by Della Galton
THE DOG WITH NINE LIVES
THE DOG WITH NINE LIVES
Della Galton
Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2010
ISBN 9781907726330
Copyright © Della Galton 2010
The right of Della Galton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid-Glamorgan, CF46 6RY
For Maggie Avgerinou with love and thanks, and
every other anonymous dog rescuer working
tirelessly out there
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people: all those lovely people on Pefkos beach who helped with the rescue; all at RAWS, especially Maggie Avgerinou; Sandra and Colin Forrest; Dominic Groves; Tony and Adam Millward; Knightwood Quarantine Kennels; All at Walton Lodge Veterinary Group, especially Kate and Jenny. All at Weatherbury Veterinary Clinic, especially Philippa; Jo and Paul at Tricks4Treats.
CHAPTER ONE
I will not get involved
I COULDN’T REMEMBER THE last time I’d felt so content. The hot sun burned down on my face and beyond my closed eyelids sun patterns danced. I could hear the swish of the sea and the shouts of children playing in the waves, and the scent of burgers from a nearby café wafted on the faint breeze.
This was the life, I thought in my half dozing stupor. After a hectic week in Rhodes where I’d been taking photographs at my sister-in-law, Sandra’s, wedding it was lovely to be able to relax for a while. We’d been here four days. It was my first visit to the picturesque island, and I was planning to come again.
Suddenly my idyll was shattered by a cold wet hand dripping sea water on to my arm and an urgent voice in my ear.
‘Look, Della, there’s a dog.’
‘I’ve seen one before,’ I said, still half asleep and determined to stay that way.
‘It’s a stray dog. It’s really cute. Go on, have a look.’ Sandra isn’t the type to give up easily.
I opened one eye and caught a blurred image of a dog running by in the soft sand.
‘Lovely,’ I said, because I was obviously expected to say something.
‘I thought you liked dogs.’ Sandra’s voice was disgruntled.
‘I do like dogs.’
‘What sort do you think it is?’
I opened both eyes now and squinted against the glare. The dog was chocolate brown with floppy ears and a skinny stick of a tail.
‘A right mixture – maybe a bit of Labrador. I shouldn’t think she’s a pedigree!’
My irony was wasted on Sandra, but after that, she left me to my dreams again, and my dreams were of dogs. I wasn’t really indifferent to them, far from it. I had three of my own at home, all of them rescue dogs. To be honest, I was more worried that I might get involved and I couldn’t afford to care too much about stray dogs in Greece.
Although I admired people who rescued dogs from horrendous lives in other countries, I was strongly of the opinion that if you had that sort of money going spare, it would be better spent in England. How many dogs could be helped for the cost of bringing just one stray into the UK? Shouldn’t charity begin at home?
I’d rescued lots of dogs across the years, which was something Sandra knew very well, but there was no way I was getting involved with this one. She seemed quite happy running about on the sand, and scrounging food from holidaymakers.
I watched her for a while. She was pretty smart. She would suss out her target first, presumably to establish whether they were likely to be an easy conquest or whether she’d get a boot for her trouble, and having decided, she would tailor her approach and either crawl forward on her belly or go sideways, very tentatively.
If they were encouraging and held out a hand or spoke to her, she’d get up, wag her tail and trot over, and then sit patiently waiting for her reward. She took everything that was offered, crusts of bread, bits of meat, chips, with or without tomato sauce, but I noticed that she didn’t immediately gobble everything down.
She usually ate the meat straight away, but other things she would hold in her mouth. I saw one lady give her a burger bun, which she took with delicate precision. It was as if she didn’t want to be rude and turn something down, but obviously burger buns weren’t a hot favourite of hers, and she didn’t immediately eat it.
Once the woman had turned away, she retreated to a safe distance and dropped it in the sand. She obviously wasn’t starving then, I thought with a wry smile. She was almost certainly not in need of rescue, which was just as well!
Most of Sandra’s family had come over for the wedding. The youngsters were staying in Rhodes old town within walking distance of the pubs and clubs. My husband Tony and I and his 14 year-old son Adam were staying in apartments close to the beach.
The day before our holiday ended, when I was stretched out on a sun lounger, catching up on my holiday reading, Sandra came running across.
‘That stray dog’s got puppies in a cave up in the rocks,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Has she?’ I sat up, still not really wanting to get involved.
‘Yes, and we need your help.’ Sandra’s voice grew more urgent. ‘One of them has crawled away and it can’t get back and the mother can’t reach it.’
If it had crawled in one direction, I knew it could probably crawl back in the other, but nevertheless I sat up.
‘Why do you need my help?’
‘Because none of us can reach it either, but you’ve got long arms.’
Sandra waited expectantly. She knew she had me. Despite my best impressions of being aloof and heartless, she knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore a puppy in distress. But, just in case, she added for good measure, ‘The mother’s crying and the pup’s yipping. Come on, you’re the only one who can help.’
I often think back to that moment and wonder if things would have been different if I’d been born with shorter arms. Sometimes life-changing events can be predetermined by the most incongruous of details!
The dog and her pups were in a hollowed-out kind of cave part way up the shallow sloping cliff. She had chosen a good place to have her litter, the floor was soft sand, and it was sheltered from the weather.
When we got there several other concerned holidaymakers had gathered, but like Sandra none of them could reach the pup. I peered into the darkened hollow and when my eyes had adjusted I could see it nosing blindly around. It was squeaking pitifully, but I couldn’t reach it either – even with my long arms.
‘We need something a bit longer,’ I said. ‘How about a child’s plastic spade? I could probably reach the puppy with that.’
One was swiftly found and I discovered that if I lay down on the rocks and leaned my arm as far into the hollow as it would go I could just touch the pup with the spade. Very gently, I scooped him back towards me. A few seconds later I was able to reunite him with his mother.
She gave him a good licking to welcome him back and thumped her tail on the sand. Not that she didn’t have her work cut out already. I counted 13 puppies. Some were black, but most were brown like their mother.
The scattering of holidaymakers sighed with relief and went back to what they’d been doing. For a while I sat and watched the little canine family.
I was not going to get involved. I really was most definitely not going to get involved – but that night, Tony, Adam and I saved bits of meat from our dinner, and
the following morning, armed with our serviette-wrapped packages, we were back on the beach.
We found ourselves at the back of a queue.
It turned out that several holidaymakers were concerned about the dog and her pups.
‘They’re ten days old,’ a German lady told us. ‘This is our second week; we were here when she had them.’
‘We ’ave phone ze animal rescue,’ proclaimed a Frenchman, throwing his hands in the air, palm up, ‘but he do not come.’
‘They look as though they’re getting quite well fed,’ remarked Tony. Adam and I nodded. The mother’s breakfast so far consisted of tuna fish, carefully scraped from its can into a bowl, with a fillet steak topping. Suddenly our bits of left over meat seemed quite a mean offering.
‘She is very well fed,’ said the German lady, ‘but that is now – next week the resort will close – it is end of the season. What will happen to her then? No one will be here to feed her.’
‘Someone ought to do something,’ chipped in a third holiday-maker. ‘She will starve to death when the resort closes.’
I pictured the little brown dog trotting down to her breakfast bowl, day after day, and finding it empty. I pictured her waiting patiently for someone to come. I pictured the pups yipping for their mother, while she slowly grew weaker. (I’m a writer and sometimes I curse my overactive imagination). Even so, I couldn’t see how the dog would survive without help. From that moment on I was involved.
CHAPTER TWO
The rescue
EARLIER IN THE WEEK we’d been shopping in Rhodes old town and we’d put money in a tin for an organisation called Rhodes Animal Welfare Society (RAWS) so I knew there was a rescue place on the island.
We tracked down their number and I phoned them. We’d been told it was run by an English lady, but I had to ring several times before I could get hold of her. I persevered and finally spoke with her the day before we were due to fly home.
‘Yes, I know about these puppies. You are not the first person to call,’ she said, ‘And we are happy to come and get them in our van, but we cannot just go to an empty beach and hunt for them. We need someone to direct us.’
‘When can you come?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon is the first time the van will be available.’
My heart nose-dived. ‘We’re flying back tomorrow evening and we have to check in. Can’t you come any earlier?’
‘No, I’m afraid we won’t have a van until tomorrow afternoon.’
‘What if we bring them to you?’ I said, thinking on my feet. ‘Would you take them in – the mother and pups – if we bring them to the sanctuary?’
‘Yes. We will, of course.’
‘Can we bring them now?’
‘No. I’m afraid we are just about to close.’
‘Tomorrow morning then – we will bring them all to you then.’
‘That is fine,’ she agreed.
I put down the phone, feeling triumphant, and realised that Tony and Adam were both staring at me in amazement.
My long-suffering husband, who has been on the end of many of my dog rescue schemes, was shaking his head.
‘How on earth are we going to do that?’ he asked.
‘We’ve got a hire car. We can find the place. We’ve got enough time before our flight.’
‘We’re supposed to be meeting everyone for a big family lunch tomorrow,’ he pointed out reasonably.
‘No one will mind. They all like dogs.’ I was tempted to add that it was his family’s fault I’d got involved in the first place, but I knew that wouldn’t get me many brownie points.
‘Besides,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘you can’t just pick them up and take them. The mother won’t let you take her pups.’
‘She might bite us,’ Adam pointed out with irritating percipience. He was supposed to be on my side. ‘She might be quite wild.’
I brushed their concerns aside. I might not have wanted to get involved, but now I was determined to see it through.
‘We’ll find a way of doing it. Sandra will help us. We’ll need something to put the pups in so we can carry them.’
It was Adam who spotted the red plastic bread crate outside the shop next door to our apartment. ‘Do you think we could use that?’
‘Great idea.’ I snatched it up. ‘We’ll put some newspaper and old towels in to make it more comfy.’
‘When exactly are you planning this rescue expedition?’ Tony’s voice was disapproving.
‘We’ll go down to the beach first thing.’ I beamed at him. ‘It doesn’t need to be too early. There isn’t anyone at the sanctuary ’til ten.’
‘We’ve got to get there though.’ He looked at the address I’d written on a scrap of paper. ‘This is across the other side of the island. Had you forgotten we’re meeting everyone for lunch? And what about our plane?’
I might have known he’d be more interested in his stomach than he was in catching the plane. Tony’s always been a foodie.
‘It’ll be fine.’ I kissed him. He was still shaking his head, but I could see Adam was keen on the idea of a dog rescue. And I knew Tony would help us. He’s as fond of dogs as I am.
My plan, such as it was, was haphazard. Adam was right, the mother dog might not be too keen to be enticed away from her pups, but she was always pretty hungry.
I would order a steak for dinner that night – that should be tempting enough to lure her away from her pups. She wasn’t so shy that she wouldn’t take food and I thought that we could probably park our hire car as close to the beach as we could and then tempt her to it by laying a trail of fillet steak pieces.
The following morning, armed with our bait and the bread crate, we set off on our mission. Tony was able to get pretty close with the car. I left the rear door open and then we went to find the mother dog and hoped she wouldn’t already be too full of breakfast to be tempted away.
In fact, this plan very nearly worked. She came with me willingly enough, happily being rewarded for every 20 or so steps with a piece of steak, and we got within a few feet of the open rear door before she realised something was amiss.
I hoped that one last piece of steak placed in the foot well would persuade her to get in, which was, with hindsight, perhaps rather optimistic. She wanted that steak, but she was suspicious of the car. I wasn’t surprised. She had probably never been in one before.
It would have been a simple enough task to just pick her up, she wasn’t that big, maybe the size of a small Labrador, and she was desperately thin. But for her milk she’d have been skin and bone. But I was a little afraid she might bite me.
We reached a stalemate. Try as I might I couldn’t get her to actually go in the car. ‘Come on, sweetie,’ I called. ‘Just one more step.’
She sniffed the air hopefully. She craned her neck. She wrinkled her nose some more. She was very keen on that last piece of steak. I sneaked around behind her. Then just as she put a tentative paw onto the foot well I shoved her from behind and slammed the door.
She was in. I was sweating. It was very hot. No way could she stay in that car for long. I didn’t dare open the windows more than a couple of inches in case she jumped out. In the end I persuaded Adam to sit with her, so we could leave the windows open – not that she seemed in a hurry to escape.
But we needed to get the pups pronto.
Actually, getting the pups was easy compared to getting Mum. By now a circle of holidaymakers had gathered. The German lady, the Frenchman, a couple of English holiday-makers and some Greeks. It was one of the Greeks who came over to ask what we were doing with the pups.
‘You do good? Or you do bad?’ he demanded.
Tony explained what we were doing and after that everyone was keen to help. Rather than climb across the rocks with the bread crate it was easier to pass the pups down. A chain of people spread out across the rocks – all different nationalities, we communicated in smiles and halting English beneath the burning sun.
The pups were passed w
ith infinite care from hand to hand along the human chain to the foot of the cliffs. I swallowed an ache in my throat as I placed each one gently in the box.
You hear so much about people not caring. Yet there we were – an incongruous mix of strangers of all nationalities, bonded by one aim – to take this little family to safety.
When all 13 were in the box we got into the car. Tony and me in the front and Adam in the back with the pups and their mother. The rescue operation had taken nearly three-quarters of an hour and I wasn’t too sure how long it would take us to find the sanctuary. The instructions had been vague.
We were about to drive away when the German lady ran across and banged on the window.
‘Take this,’ she shouted, as I wound it down a few inches. I realised she was shoving a handful of drachma through the gap. ‘You give it to rescue place,’ she shouted.
I nodded, too moved to speak.
The rescue centre turned out to be several miles along a dusty unmade road, with rocks littering the way and a scattering of stunted olive trees on either side. Once or twice I thought we’d have to turn back. We certainly couldn’t be doing the hire car much good. It was in grave danger of being rattled and shaken to pieces. No doubt there was some clause in our hire contract about keeping it on proper roads. I dreaded to think what would happen if it conked out in the middle of nowhere.
‘Are you sure this is the right way?’ I asked Tony.
‘Mmm,’ he grunted, without looking at me.
In the back the little, brown dog dozed peacefully, as the scenery went by. I’d been worried she might try to escape or turn nasty, but she didn’t seem very bothered by this strange turn of events. The pups were quiet too. They knew she was close by.
Finally, after almost an hour’s drive, we drew up outside a wire fence and the unmistakeable barking of a lot of dogs in close proximity. We had arrived but I must admit my first impressions of Rhodes Animal Welfare Society were not inspiring.
The high wire fence (which I later learned was to stop people breaking in and stealing dogs) made the place look more like a prison than a sanctuary.
