George barked in annoyance. This was taking unfair advantage!
Rosie crept up to him. “What is it with humans and alcohol, George? Every time they go near it I see them behaving stupidly. And the stuff tastes foul – you surely don’t like it, do you?”
George didn’t feel he could quite explain to Rosie the peculiar attraction of 10-year-old Ardbeg. He did concede that Rosie was right about a lot of drinkers and their stupid behaviour. Especially in the market place at night, after pub closing time. What he wondered about, and now was denied the experimental evidence to resolve the issue, was whether it tasted as sublime to his canine taste buds as it had done just a few hours earlier to his human palate when he couldn’t resist the temptation for a quick nip whilst he was waiting for the mini to pick him up. George grumped again about this and shot a foul glance at Carol close beside him. The progress of scientific investigation was again being set back by the tiny-minded, overly practical and protective instincts of women compared, he thought, to the adventurous curiosity of menfolk who had a more abstract, theoretical and altogether wider interest in the laws that governed the universe.
George clambered to his feet. He had one woman at home who strove daily to confine his ambit as a man. And here was Carol insisting on doing the same when he was a dog. That was enough! It was time for George to exercise his rights as a free animal; as a dog off the leash; as an honest inquirer into the boundaries of science, the extent of his own canine capabilities, and the particular limits of these sand dunes. Having eaten and drunk his fill, well – that which he had been allowed – he would now up and off and go exploring. The leggy lovelies, all three of them, could do whatever they damn well wanted.
“Hello?” said Sally. “Where’s he off to now?” She noticed a determined look about his gait as George strode off and up the nearest dune
“Better pack these things away, Sal,” said Carol. “We’ll have to follow. Who knows what sort of mischief he’ll get into now he’s like this. Rosie!” she ordered. “You get after him first and keep an eye on what he’s up to until we get there.”
A frenzy of packing followed as the girls put everything back into bags, picked up their clothes, the blankets, assorted bottles of sun cream and oils and hurriedly stowed it all back in the car. They each pulled something over their tops before setting off after the dogs – they had no idea where they going now, whether it be into the sea or up inland. They agreed that George could be perfectly bloody-minded if it suited him.
George, as it happened, was sniffing out rabbits amongst the dunes. He had seen a movement and cantered over to inspect – only to find the creature concerned had bolted as soon as he had seen him coming. That was a challenge if ever he saw one! George ran across to inspect where his quarry had been – and there were the tell-tale droppings of rabbit, and marks leading away to a hole in the ground.
The next twenty minutes were taken by George finding one hole, then another and then more: a regular warren that extended some distance north along the coast and inland towards some golf links. Try as he might, however, he could not catch any rabbits. He could hear some movement down one tunnel and he even shouted down to ask if whatever was in there would like to come out and play. But he got no takers.
Rosie found him, snuffling around one opening. “I’m afraid it’s no use, George,” she said. “I’ve seen these rabbit warrens before. You can’t get in and they’ll never come out if they can smell you here.”
George nodded. Like with Mr Tibbs, the tabby cat at home who never believed him at first, no rabbit was going to risk coming out into the open and play the sort of games that hounds normally get up to with smaller mammals.
“Yeah – I guess you’re right,” he said. “Come on – let’s see what other fun can be had.” He trotted off in the direction of the golf links.
From atop the nearest dune a narrow road could be seen in the distance, rising and falling down towards them from the main A1 highway, heading for the coast. It came to an end not so far from where the two dogs stood – the road leading into a fenced-off clubhouse. The gate which marked the entry to the clubhouse and the end of the road also spawned a couple of footpaths that led further in their direction. One went onto the golf course proper; the other one led straight towards the beach, bisecting the links with the green of the fourth hole on one side and the tee for the fifth on the other. There were people moving across from the fourth to the fifth hole while George was looking. This deserved some investigation.
Before he could move, however, Carol called out: “Wait up, George!” The girls were coming.
He didn’t wait. George left Rosie behind and went ahead to reach the footpath where it opened onto the beach. He started jogging up it towards the golf course, passing a notice on the way that read:
EMBLEFORD GOLF COURSE. Private Property. No access beyond the public footpath. Keep all dogs on a lead.
This he ignored and kept going. George arrived to find a dozen or so people dotted around various places on the golf course, and in particular he noticed a large, round and expensively tailored man at that moment carting a golf bag across the path towards the fifth tee, followed by a second man of slighter and smaller build, also wheeling his golf cart, but not so ostentatiously attired.
The bigger of the two men – fat, self-important and overdressed – swore at the black greyhound that he saw approaching. He was the sort that has all the most expensive gear available: from his fancy flamboyant hat, down past his voluminous plus-fours to his large, spotless and unnecessarily-fringed golf shoes. He was the sort that thought putting on a show was the whole point about playing golf. He was the sort that George took an instant dislike to.
The fat man looked round and caught sight of Carol and Sally who were now coming up the path from the beach, following George. Rosie was with them and walking on a lead. Clearly in a bad mood, the fat man called out: “Hey! Can’t you read? Get your dog here under control – put him on a lead!”
This had the same effect on Carol as it did on George. She waited until she had walked up closer and did not need to shout, then she gave a sly wink at George and replied, “That, sir, is not my dog. My dog is with me, and as you can see, she is on a lead and very well-behaved. But I’ve never seen him,” here she pointed at George who was bouncing nearby with a grin on his face, “in my life before today, so if you want to get him under control, do it yourself!”
This was as much encouragement as George needed. He first galloped a wide circle around the fat man, yelping and whining and trying to act as the sort of friendly dog that wanted to play. Then at the irate call of: “Shoo! Get away! Go on!” George came loping up onto the fifth tee, looking at the fat man as innocently as a young pup. He sat down close by, put his head on one side and waited, looking as amicable and cooperative and harmless as could be. Carol and Sally walked on a few paces up the footpath and then stopped to see what would happen next. They knew perfectly well that George was planning something.
The fat man and his smaller companion had a little conversation where clearly they decided to ignore their various spectators and to continue playing. The larger, dominant one placed his ball on a tee, drew out a club from his golf bag and then shaped up to take a swing.
The black greyhound let out an enormous sneeze.
The fat man nearly fell over as he tried not to hit the ball. In fact, in swinging his club around and missing, he described a neat pirouette, nearly decapitated his colleague behind him and succeeded only in screwing his feet into the ground. Various colourful epithets followed, directed at Greyhound George, who only looked back as innocently as ever.
The fat man teed up again and, before starting his swing this time, he pointed his club at George and warned him in a low, threatening voice: “You villainous pooch – if you so much as uttered a sound again you’ll get this round your head!”
George didn’t twitch. He just sat there, smiling as well as any dog can, and looking as innocent as a babe. About as i
nnocent as dynamite on a short fuse, thought Carol. Meanwhile, the man took aim and hastily brought his club arcing down as quickly as he could before any other interruption could prevent it.
The golf ball whistled away into the blue and, as luck would have it, it seemed to be going in a straight line towards the distant flag, though perhaps it was not going quite so far as the fat golfer would have preferred. George went whistling away too, his elastic frame flying over the turf, his piercing eyes locked onto the little white ball where it dropped out of the heavens and bounced onto the fairway. To the consternation of the golfer, George caught the ball while it was still bouncing – a really neat bit of speed, skill and quick jaws – whereupon he did a quick about-turn to come racing back to where he started. Then George trotted up to the fat man and deposited the ball at his feet.
Carol and Sally both clapped enthusiastically.
“Isn’t he a good dog?” cried Sally. “Look! He went off to fetch the man’s ball for him.”
“Wasn’t that clever!” agreed Carol.
The air about the fifth tee exploded with a vocabulary that was really quite inventive, George thought as he retreated a safe distance from the man and his golf club. Then the fat man turned and looked at the girls as if he wanted to strangle their lovely necks. “The ball shouldn’t be touched,” he spluttered. “It’s not supposed to be returned to me!”
“Oh, isn’t it?” Carol asked, playing the dumb bimbo. “You don’t want to lose it, surely!”
This sent the fat man off into further colourful paroxysms. He banged his club from one podgy hand to another and darted looks of pure hostility first at George and then at the two girls.
“Don’t you know anything about golf, you idiot!” the fat man cursed. “I’m aiming for that flag!” He pointed at the fifth hole in the distance, his face reddening, his feet stamping on the ground.
Carol ventured the opinion to Sally that perhaps it was not only dogs that should be put on leads and kept under control on this golf course.
After a pause to allow time for his colleague to calm down, the smaller man eventually took his turn to tee off. George had returned to sitting and spectating again – only a little further away this time – and he now watched the next ball to go flying down the fairway. He didn’t move.
The fat man glared at the girls and then walked in George’s direction, shouting at him and trying to get him to go away. George politely retreated out of range, still with a look of innocence about him, and when the man and his threats receded, he then moved back to where he had been before.
Bang! Again the fat man drove off. Whoosh! As soon as the ball was in the air, away went George accelerating even faster than before as if driven by the voluble curses that were being hurled in his direction. Yet again George caught the ball before it had come to rest but this time off he went racing into the distance towards the flag on the fifth hole. He came scrabbling to a halt and, lowering his head, he promptly dropped the ball as close to the hole as he could. He then sat back on his haunches and looked at the four people at the tee who were watching him. He gave a triumphant bark.
“Oh bravo!” Sally applauded.
“What an intelligent animal!” cried Carol at the fat golfer. “Look – he understood what you were trying to do and he’s helping you.”
“Aaagh!” The fat man threw his club into the bag and, swearing like a carpenter who has just hammered his thumb, off he stomped down the fairway, refusing to look at the girls and yanking his golf cart behind him.
“I say!” said Carol loudly at the man’s disappearing back. “You’d think he’d be a bit more grateful to dumb animals, don’t you reckon?”
Sally tried to control a fit of giggling.
The smaller man left behind on the tee started packing away his club and tried hard not to smirk as he prepared to follow after his unfortunate partner. Carol and Sally waved goodbye as he set off.
“Do thank your bad-tempered friend for the giving us such entertainment,” Carol called out.
“We have enjoyed this afternoon,” agreed Sally. “We do hope you will too.”
The smaller man turned to look back and wave in return. He wore a broad smile across his face.
“Well that one’s a gentleman at least,” said Carol to her friend. They recommenced walking up the footpath, Rosie dutifully coming with them. In the distance, before he left the fifth hole and before his overweight adversary could reach him, George cocked a leg and watered the flag, the green and the little white golf ball that rested just a few inches from its destination. Then he bounded away into the sand dunes and disappeared.
It was some fifteen minutes later when all four met up again at the red mini. The girls and Rosie were waiting for him and as soon as they saw George swaggering his way back down the dunes towards them they burst into fits of laughter.
“George, you old rogue, that was simply magnificent. Don’t try and tell us you’ve never been a clown in a circus!” Carol bent down to give him a hug; George promptly licked her nose.
“We knew all along there was a wild creature inside you,” said Sally. “It just needed the doggy side of your personality to let it out!”
One way or the other there was much celebration at what had transpired. The girls were profuse in their praise of George’s antics, and he was really quite pleased with himself for dreaming up some original retribution for an individual who had been exceedingly offensive and obnoxious to his escorts, quite apart from the threats made to his own canine person. Rosie came round to nuzzle up and quietly add her own congratulations.
Lapping up adulation from all sides was something that George thought he could quite get used to. It wasn’t something he had previously been familiar with, so he indulged in it thoroughly while he could get it. He held his head in the air, closed his eyes and enjoyed the petting and nuzzling like a Hollywood lothario or a sultan in his harem. George even got to wondering if he might ever experience such a luxury in a bedchamber of his own. Then he was given the command to get into the car.
“That’s enough of that, George,” Carol ordered, “standing there like some Egyptian dog-god. Now we’re going to shut you in the car while Sally and I change out of our beach wear. Avert your eyes like a good man – or dog! ”
And in such ways does bliss become bathos. The problem with becoming four-legged, George realised, is that people treat you as if you are a dumb animal. They are happy to pet and fawn all over you if that is how they feel at the time, but the next minute you are mere decoration; an inferior; a lesser being to be told what to do, ordered about, expected to jump through hoops, even. Locked away in the mini, George gave vent to his feelings in no uncertain manner.
Half hidden behind a sand dune and hearing the commotion he was causing, Carol raised a head into his line of sight. “It’s no use complaining, George,” she called out to him. “What’s a girl to do with a lively beast like you about? It’s not like we don’t trust you while we’re stripping off…”
Here Sally’s head popped up. “But we don’t trust you!”
Both girls started laughing again.
George sank back grumpily onto the car seat. He couldn’t clamber across to the front and work his large paws around the door catch that would ensure his freedom, so there was nothing to do but wait. And waiting for women to dress and arrange their affairs can take for ever, he realised. He was still sulking several long minutes later when the doors opened and his two female consorts, continuing in high spirits, climbed into the mini.
As Sally started up and turned the car round to drive off, Carol looked back over to her subdued passenger. She thought she recognised what he was feeling. The psychologist in her was getting into top gear just as the car was.
“I don’t think he was happy, Sal – us shutting him up in here and depriving him of his liberty for so long. We cut him off in his prime for ten minutes or more and so he won’t forgive us. D’you know what? The problem is that George’s mind is still the same as
it was but now he finds it in a youthful and athletic body. Naturally he wants to dash about in a rejuvenated fashion and do all the things that he never allowed himself to do when he was younger and in training to be a respectable, well-behaved and thoroughly expurgated accountant. Like spy on us in the buff, for example.”
That was an unjust gibe: George wuffed in protest. Not that anyone took notice.
“Well, I should think he should be jolly grateful, in that case. I mean, I know he’s a dog, but how many other middle-aged men get that chance? There’s no reason just to sit there with a long face and look all sour and moody.”
“I don’t think he can help the long face, Sal.”
“No. Perhaps not. But cheer up, George – we didn’t lock you up for long!”
They were at it again – talking about him when he had no chance of reply. He growled and fidgeted about on the back seat as if he wanted to jump out of the car and run off. But of course, he couldn’t; he just had to settle back and put up with the long drive home while his companions chattered about him interminably.
Chapter 9
Entering Durham, the girls parked a short distance away from St Bartholomew’s College in the quiet road outside the little terrace house that they rented. They had left that morning with one greyhound and returned with two and, now they were back home, were not quite sure what to do with their guest. George took advantage of this indecision to have a quick look around – after all, he reasoned, these two unpredictable females knew where he lived; it was only fair that their abode become known to a volatile quadruped.
“He’s rather a nosey beast, isn’t he?” remarked Sally, after George had run up and down stairs, in and out of bed and bathrooms and had inspected the lounge, kitchen and had looked out the rear window at the tiny back yard.
“Yes – it’s a wonder he hasn’t opened the wardrobes in both bedrooms and played around with all our underwear. You know what some old men are like…”
Greyhound George Page 9
