Doglands

by Tim Willocks

  “Thanks,” said Kinnear. “But that girl is what you call a bad influence.”

  “Hey, fatty,” growled Dervla. “If you want to know what ‘bad influence’ looks like, just come over here.”

  But, as usual, Kinnear knew exactly what he was talking about.

  There was no next time.

  Harriet and Gerry went straight from the park to their favorite pet store and bought Furgul the most hated of all contraptions—a plastic muzzle.

  They strapped it over his snout and then looked pleased with themselves. After that Furgul had to wear the muzzle every time they took him out. They never let him off the leash again. And whenever Furgul saw Dervla across the park and barked her name—and heard her bark back—Gerry and Harriet turned around and walked him the other way.

  One day Furgul and Kinnear snoozed in their baskets while the Grown-Ups were out at work. In his best dreams Furgul dreamed about Dervla. In the bad ones—like the one he had today—he dreamed about Dedbone’s Hole. He dreamed about his mother, Keeva, who was still there, living in a crate. Furgul saw her, huddled all alone, crying in the night as she thought about her pups. The pups that had been torn from her and sent away to die.

  When Furgul woke up, he felt sick inside. He was ashamed of himself.

  In the cavern under Dogsnout Mountain he had sworn that when he was grown up, he’d set Keeva free. Well, now he was grown up—and what had he done about it? Nothing. He just lay here in this basket feeling sorry for himself, getting more and more like Kinnear—more and more tame, and more and more afraid—and less and less like Argal, his father. Keeva had named him “the brave,” but Furgul wasn’t brave at all.

  “I’m a coward,” he muttered to himself.

  “What’s that?” said Kinnear, waking from his nap.

  “Nothing.”

  “Cheer up, mate,” said Kinnear. “Look on the bright side. Everything you have to put up with—even the muzzle—is worth it in the end because you get this warm bed to sleep in, lots of love and affection—well, more than you probably deserve—and a bowl of fine food twice a day.”

  “Those little brown pellets that look like stale cat dung and taste even worse?”

  “No, no, no,” said Kinnear. “Chuck Chumley’s Extra Meaty Dog Feed is designed by scientists. It’s the perfectly balanced diet—all the protein, nutrition and vitamins we need for a shiny coat, a waggy tail, sweet breath—”

  “And a belly that scrapes on the ground.”

  Kinnear ignored this insult. “It’s over four percent real chicken, you know. Plus another ten percent meat and animal derivatives!”

  “Yes,” said Furgul. “Beaks, feathers and butt holes. I need something I can get my teeth into. The taste of blood. The crunch of bone. Something to make me feel like a dog. Living like this makes me feel like—”

  He stopped. It made him feel like he should have stayed in the river and drowned. But he didn’t say so. He felt bad. He felt confused. He didn’t know what to do.

  Kinnear stuck his pug nose in the air. “I’ve never tasted blood in my life and I’m proud of it.”

  Furgul wondered what Kinnear’s blood would taste like. He licked his lips.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Kinnear, “but I won’t fight you. I don’t believe in fighting. It’s antisocial. It isn’t safe. And it’s against the rules.”

  “Even in play?”

  “Accidents do happen,” said Kinnear. “Better to be safe than sorry. And as you know, fighting upsets our masters.”

  “Then why don’t they get a parrot?”

  “I’m a pure pedigree bulldog,” said Kinnear, puffing out his chest with pride. “The masters have got the certificate to prove it. We bulldogs used to kill bulls. Imagine that. Real bulls, with horns, the kind who hate red rags. We used to be fast and feisty and bold. But those days are gone. Over the generations the breeders have bred all our aggression out of us. We don’t need to fight anymore to prove that we’re dogs. We get along with all other dog breeds—and even with parrots and cats and rabbits and sheep. And we certainly wouldn’t mess with a bull. We’re not wild, we’re tame. We’re docile. We’re obedient. We’re correct. We’re the perfect family pet.”

  Furgul scratched himself. He felt more miserable than ever. “I try to be docile, I try to be obedient, I try to be not wild. I even try to be correct. And I’m still not a good pet. I’m just a failure.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Kinnear. “You didn’t have my advantages in life. You haven’t got the right—erm—background. You haven’t got my breeding.”

  “I know,” said Furgul. “I’m not pure.”

  “But even the likes of you can learn the rules of a good pet—if you work hard at it.”

  “The problem is,” said Furgul, “I don’t want to be a pet at all, not even a good one.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I want to be free. I want to find the Doglands. I want to go back to Dedbone’s Hole and set my mother free.”

  Kinnear didn’t say anything. He just looked at Furgul with pity.

  Furgul said, “And I’ve failed at all that too.”

  After this conversation Furgul kept hearing the Grown-Ups use the word “vet” at the same time they used his human name, “Rupert.”

  “VET, blah, blah, RUPERT,” they muttered. “RUPERT, blah, blah, VET.”

  This made Furgul nervous. He became even more nervous when Harriet—wearing rubber gloves and a paper mask that covered her mouth and nostrils—trapped Furgul in the kitchen and ran her fingers over his balls. Furgul didn’t like it and snapped at her hand. When Harriet had gone away, Furgul asked Kinnear what was going on.

  “Ah, you’ve reached that time of life,” Kinnear explained. “In fact you’ve got away with it longer than most. All pet dogs have to face it sooner or later, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. And once it’s done you’ll appreciate the benefits.”

  “The benefits of what?” asked Furgul.

  “Well,” said Kinnear, “it stops you from torturing yourself about girls, which, believe me, is a greater blessing than you can imagine. It results in less aggression, which—if I may say so—is just what you need, my boy. And—listen to this—it produces a ninety percent reduction in the tendency of dogs to roam. All your restlessness—all these feelings of failure that you’ve been having—will just disappear. In short, it will make you happy.”

  Kinnear was never more pleased with himself than when he was showing off the breadth of his general knowledge. His cheeks wobbled with pride.

  “It can cause an unfortunate gain in weight—which is why your rude comments about my belly are so unfair. But, on the whole, the effects are positive for everyone concerned.”

  “They don’t sound positive to me,” said Furgul. “For a start, I like roaming. I haven’t even started to roam. I haven’t had the chance to. I haven’t had a chance to torture myself about girls either. But you still haven’t told me what it is.”

  “Neutering, of course,” replied Kinnear.

  “Neutering?”

  “They’re going to pay the Vet to cut your nuts off.”

  Furgul stared at him for long enough to realize that Kinnear wasn’t joking.

  The smirk on Kinnear’s face told him it was true.

  “Cut my nuts off?” gasped Furgul. He looked down at them. He licked them twice a day to keep them clean. He was very fond of his nuts. And they were his.

  “What if I don’t want all these benefits?” he said.

  “Well, it’s not just for your benefit,” answered Kinnear.

  “Surprise, surprise,” said Furgul.

  “It’s for the greater good of society.”

  “You mean it’s for the good of the masters.”

  “I saw how you looked at that unladylike German shepherd, Samantha.”

  “Her name is Dervla,” warned Furgul, his hackles rising.

  “Don’t take it out on me, Furgul. The Grown-Ups saw it too. You fa
ncied her, didn’t you? And they don’t want even more mutts and mongrels running around. There’s far too many already. Humans don’t want them, you see. So the vets have to ‘put them down’ with the needle.”

  “I’m not a mongrel, I’m a lurcher,” said Furgul, restraining the urge to go for Kinnear’s fat throat.

  “Lurchers, mongrels, half-breeds—it’s all the same. There’s just too many.”

  “But it’s different for the pedigrees.”

  “Well, there’s always a healthy demand for pure pedigrees, at least among the better sort of masters,” sniffed Kinnear. “But pedigrees don’t just breed with anything that moves. We don’t just fancy another dog and go charging across the park.”

  “Dervla did.”

  “Don’t take offense,” said Kinnear, “but Dervla should have known better. It’s for our masters to decide who we breed with. The masters know best. Quality must be crossed with quality. The results speak for themselves—” Kinnear saw his own reflection in the glass kitchen door. He sucked his belly in. The difference it made was invisible. “That’s why we pedigrees are worth so much money. It’s not that we’re bigger, stronger, faster, more useful or more clever. We’re just better. We’re valued. And that’s why the masters can’t get rid of mongrels fast enough—because you’re not.”

  If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Furgul would have told him what he thought of pedigrees and their masters, but he had bigger things to worry about. Like his nuts.

  “So what can I do?”

  “Stop worrying,” said Kinnear. “Believe me—you won’t feel a thing.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE VET

  Next morning the Grown-Ups didn’t give Furgul any breakfast. He watched Kinnear guzzle down his pellets of Chuck Chumley’s Extra Meaty Dog Feed, but before Furgul could steal a mouthful, Gerry put on his muzzle so he couldn’t eat. Furgul didn’t know why—for once he couldn’t think of anything he had done wrong. Kinnear filled his belly, then cheerfully confirmed that the day had come when Furgul would lose his nuts.

  Kinnear said, “You can’t have food before an anesthetic—that’s the injection that puts you to sleep—in case you throw up.”

  When the breakfast bowl was empty, Gerry came back and took the muzzle off. He gave Furgul an unusual amount of petting, along with guilty smiles, unconvincing chuckles and so much sympathy that you’d think that Gerry himself had been neutered. Furgul felt sick. It was just as well he hadn’t eaten. He felt like throwing up already. Gerry disappeared.

  Furgul tried to think clearly.

  What would Argal do?

  He thought back to his first visit to the Vet. It wasn’t easy to remember because he’d been wounded with buckshot and was shivering to death with exhaustion, but he tried. Yes. There was a parking lot outside. Then a door into a bright room where other dogs were waiting. Then there was a counter. Somewhere behind the counter—in a second bright room—was the shiny steel table where they had given him the sleeping injection.

  “Kinnear,” asked Furgul, “will I have to wear the leash when the Vet cuts my—” He couldn’t bring himself to say what the Vet was going to do. “You know.”

  Kinnear shook his big jowly head. “The shiny table has to be super-clean—that’s why it’s shiny! The leash has dirty germs on it, so once you get in there, the Vet will take it off.”

  Furgul frowned. “So I’ll be on the leash until I’m in the shiny table room.”

  Kinnear nodded. “I know what you’re thinking, mate, but you’ll never make it. Accept your fate. When it’s all over, you’ll be much happier here, I promise. You won’t feel so restless. You won’t want to roam. You’ll forget these foolish fantasies about freedom and the Doglands. Gerry and Harriet are good masters—it’s hard to find any better. In their way they love us dogs. And in our way we love them back.”

  “You’re right,” said Furgul. “Gerry saved my life. And Harriet, erm—” He tried to think of something nice to say. “Harriet did let Gerry go fishing that day.”

  “That’s the spirit. And tonight we’ll have a slap-up supper. Why, I’ll even give you half my Extra Meaty Dog Feed. Or maybe a quarter.”

  Furgul smiled. “You’ve been good to me, Kinnear. You’ve taught me a lot about this world—and about humans. I’m sorry I made fun of your belly.”

  “You’ve threatened to kill me a few times too.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” said Furgul. “I’m sorry for that too.”

  “I forgive you. Life’s been a lot more interesting since you’ve been around. But you’re not serious, are you? No one gets away from the Vet. It can’t be done. In any case, where would you go?”

  “To the Doglands.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? The Doglands are a fairy tale. A myth.”

  “No, they’re not,” said Furgul. “I felt the wind. I heard a voice.”

  “A wind? A voice?”

  “It told me I was the dog who runs in darkness. I don’t know what it means, but I’m going to find out.”

  He saw a gleam in Kinnear’s clever black eyes—as if, just for a moment, Kinnear believed him. Beneath all his breeding and knowledge Kinnear was still a bulldog. Somewhere deep inside he still wondered what it would be like to be wild. And in the soul of every dog Furgul imagined there lingered the forgotten legend—the lost dream, the long-abandoned memory—of the Doglands.

  “Then take my advice,” said Kinnear. “Whatever it is you’ve got in mind, don’t give the Vet any warning. Be meek, be docile, be obedient. Then they won’t hold on to you so tight. Sometimes cunning works better than brute strength.”

  Furgul heard the jingle of the leash. He sniffed the air. Harriet was coming to take him for the chop. Furgul gave Kinnear a friendly shove.

  “Wish me luck, you big fat dog.”

  Kinnear did something he’d never done before.

  He licked Furgul’s face with his big fat slobbery tongue.

  “Good luck, old son,” said Kinnear.

  Harriet arrived, twittering in a way she obviously thought was comforting, but she only made Furgul feel worse. She clipped the leash to his collar. Furgul rubbed his neck against Harriet’s leg. Harriet was surprised at such affection. She smiled and twittered and patted Furgul’s head.

  Kinnear gave Furgul a wink. “That’s the way. Keep her sweet.”

  “Tell me, Kinnear,” said Furgul. “What’s your real name?”

  “My real name?” Kinnear’s eyes grew distant. He smiled. “My mother called me Crennig. It means ‘head like a rock.’ ”

  “Goodbye, Crennig,” said Furgul.

  “If I don’t see you at supper,” said Kinnear, “I’ll remember you in my dreams.”

  Then Furgul walked at Harriet’s heel to the garage.

  Harriet’s truck pulled into the parking lot. Furgul saw the Vet’s through the rear window. He’d panted with worry the whole way there. Now the worry became fear. The fact was, he didn’t have a real plan of escape. The leash hung from his neck like a hangman’s rope. If he couldn’t get rid of the leash before they took him to the room with the shiny table, he could say goodbye to his nuts and he’d have to spend the rest of his life with Harriet and Gerry. What frightened him the most was the thought that he wouldn’t even want to roam anymore—that he wouldn’t even want to be wild. And he’d never have the will to go and find Keeva and rescue her.

  What would Argal do?

  The truck door opened and Harriet gave him a stiff, fake smile. There was a second when Furgul might have dashed past her. But he knew he wouldn’t get far before someone grabbed the leash and read the disk on his collar with his name—RUPERT—and address. Getting rid of the leash was the key. He jumped from the back of the truck and waited at Harriet’s heel to make her think he was obedient. Harriet took the leash and led him toward the Vet’s.

  Time was running out, second by second and yard by yard.

  The door of the Vet’s was just a few steps away.
<
br />   Then Furgul saw a heap of fresh dog poop on the ground.

  It was a beautiful sight.

  He remembered what Kinnear had said about the super-clean shiny table and the dirty germs. And a whole new plan exploded in his mind.

  Furgul let out a pitiful yelp, the most painful and heartrending sound he’d ever made. He jerked his front paw from the ground and hobbled forward on three legs. Harriet looked down in alarm—just as Furgul wanted her to, she thought that he had injured his paw or stepped on some broken glass. As Harriet bent forward to check the paw, Furgul pretended to lose his balance. He fell over. He landed on the ground so that the collar round his neck went right in the dog poop.

  The trick worked. Harriet pulled a face but didn’t yell at him. She just helped Furgul to his feet. Still pretending he had a sore paw, Furgul hobbled on three legs to the door of the Vet’s. Harriet pushed it open, and they went inside.

  There were two other dogs in the waiting room, who got excited when they smelled him. Furgul ignored them. The Vet came out from behind the counter in his long white coat. The Vet and Harriet exchanged some “Blah, blah, blah,” while Furgul balanced on three legs, as meek and obedient as could be.

  Then the Vet frowned and wrinkled his nose and pointed at Furgul’s collar and shook his head. Furgul waited. Harriet muttered, “Sorry, ever so sorry.” Then she bent down with a look of disgust and unbuckled Furgul’s collar.

  For the first time in months his neck felt free. And good old Kinnear had been right. The room with the shiny table was super-clean—and the Vet wouldn’t let the dirty germs on the poopy collar go inside.

  Furgul felt the urge to run rise up inside him—but he didn’t move. He could see nowhere to run to yet—the front door behind him was shut. The Vet took Furgul gently by the scruff of his neck and guided him toward the open gate in the counter. Again Furgul forced himself to be docile and obedient. He didn’t struggle, and he didn’t give the Vet any reason to hold too tight. The Vet closed the gate in the counter behind them. Furgul could see a door, and through this door he saw the shiny table.