Archive for September, 2009

It was quite obvious that I could not let this happen and a number of plans sprang immediately to mind. Feigning illness had worked before, but I suspected the Vet was wise to that trick and would send me there anyway with a note explaining my sickness and expecting them to nurse me back to good health.  Not much chance of that, I thought.

I could go into hiding, but our meeting barn was now being turned into an opulent mansion and we had yet to find a permanent home. The boys would try to help, but with the cold weather coming on I did not fancy sleeping rough as I would have to do because all the garden sheds and garages were securely bolted after a series of burglaries in the area.

As Mrs Kennedy was temporarily not with us, I could not find shelter in her house and there were no empty properties in the village where I could bed down without being caught. And everyone is talking about a slump in the housing market – it certainly has not reached us. Every house for sale is snapped up in days, something to do with the desirability of the area, I heard say.

The Vet was planning to close the house and his surgery for the week and the day before he was due to depart I had still not come up with a plan.

As it turned out, that did not matter. The same evening there was a telephone call from the meeting organisers. It was cancelled because of flooding in Venice.

This was not a plan I welcomed. The previous time, I had found myself in a kind of prison where the food was inedible and the company much below my intellectual level. If it had not been for some of the gang breaking their way in on a couple of nights bringing a tasty morsel or two and some decent conversation, I think I would have finished up like Mrs Kennedy our housekeeper in a home for the slightly deranged.

I had no wish to repeat the experience and had hoped that this time the Vet might have chosen one of those luxury kennels I had heard about, where dogs are pampered in well-furnished rooms with individual televisions and first-class food.

Naturally, that cost was too great for the Vet to contemplate and after much surfing on the computer came up with a kennel miles away where the price was so cheap that the facilities would be on a par with those endured by the convicts on Alcatraz – and he got a discount because of his profession.

It looks like I am facing a week in the kennels. The Vet is going to a conference somewhere in Europe and as our housekeeper has been taken away after a nervous breakdown, there is no one to look after me.

This has happened just once before when again we were between housekeepers and the Vet decided to attend a meeting which I did hear him describe as a “jolly”. That meant his expenses were being covered, even the cost of a locum to run the surgery, and the only outlay he would incur was the train fare to wherever it was the meeting was being held.

This time, however, the venue was in a place called Vienna, which caused much scratching of heads when I tasked the gang to find out where it was. The best they could come up with was “a long way over there”, which I took to mean in foreign parts.

It certainly had the Vet spending hours on the computer trying to arrange his flight and hotel at the lowest possible price. Apparently this time his expenses were restricted to a daily allowance which he thought was not generous enough, so he would have to dip into his own pocket to cover part of the bills.

Surprisingly, he still decided to go despite the cost and the added burden (his very words) of putting me in kennels for the time he was away.

The Vet was too young to have fought in the Second World War, in fact he was not even born when it ended – but despite that he is something of an expert on the period. Having failed to become a soldier as a young man because of various medical conditions, he still found it was possible to join the Territorial Army and get a taste of the real thing.

As a result, he considered himself practically a member of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces and  having reached the dizzy rank of sergeant, he found it proper to discuss military tactics with anyone willing to listen – or unable to retreat from his onslaught of facts and figures.

We dogs do not believe in organised warfare, but over time I have organised the gang into what could loosely be termed as a military formation. I divided the lads into three platoons of five members each – that was in the heyday of larger membership than we have now – but reduced that to just two platoons to take into account our present numbers.

With myself as captain, I chose one sergeant and one corporal, Gus my number two and Spot the Cairn terrier who, as the pet of police inspector Frank Ash (retired) was used to a disciplined environment.

I suppose I had listened so many times to the Vet boasting about his exploits that a few of his more sensible suggestions on imposing military discipline rubbed off sufficiently to allow me to keep the lads occupied and amused.

In particular, field exercises which lasted from early morning until dusk he found to be beneficial for his troops, wearing them out for a few days and making them much more amenable to doing his bidding.

I have had the feeling for some time that my boys were getting a little restless in the ranks, as the Vet would say, and needed a diversion to get rid of their excess energy. He would take his Territorials on a 15-mile hike in full kit which, he claimed, did the trick every time. However, my boys are different.

For a start, that distance for us was a mere stroll, even at a trot, while carrying kit would be no more inconvenient than, say,  having a stick in the mouth. It might be annoying but would hardly impair progress. Carrying anything heavier would be different matter, but being the softie I am, I could not burden them too much if I wanted to make sure my popularity remained intact.

So I decided on a 20-mile hike with rests every half hour, which I calculated by the church clock, with nothing to impair their steady progress and stops for water as required.

Your see, I had no intention of going on this hike myself and left it to my two NCOs to take the lead and make sure there were no slackers.

My excuse was that I was preparing a little home-coming for them, with bones and biscuits for all, which had to be collected while they were out enjoying themselves. As I toiled away scrounging the food from whatever sources I could, they were strolling in the woods with never a care in the world.

In fact, I had prepared this feast over the last few days in complete secrecy and the hoard was stashed away near the barn where we used to meet and where I had directed Gus and Spot to go when they came back.

All that was left for me was to have a long nap and wake up in time to greet the weary warriors with food and drink – there was a clean stream nearby – and receive the report on how things went.

As I suspected - and hoped – they were all completely worn out, some even too tired to partake of the food. Nor more stirrings in the ranks, I thought, I was safe in my position at the top of the heap, or as the Vet would say, in complete command.

Mrs Kennedy, our housekeeper, dropped her bombshell just as the Vet was finishing his breakfast. I was resting comfortably on the rug by the fireplace in the kitchen and cocked an ear to hear what was going on.

“I am giving you two weeks’ notice,” she told the Vet, “which means that with the holidays I am due, I shall be leaving tomorrow.”

I could see that the Vet was badly shaken because he dropped his cup of coffee on his lap and slumped in his chair as if the victim of a heart attack. I must admit that I was in a bit of a shock myself as Mrs Kennedy was my friend and defender when the Vet was in one of his moods. Not to mention the provider of all my meals.

The Vet wiped himself down and faced the good lady asking why this sudden decision to go.

She then rattled on for about half an hour listing all her complaints as the Vet seated himself again and poured another cup of coffee.

Top of her list was money, she said. He had never paid her the going rate for the job, but she had stuck with it because she needed the work. Then there were numerous other reasons – such as his constant bouts of bad temper, his less than generous allowance for housekeeping and - this came as a real surprise - his poor treatment of me!

Now, I have never been an enthusiastic defender of the Vet, but to give him his due I have a comfortable life in his household and there had never been a hint of mistreatment. The man was a vet for goodness sake, the very name implies that he had the welfare of animals at heart.

This accusation obviously touched him deeply and he demanded to know what she meant, just as I was anxious to learn what form this mistreatment took.

Mrs Kennedy then launched into a tirade of facts which she said proved her words were true. I was made to sleep in the kitchen, I was not welcome next to the open fire in the winter and I was denied  the comfort of a companion by refusing to have another dog in the house.

Oh yes, she added, there were times when the Vet was too tired to take me out and I had to walk alone, sometimes on cold winter evenings.
I had not heard so much rubbish in my life. Not one of those charges was true and had I been able to join in the conversation I would have said so. As it was, I was forced to hear the Vet defend himself against all accusations. I had to admit he did a pretty good job, particularly when denying I was mistreated in any way.

So they went at in rising voices until the Vet declared that it was time for his morning surgery and they could continue at lunch time.

I could not understand what was behind Mrs Kennedy’s outburst, particularly as far as I was concerned, although I knew that his tightness with money had long been a bone of contention with her.

She called me over as she sat down for her morning tea and biscuit and muttered to me: “That will serve the old fool right. When I spread the rumour round the village that he mistreats you, he’ll lose a lot of clients.”

But it’s not true, I wanted to cry out, the poor fellow was being badly maligned.

It was later that afternoon that the ambulance arrived to take Mrs Kennedy away. The Vet explained to his watching clients that she had had a nervous breakdown and was going for treatment.

Poor Mrs Kennedy – and poor me. Who is going to prepare my food while she is gone? I suppose this means the search for a new housekeeper must now begin.

The large run-down manor house at the end of the village has stood empty for years, certainly as long as I could remember and I am the oldest of the gang. Although I had occasionally trotted round the outside of the place with a couple of gang members in tow, we had never ventured inside.

Now we are looking for a new place to hold our meetings I thought another stroll around might prove fruitful and asked Gus, the Alsatian and my number two, to accompany me.

I could tell from the look he gave me that I had hit a sensitive spot. To all the dogs in the village, the manor house was considered a place to be avoided and I had known this when I asked. But frankly a big, strong dog like Gus should not have worried about silly stories concerning the place.

Unlike our owners, we dogs are not sensitive to ghosts, spooks or things that go bump in the night. Perhaps I should rephrase that – we are not AS sensitive, but loud bangs, say on Bonfire night, do cause us some problems.

But in broad daylight and just a quick look around should not cause either me or Gus any disquiet, despite the fact that stories about the manor and strange goings on there have been rife in the neighbourhood for some time.

Naturally Gus was aware of them, but told me he preferred not to go with me as he was feeling a little unwell - a likely story I thought, although I said nothing except I hoped he recovered quickly.

To be absolutely frank, I was not too keen on going on alone, for the rumours about the place concerned the number of dogs that had disappeared in mysterious circumstances. It had all happened before my time, but I was informed by older members of the gang when I joined. I was warned then to stay away from the place.

As time wore on, I forgot about the warnings and really had no reason to visit the house until now. The stories concerning the lost dogs all revolved around the man and his wife who used to live there. Apparently the couple always had two dogs to guard the premises, but the strange thing was these dogs were constantly changing. Rumours were that no dog lasted more than three months before disappearing to be replaced by two more. This went on for about three years before the couple left the house and were never seen again.

The missing dogs, about 12 in all, were never found and everyone in the area believed they had succumbed to a disease and were buried in the grounds.

 A strange detail was that when the Vet recounted this story he said he was never called to the house to treat any animals.

So the manor was regarded by all dogs as a place best avoided. Gus urged me not to go, as no member of the gang would be willing to meet anywhere near the house even if I found a suitable place.

But I had my pride and told Gus I would go alone. Naturally, I am not that stupid so when I next met Gus I casually admitted that I had been there, but found nowhere to meet.

He asked me whether I had gone inside or just walked around the garden.

I looked at him straight in the eye and wagged my tail to signal I had done a thorough reconnaissance of the place. After all, I was head of the gang and had a reputation to keep.

Oddly, as I strolled around the garden I spotted an old man with a shotgun and a lady by his side. They went into the house and closed a torn curtain in the kitchen –  I thought no one lived there. I decided a hasty retreat was called for and no return visit is planned.

There was no point in calling a meeting of the gang this week as most were away on holiday. Well, it was a holiday for their owners, but most dogs I know do not regard a couple of weeks by the sea or cooped up in a cottage many miles from civilisation in pouring rain as a fun break.

So, I was at something of a loose end. I would have called round on Gus, the Alsatian and my number two, but he was also away. His owners had bought a passport and taken him abroad – to some country where he knew little of the local dog customs and was unable to understand a single tail signal they gave.

I was well pleased that the Vet would not spend money on such frivolity as a passport for me or that he would go on holidays overseas. He takes his break early in the season and drags me to a seaside resort which had hardly changed in 50 years.

Recovering from those trips usually takes me quite a few days and feigning illness never succeeded in allowing me to avoid one altogether. The Vet claimed that whatever ailed me would be cured by a brisk run along the sands in freezing winds.

But these thoughts were not helping me decide what to with myself while the gang was away. I had to sit down and think – preferably in the barn where we held our gang meetings – so off I trotted into the nearby woods.

Just before I reached the barn my very acute senses warned me something was wrong. The door which was normally hanging on a couple of screws had been repaired and was tightly shut. Gaps in the walls were being filled in and there was the beginning of a paint job all round the building.

It was pretty obvious someone was mending the place to make it fit for habitation. Even the roof had been patched up and the wild grass surrounding the place had been had been tamed and cut back.

This was a disaster for me and the gang. To our knowledge no one had been near the place for years and certainly our meetings had never been disturbed. Now we were in danger of losing our “home”.

I crept quietly forward and smelled humans round the back. Using whatever cover I could find without the help of the old overgrown grass, I slid round and saw two men, backs against the wall drinking tea from a flask.

Around them were the tools of their trade – hammers, nails, paint brushes and all sorts of other implements I did not recognise.

They were chatting amicably, unaware that I was lurking nearby, thanking their gods for the lucky break of “doing up” the barn. They reckoned they had work for at least a month before the place was habitable.

Habitable for whom, I wondered. Was it being made ready for humans or animals? But, whatever the answer, I realised our days using the barn for meetings were finished.

I was not sure how to break the news to the boys, many of whom, like me had grown fond of the building over the years when it had provided warmth in the winter and cooling draughts during the summer.

I would pass the word round after the summer break that we had to find a new meeting place and ask them all to come up with suggestions. Previous experience taught me that just a few usable ideas would emerge, but they should be enough to solve the problem.

Meanwhile, there was always the old shed in our garden which was not used any more since a new garage with space for everything had been built.

It would be a bit of a squeeze, but there is nothing like squashing together to make the gang do their best to find more comfortable accommodation in a hurry.

I realise that I have never discussed how the Vet looks because I feel that is best left to the imagination of my readers. A man who is both mean and untrustworthy should, of course, be lean of body and frightening of face – deep-set dark eyes, hollow cheeks and narrow mouth

In fact, the Vet is just the opposite. He has a fine figure, if just a little portly, and a handsome face which many of his lady clients find irresistible. His cheeks bloom and his hair is thick and glossy, his eyes gleam and his chin is cut fine. All in all, a most good looking fellow –but a description which contradicts his character.

That could be the reason so many woman in the area have been disappointed when considering him a good catch. They have soon discovered his absolute adherence to stinginess and his almost pathological resistance to any feminine charms.

Except in one recent case which I noted when passing the waiting room the other day. A lady was sitting there cradling her dog which was obviously ill. She was not well dressed, nor did she have the good looks which humans judge women by. In fact, even to my eyes she appeared to be a pathetic thing badly in need of advice on how to spruce up her appearance.

But the Vet was smitten.  How did I know? He came out of his surgery holding her arm in a most solicitous way, having obviously cured the dog of whatever ailed it. He guided her to the front door and I followed. He took this action with no other client, that I know of.

There he stood looking for whatever form of transport she had come in, only to learn from her that she had walked.  The Vet was obviously concerned and inquired how far she had come. She mentioned a village at least five miles away and his face fell.

“My dear lady,” he said, “I cannot possibly allow you to walk all that way,  I shall call you a taxi.” She looked embarrassed and insisted she was well able to walk. The Vet realised that the taxi fare might be a problem for her, so he offered to drive her home.

This was unheard of.  He took her back into the house and instead of asking her to wait in the surgery until he was free, he showed her into the living room and called Mrs Kennedy, our housekeeper, to bring tea.

Mrs Kennedy, too, was flabbergasted. The Vet never invited clients into the house during the day and certainly did not offer them tea.

I was intending to go to the barn for a meeting of the gang, but could not resist waiting to see the outcome of this little drama.

Mrs Kennedy was also asked to bring a bowl of water for her dog, plus a few biscuits to keep up his strength.

The woman waited patiently until the lunch-time break when the Vet, again to the astonishment of Mrs Kennedy, invited her to have a bite to eat, which she declined saying she was not hungry. But the Vet insisted and I did note that she ate heartily.

He delayed his afternoon surgery so he could drive her home and returned later in the afternoon with what one could only describe as a dreamy look in his eye.

He said he had made arrangements to take the lady out for a day’s drive that weekend.

The mystery was solved when I wandered upstairs into one of the spare rooms. There on the wall was a photograph of a woman I knew to be the Vet’s mother. Same black rather shabby coat, almost identical face and even the similar breed of dog on her lap.

The Vet had “found” his mother.