Fluke (15 page)

She had plenty of energy, this charming old lady, and we soon reached a rusty iron gate, behind which was a muddy path leading away from the road. Tangled undergrowth lay on either side of the narrow path and there was a constant rustling of hidden life as we made our way along it. I sniffed the scent of Miss Birdie along this well-used route, not the fresh powdery smell that followed in her wake now, but a staler version of it mingled with the scents of many animals. Now and again I stopped to explore a particularly interesting odour, but her call would send me scampering onwards.

Suddenly we emerged into a clearing and a flint-walled cottage stood before us, its corners, door and window openings reinforced by cut stone. It was a beautiful scene - like walking on to a chocolate box

— and in perfect character with Miss Birdie herself. Smug with my own cleverness, I trotted up to the weathered door and waited for Miss Birdie to catch up with me.

She pushed open the door without using a key and beckoned me to enter. In I went and was pleased to find the interior of the cottage matched the quaintness of the exterior. Ancient furniture, worn and comfortable, filled the main room in which I found myself, there being no hallway. Well-cared for ornaments were scattered around the room, one of those interesting dark-wood dressers filled with delicately painted crockery taking up a large part of one wall. I wagged my tail in approval.

'Now let's just see if you've an address on your collar, then we'll give you some food, eh?' Miss Birdie
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placed her handbag on a chair and leaned forward over me, reaching for the name-plate on my collar. I obligingly sat down, determined not to kill any golden geese through over-exuberance. She peered shortsightedly at the scratched lettering on the nameplate and tutted in mild annoyance at herself.

'My old eyes are getting worse,' she told me, and I smiled in sympathy. I would dearly have loved to have told her of my own peculiarly clear eyesight, of the many changing colours I could see in her face, of the blue deepness in her ageing eyes, of the sparkling colours all around us, even in her faded furniture. It was frustrating to have to keep these things to myself, and even Rumbo had been unable to understand my visual sensitivity.

She felt inside her handbag and produced a light-rimmed pair of spectacles and muttered 'That's better,'

as she put them on. She still squinted through the lenses but managed to make out the name on the strip of metal.

'Fluke,' she said. 'Fluke. That's a funny name for a dog. And no address. Some people are very careless, aren't they? I haven't seen you around before, I wonder where you've come from? Bet you've run away, haven't you? Let me look at your footies . . . ' She lifted a paw. 'Yes, they're sore, aren't they?

You've come a long way. Been badly treated, haven't you? Thin as a rake. It isn't right.'

My hunger was making me a little impatient by now and I whimpered again, just to give her the idea.

'Yes, yes. I know what you want, don't I? Something for your tummy?' It's a pity people have to talk to animals as though they were children, but I was in a forgiving mood and willing to put up with a lot more than baby-talk. I thumped my tail on the carpet in the hope that she would take that for an affirmative to her question. 'Course you do,' she said. 'Let's get you something.'

The kitchen was tiny, and lying in a basket on the floor, fast asleep, was Victoria.

Victoria was the meanest, surliest cat I've ever come across, either before or since that time. Now these feline creatures are renowned for their tetchiness, for they believe they're a race apart from other animals and well above you lot, but this monster took the prize. She sat bolt upright, her fur bristling and her tail ramrod-straight. She hissed disgustedly at me.

'Take it easy, cat,' I said anxiously. Tm only passing through.'

'Now you settle down, Victoria,' said Miss Birdie, equally anxious. 'This poor doggie is starving. I'm just giving him something to eat, then we'll send him on his way.'

But it's no good trying to talk sense to a cat, they just won't listen. Victoria was out of her basket in a flash, up on to the sink and through the half-open kitchen window.

'Oh dear,' sighed Miss Birdie, 'you've upset Victoria now,' and then this nice old lady gave me a hefty kick in the ribs.

I was so shocked I thought I'd imagined it, but the pain in my side told me otherwise.

'Now let's see what we've got,' Miss Birdie said thoughtfully, her index finger in the corner of her mouth as she looked up into the cupboard she'd just opened. It was as though nothing had happened and I wondered again if anything actually had. The throb in my side assured me something had.

I kept a safe distance between us after that and watched her warily when she placed a bowl of chopped
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liver before me. The food was delicious but marred by my sudden nervousness of the old lady. I just couldn't understand what had happened. I licked the bowl clean and said thank you, very aware of my manners now. She fondled my ears and chuckled approvingly at the empty bowl.

'You were hungry, weren't you?' she said. 'I'll bet you're thirsty now. Let's give you some water.' She filled the same bowl with water and placed it before me again. I lapped it up greedily.

'Now you come with me and rest those poor weary legs.' I followed her back into the main room and she patted a hairy rug in front of the unlit fire. 'Rest there, nice and comfy, and I'll just light the fire for us.

It's still too cold for my old bones, you know. I like the warm.' She prattled on as she put a match to the already laid fire, her words soft and comforting. I became confident again, sure that the strange incident which had taken place in the kitchen was merely a slight lapse on her part, caused by the shock of seeing her beloved pet cat leaping through the window. Or maybe she'd slipped. I dozed off as she sat in the armchair before the fire, her words lulling me into a warm feeling of security.

I woke in time for lunch, which wasn't much, she being an old lady living on her own, but she gave me a good portion of it. The cat returned and was further put out at the sight of me gobbling down food which she felt was rightfully hers. However, Miss Birdie made a big fuss of her, running into the kitchen and returning with an opened tin of catfood. She poured some of it on to a small plate and laid it before the sour-faced mog. With a menacing look at me, Victoria began to eat in that jerky cat fashion, neatly but predatorily, so unlike the clumsy, lip-smacking manner of us dogs. My portion of Miss Birdie's lunch was soon gone and I casually sauntered over to Victoria to see how she was doing, ready to help her clean her plate, should the need arise. A spiteful hiss warned me off and I decided to sit at Miss Birdie's feet, my face upturned and carefully composed into an expression of mild begging. A few tasty morsels came my way, so my fawning was not in vain. This disgusted the cat even more, of course, but her sneers didn't bother me at all.

After Miss Birdie had cleared the table and washed up, we settled in front of the fire once again.

Victoria kept an aloof distance and came over to settle on the old lady's lap only after much enticement.

We all dozed, I with my head resting on my benefactor's slippered feet. I felt warm and content - and more secure than ever before. Perhaps I should stay with this kind old lady and forget my quest, which might just bring me more misery. I could be happy here; the cat would be a mild annoyance but nothing to worry about. I needed some human kindness, I needed to belong to someone. I'd lost a good friend and the world was a big and lonely place for a small mongrel dog. I could always search out my other past at some future time when I learned to live as I was. I could offer Miss Birdie companionship. I could guard her home for her. I could have a permanent meal-ticket.

These thoughts ran through my head as I dozed, and I made the decision that I would stay there for as long as possible - little suspecting what lay in store for me.

Later on, Miss Birdie stirred and began to get ready to go out. 'Never miss the afternoon service, my dear,' she told me.

I nodded approvingly, but didn't stir from my cosy position. I heard the old lady bustling around upstairs for a while, then the clomp of heaving walking shoes as she descended the stairs. She appeared in the doorway, resplendent in white gloves and a dark-blue straw hat. Her suit was pink and her high-necked blouse a bright emerald green. She looked dazzling.

'Come along, Fluke, time for you to go now,' she said.

My head shot up. What? Go?

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'What? Go?' I said.

'Yes, time for you to go, Fluke. I can't keep you here, you belong to someone else. They may have looked after you badly, but you do belong to them. I could get into trouble by keeping you here, so I'm afraid you've got to leave.' She shook her head apologetically then, to my dismay, grabbed my collar and dragged my resisting body to the door. For an old lady she was quite strong, and my paws skidded along the wood floor as I tried to hold back. Victoria enjoyed every moment, for I could hear her snickering from her perch on the window-sill.

'Please let me stay,' I pleaded. 'Nobody owns me. I'm all alone.'

It was no use: I found myself outside on the doorstep. Miss Birdie closed the door behind us and marched down the path, calling me to follow. Having no choice, I followed.

At the gate she patted my head and gave me a little push away from her. 'Off you go now,' she urged.

'Home. Good boy, Fluke.'

I wouldn't budge. After a while she gave up and marched down the hill away from me, looking round twice to make sure I wasn't following her. I waited patiently until she was out of sight then pushed my way back through the gate and padded down the muddy path to the cottage. Victoria scowled through the window as she saw me coming and shouted at me to go away.

'Not likely,' I told her as I squatted on my haunches and prepared to wait for the old lady's return. 'I like it here. Why should you have it all to yourself?'

'Because I was here first,' Victoria said crossly. 'You've got no right.'

'Look, there's plenty for both of us,' said I, trying to be reasonable. 'We could be friends.' I shivered at the thought of being friends with this miserable specimen but was prepared to ingratiate myself for the sake of a nice secure home. 'I wouldn't get in your way,' I said in my best toadying voice. 'You could have first and biggest share of all the food' (until I was better acquainted with the old lady, I thought).

'You can have the best place to sleep' (until I have wormed my way into Miss Birdie's affections), 'and you can be the head of the house, I don't mind' (until I get you alone some day and show you who the real boss is). 'Now, what do you say?'

'Get lost,' said the cat.

I gave up. She would just have to lump it.

An hour later Miss Birdie returned and when she saw me sitting there she shook her head. I gave her my most appealing smile.

'You are a bad boy,' she scolded, but there was no anger in her voice.

She let me go into the cottage with her and I made a big fuss of licking her heavily stockinged legs. The taste was horrible, but when I decide to smarm, there are no limits. I was sorry not to have the dignity of Rumbo, but there's nothing like insecurity to make you humble.

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Well, I stayed that night. And the following night. But the third night - that's when my troubles started all over again.

At nine-thirty in the evening Miss Birdie would turn me out and I would dutifully carry out my toilet; I knew that was expected of me and had no intention of fouling things up (excuse the play on words -

couldn't help it). She would let me back in after a short while and coax me into a small room at the back of the cottage which she used to store all sorts of junk. Most of it was unchewable - old picture frames, a pianoforte, an ancient unconnected gas cooker, that sort of thing. There was just enough room for me to curl up beneath the piano keyboard and here I would spend the night, quite comfortable although a little frightened at first (I cried that first night but was O.K. the second). Miss Birdie would close the door on me to keep me away from Victoria who slept in the kitchen. The cat and I were still not friends and the old lady was well aware of it.

On that third night she neglected to close the door properly; the catch didn't catch and the door was left open half an inch. It probably wouldn't have bothered me, but the sound of someone creeping around during the night aroused my curiosity. I'm a light sleeper and the soft pad of feet was enough to disturb me. I crept over to the door and eased it open with my nose; the noise was coming from the kitchen. I guessed it was Victoria mooching around and would have returned to my sleeping-place had not those two agitators, hunger and thirst, begun taunting my greedy belly. A trip to the kitchen might prove profitable.

I crept stealthily from the room and made my way through the tiny hallway into the kitchen. Miss Birdie always left a small lamp burning in the hallway (because she was nervous living on her own, I suppose) and had no trouble finding the kitchen door. It, too, was open.

Pushing my nose round it, I peered into the gloom. Two slanting green eyes startled me.

'That you, Victoria?' I asked.

'Who else would it be?' came the hissed reply.

I pushed in further. 'What are you doing?'

'None of your business. Get back to your room.'

But I saw what she was doing. She had a small wood-mouse trapped between her paws. Her claws were withdrawn so she was obviously playing a fine teasing game with the unfortunate creature. His reddish-brown back was arched in paralytic fear and his tiny black eyes shone with a trance-like glaze.

He must have found his way into the cottage in search of food. The absence of house-mice (undoubtedly owing to Victoria's vigilance) would have encouraged him and he must have been too stupid (or too hungry) to have been aware of the cat's presence. Anyway, he was well and truly aware of it now, and paying nature's harsh price for carelessness.