rows of houses, just like the Household. They reminded Furgul of the rows of greyhound crates at Dedbone’s Hole. Often they went to a “park,” which was an area of grass and trees many times bigger than a lawn. In the park the Grown-Ups took Kinnear off his leash, and Kinnear would waddle around and sniff and snuffle in the undergrowth. But for a long time they kept Furgul on his leash. He was dying to get off the leash and run and feel his untamed blood pump in his heart. But the Grown-Ups wouldn’t let him.

  This wasn’t fair, of course, but as Kinnear explained, “The Grown-Ups don’t trust you yet. You’ve got to prove that you’re a good dog, just like me.”

  “Does that mean they think I’m a b
ad dog?” asked Furgul.

  “Well, you are a bit too wild,” said Kinnear.

  “But I am wild,” said Furgul. “And I like it. Being wild is great.”

  “You’ve got to stop thinking like that,” said Kinnear. “You’ve got to start thinking correctly. Pets aren’t wild. That’s the whole point of being a pet. You have to toe the line and play it by the book. You have to fit in and stick to the routine. You have to keep your tail down and mind your pees and poos. In short, you have to know your place and not rock the boat. Otherwise, well—who knows? They might not feed us! And then where would we be?”

  “So I’ve got to stop being wild in return for a bowl of little brown pellets?”

  “There you go!” said Kinnear. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “What you’re saying is that we’ve got to live with our tails between our legs.”

  “Well, of course,” said Kinnear, wiggling the pathetic docked stump that was all he had left of his tail. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  So Furgul tried not to be wild. He obeyed the masters. He plodded along at heel, even though his legs ached to run. He peed where he was supposed to. He avoided making friends with strange dogs. For weeks and weeks and months and months he gritted his teeth and did everything he could to be a good, responsible dog and to think correctly. If he wanted some exercise, he carried his leash to Gerry in his mouth. If he wasn’t in his basket, he was nibbling little brown pellets from his bowl. He lived as though he were afraid—even though he wasn’t—of the world, of other dogs, of going out alone, of getting lost, of numberless invisible dangers that he couldn’t even name. He learned to live the way the Grown-Ups wanted him to live, which was the way they lived themselves. One winter night he was locked outside by mistake and stood whining at the kitchen door, tired, hungry and cold, until Harriet let him back inside. And Furgul realized that, despite himself, their fear had seeped into his bones. The fear of losing the comfort and the safety that was his reward for betraying his own true nature.

  Then one day in the park Gerry bent down and took Furgul off the leash.

  For a moment Furgul couldn’t believe it. A great joy surged through his heart. His muscles felt like they would burst into roaring flames. His head went dizzy with excitement. His tail flapped so hard he felt like he might fly. He took a big breath and coiled back on his hind legs.

  “Steady on! Steady on!” warned Kinnear. “Just follow me and do what I do.”

  With the biggest effort of self-control that Furgul had ever made, he uncoiled his legs and lowered his tail and panted with the strain of standing still. Then he pottered around after the bulldog. He found some good smells in the bushes. He ate some tasty grass. He even dared to take a few small bounds, and had a very satisfying dump—in private, behind a shrub, where the Grown-Ups couldn’t put it in a bag. It was better than being on the leash, true, but he still felt like he had chains on his ankles. His legs were five times longer than Kinnear’s, and soon, without even knowing it, he had left the bulldog behind. He pushed his snout through the bushes and looked across the park. Suddenly his heart started pounding in his chest like thunder.

  In the distance he spotted a little white poodley dog. It was prancing around with his master and yapping in a little yappy voice. Something exploded in Furgul’s brain, and he took off out of the bushes at astounding speed. The wild joy of running pumped through his blood. His jaws gaped wide as he filled his lungs with air. He didn’t know what he would do when he got there, but he wanted to hunt the little yapping poodley to the ends of the earth. He didn’t want to hurt the little poodley, not for a second. He just wanted to see how fast the little feller could run.

  Far behind he heard Gerry and Harriet screaming in terror.

  “RUUU-PERRRT!!!”

  But Furgul just couldn’t stop. He knew he should. He just couldn’t.

  As he got closer the poodley’s master snatched the little dog off the ground and held him tight in his arms and trembled with fright. The master’s face went almost as white as the poodley’s snowy fur. Furgul was puzzled. What was the problem? What was there to be frightened of? Why were all the Grown-Ups losing it? Furgul wasn’t.

  Just before he reached the poodley, he saw in the distance—another dog. A big, fierce dog—a German shepherd female, with a coat as black as the sky on a moonless night. She’d seen Furgul. And unlike everyone else in the park, she wasn’t scared.

  Great! thought Furgul. I bet she’s up for a scrap.

  He swerved toward the shepherd, circling around the poodley’s master, who fell over flat on his back with a cry of fear. The distant shrieks of “RUUU-PERRRT!!!” grew hysterical. But to Furgul’s delight—as a dark shiver of excitement ran down his spine—the German shepherd broke away from her mistress and charged across the park toward him like a bolt of black lightning.

  Faster and faster she came.

  Closer and closer.

  Furgul had never seen such a magnificent dog. Except maybe Keeva. But Keeva was his mother, so that didn’t really count. And the shepherd was a lot bigger and a lot more dangerous, which tickled Furgul’s fancy.

  The two charging dogs came head to head. The shepherd coiled her haunches to spring and Furgul whizzed around her in a tight circle. The shepherd wasn’t quite fast enough to catch him, and Furgul charged her in the haunches with his shoulder. The shepherd rolled over and growled—with amazing white teeth—and reared up on her hind legs, eager to fight. Furgul could have run more circles round her, but he realized he was faster so he decided to give her a chance. He reared and barked too, and they met in midair and boxed and nipped and tumbled. They parted and bowed to each other—their heads dipping deep between their forelegs, their eyes meeting across the arena—to show that it was just a game.

  “No blood?” barked the shepherd.

  “No blood,” Furgul agreed.

  Then they fell on each other, wrestling and pawing and growling and snapping like fury. But it was clear to each of them that they weren’t angry growls or killer bites. They didn’t go for the throat, and they drew no blood. Furgul dodged away and let the shepherd chase him, then he circled about and chased her, then they fell to wrestling again, rolling around, one on top of the other on the grass, snorting and growling with pleasure.

  Then the Grown-Ups arrived in a puffing, sweating, fearful gang.

  Harriet and Gerry were out of breath, and the man with the little poodley was red in the face. The woman who was the mistress of the German shepherd was in tears. There was a very great deal of shrieking and hullabaloo.

  “Rupert!”

  “Samantha!”

  “Rupert!”

  “Samantha!”

  Furgul and the German shepherd broke apart and grinned at each other.

  “I suppose we should give it a rest,” said the shepherd, “before they all burst into tears.”

  Furgul laughed. He thought the German shepherd was outstanding. He definitely wanted to hang out with her more often. Every day, if he could. Maybe even every hour.

  “Samantha isn’t your real name, is it?” he asked.

  “No way,” said the shepherd. “You can call me Dervla.”

  “Wow!” said Furgul.

  “I’m hoping you’re not really called Rupert,” said Dervla.

  “Make it Furgul.”

  “Well, it’s an improvement,” said Dervla.

  “Can we do this again?” asked Furgul. “Like, tomorrow? Or maybe this afternoon? I could even jump the fence this evening, after dark.”

  “I’d love to,” said Dervla, “but it might not be as easy as you think.”

  Furgul choked as his leash was clipped back on and his collar tightened round his throat. He struggled until his tongue went blue as Gerry hauled him backward. But it was no use. Dervla’s mistress clipped her leash on her too. The two new friends reared up on their hind legs as the masters dragged them apart.

  “Rupert!”

  “Samantha!”

&nbs
p; “Rupert!”

  “Samantha!”

  The worst of it was that Furgul knew that the masters thought they were doing the right thing. They thought they were stopping a fight. They couldn’t see beyond their own fear—their own fear of not being perfect dog owners, with perfect dogs. They couldn’t see what was obvious—that Furgul and Dervla were soul mates.

  The Grown-Ups stopped shrieking and settled down to a lot of “Moan, moan, moan!” and “Tut, tut, tut!” and “Heel, heel, heel.” The poodley man put his little dog down. He was much more shaken and upset than his poodley dog was.

  “Whine, whine, whine!” bleated the poodley man.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” groveled Gerry. “Terribly sorry.”

  Harriet glared at Gerry. Furgul knew that, later, there would be ranting.

  The little poodley dog yapped, “That looked great, can I join in?”

  “Grow about two feet taller and we’ll think about it,” said Dervla.

  Dervla and Furgul laughed at the poor yapping poodley. Perhaps it was unkind, but it was funny. Furgul realized that he and Dervla were friends.

  He had never made a real friend before.

  It was the best feeling in the world.

  “Hey, Dervla,” said Furgul, “have you ever been to the Doglands?”

  “No,” said Dervla. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know,” said Furgul. “But dogs like us could find them—if we tried.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Dervla. “Next time we meet.”

  “There are no Doglands,” said Kinnear. “And there won’t be a next time either. You mark my words.”

  Dervla gave Kinnear a real growl. The growl was so threatening that even Furgul’s blood ran cold. Kinnear fled to hide behind Harriet’s legs. He stood there shaking.

  “Who’s the bag of marrowbone jelly?” asked Dervla.

  “That’s Kinnear,” said Furgul. “He’s all right, really.”