Greyhound George

by Cleaver, Tony

  Yet here, in her home, in her bedroom, in her husband’s bed and slumbering under the bedclothes was a big, black greyhound. Her earlier injunction to let sleeping (or dead) dogs lie did not, she now realised, actually apply to any dog sleeping (or being dead) right next to her.

  The lingering flavour of Islay whisky was the last thing of his dreams that George was able to enjoy – he was appreciatively savouring the last of it on his tongue and smacking his lips vigorously when he was suddenly aroused by a piercing shriek. It was a shriek to waken a stone statue; to shatter mirrors; to pierce the morning mist and frighten the birds in the distant woodlands. It was 6.00am in the morning, Annabel was standing on the other side of the room from George in her long nightdress and she was staring goggle-eyed at him and raising the roof with her screams.

  “Oh bloody hell!” George groaned. He opened one eye to look at his wife. He knew in an instant what the problem was. He kicked all four legs to try and release himself from the bedclothes and as he did so the screeching went up a key and the decibel count climbed from deafening to seismic, wall-trembling intensity. Annabel had hearty lungs.

  Greyhound George freed himself from all encumbrances, stood up on the bed and looked balefully at the woman in front of him. He tried to tell her to shut up. He was in a foul mood, being robbed of his sleep so early on a Sunday, but he conceded belatedly that perhaps his attitude was not one that Annabel would find too amenable. Certainly, angry dog language commanding the listener to pipe down a bit might be easily intelligible to other quadrupeds, even to two-footed and winged creatures, but hysterical middle-aged women of regimented routines and of blinkered perception did not fall into either category. Annabel’s high-pitched and continuous shriek turned into a series of two-tone, but equally ear-splitting squawks – a bit like being shut in a room with a police or ambulance siren.

  George gave up on her. He jumped off the bed and, glaring at the human occupant of the room, he turned towards the bedroom door. Annabel instantly dived to pick up a pillow off her bed and shake it at him. She was careful to keep hold of it, however, and keep it between her and dog.

  “Go away! Shoo!” The squawking stopped and was replaced by insults. “You monster; you filthy, smelly, flea-bitten beast…I bet George smuggled you in here to give me a fright! He’s done this, I just know it. I’ll divorce him for sure now. Go on! Get OUT!”

  Annabel shook the pillow again and was relieved to see the wild and hateful source of all her nightmares wander out of the bedroom and go trotting downstairs. She ran across and shut the door behind it. But now she was trapped and couldn’t leave the room. This was intolerable! She would murder George for this. He must be the one responsible – there was no way else for that ugly, vicious creature to get into the house and into his bed. What a mean and spiteful mind he must have to go and find that beast and surreptitiously introduce it into the bed next to her whilst she was asleep! George had an evil mind and he had perpetrated a wicked deed. She would go to the lawyers now and insist on a divorce. She would claim psychological cruelty; that he was impossible to live with; that he was on the road to being criminally vindictive. And he smelled at night too – as much as that dog.

  Annabel was thinking of all the ways she could use this frightening episode to build up a case in law against her husband. As she was doing so, she looked down out of the bedroom window to the back garden below and to her delight saw this fiendish black outlaw, this central evidence in her propaganda, saunter out amongst the rose bushes. Immediately she rushed to the bedroom door, flung it open, almost fell down the stairs in her haste and then flew to the back door where she locked it shut. Phew! She could relax now.

  But what should she do? That nightmare of a hound should be done away with, permanently if possible, and quickly. It had caused enough problems in college and now it was here. It certainly should not be left to wander around and terrorise her home and others about – not Stevie’s and not hers. She would be unable to rest. Would the council come and take it away? Possibly…but possibly not. Maybe she should find someone to take matters in hand immediately, with no fuss and bother, to finish with this dog and release her from the fear that this torment would suddenly reappear. Yes, that was the only sure solution. She would go and see Stevie. He’d do it.

  George, meanwhile, had decided that, now he was up and in the best of canine health, he needed to take a run outside and exercise his finely tuned physique. He reckoned that like any high-tech, superbly balanced racing machine he needed to give it a blast to test all moving parts and blow away any dust and cobwebs that might be clogging his tubes. My! What enjoyment there was to be had in being a greyhound! He was raring to let loose. Mind, he was certain that as soon he was out of the house it would be locked and bolted behind him so he’d better take his keys with him. He didn’t know when, or in what form, he would return. He fetched the keys from his study, levered down the back door and went into the garden. As before, he had left the back garden gate unbolted so it was just a matter of levering down the handle and going free. This achieved, he trotted over to the garage and, with a bit of effort, managed to raise the drop-down door sufficiently to get his head under and drop the keys behind the back wheel of the Land Rover. Job done. He was now ready for his run.

  Bright and early Sunday morning the birds were still singing and George’s heart was racing along with them. Oh to be free! He cantered over the first few yards of the footpath that led away from his village and zigzagged his way round the droppings of fat, overfed dogs that lazy owners had pushed into the field. Fifty or more yards of this and he thought he’d let rip. The hedgerow at the top of the rise beckoned and he wondered how quick he could make it.

  The soft earth beneath his feet showered up behind him as he topped the rise in seconds. No contest! Where next? The hedgerow gave off a rainbow of different scents. His nose still needed training in this odoriferous dimension so he could only pick up a few. Rabbits? That was challenge. He immediately looked up and searched around. A sight hound, he looked immediately for any twitch of movement that would send him off like a homing missile. Nothing yet. But there was another smell or two he recognised: Rosie! Thinking on it, it wasn’t so far from here where George first encountered her and her dangerously attractive, unsettling owner. George’s pulse was yet again pumping crazily at the thought of her. He reckoned the scent was old but nonetheless he shook his head and jumped skittishly away from this place where these two had obviously stopped a while ago.

  George’s own movement caused a clump of earth a short distance away to move as well. It wasn’t a clump of earth – it was a rabbit! George was off in a flash. Whoopee! The joy of the chase! It wasn’t so joyful for the poor bunny – a big, overconfident buck that had strayed a little too far from the hedgerow. The sight of open, slavering jaws and wicked-looking teeth coming in its direction at top speed made it dash for cover as fast as its legs could propel it. Not fast enough – George crashed into it like an express train and bowled it over a yard short of safety. Hooray! George was ecstatic – he’d won the race. Skidding to a halt and returning once more to his quarry he found the rabbit paralysed with fear. George stopped. This was no fun.

  “Go on!” George said. “Run for it. I’m not gonna eat you!”

  No reaction. The big buck was still frozen. In the distance however, there was more movement. The wind was in his face and George could pick up the scent of other dogs.

  “Look,” said George, “there’s someone else coming now, so if you don’t move quickly then some other hound will find you and you won’t be so lucky. I was only playing but they won’t be…Go on, shoot!”

  Still no reaction. George lost interest in the petrified rabbit and looked at what appeared to be two Dalmatians coming in his direction. They had their heads down, sniffing the terrain and being upwind from George had not noticed him yet. Time for more fun. He’d charge into their midst and by the time introductions had been made all round the rabbit should have recovered fro
m shock and found cover under the hedgerow. George didn’t want to see murder committed on his account.

  Off he charged once more, bouncing like a kangaroo as he closed on the other hounds.

  “Hiya you two!” he barked cheerily. “What’s doing?”

  Nothing much, it turned out. It was a dog and a bitch who were friendly enough but there was something subdued about them. George was full of the joys of the early morning and leaping around as if on springs. The two Dalmatians were handsome-looking animals, they smiled at their new acquaintance, bouncing around and full of beans, but there was no boisterous doggy reaction as might have been expected. George’s effervescence was not reciprocated.

  “What’s up?” George enquired.

  Dog and bitch were slow to respond. They looked at George in envy; deferentially.

  “You’ve not been done, have you…” said the dog. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. The bitch said nothing, only smiled again.

  “Oh bloody hell!” said George. Of course they were handsome animals: that was what their owner wanted. Two Dalmatians that were good to look at; beautiful possessions; dogs as fashion accessories. They probably rode in a Range Rover. Here came the owner now, walking up with his stick at his side, dressed in his Barbour jacket, waxed cotton hat and Hunter wellies, calling his two pets. Pets for God’s sake! George gave a howl and bounded off, glaring at the owner as he passed. He took a good look at him: tall, suntanned, glasses, striking-looking features – so that’s what a dog castrator looked like!

  “Bastard!” called out George. He raced off along the hedgerow.

  It was two fields later that George slowed to a walk. He was still angry – with himself as much as anything. Domesticating animals, neutering them so that they fitted in to human-compatible environments, was the urban world he had come from. He had accepted that before but his perspective on that world had now, naturally enough, shifted considerably. He had a very personal appreciation of animal-kind at present and was glad he had never subscribed to the practice of emasculating dogs to make them more docile and acceptable. He shivered at the thought of it. He wondered also, in an idle, canine-wandering way as he happened upon a footpath that crossed in front of him, if there was anything that animals could do to get their own back.

  Chapter 11

  George took the path that crossed his present route because he knew it led eventually, after a somewhat circuitous journey, back to the minefield he had started in and from there, across the road to the access lane behind his own terrace. It was still early, and apart from one or two motors now parked in the lay-by on the road, he saw no signs of life. He trotted up the lane towards his garage and found to his surprise a welcoming committee.

  “Here he comes!” called Mr Tibbs from atop the next-door garden shed.

  “Hurrah!” barked a couple of dogs, waiting outside George’s back garden gate. They were hairy mutts, one large with what looked like the strains of sheepdog hiding somewhere within the forest that sprouted all over him; the other was smaller, an indescribable mongrel with savaged ears and the look of having survived numerous fights. They both had bright eyes and the look of independent spirits about them. Neither had a collar. George warmed towards them at once.

  “Hi guys,” George offered in friendly mode, wagging his tail. “What’s doing?”

  “Just hanging around, waiting for you,” said the savaged-eared mongrel. “We saw you go out earlier. Hadn’t seen you before, but now we heard you’re in the habit of chasing people round here.”

  “Yeah, Tibbs has told us all about it,” said the sheepdog-like one. “Good for you. This woman makes a habit of throwing stones at us. So does the man further down. And we aren’t doing any harm sniffing about these back alleys – why they gotta go and get all aggressive, eh?”

  George commiserated. He thought he recognised them – a couple of strays that turned up now and again in the village, usually looking for titbits around the back of the local shop and the pub. He’d never paid much notice of them before, but now he enquired after their life stories. The bigger, hairier one was Rufus. An adorable puppy, he said, until he grew out of it and the family he was with tired of him. Drove him miles away from his home, which was somewhere in the south, took him for a walk in Durham woods and then disappeared, leaving him behind. “They left me worrying a bag of some meat or other and whilst I was busy trying to get into it, off they went. I heard the car drive away and thought they’d come back. No such luck!”

  Then there was Mucker. He didn’t have a real name – but he mucked about with anyone and everyone. Born in the back yard of some transport café on the motorway, a lorry driver had taken pity on him and carried him about for a bit, but then Mucker had got loose and the lorry drove off. “My fault,” said Mucker. “Me being just too inquisitive, like. I got out and went sniffing round some petrol stop, and I guess my driver couldn’t find me and had to go.”

  “Well, glad to make your acquaintance, the two of you,” said George. “You came here looking for some action?”

  Both dogs grinned. They yapped in agreement. They were definitely the fun-loving sort, always on the look-out for whatever opportunities life threw their way. These were not docile, domesticated, beaten-into-submission types. George wondered if there was a Range Rover they might visit locally.

  “How about going to the footpath, nearby?” suggested George. “There’re always people driving up on a Sunday to take their pets out for a walk there. Let’s be sociable and go meet ‘em.” The possibilities of creative chaos were endless, he thought. “Wanna come, Tibbs?” George called up.

  Mr Tibbs said he would follow at a distance. Gatherings of dogs were not his preferred company but he would find a tree, make himself comfy and watch whatever transpired.

  The two cars in the lay-by had now spawned a third. The first there was not a Range Rover but a big Toyota, George saw. He wondered if the Dalmatians belonged to it, but until the occupants returned there was no way to know just yet. The footpath beckoned. The stile that led to it was the sort with a dog gate beside which Greyhound George had never bothered with – leaping athletically over the wooden barrier. Nonetheless it was very considerate of the council to provide local residents with this means to facilitate canine exercise; not that many dog owners strayed far from their cars.

  George bounded over the stile in one. Mucker applauded vociferously but leant against the spring-loaded dog-gate. He was not the size to go leaping over metre-high obstacles and so chose the easier option. Rufus duly followed. Once inside the field the three dogs were of the same opinion – they shared the world with too many fat and unfit brothers and sisters that were a disgrace to the species. In fact there were a couple in front now – a golden Labrador and some sort of cross-bred spaniel. George went loping up to say hello.

  Introductions were made without too much fuss. The owners of the two dogs were quickly ignored and within seconds all five dogs were racing around together, laughing, shouting and playing tag. George, naturally, was by far and away the most streamlined, supple and accomplished of all and drew admiring glances from the entire company. In particular, the golden Labrador, a bitch, was young and impressionable and took a real shine to this virile newcomer who apparently deferred to no human and exercised himself with no regard to the calling, whistling and other attempts to rein him under control.

  The attractions of this circle of hounds all quite clearly enjoying their liberation then attracted the appearance of the two Dalmatians. Hooray! George was delighted to see them come running down from the hedgerow above and display a modicum of independence from their Barboured oppressor. He welcomed them with wholehearted enthusiasm. Five dogs had become seven and this called for some sort of celebration.

  George quickly got the pack sorted. The first enterprise was a run across the field, east-west in V-formation, George taking the lead. That looked pretty neat, he thought: three dogs fanned out on his left, another three fanned out on the right. Then he thoug
ht they would look even better on the return run if the dogs were sorted in size: biggest in the centre, smallest on the wings. The west-east run drew gasps and applause from at least one of the attending owners. There was at least one discriminating human who could appreciate creative canine endeavour, it seemed.

  What next? Mucker came running up, tongue hanging out and absolutely profuse in his felicitations. Being the wing-dog racing along at the perimeter he reported that he’d never before seen such an impressive display of poetry in motion. George thanked him but thought he was overdoing it a bit. Nonetheless, the standard had been set – how were they going to top that?

  How about two oblique lines converging from either side of the field and running through each other? One dog from one side, alternating with one from the other like George had seen on motorbike displays? Neat idea but they were only seven hounds. It wouldn’t work without a symmetrical number.

  Then as if to answer his prayers, Rosie appeared. Rosie! She had galloped across as soon as she had seen what was going on in this field and George could not help but be delighted – symmetrical dog displays were now on the agenda. He gave an appreciative lick on Rosie’s nose. He suggested – much to the chagrin of the golden Labrador – that Rosie take the lead in the opposite line to his own and quickly explained to all the idea of one dog passing between two of the opposite, in converging lines. There was a little doggy confusion about this at first but the Dalmatians knew exactly what he meant – one advantage of domestication was that they were accustomed to doing what they were told.

  Off they went – four dogs in the southwest corner, four in the southeast. At the agreed bark they all set off running in single file converging on the middle of the field – largest first, smallest last. On passing through each other and arriving at the northeast and northwest corners of the field respectively then they did the return run – smallest first, largest last. Coming downhill this time they went faster and all had to be careful not to collide with their opposite numbers.