Doglands

by Tim Willocks

Suddenly he was afraid that his plan wouldn’t work.

  But the Vet wrinkled his nose again and said something to Harriet and pointed to the front door. Furgul craned his neck and peered over the counter. Yes! Harriet walked to the front door, holding the smelly collar and leash at arm’s length. She was going to take it outside. Furgul waited. He had to time this perfectly. Harriet reached for the handle of the door. She pulled it open.

  Now!

  Furgul sat back on his hind legs and jumped right over the counter in a single bound. The Vet was so surprised he couldn’t stop him. A greyhound can go from standing still to running at forty miles an hour in just two seconds. Furgul wasn’t that fast—but he was fast enough. He shot across the waiting room and past Harriet’s legs and in a trice he was racing across the parking lot.

  He’d done it.

  He’d escaped from the Vet.

  At the other side of the parking lot Furgul found a road. He’d learned a lot about roads from Kinnear—who, of course, was an expert—but he didn’t like them. He could run faster than the cars driving past, but they were dangerous. You couldn’t predict what they would do. So Furgul turned and sprinted down the sidewalk. He saw a narrow alley and turned there. At the end of the alley was a Dumpster full of trash, and he hid behind it and stopped to think about what to do next.

  If he ran too fast, people would take notice. They might try to stop him. He decided to walk like a good, responsible dog. He was in a town, he knew that much. He’d driven through it with Gerry and Harriet, but he’d never walked around there. Kinnear said that these days there were hardly any buildings that allowed dogs to go inside, so there was no point. Besides, Furgul didn’t want to go in a building. He wanted to get out of town, away from the masters and Grown-Ups and Vets and people. He sniffed the air to find some scent of the Doglands. He was sure that he would know it if he smelled it, and surely they couldn’t be too far away. But all he could smell was car smoke and garbage and filth.

  He left the Dumpster and trotted down the nearest street.

  Where should he go from here? He needed some advice, some directions, some help. He moved smoothly between the legs of the people walking by, so slick that most of them didn’t even notice him. Some looked at him, but he didn’t look at them. He trotted on before anyone could stop him. Hundreds of smells flooded into his nose. Human smells. Cat smells. Rat smells. Car smells. Smells of cooking. Fried chicken. Fried potatoes. Fried meat. Grease. Grease. Grease. Smelly armpits. Smelly feet. But not a whiff of dog to be found.

  Then he found more dogs than he could handle.

  A man with a funny mustache and wearing tight black shiny shorts was pulling eight dogs along by their leashes. Furgul counted again. Yes. Eight! The man must have been one of the “dog walkers” Kinnear had told him about. Furgul had found it hard to believe, but lots of people paid other people to walk their dogs for them. Kinnear said that this was because these people spent so much time sitting at their screens, or sitting in the hairdressers, or sitting in their cars, that their legs had just stopped working.

  Furgul decided to blend in with the dogs so he wouldn’t stand out so much.

  At the time it seemed like a clever idea.

  Furgul slipped into the middle of the pack and slunk along as close to the ground as he could. He blended in like Kinnear at a squirrel’s birthday party. There was a Pomeranian, a cockapoo, a mini schnauzer, a Jack Russell, a Cavalier King Charles, a Yorkie, a dachshund and a chow. One had a bright pink collar with golden studs and another a leopard-print leash. Some wore ribbons and jewels in their hair. The dachshund wore a little red dress.

  The tallest of them was twelve inches shorter than Furgul.

  Worst of all, every one of the eight “dogs” was a girl.

  They all gaped at Furgul with their tongues hanging out.

  “I’m traveling in disguise,” whispered Furgul. “So just act natural, girls. Don’t attract attention—and, please, keep your voices down.”

  He was instantly deafened by a clamor of giggles, squeals and chatter.

  “Who’s this tall drink of water?”

  “Don’t look now, ladies, but he’s a dog. A real one.”

  “You know what they say about a long snout.”

  “Look at those scars!”

  “And those thighs!”

  “I bet he goes like a train.”

  “The cheeky devil isn’t even wearing a collar!”

  “He’s stark naked!”

  Furgul started panting with embarrassment and panic. He couldn’t think of anything to say. His only experience of girls was of fighting tooth and claw with Dervla in the park. This pack of tiny females terrified him more than a gang of wolves. He scanned the street above their heads in search of help. He felt a small sharp snout exploring the gap between his hind legs. It was the dachshund.

  “He’s got a full set!” squeaked the dachshund.

  “What, both of them?” yelped the mini schnauzer.

  “Trust me,” replied the dachshund. “There aren’t any scars down here.”

  “Think about it, girls,” said the Cavalier. “They’ll only ever let you breed with a dog who looks exactly like you.”

  “And how much fun is that if you look like me?” wailed the cockapoo.

  “How much fun is it for any of us?” grumbled the chow. “We’re all size zeroes.”

  “And this hound is ripped!” gasped the Jack Russell.

  “Those haunches are making me dizzy,” swooned the Yorkie.

  “This might be our last chance!” sobbed the Cavalier.

  “He looks a bit rough,” sniffed the Pomeranian.

  “That’s the way I like ’em,” growled the mini schnauzer. “Get out of my way.”

  There was a desperate scuffle between the girls, and Furgul almost tripped. The bright designer leashes twisted around and around in a terrible tangle.

  The Dog Walker sensed the upheaval. He stopped and turned.

  “Milly! Molly! Mandy!” snapped the Dog Walker. His eyes bulged out as he spotted Furgul, entangled in a mob of yapping fans.

  “Whimper! Shout! Bleat!” said the Dog Walker, looking alarmed.

  Furgul jumped clear of the web of leashes. The pack strained at his heels, snagging the Dog Walker’s ankles and almost dragging him off his feet.

  “Come back, handsome!”

  “You can give me fleas anytime!”

  “My address is on my collar!”

  “At my place there’s some gourmet beefy dog treats!”

  “I’ll be here tomorrow at the same time!”

  Furgul plunged away into the crowd of people who had stopped to stare at the canine uproar. With his long-range eyesight he spied another dog across the street.

  Furgul checked out the traffic, left and right and left again, then galloped across the road. Horns blared, and hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. But he made it. Furgul ran up to the dog, who was a chocolate-brown Labrador with chocolate-brown eyes. Instead of a leash the Labrador wore a complicated harness around his chest and shoulders with a handle attached. Next to him stood his master, who wore dark glasses and held one hand to his cheek, which appeared swollen. He seemed to be in great pain.

  The two dogs sniffed each other up and down.

  “I’m on the run,” panted Furgul.

  “I’d never have guessed,” said the Lab.

  “I’m Furgul,” said Furgul.

  “Pace,” said Pace.

  “Why are you wearing that harness?” asked Furgul.

  “I wear it so stray dogs can ask me stupid questions.”

  “You’re a comedian, then,” said Furgul.

  “I don’t mean to be patronizing—that means ‘talking down to someone,’ by the way—but I’m a Seeing Eye dog. My master here can’t see—blind as a can of sardines—so I’m his eyes. It means I can go places where other dogs are banned.”

  “Can I ask another stupid question?”

  “Make my day,” said Pace.<
br />
  “Any idea how a fugitive might get out of here?”

  “What are you wanted for?” asked Pace. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “They don’t want me, they want my balls.”

  “They’ll be after all three of you by now,” laughed Pace. “And I don’t mean those rich dames yapping across the street. No collar? No leash? You won’t last long in this town, I can tell you that much.”

  “Why not?”

  “This town is too small to be a stray in. No place to run. No place to hide. The Traps will have that noose around your throat before lunch.”

  “The Traps?”

  “Dog catchers,” growled Pace. “They’ve got their own van and they’re tight with the cops. Cameras, radios, tranquilizer guns—you name it, they’ve got it. Informers and spies too.” He nodded at the people walking by. “Any one of this lot could turn you in. Even as we speak. Look at him. That’s a squealer if ever I saw one.”

  A man was muttering into a cell phone. He was staring directly at Furgul.

  “They’re all against you, brother,” said Pace. “Every last one of them. I wouldn’t like to be in your paws. You’ll be eating your dinner in the pokey.”

  Before Furgul could ask what the pokey was, Pace said, “The dog pound, the big house, the slammer, the pen—the Needles. In other words, behind iron bars.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “If you’re going to get out of town, you’ll need some wheels.”

  “I can’t drive.”

  “I’d never have guessed that either,” said Pace.

  “Dentist! Dentist! Dentist!” moaned Pace’s master.

  Pace ignored his master. He considered Furgul for a moment.

  “But you’re in luck,” said Pace. “See that shopping mall, there? The street without any cars? Just lots of people, milling around, spending money they haven’t really got on stuff they don’t really need?”

  Furgul turned and saw the mall. He nodded. “I see it.”

  “There’re two cops in there—well, security guards—and they hate dogs,” said Pace. “They hate them because all dogs are banned from the mall—all except for me, of course. Dogs interfere with the shopping, see. They distract the consumer’s attention from spending money, which is a crime. And brother—with no leash and no collar?—the cops will hate you most of all.”

  “So I’d better stay out of the mall,” said Furgul.

  “On the contrary,” said Pace. “The cops in there are floaters—they patrol around looking for trouble. They could be anywhere—up on the mezzanine, down by the fountain, watching the plasma screen noise-boxes in the windows. They wear funny blue suits, a shiny badge, and caps that make their heads look big and flat and—if you ask me—pretty stupid too. Which in fact they are. Stupid as a bottle of carrots.”

  Furgul was totally confused but thought he should be polite. “Wow. That’s really stupid,” he said.

  “They don’t call them vegetables for nothing.”

  “They call the cops vegetables?” asked Furgul.

  “No, the carrots, in the bottle. But you know what? Vegetables. Veggies. Veggies.” He rolled the word around as if tasting it. “Mmm. Better than ‘cops,’ don’t you think? Veggies. Yes. That’s the best bon mot I’ve coined in quite some time.”

  “It’s the best I’ve ever seen coined,” agreed Furgul.

  Pace looked Furgul up and down, as if his opinion of him had just gone up.

  “Bit of a greyhound, are you?”

  “A lurcher,” said Furgul.

  “Unlike most, I’ve got a soft spot for lurchers,” said Pace. “If you’re as quick on your feet as you look, you might just make it through. Through the mall, I mean. As long as you don’t stop and let the veggies grab you.”

  Furgul began to wonder if he’d picked the right dog to ask for help.

  “Why would I want to make it through the mall?”

  “Now that’s a very good question,” said Pace. “But I’ve got a very good answer. In the street on the other side of the mall—about a hundred strides to the right—you’ll see a furniture van. You won’t mistake the scent—I cocked a leg on the rear wheel on my way here.”

  “What’s a furniture van?”

  “It’s a van with furniture inside. Sofas, tables, chairs, beds, objets d’art—”

  “I get it.”

  “The point is, they’re loading the van—even as we speak. And that means that very shortly they’re going to drive it somewhere else.” Pace raised one eyebrow. “Somewhere far away from here.”

  “Pace,” said Furgul. “You’re a genius.”

  “Anything to help a brother in need.”

  “Dentist! Dentist! Dentist!” pleaded Pace’s master.

  “I’d come with you,” Pace said to Furgul, “but the master here would never find his way. Helpless as a bag of dead frogs. And anyway, I’ve got diabetes.”

  “Not enough red meat?” guessed Furgul.

  “Tell me about it,” said Pace. “Four percent real chicken with ten percent meat and animal derivatives. They must think we’re as stupid as they are.”

  A truck screeched to a halt by the roadside. Harriet’s face glared from behind the steering wheel. She started to rant from the window at the top of her voice.

  “Who’s Rupert?” asked Pace.

  “Gotta go,” said Furgul. “Thanks a lot, Pace.”

  “Watch out for the weirdos! And the veggies!”

  As Harriet jumped from the truck, Furgul sprinted toward the mall.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE MALL

  As Furgul approached the mall his eyes caught a sign with a drawing of a dog inside a circle. The dog in the circle had a big red X stamped across it. A wide open archway led into the mall. When he sprinted inside the first thing Furgul saw was a security guard. Or, as Pace would now call them, a veggie.

  The veggie was licking an ice cream cone and at the same time picking his nose with his little finger. He was so busy picking and licking that he didn’t see Furgul shoot past. Furgul should have just kept on going as fast as he could, but he was stunned by the dazzling interior of the mall.

  It was full of bright lights and bright colors and a fantastic amount of glass. There were more people there than he’d ever seen in one place, rushing and chattering and carrying lots of bags. There were plants and trees and a fountain. He could see the heads of even more people moving around high above. Some people floated up to join them, without moving their legs or flapping their arms, while others floated back down again, as if in shopping malls human beings could fly.

  All the walls on every side were made of sheets of glass. Behind the glass were thousands and thousands of “things.” He knew people loved “things”—Gerry and Harriet were always bringing home “things”—but Furgul had never imagined there could be so many. Behind one window alone there were hundreds and hundreds of shoes. In another there were strange pink plastic shapes dressed up like people. There were windows with lots of glittery things and windows with the flashing noise-screens that people loved to stare at. From one window came a mixture of the horrid smells that Harriet put on her hair and her face and her armpits and in her knickers. After a minute all the windows started to look the same—glaring, blaring, dreary, loud and ugly.

  What stopped him in his tracks was the smell of food.

  Every smell he had ever detected in Gerry and Harriet’s kitchen was there—all at the same time. There were also other food smells he’d never come across before. He followed his nose and found a whole part of the mall that was full of little kitchens, hidden behind metal counters. In the kitchens people wearing little paper hats cooked heaps and heaps of food. Fried chicken and fried fish, noodles, pizzas and tacos, barbecued ribs and hot dogs, cheeseburgers, bacon burgers and jumbo burgers. His stomach was rumbling with hunger. It had been so long since he’d had some food, he would have eaten just about anything. In front of the kitchens were lots of tables, where
dozens of customers munched and guzzled and gulped down fizzy drinks.

  To Furgul’s amazement some of the people carried a lot of their food from the tables on little trays—and dumped it into the mouth of a tall gray plastic bin.

  The thought of these bins full of wasted food was too much for Furgul. He forgot about the veggies. He decided to help himself to a quick snack. He stalked his way into the food court without attracting attention. He stood up on his hind legs to peer into the mouth of a bin. The bin toppled over. The lid burst off. A flood of fizzy brown liquid, soggy paper, empty cups and half-eaten food spilled across the floor.

  He heard an uproar of yells.

  People rose from their seats in alarm.

  The Paper Hatties shouted from behind their counters.

  Furgul wolfed down some bits of burger and a hot dog. A little fat man lumbered toward him with his hands outstretched like claws. Furgul dodged this way and that as the fat man grabbed for his neck. Furgul circled around him in a flash, and the fat man slipped in the muck. He fell flat on his back in the spreading pool of filth. Ketchup and mustard and grease and fizz splashed up in every direction, splattering the clothes of the customers. The shouting got even louder.

  Now everyone was furious.

  Furgul dashed away.

  To his left he saw a second veggie running toward him. Furgul swerved right. A man wearing one of the little paper hats staggered by, his arms carrying a huge cardboard box. Furgul charged his shoulder into the back of his knees. The man threw the box in the air and toppled onto his face. The big box burst open, and hundreds of raw beef ribs scattered over the floor. The second veggie skidded on the ribs. He waved his arms and knocked his big flat cap from his shiny, bald head as he nosedived to the ground.

  Furgul jumped over him and ran toward the exit.

  He was so confused—by the hordes of people, the bright lights and the glaring, ugly windows—that it wasn’t until he saw the first veggie again—his ice cream finished but still picking his nose—that he realized he had gone the wrong way. He was back at the very same arch where he had come in. Then Harriet stormed through the archway, red-faced with rage and ready to rant. She stopped with her fists on her hips and scanned the mall.