Success! A chorus of cheers and whistles went up this time – a number of walkers taking a Sunday stroll along the footpath had now joined the dog owners and the general opinion from all observers except the sour-faced man in the Barbour jacket was that this was first-class entertainment. The dogs themselves were all excited about their achievement. The Labrador bitch, mightily impressed by George’s leadership, made it known that she was quite partial to the notion of producing puppies in great number with his assistance. In fact she would quite like to produce a veritable team of synchronised mongrel greyhounds if he might be persuaded to go home with her? George politely declined the offer, much as he was flattered and complimented by such female devotion, but he explained that he was a sworn celibate for reasons he couldn’t go into just yet. No, he wasn’t gay, he emphasised, but he possessed, er, a very volatile character and he could not approve of unstable fathers. Rosie, meanwhile, sidled up to the other bitch and whispered, quite emphatically in her ear, that she had better lay off for the moment or this older female would be forced to teach the younger an unforgettable lesson in pack hierarchy.
George noticed a nubile, tracksuited figure calling out from amongst the people assembled on the footpath. This required a decision. Had he finished with the formation running with his associates or not? He had the idea of maybe dancing, or even perhaps an imaginative design of dogs running backwards in unison? One thing he really fancied was them all sitting in a circle, raising their heads and howling out the same tune. The only doggy song he could think of at the moment was by The Beatles: ‘Hey Bulldog!’ but he doubted he could teach others this if they didn’t know it. OK, give it a rest for a bit.
So George called the pack together and suggested a few minutes’ time-out. Rufus and Mucker said they’d thoroughly enjoyed themselves and they were up for anything else he wanted to try out, anytime; the two Dalmatians thanked George ruefully for showing them a more spirited side to life. Rosie came over, nuzzled his nose and suggested they go off and see Carol together. Meanwhile the Labrador bitch sat on her haunches and gave a little whimper. Sod it all, thought George, you can’t please everyone.
Approaching the line of onlookers, George attracted a chorus of comments, nearly all appreciative. Rosie went straight up to Carol but George hovered back and made a show of accepting the plaudits. He nodded and smiled and bowed, much to the delight and amusement of his audience.
“You old rogue!” Carol caught his eye. “I never know when and in what guise I’ll see you next…though I guess you enjoy giving everyone the run around…”
She grinned at the greyhound. He grinned back.
“Madam, do you know this animal?” asked a voice at Carol’s side. It was the man in the Barbour jacket and Hunter boots.
“Sort of,” Carol replied, still smiling. “I see him around now and again, but I’m getting to think my dog knows him better than I.”
“Well, my dogs won’t come back to me with him around. Where’s his owner? He needs putting under control!”
“I don’t think he has an owner,” said Carol, looking back at Greyhound George. “He had one once but no one controls him now. I don’t think he can even control himself these days. A right chameleon! Totally unpredictable.”
George wuffed indignantly at this. Carol laughed but the Barbour man was not amused.
“I’ll control him if he comes any closer, the brute!” He waved his stick at George and called him a few ripe names. He then shouted out again to summon his Dalmatians over. That annoyed George. He growled and bared his teeth. He was proud of his fine set of incisors (far better than the ivories he sported in his human form) and thought he’d give this unpleasant individual the full benefit of them. Grrrr! He snarled again, then he suddenly bounded away and went back to join the other dogs.
Hello! thought Carol. What’s he up to now?
The Barbour man didn’t think at all. He just kept shouting, waving his stick and cursing George from a distance. He then left the footpath and started off in the direction of the dogs in the attempt to get his pets to return to him.
Meanwhile George suggested one last manoeuvre to his pack of followers. He told the Dalmatians that he was sorry they had such tiresome owner but they were all going to put on a show that would shake him up a bit and enthral and delight everyone else. Were they ready?
Oh yes they were. So George laid out his plans, a particular choreography with a heroic role for Mucker, he said, that he was sure that Mucker would be pleased with.
And so the dance began. They started in single file but then on a signal bark each danced sideways, crossing one leg over the other, moving as a wave towards their audience. Another bark and the wave danced back, again crossing legs one over the other. Shouts, laughter and hoots of encouragement followed this display. It was the most comical performance possible – a line of prancing animals stepping it out together. The wave moved back and came close to the Barbour man – the only one of the audience that was not applauding this show. At last, George released the Dalmatians to approach their owner who stood still just in front of the crowd of onlookers with dogs converging upon him. George suddenly accelerated, leapt over the backs of the Dalmatians, up and in the face of their owner where he made as if to snap at him. Surprised, the poor man tried to step back only to find Mucker under his feet.
Over he went – plop! Down into the mud, rolling back with his feet in the air in this minefield of dogs’ droppings. Another chorus of hoots and laughter went up. George ran a rapid circle around the man, barking and celebrating his downfall. More laughter from everyone except one furious and red-faced man covered in mud and dog manure. George bounced about one last time, calling out to all his fellow quadrupeds and saying cheerio – it was time to retreat and leave the assembled company to its own devices – dogs, owners, walkers and all. He raced away, back over the stile, across the road and off in the direction of his row of houses. He looked back as he did so – seeing Rufus and Mucker scampering after him, grinning like crazy, and beyond them, Carol in the distance waving goodbye and holding onto Rosie. The show was over.
As George cantered past the tree at the head of the access lane he noticed Mr Tibbs, high up in the branches.
“Get a good view?” he enquired.
“Yes thanks, George,” the tabby cat replied. “Dog dancing – whatever next? Most enjoyable, but you’ll never get me doing that!”
“Wouldn’t try,” barked George. He knew well enough that cats were solitary adventurers and any escapades with them would have to take that into account. His doggy buddies, however, were an altogether more sociable lot. George came to a halt outside his back garden gate and turned to meet his new pals.
“I think it’s time to say goodbye for the time being,” he said to Rufus and Mucker when they caught him up. “I’d rather like to take rest now…But how did you enjoy that?”
He needn’t have asked. The two mongrels were tireless in their praise and appreciation of the morning’s activities and George was forthwith invited to become a full member and honoured guest choreographer of the Durham Pack of strays, wastrels and reprobates. He was much affected by this generosity, thanked his friends profusely and promised to look in on their company whenever he was next in town and in the appropriate shape for adventure.
With snorts and snuffles all round, the three said their goodbyes. Actually quite tired now, George pattered over to his garage, wriggled his way under the door and searched for a spot to lie down. He never bothered to check his back garden gate – he was sure Bella would have locked it as soon as he had disappeared earlier so he found a place in the corner of the garage where he could pull down an old overcoat off a peg on the wall and spread it about just in front of the Land Rover. Neither in his human frame, nor as greyhound, was George endowed with rolls of fat, so a comfortable resting place was important to him. George kept a battered old clock on the workbench – he caught sight of it just before he flopped down. 7.30 am – it was still early. He fi
dgeted a bit to arrange the overcoat to his liking and then closed his eyes. He fell immediately asleep.
George woke up in pyjamas. That figured. He was wearing those when he doggified in the night so, as before, that was what he returned to when his alter-ego wore off. He got up from the overcoat and shook his aching frame. I must remember to put something more comfortable down in the garage next time, he told himself. Better to be prepared for all eventualities. He took a glance at his clock – goodness, only 7.40 am: he had been out only as long as it took to change shape, it seemed.
His metamorphoses intrigued him now. He didn’t feel anything. Switching from one to another always seemed to happen when he was asleep so there was no sense of travelling into another reality with flashing lights and electronic sounds like he had seen in numerous science-fiction films and television programmes. He wondered if it was all a state of mind that brought it on and brought it off. He had an inkling of what caused it, he reckoned it was a need to escape – he feared to dwell upon that now – and then when he had been a greyhound for a while it seemed his mind had relaxed enough for him to return to human form again.
So be it – time to follow a human lifestyle now. George recovered his keys from under the Land Rover and lifted and lowered the drop-down door sufficiently to let himself out. He didn’t close it completely behind him but left a little gap, sufficient for a dog to insert a head and heave it up a fraction. Again he was pleased with himself for keeping the door mechanism well-oiled and easy enough for someone half his size to manipulate. Then he crossed over to his back gate, fully expecting it be bolted on the inside so that he would have to walk round to the front of the row of houses and let himself in by his front door. But no – not only was it not bolted, but it was not even closed to. The gate yielded to the slightest push – indeed it was as he had left it when he exited on four legs earlier…though he could have sworn it was not like that on his return: hence his recourse to the garage. George stood for a second, wondering if he had been mistaken.
He opened the gate a little more and stepped inside – only to find Smarmy Stephen hiding within, his expression fixed hard and holding a cricket bat above his head.
“Looking for a game, Stephen?” asked George pleasantly. “Didn’t know you were a sportsman.”
“Um…no.”
“Bit cramped in here, don’t you think?” George continued. “You’d be better off going down to the recreation grounds.”
“Yes…no…” Smarmy Stephen was a little at a loss, not expecting the master of the property to be returning at that moment. “I wasn’t thinking of playing cricket.”
“Just thought you’d lay me out in my own garden then?” asked George. “Your idea of neighbourly fun and games, is it?”
“No, no, I was waiting for a dog…”
“Of course. In my own garden. Playing bat and ball with a dog. In amongst the rose bushes. You feeling all right today, Stephen?”
Before he could answer, Annabel looked out of the kitchen door. Hearing voices, she wanted to know what was happening. Naturally enough, seeing her husband, she resorted to frontal assault.
“George! Whatever are you doing here in your pyjamas?”
“Hello, Annabel. I live here, didn’t you know? Went out for a breather. Took the morning air. Went to freshen myself up, that sort of thing.”
“Don’t be so sarcastic, George. It doesn’t suit you. And don’t try and deny you put that evil dog in the bedroom with me. Wicked! Spiteful! Unspeakably malicious of you! I know what you’re up to – you’re trying to make the worst of my nightmares come true.”
“Put a dog into bed with you? Nothing of the sort, my dear. I went out. True. In my pyjamas, true. But what is in your nightmares is down to your own guilty and clearly very fertile conscience and I have no responsibility for what you dream up. Now, what Stephen Maxwell is doing in our garden with a cricket bat I would have thought you might have questioned? He doesn’t live here…at least not to my knowledge, though goodness knows what goes on here when my back is turned.”
Annabel’s face blushed to the roots of her hair but she wasn’t conceding anything. “There’s nothing going on here other than trying to catch a big, black, vicious dog. I saw it outside only ten or fifteen minutes ago. You weren’t here, so I asked Stevie…”
George looked around the garden. He made a point of poking his head outside the back gate and looking up and down the lane outside.
“There are no black dogs anywhere in sight. In fact I’ve never seen any vicious black dogs within miles of this place…unless you are talking about that fat, waddling Labrador who lives across the lane from here and is about as menacing as the cold rice pudding his owner feeds him on occasions.” George turned to address Stephen Maxwell. “Stephen, I think you and your cricket bat should go home now. Nice to know you once played the summer game, very civilised of you, but leave my wife and her hallucinations to me now, thank you.” There was a note of finality in his voice.
To his credit, Stephen Maxwell snorted and did as he was bid. George could see he was somewhat fed up standing sentry duty for a non-existent dog.
Annabel was beside herself, however. “I was not hallucinating! There was a dog outside just a few moments ago. The one that was in the bedroom with me – in your bed – the same one that has been terrorising the neighbourhood around here. And you are the only one who could have put it there!”
“Yes, dear, of course. I went out and fetched it in the middle of the night, did I? Put it to bed next to you without either of us making a sound? Of course I did. But look! It’s gone now so there’s no need to worry. Let’s have breakfast…”
Annabel fumed and protested but George wasn’t listening. In fact, he felt rather pleased with himself. It had been no part of his intention that night to wake up and terrify his wife, but the way things had turned out he had in some measure got back at Annabel for her infidelity. And he’d now managed to make Stephen Maxwell look a bit of a simpleton too. That and the morning’s display of canine creativity that had ridiculed the dog castrator, all in all, it had been a good hour or so’s work. George whistled contentedly, if not exactly tunefully, as he fried egg and bacon and served the same to his wife and himself. Annabel sat and consumed it all with hardly a word; her face was a picture of frustration and fury and George could see she dearly wished to pin all the accusations on her husband and if possible nail him to the floor with them…but it wasn’t going to work. Annabel would have to admit that her story would stretch the credulity of even the most wife-friendly of divorce lawyers.
The Sunday papers had been delivered so, after breakfast, still in his pyjamas but now covered with a dressing gown, George retired to his study and devoted a couple of hours to reading them through. He didn’t usually spend so much time perusing the press but after his run out, and the excitement that had both preceded and terminated that exercise, he didn’t feel like doing anything much just yet. And single malt whisky went down well with the sports section – especially since Newcastle United had just won at home. George was smilingly content with life.
Annabel meanwhile was not at all happy. She was convinced that George had something to do with the appearance and disappearance of the Hound of Saint Bartholomew’s this morning but there was no way she could prove it. She went out to prune the roses, not that they really needed it but Annabel needed to. She went up and down examining each bush. She looked at every leaf, every bud, every stalk and detail on the standard roses. She muttered under her breath; she muttered out loud; she even found herself issuing a number of quite inventive curses. After several rounds of clippings and curses, she went and fetched the garden rake – a good excuse to clear the lawn of the debris from the roses and also to aerate it. A few savage strokes with the rake turned out to be remarkably good therapy – especially thinking of how someone’s head could also be quite effectively aerated like this. Brandishing the rake quite flagrantly in one hand and thinking such heart-warming thoughts, she tal
ked to the roses quite animatedly – asking them what should she do and how could she somehow rid herself of dog, nightmares and husband? They were all interlinked, she was absolutely certain. Maybe, just maybe…the thought came to her in a flash…maybe George and that damn dog were one and the same? She stopped and thought about that: a ridiculous idea, but nonetheless there was an infuriating similarity in their characters. If she could get rid of one of them, perhaps the other would disappear as well? That would certainly be the test of her supposition. And what a liberation it would be for her as well. Annabel Potts resumed raking with renewed savagery.
Chapter 12
Recently-retired Professor Geoffrey Collins O.B.E. was approaching his 67 th birthday. As the ex-Master of St Bartholomew´s College, University of Durham, he had been invited to a Formal Dinner back at his old haunts to celebrate his anniversary. He telephoned the current Master of College, Dr Jonathan Adams, to confirm.
“Who’s going to be there for this dinner, Jonathan?” Professor Collins asked.
“Up to you, old fruit,” replied Dr Adams. “It’s your do; who do you want to invite?”
“Um, well it had better be open to the members of the Senior Common Room, as normal, but you know what, you’ve appointed a number of new staff this year, haven’t you? I’d rather like to meet them and see how they’re getting on. Gotta keep in touch, don’t y’know.”
“Of course. And you’ve heard about two of them I’m sure… Still got an eye for the ladies, eh, Geoffrey?”
Professor Geoffrey Collins harrumphed. His successor had hit it in one. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he laughed.
“No, I’m sure you don’t,” laughed Dr Adams in return. “But don’t worry, I’ll make sure that our new Student Welfare Officer and her friend from Psychology both come along. I’ll send them personal invitations, though you won’t be the only one wanting to talk to them. They’ve certainly shaken up the Senior Common Room and in addition half the young men in the JCR seem to want welfare appointments. I never knew we had so many problem students!”
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