Fluke

by James Herbert

  Mind you, they were brave, some of those rats, loathsome as they were. The sight of nice juicy puppy flesh may have had something to do with their fearlessness, and in those early days my life was often in jeopardy, and it’s thanks to Rumbo that I’m still in one piece today. (Of course, he soon realized what wonderful rat-bait he possessed, and it wasn’t long before he’d coaxed me into acting as such.) As the months went on, my meat became more stringy – thin I think you’d call me, despite our scavenging – and my legs longer, my jaws and teeth stronger. The rats no longer regarded me as dinner but as diner and treated me with more respect.

  We never really ate them. We’d tear them to pieces, we’d break their bones – but their flesh just wasn’t to our taste, no matter how hungry we felt at the time.

  Rumbo loved to taunt them when he had them cornered. They’d hiss and curse at him, threaten him, bare their cruel teeth, but he would only sneer, taunt them all the more. He would advance slowly, his eyes never leaving theirs, and the rats would back away, bunch up their hindquarters, their bodies tensed for the leap forward. They’d make their move and Rumbo would make his. Dog and rat would meet in midair and the ensuing fight would be almost too frenzied to follow with the eye. The outcome was always inevitable: a high-pitched squeal, a stiff-haired body flying through the air, and Rumbo pouncing triumphantly on his broken-necked opponent as it landed in a nerve-twitching heap. Meanwhile, I was left to deal with any of the unfortunate vermin’s companions, and this I learned to do almost as ably – but never with quite as much relish – as Rumbo.

  We almost came unstuck one day, however.

  It was winter, and the mud in the yard was frost-hard. The yard itself was locked and deserted – it must have been a Sunday – and Rumbo and I were warm and snug on the back seat of a wrecked Morris 1100 which was acting as a sort of temporary bedsitter until more suitable accommodation came along (our previous lodgings, a spacious Zephyr, having been broken up completely and sold as scrap). Rumbo’s head shot up first and mine was a close second; we’d heard a noise and that familiar rank smell was in the air. We crept silently from the battered car and followed our noses towards the odour’s source, in among the jumble of wrecks, through the narrow alleyways of twisted metal, the rat scent drawing us on, the occasional scratching against metal making our ears twitch. We soon came upon them.

  Or rather, he came upon us.

  We had stopped before a turn in the path through the cars, aware that our prey lay just around the corner, the strong smell and the scratching noises our informant, and were tensing up for the rush when, suddenly, he appeared before us.

  He was the biggest rat I’d ever seen, more than half my size (and I’d grown considerably), his hair was brown and his incisors were long and wicked-looking. The creature was just as startled as us by the sudden confrontation and disappeared instantly, leaving us to blink our eyes in surprise. We rushed round the corner, but he was gone.

  ‘Looking for me?’ came a voice from somewhere high up. We looked around us in bewilderment then spotted the rat together. He was perched on the roof of a car and looking down at us contemptuously.

  ‘Up here, you mangy-looking curs. Coming up to get me?’ he said.

  Now rats aren’t generally given much to conversation, most of them just spit and swear or scowl a lot, but this was the talkingest rat I’d ever come across.

  ‘I’ve heard about you two,’ he went on. ‘You’ve caused us a lot of problems. At least, so the ones who’ve managed to get away tell me. (You can’t catch ’em all.) I’ve been wanting to meet you both – especially you, the big one. Think you’re a match for me?’

  I had to admire Rumbo’s nerve, for I was set to run and hide. The rat may have been smaller than me, but those teeth and claws looked as though they could do a lot of damage to tender dog-meat. However, Rumbo spoke up, not a trace of nervousness in his voice: ‘Are you going to come down, mouth, or do I have to come up and get you?’

  The rat actually laughed – rats don’t laugh much – and settled himself into a more comfortable position. ‘I’ll come down, cur, but in my own time; first I want to talk.’ (Certainly no ordinary rat this.) ‘What exactly have you got against us rats, friend? I know we’re loved neither by man nor animal, but you have a special dislike, haven’t you? Is it because we’re scavengers? But then aren’t you worse? Aren’t all captured animals the lowest scavengers because they live off man – as parasites? Of course, you can’t even dignify your existence with the word “captured” because most of you choose that way of life, don’t you? Do you hate us because we’re free, not domesticated, not . . .’ he paused, grinning slyly, ‘. . . neutered as you are?’

  Rumbo bridled at this last remark. ‘I’m not neutered, ratface, they’d never do that to me!’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a physical thing, you know,’ the rat said smugly. ‘It’s your mind I’m talking about.’

  ‘I’ve still got a mind of my own.’

  ‘Have you, have you?’ the rat snorted. ‘At least we vermin run free, no keepers for us.’

  ‘Who the hell would want you?’ Rumbo scoffed. ‘You even turn on each other when things get rough.’

  ‘That’s called survival, dog. Survival.’ The rat was displeased. He rose to his feet. ‘You hate us because you know we’re all the same – man, animal, insect – all the same, and you know rats live an existence others try to hide. Isn’t that so, dog?’

  ‘No, it’s not so, and you know that!’

  There were a lot of ‘you knows’ flying around. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what they were talking about.

  Rumbo advanced towards the car, his coat bristling with rage. ‘There’s a reason for rats living the way they do, just as there’s a reason for the way dogs live. And you know it!’

  ‘Yes, and there’s a reason for me to tear your throat out,’ the rat spat at Rumbo.

  ‘That’ll be the day, rat-face!’

  They ranted at each other for another five minutes before their anger finally boiled over. And it boiled over in a strange way.

  Both rat and dog went suddenly quiet as though there was nothing left to say. They glared into each other’s eyes, Rumbo’s brown and bulging, the rat’s yellow and evil; both pairs were filled with hate. The tension between them mounted, a screaming silence, a building of venom. Then, with a squeal, the rat launched himself from the car roof.

  Rumbo was ready. He leapt aside so that the vermin landed heavily on the hard earth, then struck out for the rat’s neck. But the rat squirmed away and turned to meet Rumbo’s charge. Teeth clashed against teeth and claws dug into flesh.

  I stood there, stunned and fearful, watching them try to tear each other to pieces. Growls, snarls and squeals came from the struggling bodies, but it was Rumbo’s yelp that set me into action. I rushed forward, shouting at the top of my bark, trying to find the rage to give me the courage. There wasn’t much I could do, for they were locked together in a writhing embrace, rolling over and over, flaying each other with their feet, biting, drawing blood, ripping skin. I could only lunge in whenever I caught sight of that stinking brown fur, nipping at it with bared teeth.

  Quite suddenly, they drew apart, panting, beaten, but still glaring into each other’s eyes. I saw that Rumbo’s shoulder was badly torn and one of the rat’s ears was shredded. They crouched, bodies quivering, low growling sounds at the backs of their throats. I thought perhaps they were too exhausted to carry on, but then I realized they were only regathering their strength.

  They sprang at each other again and this time I sprang with them. Rumbo caught the rat by the throat and I managed to bite into one of his front legs. The taste of warm blood sickened me, but I clung to the creature with all my strength. He rolled and squirmed and snapped at us; I felt a sharp pain across my shoulders as he scythed across them with his teeth. The shock made me lose my grip of his leg and, twisting his body, the rat kicked out at me with his hind legs, sending me rolling across the frozen mud.
/>   I rushed straight in and received a deep gash across my nose from the rodent’s claws. The pain sent me back again, but I returned just as quickly. Rumbo still had the rat by the throat, endeavouring to lift him from the ground and toss him, a trick I’d seen him use to break other vermin’s backs. The rat was too big though – too heavy. At least the grip Rumbo held prevented the rat doing serious damage with those teeth; he’d cut my shoulders but could have seriously wounded me had his incisors been allowed to sink in. Such was his strength that the big rat managed to break away. He ran free, turned, and streaked back into us, twisting his head from left to right, striking at our vulnerable bodies with his vicious weapons. Rumbo cried out as he was gored along the flank. He staggered to one side and the rat, with a shout of triumph, flew at him. But in his excitement, he’d forgotten about me.

  I leapt on to the rat’s back, bringing him down with my weight, and biting into the top of his head, breaking a tooth against his skull. The rest was messy and unglorious: Rumbo leapt back into the fray, and between us we managed to kill the creature. The rat didn’t die easily, and even to this day I have a grudging admiration for the fight he put up against two heavier opponents. When his squirming finally stopped and the last gasp left his bloody body, I felt not just exhausted but degraded too. He had had just as much right to live as we had, despicable though he was in the eyes of others, and his courage could not be denied. I think Rumbo felt the same sense of shame even though he said nothing.

  He dragged the dead body out of sight beneath a car (I don’t know why – a sort of burial, I suppose) and returned to lick my wounds for me.

  ‘You did well, pup,’ he said wearily between licks. His voice had a quietness to it that was unusual for him. ‘He was a big brute. Different from most I’ve met.’

  I whimpered as his tongue flicked across the gash in my nose. ‘What did he mean, Rumbo, when he said we’re all the same?’

  ‘He was wrong. We’re not.’

  And that was all my friend had to say on the subject.

  The rat incident soured me for the killing of others of the species; I’d fight them certainly, chastise them, but from then on I let them escape. Rumbo soon became aware of my reluctance to kill and grew angry with me; he still hated the creatures and slew them whenever we came in contact with them, perhaps with less relish than before, but with a cold determination.

  I’ve no wish to dwell on our dealings with vermin, for it was an unpleasant and ugly part of my dog life, albeit a very small part; but one other incident has to be mentioned because it shows just how deep Rumbo’s hate went for these unfortunate and unblessed creatures.

  We came across a nest of them. It was at the far end of the yard and in a car which lay at the very bottom of a tumble of others. The vehicle’s roof was crushed flat, there were no doors, and nestled among the stuffing of a torn back seat were a dozen tiny pink rats sucking from their recumbent mother. Their little bodies were still glistening and slick from their birth. The scent drew us like a magnet and we wriggled our way through the twisted junk to reach them. When I saw the babies and the alarmed parent, I prepared to retreat, to leave them in peace. But not Rumbo. He tore into them with a fury I’d never seen before.

  I called out to him, pleaded with him, but he was oblivious to my cries. I ran from the place, not wanting to witness such slaughter, and flew from the yard, away from that terrible destruction.

  We didn’t speak for days after that; I was bewildered by Rumbo’s savagery and he was puzzled by my attitude. It has, in fact, taken me a long time to come to terms with the brutality of animal life, and of course it was my very ‘humanness’ which hindered my progress (or regress – however you care to look at it) towards this acceptance. I think Rumbo put my sulkiness down to growing pains, for growing I certainly was. My puppy fat had almost disappeared entirely, my legs were long and strong (although my back legs were a little cow-hocked). My toenails had been kept trimmed by the constant running on hard concrete and my teeth were fine and sharp. My vision was still excellent, still vivid, unusually lucid. (Rumbo had the normal dog’s eyesight; not quite as good as man’s and unable to distinguish colours too well. He could see all right in the dark, though, perhaps better than me.) My appetite was extremely healthy and I had no trouble with worms, tartar on the teeth, mange, constipation, diarrhoea, irritable bladder, eczema, ear-canker, or any other normal dog ailments. Nevertheless I did itch a lot and it was this irritation that brought Rumbo and me together again.

  I had observed him scratching with more and more frequency and, I had to admit, it had become almost a full-time occupation for me, this sucking of fur and raking of skin with hind legs. When I actually saw the little yellow monsters hopping freely over my companion’s back like grasshoppers on a heath, my disgust for our condition forced me to make a comment.

  ‘Doesn’t the Guvnor ever bath us, Rumbo?’

  Rumbo stopped his scratching and eyed me with surprise. ‘Fleas annoying you, are they, squirt?’

  ‘Annoying me? I feel like a walking hostel for parasites.’

  Rumbo grinned. ‘Well, you won’t like the Guvnor’s method of dealing with it.’

  I inquired what the method was.

  ‘Whenever he gets fed up with my scratching or can’t stand the smell any more, he ties me to a drainpipe, then turns a hose on me. I try to keep out of his way when I’m particularly rancid.’

  I shivered at the thought. It was mid-winter.

  ‘There’s another way,’ Rumbo went on. ‘It’s just as cold, but at least it’s more effective.’

  ‘Anything. Anything’s better than this itching.’

  ‘Well,’ he hesitated, ‘I usually reserve this for warmer times, but if you insist . . .’

  I took up my usual position on his left, my head level with his flank, and we trotted out of the yard. He took me to a park, a big one this, and quite a distance from our home. The park contained a pond. And when we reached it, Rumbo told me to jump in.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I said. ‘We’ll freeze to death. Besides, I don’t even know if I can swim.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Rumbo retorted. ‘All dogs can swim. As for the cold, you’ll find this less unpleasant than being hosed down by the Guvnor. Come on, give it a try.’

  With that he plunged into the water, much to the delight of the few children and their parents who were about that wintry morning. Rumbo paddled out to the middle of the pond, swift and confident. He even ducked his head beneath the surface, something I’d never seen a dog do before. I could just imagine the panic among those fleas as they fled to the top of his head, the last refuge on a sinking island, and then their dismay as even this sunk below the waters. He swam in an arc and headed back towards me, calling out for me to join in. But I was too much of a coward.

  He reached the bank and hauled himself out. Mothers dragged their offspring away, for they knew what was going to happen next. The dope (yes, me) didn’t.

  I was drenched with a freezing shower of water as my friend (my crafty friend) shook his whole body to rid his fur of excess moisture. I felt foolish as well as angry; I’d seen dogs do this often enough in my past life, so I shouldn’t have been caught napping. Anyway, there I stood, dripping wet, as cold as if I’d plunged in myself.

  ‘Come on, squirt, you’re wet enough. You might as well go the whole way now,’ Rumbo laughed.

  I shivered and had to admit he was right. There was no point in not going in now. I crept towards the edge of the pond and gingerly dipped in a front paw. I pulled it out fast; the water was colder than freezing! I turned my head to tell Rumbo I’d changed my mind, I could put up with the itching for a few more months till the weather got warmer. I barely caught a glimpse of his big black body as he hurtled himself at me. With a yelp of surprise, I fell head-first into the pond, Rumbo tumbling in behind.

  I came up spluttering, gasping for air, my mouth and throat, my nose, my ears, my eyes filled with choking water.

  ‘Ooh!’ I
cried. ‘Ooooh!’ And over the sound of my splashing I could hear Rumbo laughing. I wanted to strike back at him, I wanted to drown him, but I was too busy trying to survive the cruel pond. My teeth were chattering and my breathing came in short, desperate gasps. Pretty soon – when I realized I could swim – the unpleasantness drowned instead of me and I began to enjoy this new experience. I kicked out with my back legs and paddled with my paws, just managing to keep my nose above the waterline. The effort prevented my limbs from going completely numb and I found I could use my tail as a sort of rudder.

  ‘How d’you like it, pup?’ I heard Rumbo call out.

  Looking about, I saw that he was back in the centre of the pond. I made towards him.

  ‘It’s g-good, Rumbo, b-but it’s cold,’ I replied, my anger forgotten.

  ‘Huh! You wait till you get out!’ He submerged again and came up smiling. ‘Down you go, pup, put your head under or you’ll never get rid of them!’

  I remembered the point of the exercise and ducked my head beneath the surface. I came up coughing.

  ‘Again, pup, again! Go right under or they’ll never leave you!’

  Down I went again, this time holding my breath and staying under for as long as possible. I don’t know what the people on the bank thought, for it must have been a peculiar sight to see two mongrels acting like performing seals. We romped around in the water, splashing and barging into each other, thoroughly cleansing ourselves with our vigorous actions. Five minutes was enough, and by mutual consent we headed for the shore. We clambered out, deliberately drenched the human on-lookers, and began a game of chase to warm ourselves up.