by Jean Gill
‘We are your family,’ bayed a hundred voices at full power, splintering the night.
A shutter slammed in the distance and we heard a Human voice dim in the distance, ‘Don’t know what’s up with them tonight. Just listen to that racket.’
‘We are his family,’ we answered the Human. ‘We are his family.’
‘And Marc will come,’ I whimpered to myself before a sleep marred by looming shapes, which slipped away from my snapping jaws only to swoop down on me from another direction.
Chapter 10.
Basic hygiene was difficult with seven of us in the small concrete compound that served as our indoor and sleeping quarters, walled on three sides with a grill door set in the part wall, part fencing on the fourth side. There was an area of decking against the wall opposite the door, big enough that four of five of us could pile onto it if we were feeling extra-friendly. Being a weatherproof kind of dog, who couldn’t bear being too hot, I took the concrete option and let the others sort themselves out. You wouldn’t believe how sensitive and warmth-loving a whippet is. Even on the hot summer nights we get here in the south, Éclair shivered at night unless she was flanked by hairy company – or one of the blankets that got dropped off every now and then by two helpers. Of course the blankets helped keep the fleas warm and happy too but Jack was right – I’d got used to the little crawlers who used my body as a pile of blankets on a bed, with supper thrown in.
I reckon that the indoor area was about four times my length by about three times, if I lay down and stretched out, with a bit extra for some decking, so you can imagine that seven of us, none small, had to accept some serious invasion of personal space. Inevitably, tempers frayed at times and Éclair was safest to take them out on, so we did. Luckily, she was lightning quick in submission and none of us had that evil streak that leads a dog to follow through with punishment after the recipient’s shown a proper humility.
The best we could manage for a little space was to go through the opening in the back wall into the ‘exercise yard’ when the others were sleeping indoors, or vice versa. ‘Exercise yard’! Don’t make me laugh. It was the same size as the sleeping quarters. The only difference was that there was no decking and only one wall. The rest was all grill fencing so we could see out front, where visiting Humans sometimes walked round and waggled their fingers through the mesh, like pale sausages. More often though, the Humans would stay the other side, lingering round the door where we would shove and jostle to get a look at them, just for some entertainment and something to talk about. I was big enough to see through the fencing above the wall beside the door, if I stood on my back legs, but there was no purchase on the wall on our side so I couldn’t keep it up for long. And my view there was obscured by squares of white paper, seven of them, which the visitors stared at, saying ‘Oh the poor thing’ and ‘What a pity he’s so old’ and ‘I’d rather have a puppy.’
And if you weren’t actually on the decking, whether you were indoors or outdoors the concrete floor was always wet. Our Humans hosed it down daily, after they’d cleaned up into a bucket whatever of our droppings hadn’t been recycled by my less discriminating cell-mates. I can’t pretend I didn’t join in sometimes. I was so often hungry. And even when the Princess had fed us, so we’d had enough to eat, there was always the feeling that something was missing. The food just didn’t leave us satisfied the way it should have done. So if there was extra protein going, even if it was brown and recently dumped by a friend, ‘Waste not, want not’ we all said.
‘Don’t know why we bother giving them food at all!’ Bigwoman said. ‘It would save us money if we just put the contents of this bucket straight back into their bowls.’
‘She wouldn’t!’ breathed Jack. ‘Would she?’ But no, not even Bigwoman went that far in economies. And one of them would hose down the pen daily, without fail. There was no chance of the floor drying as the ceiling of the indoor part kept it permanently in shade and the outdoor pen was overshadowed by the other buildings crowding round. But as Jack said, ‘Pneumonia’s less certain than heat-stroke.’ Those who slept on the decking dried out, especially Éclair and the others with smooth coats, but my underbelly and flanks were permanently brown and damp. I wasn’t confident enough to stretch out on my back to sleep, so it was always the underbelly against the concrete when I was lying down – and there wasn’t much else to do after you’d walked the ten steps each way round our two compounds. Although, when I lay down, it was becoming more and more difficult to get comfortable, with the itching over my body that had grown worse as damp hair clogged up during the process of shedding.
I forced myself to a regular ‘tour’ of this kind, as slowly as I could manage, and at every step I filled my head with the memory of Marc’s garden, of racing along the hedge to bark at the cyclists, or dusk patrol along the boundaries to keep the wolves at bay. To make my ‘walk’ last longer, I called up a garden boundary memory for every chain link in the fence.
‘Hey, big boy, you’re turning into a pacer – you don’t want to do that,’ Jack warned me. ‘You start doing that same old round-the-cage every day and before you know it, you’ll be putting your paw across your nose exactly two steps after you pass the door going anti-clockwise, every single time you do the self-same route. That way madness lies, my friend. I’ve seen it before.’
And so I had to vary my exercise. I’d do four steps and turn to go round the other way. But it was hard not to fall into whatever new routine I’d set up and let it take over so that my body was repeating, repeating, repeating...and my heart howled for a mountain-side covered in snow, to bound and free my cramped soul. I stopped myself remembering my garden, I stopped myself imagining the mountain. I could no longer cope with the idea that there was anything other than this cage so I wrapped up my hopes and memories and buried them with my love for Marc, to be dug up again when the time was right.
Visiting times were a distraction. Humans would walk past, pointing as we crowded round the door to take a look. Once we heard the wave of excitement among the pens before ours on the visitors’ route and then a smiling lady reached us, holding out ham sandwiches. ‘They were left over and I thought you’d like them,’ she told us, breaking bits off and making sure each of us had a bit.
But the only times I stopped worrying for my sanity were when the Princess took me out. Then my nose came alive, I could feel the spring in my legs and I overdosed on thinking. I wasn’t the only one.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Elodie told me. ‘I can get some money for vocational development, perhaps work as a vet’s assistant and find someone I can shadow, learn to become a dog trainer. That’s what I really want. There are training classes here on Thursdays so I’m going to go along and start with that. You’re gorgeous, aren’t you. You did that so well, Izzie.’ It was amazing how good her judgement was about everything and if she wanted to be Queen of France, that was all right by me, so vet’s assistant? Dog-trainer? No problem. I panted my agreement happily.
The more important my walks with Elodie, the harder it was to walk through that chain-link door back into the pen. On this particular occasion, for some reason, perhaps a hawk screeching above me, or even a rain-drop hitting my head - I can’t remember now - but I looked up while Elodie was opening the door and I saw a photo of myself with a text underneath. A Visitor stopped and read it aloud, ‘Sirius, Pyrenean Mountain Dog. I am only 17 months old, a cuddly teddy bear, with an excellent pedigree, looking for a loving family.’ it is a shock to see yourself up for Choosing and to hear the words Humans use about you, especially when they put them into your mouth. I thought back to my puppyhood Choosing and to what had changed.
The words from the paper had that same false tone. My image was still ‘cute’ and it was still good for business that I was a Soum de Gaia, even if the Humans here didn’t know enough about our line of aristocrats and show winners to talk the way my Soum de Gaia Human could. But that was just a detail. There was some big difference but I couldn’t p
ut my paw on it. What was it that was so different this time? Not that I wanted to be Chosen you understand, as I was only waiting till Marc came, but I started to brood about it, particularly as I listened to the comments of Visitors in the afternoons. I heard some of what I expected when they looked at me. ‘Cute’, yes, ‘teddy bear’, yes, ‘huge’, of course. So what was wrong with me? Why did people walk past quickly? ‘There’s something in his eyes,’ I heard one of them say.
I pondered this ‘Jack,’ I asked, ‘can you see something in my eyes?’
‘Why? Do they itch? Are they sore?’
‘No.’
‘Well there’s nothing in them then.’
‘But a Human said there was.’
‘Ah. Well Humans are always seeing things, aren’t they. Probably something to do with colours.’
‘But that wouldn’t be something in my eyes.’
‘Yes it would. There’d be... brown for instance, in your eyes. And you know they’ve got all these colour words. I tell you, they see differences.’ I wasn’t convinced but until I got a better answer, it would have to do. I determined to read the notices on our pen, and on the other ones, and every time I went out with Elodie, I managed to add one more description to my store.
Humans seemed to like reading about bad things happening to dogs, so the dogs who’d been tortured had long stories. I talked to some of the dogs in the other pens, a quick word in passing, and I found out that the worse the story was, the more ‘Ah, the poor thing’ comments and the more likely the dog was to be Chosen, unless it was Old of course. And Old got younger every year, according to those who’d been here a while. ‘Probably about five years now, is old.’
‘Why do Humans prefer to choose dogs with really bad stories? Instead of the dogs who are happy and healthy?’ I asked Jack.
‘As far as I can work out, it makes them, the Humans, feel good.’ This made no sense at all and my expression said so. Jack persevered. ‘Suppose you had to choose between a master that was bleeding and smelled of death, and one that was strong and healthy. Which one would you choose?’
That was obvious. ‘The strong and healthy one.’
‘Right. Well, Humans have a big flaw in their genetics. They call it pity. And when they feel pity their brains turn to mush like when you smell a female on heat and you can’t think straight, only they have it all upside-down and think pity is good. So they think it is part of being a good person to choose the one that is bleeding and smells of death, even if it means leaving the other one to a horrible fate.’
‘But that’s stupid.’
‘And they feel like they are very good Humans if they think they are doing a big rescue.’
‘What about Humans who choose a happy, healthy puppy that lives with his mother, perhaps a Soum de Gaia just for example, and they promise to love it forever, and they do give it a good home and they do love it forever? Aren’t they good Humans? And then no-one would come here in the first place...’
Jack had to think about this. ‘Not to other Humans, ‘he decided. ‘Not nearly as good as Humans who Choose a dog here. And the really good Humans are those who Choose a dog with a really bad history.’
‘So why don’t the Humans here make up really bad stories for all of us? And what about the Humans who bring back their Chosen ones and Choose again? Are they good or bad?’
‘You ask too many questions Sirius. I have no idea. You keep expecting Humans to make sense and they just don’t. Work it all out for yourself.’ We’d both been aware of Clementine recycling some scarcely dry droppings but I didn’t expect Jack to run at her, barking like a Human. ‘No, Clementine!’
Startled, she dropped a half-eaten treat.
‘Look at it!’ Jack barked at her, and we all looked. And saw small white worms wriggling. ‘You got worms, girl. And eating them back up isn’t going to make you feel good.’ Clementine didn’t need telling twice and our Human complained that the poop bucket was filled to overflowing these days. She didn’t seem to notice the worms though.
I remembered Marc crushing up tablets, lots when I was little, then summer and winter only, and putting them in some fromage frais for me. ‘A little treat for you boy,’ he’d say, ‘Here’s your de-wormer.’ And it was a treat too, silky smooth in your mouth, that farm smell that reminded me of puppyhood and the freshness of first tastings. ‘You’ve got some white spots on your nose,’ he’d laugh and then wipe my nose with a bit of kitchen towel (if Christine was around) or with his hand, which he then wiped on his trousers (if Christine wasn’t around). But I didn’t know what worms were or did. So I asked Jack.
‘Hazard of communal living, big boy. They get passed on from dog to dog, droppings and lickings. Then they live in your guts, eat your food, make you thin, or false-fat, extra hungry or sick and tired. They wear you down, sap your strength, make you ill all the time but they don’t kill you.’ He gave a sharp cynical bark. ‘Wouldn’t be good for parasites if they actually killed you. Torture inside, I call it.’
‘Does that mean we’ve all got them?’ I asked quietly. I was all right because I’d been given a tablet not long before I came in.
‘Perhaps. Probably.’
‘Will they give us tablets?’
‘Probably. Perhaps. But not till it’s their time to give tablets and that’s never often enough with new dogs coming in and re-infections all the time. And tablets get rid of the worms you have already got, they don’t stop you getting them! Tablet today and worms tomorrow – quite likely in here.’ My tail had never been as low and I slunk off to lie as far from other dogs as was physically possible. Waiting for Marc was hard.
I kept wondering what was so wrong with my piece of paper on the fence. Surely I didn’t want it to say I’d been abused and tortured. Did I? It was only when Elodie changed my notice that I finally worked it out. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I’ve written a much better one for you, little boy.’ It was the first time I’d been out for a walk with her that I was actually keen to get back to the pen so I could check out the new paper.
She stopped at the pen door and read the paper aloud to me, proud of herself. Below the photo it started off, ‘Sirius, Pyrenean Mountain Dog, excellent pedigree.’
‘I’m going to track down your pedigree name, Sirius, and find your Breeder.’ There was a bitter note in her voice that I hadn’t heard before. ‘The people who work here say there’s no point because even if they do, the Breeders never help. I don’t see how they can know that if they don’t try. And they’re always too busy here to do anything anyway. Oh I shouldn’t say it like that. They really are too busy here. It’s just... they don’t seem to care any more.’
No, I wasn’t bothered about my pedigree name not being there although I did wonder if my Soum de Gaia Human would find Marc for me. I read on. ‘If you look in my eyes, you will see the sadness people have given me, the people I loved who have left me here and I will need time to love and trust a new family.’ Was that what was in my eyes? ‘I am very well trained, don’t pull on the lead, know all the basic commands and will be a loving companion for a family with patience and plenty of space for a big dog.’ There was nothing to say that I bit children but there was nothing to say I didn’t. Perhaps Elodie hadn’t been told. My Princess had put her paw exactly on what had been missing though, the difference between this cuddly teddy bear and the baby one of the last Choosing. This time, I had a history. This time, I had all my experiences, good and bad, and anyone who lived with me would have to live with my past too. Which would be fine because Marc would come.
Chapter 11.
‘Sometimes I think you’re the only one who understands me,’ Elodie told me, as we meandered along the grassy canal banks. I sniffed rabbit, water-rats and joggers’ sweat still lingering in the air. ‘The only one I can talk to. My parents are nagging me to get a proper job and stop fooling around with animals. They think I’m going to grow out of it but why should I? It’s as if there’s being a vet or there’s being a little girl who
likes animals. That’s how they see it anyway. And now my only idea has gone all wrong. And Xavier hardly knows I exist. He’s friendly enough but that’s not what I want. How do you make someone love you, Izzie?’ She kicked a tuft of grass and I nuzzled up against her side. She stopped and put her arms round me, burying her face in my fur, her words muffled. ‘If only you knew, boy, eh? Well I love you, you know.’ She stood up again and laughed, then fished a hair out of her mouth and spat to clear it.
‘Look at the pair of us. If only I was older, had some money, a place of my own, I’d take you like a shot Izzie.’ She stopped again, without me feeling any jerk on the lead, I was so used to reading her body and following her movements. She looked right into my eyes and I looked right back, battling the instinct to look away; that was something else she was teaching me but I wasn’t totally comfortable with it yet. It just didn’t seem polite to me to make eye contact with someone you weren’t trying to challenge but she kept telling me what a good boy I was, so it was obviously fine by her. ‘Izzie, I’m going to make you a promise.’ Her face was all straight lines, a hint of what she was going to look like in ten years’ time. ‘If I get myself sorted, have somewhere for you, I’ll come back to get you.’ She tossed her hair back and laughed, a brittle sound.
‘What am I saying. My mother’s right. I can’t even look after myself never mind a big beautiful boy like you. Oh, Izzie, it’s all gone wrong. But I can’t go to the class again and there’s no way I’d learn anything from brutes like that. It started OK, with one trainer taking the class and another there to learn and help, an assistant I suppose. And I was thinking, ‘That will be me, I can start as the assistant, then take a class myself.’ And in my head I was working out what to say to people to get them doing leadwork properly, like I’ve been doing with you, my little superstar.
