The officer told him to “get a grip” and explained that under rule something or other of the law his men were entitled to search the premises with, or without, his permission. A question of national security, he added.
With the helicopter still hovering above and shouts from the men in the house, I was unable to hear the Vet’s response but it did contain the words “my lawyer and the Sheriff of the county whom I know very well.”
The officer seemed not the least perturbed and shouted orders for his men to make their reports. They came clattering down the stairs and out of the rooms to gather round him.
Nothing to tell, they said, no evidence of a forced entry and the house was “clean”.
The officer gave the Vet a smart salute and hurried out, followed by his men. They piled into the cars and the lorries, the helicopter flew away and there was sudden silence.
The Vet led the way into the sitting room and sat down heavily into this favourite chair. I curled up beside him.
“What a commotion, Jake,” he said to me, “I feel quite exhausted.” He promptly fell asleep and so did I.
In the morning our housekeeper Mrs Lewis arrived to find us both snoring our heads off. She roused the Vet with a cup of tea and gave me some milk. He told her what had happened and said he would not let matters rest there. But as far as I know he did nothing more about the incident, deciding in the end the officer was probably quite within his rights.
We heard no more about the terrorist.
It took him a few minutes to deal with the five bolts which secured the door at night, but eventually he pulled it open to reveal a crowd of men in military-type uniforms, urging him to hurry up.
Before the Vet could say anything they brushed past him and fanned out into the house, some climbing the stairs, others rushing into the back.
The Vet stood there with a look of absolute amazement on his face, holding me back by the collar and about to burst a blood vessel with fury. Then in came a man dressed in a similar military fashion, but with flashes denoting some higher rank.
Before the Vet could say a word he said: “Sorry about all this, Sir, but we are chasing a man we believe might be a terrorist who was seen in your garden trying to force a window.”
The Vet pulled his dressing-gown tightly round his body and let out a stream of foul language, the like of which I had never heard him use before. He accused the troops of invasion of privacy, forced entry, acting against his human rights and a number of other offences which were new to me.
The sound of the helicopter swooping low over the house woke me – and the Vet, of course, who as soon as he rose from his bed started yelling at the noise and shaking his fist at his bedroom window. I had run into his room to find out what all the commotion was about when I saw him silhouetted against the moonlight, hair dishevelled, dressing-gown flowing in every direction and arms raised as if saluting the night.
Not only did the helicopter hover right over our roof, but its powerful searchlight underneath the body was ranging to and fro in our garden. I was fascinated by the scene and stood by the window trying to keep out of the way as the Vet ranted on, his body shaking with the emotion as he screamed insults at the machine.
Then three cars and a couple of lorries, blue lights flashing, came down the driveway. Men tumbled from them some carrying what looked like automatic weapons (I had seen photographs of similar guns in US crime magazines the Vet was addicted to) and there was a loud hammering on the front door.
This noise, barely audible over the racket from the helicopter, seemed to bring the Vet out of his rage and he rushed downstairs with me following behind in my role of protector.
The only sure way to persuade the Vet to drop any scheme was to show him how much extra money it would cost. Another dog in the house meant larger bills for food and comforts. There was also the problem of keeping two hounds well exercised – I like slow walks while the intruder would be younger and friskier than me and demand more vigorous exercising.
Mrs Lewis has been with us just a short time, but she and I are great friends. Perhaps she could convince the Vet that he did not need a second dog in the house because it would create more work for her.
I decided to go on that theory and increase my untidy ways. Any time it rained I went out and came back with mud all over and needed a bath. My food bowl was overturned at least once a day, leaving a messy floor which she had to clean. And, this was the clever bit I thought, I deliberately ran into the dog flap a number of times, breaking it and causing expensive repairs to be carried out.
A couple of weeks of this and Mrs Lewis was quite fed up. She told the Vet how much her work had increased because of my “problems” and if it carried on she would be demanding an increase in salary.
Even the Vet realised that two dogs meant double the trouble and more money for Mrs Lewis.
The idea was quietly dropped.
This was the view of my mother who kept in touch with me long after I left the litter. She was always praising the old man and recounting tales of heroism he performed. He, too, had a gang which he led for many years, she told me, and it was quite famous in the area in which it operated.
She never did go into great detail, but left me with the impression if I was half the hound he was, I would be very successful in life.
And so it came to pass that I formed my own gang and led it with flair, at times even surpassing the exploits of my father.
Now, I am tired and want to hand over the baton (a heavy stick I always carried in my mouth when giving the gang orders by tail signal). But one thing was certain, I did not need a companion in the house and had to disabuse the Vet of the idea. But how?
The only sure way to persuade the Vet to drop any scheme was to show him how much extra money it would cost. Another dog in the house meant larger bills for food and comforts. There was also the problem of keeping two hounds well exercised – I like slow walks while the intruder would be younger and friskier than me and demand more vigorous exercising.
I overheard the conversation between the Vet and Mrs Lewis, our new, temporary housekeeper, and my blood ran cold. The Vet was thinking of taking another dog into the household – and here is the irony - because he felt I needed a companion.
I do not know what made him think I was lonely as the only pet in the household, but it could have something to do with my spending more time at home lately. The truth of the matter is that as the years creep by I am increasingly content to lie in my basket and snooze the hours away.
Of course, the Vet has no inkling that my gang exists nor of the fact that, as leader, I have more than enough companions. The trouble is that I have become less interested in the gang’s activities as my age increases and have taken the trouble to train up Gus, the Alsatian, as my number two. In fact he is doing a grand job and is just about ready to assume command.
I have quietly canvassed the majority of the gang and hinted at my intention to retire. The reaction has been favourable, which upset me a little as I did believe that I was quite indispensable. After all, I had been informed that my father was also a leader of dogs and that I had inherited all his best qualities.
But this was a concept the Vet did not understand. He told the doctor his offer was generous, far more than many of his previous housekeepers had earned. Times had changed, he was told, the minimum wage was considered derisory for anyone of more mature years and he would have to increase the offer considerably if he was to find a new housekeeper.
The Vet obviously slept on the matter and in the morning greeted the first applicant with a slightly increased sum, which had her walking through the door in quick time.
Late in the afternoon the final lady appeared and she could have been Mrs Kennedy’s twin sister. In fact, she turned out to be her twin and told the Vet she would be prepared to work for him until her sister was well enough to return to work.
Cautiously the Vet approached the subject of wages. His offer was immediately accepted and there was a shaking of hands. Mrs Lewis, for that was her name, saw me in the doorway and made a great fuss. Almost hugging me to her bosom, she told the Vet how highly Mrs Kennedy had regarded me and what a privilege it would be to take care of the two of us.
If a dog could beam, I would have. Instead I gave her a vigorous wagging of the tail and a generous licking of the hand.
The Vet took her into the living room and I planted myself by the door pretending to fall asleep. Everything went well until the question of money came up. The Vet offered the minimum wage and she declined. He escorted her to the front door and waited for applicant number two.
This one was young and would be regarded by humans as very pretty - flowing blonde hair, blue eyes and an engaging smile. She lasted even less time than the first one and departed with a derisory laugh at the money on offer.
So they paraded throughout the day, short, tall, thin and plump, all refusing to accept the Vet’s wages. Would he be able to go through another day like it, I wondered?
That evening his neighbour, Dr Jack Simpson, owner of my friend Peaches, the poodle, came round to discuss the events of the day. The doctor did not need much time to find the cause of so many refusals – it was the low wages on offer, he told the Vet.
The procession of women hoping to become the Vet’s housekeeper was long and varied in nature. By that I mean so many ladies answered his advertisement in the local paper that it took him two whole days to get through the applicants and they came in all shapes, sizes and various degrees of competence.
Mrs Kennedy, the previous incumbent, was languishing in a nursing home not many miles away after suffering a nervous breakdown. The nature of her departure was well known in the area and surprisingly did nothing to deter all these ladies from wanting to take her place.
I had heard that there was a job shortage and this surely was proof?
The Vet, wisely in my opinion, decided to hold the interviews at a weekend when the surgery was closed. His timing gave me the opportunity to look over the candidates too, as I was not expecting to leave the house unless the gang demanded a meeting to discuss an important matter.
So, the Saturday morning arrived with bright sunshine and unseasonably warm weather and the first caller was on time, ringing the bell as the church clock struck nine chimes.
She was an elderly lady who walked with a slight limp and was dressed in a thick coat despite the weather. Her hair, I noticed, was neatly tied in a bun at the back and she gave the Vet a cheerful “good morning” before patting me on the head in friendly fashion. I did warm to her.
