Fluke

by James Herbert

  The old lady smiled sweetly up at him. ‘Why, of course, Mr Shelton. Have I ever let you down?’

  The change in her was remarkable; the demon castigator had reverted back to the aged angel of innocence. She simpered and fawned over the vicar and he simpered and fawned with her; and all the while the cat roasted in the chimney.

  ‘Now how is that little stray fellow of yours?’ I heard the vicar inquire.

  ‘Oh, he’s thoroughly enjoying his stay,’ Miss Birdle replied, having the nerve to turn round to me and smile. ‘Come here, Fluke, and say hello to the vicar.’

  I suppose I was expected to run over and lick the clergyman’s hand, wagging my tail to show how pleased I was to see him, but I was still in a state of shock and could only cower behind the armchair.

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t like strangers, does he?’ the vicar chuckled.

  I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Miss Birdle, for his voice had taken on that simpleton’s tone people usually reserve for animals. They both gazed at me affectionately.

  ‘No, Fluke’s very shy of people,’ said Miss Birdle, melting butter clogging her words.

  ‘Have the police located his owner yet?’ the vicar asked.

  ‘Constable Hollingbery told me only yesterday that nobody had reported him missing, so I suppose whoever owned Fluke didn’t really want him very much.’

  They both tutted in harmony and looked at me with soul-churning sympathy.

  ‘Never mind,’ the vicar said brightly. ‘He has a good home now, one I’m sure he appreciates. And I’m sure he’s being a very good doggie, isn’t he?’ The question was aimed directly at me.

  Oh yes, I thought, and the pussy is being a very good pussy, albeit a well-cooked one.

  ‘Oh dear, Miss Birdle, the room seems to be filling with smoke. Is your chimney blocked?’

  Without turning a hair, the old lady gave a little laugh and said, ‘No, no, it always does that when it’s first lit. It takes a while before the air begins to flow properly.’

  ‘I should have it seen to, if I were you, mustn’t spoil such a charming abode with nasty smoke, must we? I’ll send my handyman around tomorrow to fix it for you. Now the Women’s Guild committee meeting next Wednesday . . .’ And that was when Victoria dropped from her hiding-place.

  The vicar stared open-mouthed as the soot-covered, fur-smoking cat fell down into the fire, screaming and spitting with rage, leapt from the fireplace and streaked for the door. She flew past him and he could only continue to stare as the smouldering black body disappeared down the path leaving a jet-stream of trailing smoke behind. His mouth still open, the vicar turned his attention back to his elderly parishioner and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I wondered where Victoria had got to,’ said Miss Birdle.

  The cat never came back, at least not while I was still there, and I seriously doubt she ever returned. Life in the cottage went on in its crazy normal way, the incident forgotten by my benefactor as though it had never happened. Several times in the ensuing week Miss Birdle stood at her front door and called out Victoria’s name, but I guess the cat was several counties away by then (I still have bad dreams of her being out there in the night, watching me, smouldering in the dark). However, Miss Birdle soon forgot about Victoria and directed all her attention towards me, but, not surprisingly, I felt I could never really trust her. I spent my time nervously waiting for the next eruption, treading very warily and learning to subdue my undisciplined spirits. It occurred to me to leave, but I must confess the lure of good food and a comfortable bed was stronger than my fear of what might happen next. In a word, I was stupid (Rumbo had been right), and even I’m amazed at just how stupid my next mistake was.

  I found a nice, chewy plastic object lying on the edge of the kitchen-sink drainer one night. The kitchen was my nighttime domain now that Victoria was gone and her basket had become my bed. I often had a poke around during the night or in the early hours of the morning and this time I had been lucky in finding something to play with. Not too hard, not too soft, and crunchy when I bit down firmly. No good to eat, but pretty to look at with its pink surface and little white frills around one edge. It kept me amused for hours.

  When Miss Birdle came into the kitchen next morning, she showed no sign of being amused at all. Her toothless mouth opened to let the raging soundless cry escape, and when I looked into that gummy mouth, the human part of me realized what lay chewed, twisted and splintered between my paws.

  ‘My teefth!’ Miss Birdle spluttered after her first wordless outcry. ‘My falthe teefth!’ And that old gleam came back into her eyes.

  Stupid I am, yes, and stupid enough to amaze even myself, right. But there comes a time in even the most stupid dog’s life when he knows exactly what he should do next. And I did it.

  I went through that window just as the cat had (through the new window-pane, in fact), terror helping me achieve what I had been unable to do before (namely, getting on to that kitchen sink). The fact that Miss Birdle was reaching for the long carving knife which hung with its culinary companions on the wall convinced me this might be her worst brainstorm yet. I thought it unnecessary to wait and find out.

  I went over her flowerbeds, scrambled through bushes and undergrowth and burst into the open fields beyond, a terrifying image of Miss Birdle in her long white nightdress chasing after me and brandishing the wicked carving knife keeping me going for quite some distance. It’s certainly handy to have four legs when you’re constantly running away.

  I was a long way from that cottage before I collapsed into an exhausted heap, and had already resolved never to return. It was no way for even a dog to live. I shuddered at the thought of the schizophrenic old lady, so charming one minute, so lethal the next. Were all her friends fooled by her antique sweetness, her enchanting old maidishness? Didn’t anybody see what lurked just behind that veneer, ready to be unleashed by the slightest provocation? I presumed not, for she seemed so popular and respected by her townsfolk. Everybody loved Miss Birdle. And Miss Birdle loved everybody. Who would ever guess that the endearing old lady had the slightest streak of viciousness in her? Why should anyone think such a thing? Knowing her lovable side so well, even I had difficulty in believing her kindness could turn to such violence, but I shall never trust any sweet old ladies again. How do you explain such a twist in human nature? What made her good one moment, bad the next? It’s quite simple really.

  She was nuts.

  14

  Dog’s life, dogsbody, dogfight, dog-eared, dog-days, dog-end, dirty dog, mad dog, lazy dog, dog-tired, sick as a dog, dog-in-the-manger, underdog – why so many abuses of our name? You don’t say hedgehog’s life, or rabbit’s body, or frog-in-the-manger. True, you do use certain animal names to describe a particular type of person – chicken (coward), monkey (rogue), goose (silly) – but they’re only individual descriptions, you never extend the range with a particular species. Only dogs come in for this abuse. You even use various species’ names in a complimentary manner: an elephant never forgets (not true), happy as a lark (not true), brave as a lion (definitely not true), wise as an owl (are you kidding?). But where are the dog compliments? And yet we’re cherished by you and regarded as man’s best friend. We guard you, we guide you; we can hunt with you, we can play with you. You can even race some of our breed. You use us for work and we can win you prizes. We’re loyal, we trust, and we love you even the meanest of you can be adored by your dog. So why this derogatory use of our name? Why can’t you be ‘as free as a dog’, or ‘as proud as a dog’, or ‘as cunning as a dog’? Why should an unhappy life be a dog’s life? Why should a skivvy be called a dogsbody? Why wouldn’t you send even a dog out on a cold night? What have we done to deserve such blasphemy? Is it because we always seem to fall into some misfortune or other? Is it because we appear foolish? Is it because we’re prone to overexcitement? Is it because we’re fierce in a fight but cowardly when our master’s hand is raised against us? Is it because we have dirty habits? Is it be
cause we’re more like you than any other living creature?

  Do you recognize our misfortunes as being similar to your own, our personalities a reflection of yours but simpler? Do you pity, love and hate dogs because you see your own humanness in us? Is that why you insult our name? Are you only insulting yourselves?

  ‘A dog’s life’ had true meaning for me as I lay there in the grass, panting. Was my life always to follow this unlucky pattern? It was the human part of my nature coming to the fore again, you see, for not many animals philosophize in such a way (there are exceptions). Fear and that good old human characteristic, self-pity, had aroused the semi-dormant side of my personality once more and I thought in terms of man yet still with canine influence.

  I shook off my misery the way dogs do and got to my feet. I had an objective which had been neglected; now was the time to continue my search. It was a beautifully fresh day and the air was filled with different scents. I was without a patron again and still without a friend but because of it I was free; free to do as I pleased and free to go where I pleased. I had only myself to answer to!

  My legs broke into an unpremeditated sprint and once again I was in full flight, only this time my compulsion to run was ahead of me and not behind. I knew the direction I should take instinctively and soon found myself back on the road and heading towards the town that had sounded so familiar.

  Cars swished past at frequent intervals, causing me to shy away. I was still very frightened of these mechanical monsters even after months of living in the busy city, but somehow I knew I had once driven such a vehicle myself. In another life. I came to a heavily wooded area and decided to take a small detour, knowing it would actually cut a few miles off my journey.

  The wood was a fascinating place. It hummed with hidden beings which my eyes soon began to detect, and to which (surprisingly) I was able to put names. There were beetles, gnats, hoverflies, tabanid flies, mosquitoes, wasps and bees. Speckled wood and brimstone butterflies fluttered from leaf to leaf. Dormice, woodmice and bank-voles scuttled through the undergrowth, and grey squirrels were everywhere. A woodpecker stared curiously at me from his perch and ignored my hearty good morning. A startled roe-deer leapt away as I stumbled into its hiding-place. Thousands on thousands of aphids (you might know them as blackfly or greenfly) sucked the sap from leaves and plant stems, excreting honeydew for ants and others to feed on. Birds – song-thrush, chaffinch, great tit, blue tit, jays and many, many more – flew from branch to branch or dived into the undergrowth in search of food. Earthworms appeared and disappeared at my feet. I was amazed at the teeming activity and a little in awe of it, for I had never realized so much went on in these sheltered areas. The colours almost made my eyes sore with their intensity and the constant babble of animal chatter filled my head with its raucous sound. It was exhilarating and made me feel very alive.

  I spent the day exploring and thoroughly enjoyed myself, seeing things through new eyes and with a completely different mental approach, for I was now part of that world and not merely a human observer. I made a few friends here and there, although I was generally ignored by this busy population of animals, insects, birds and reptiles. Their attitudes were quite unpredictable, for I had quite a pleasant chat with a venomous adder, whereas a cute-looking red squirrel I chanced upon was extremely rude. Their appearance bore no resemblance to their nature. (My conversation with the adder was strange, for snakes, of course, have only an inner ear which picks up vibrations through the skull. It made me realize again that we were communicating through thought.) I discovered snakes are a much-maligned creature for this one was a very inoffensive sort, as have been most I’ve come into contact with since.

  For once I forgot about my belly, and allowed myself to enjoy my surroundings, sniffing out trails left or boundaries marked by various aninals through their urine and anal glands. I marked my own trail from time to time, more as a ‘Fluke was here’ sign than a means of finding my way back. There’d be no going back for me.

  I dozed in the sun in the afternoon and when I awoke I wandered down to a stream to drink. A frog sat there eating a long pink worm, scraping the earth off the shiny body with his fingers as he swallowed. He stopped for a moment and regarded me curiously, the poor worm frantically trying to work his body back out of the frog’s mouth. The frog blinked twice and resumed his eating, the worm slowly disappearing like a live string of spaghetti. The worm’s tail (head?) wriggled once more before leaving the land of the living, then was gone, the frog’s eyes bulging even more as he gulped convulsively.

  ‘Nice day,’ I said amiably.

  He blinked again and said, ‘Nice enough.’

  I wondered briefly how he would taste but decided he didn’t look too appetizing. I seemed to remember from somewhere that his legs might be quite tasty, though.

  ‘Haven’t seen you around here before,’ he commented.

  ‘Just passing through,’ I replied.

  ‘Passing through? What does that mean?’

  ‘Well . . . I’m on a journey.’

  ‘A journey to where?’

  ‘To a town.’

  ‘What’s a town?’

  ‘A town. Where people live.’

  ‘People?’

  ‘Big things, on two legs.’

  He shrugged. ‘Never seen them.’

  ‘Don’t people ever pass this way?’

  ‘Never seen them,’ he repeated. ‘Never seen a town, either. No towns here.’

  ‘There’s a town not too far off.’

  ‘Can’t be any such thing. Never seen one.’

  ‘No, not here in the woods, but further away.’

  ‘There is no other place.’

  ‘Of course there is. The world’s far bigger than just this woodland!’

  ‘What woodland?’

  ‘Around us,’ I said, indicating with my nose. ‘Beyond these nearby trees.’

  ‘There’s nothing beyond those trees. I only know those.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever gone further than this glade?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To see what else there is.’

  ‘I know all there is.’

  ‘You don’t. There’s more.’

  ‘You’re mistaken.’

  ‘You’ve never seen me before, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I come from beyond the trees.’

  He puzzled over this for a minute. ‘Why?’ he said finally. ‘Why have you come from beyond the trees?’

  ‘Because I’m passing through. I’m on a journey.’

  ‘A journey to where?’

  ‘A town.’

  ‘What’s a town?’

  ‘Where people . . . oh, forget it!’

  He did, instantly. The frog wasn’t really that concerned.

  I stomped away, exasperated. ‘You’ll never turn into a handsome prince!’ I shouted over my shoulder.

  ‘What’s a handsome?’ he called back.

  The conversation made me ponder over the animals’ point of view. This amphibian obviously thought that the world was only that which he could see. It wasn’t even that there was nothing beyond, for he had never even asked himself the question. And it was that way for all animals (apart from a few of us): the world consisted of only what they knew – there was nothing else.

  I spent a restless and anxious night beneath an oak tree, the sound of an owl and its mate keeping me awake for most of the night. (It surprised me to discover the ‘to-whit-to-whoo’ was a combination of both birds – one hooted while the other twitted.) It wasn’t so much their calling to each other that bothered me, but their sudden swoops down on to vulnerable voles scurrying around in the dark below, the sudden screech culminating in the victim’s squeal of terror which disturbed and frightened me. I didn’t have the nerve to upset the owls, since they seemed vicious and powerful creatures, nor did I have the courage to wander around in the dark looking for a new sleeping-place. However, I did eventually fall into an uneasy sleep and
the following morning I went hunting for chickens with my new friend (I thought) – a red fox.

  I awoke to the sound of yapping. It was still dark – I estimated dawn was a couple of hours away yet – and the yaps came from not too far off. Lying perfectly still, I tried to detect in which direction the yaps came from, and from whom. Were there pups in this wood? Sure that the owls were now at rest, I inched my way forward away from the trees, my senses keened, and had not gone far when I came across the fox’s earth in a hollow under a projecting tree-root. A musty smell of excrement and food remains hit my nostrils and then I saw four sets of eyes gleaming out at me.

  ‘Who’s there?’ someone said in a half-frightened, half-aggressive, manner.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ I reassured them hastily. ‘It’s only me.’

  ‘Are you a dog?’ I was asked, and one set of eyes detached itself from the others. A fox skulked forward out of the gloom and I sensed rather than saw she was a she. A vixen.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Er, yes. Yes, I’m a dog,’ I told her.

  ‘What do you want here?’ Her manner had become menacing now.

  ‘I heard your pups. I was curious, that’s all.’

  She seemed to realize I was no threat and her attitude relaxed a little. ‘What are you doing in these woods?’ she asked. ‘Dogs rarely come in here at night.’

  ‘I’m on my way . . . somewhere.’ Would she understand what a town was?

  ‘To the houses where the big animals live?’

  ‘Yes, to a town.’

  ‘Do you belong to the farm?’

  ‘The farm?’

  ‘The farm on the other side of the woods. Over the meadows.’

  Her world was larger than the frog’s.

  ‘No, I don’t belong there. I’m from a big town, a city.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The vixen seemed to have lost interest now and turned back when a small voice called from the darkness.

  ‘Mum, I’m hungry!’ came the complaint.