The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (42 page)

THE dog's howl cut through my sleep and had me instantly awake. I opened my eyes and made out a dark shape standing on my bed. Totally disorientated, I flailed out with my hand and managed to hit the light switch. The light revealed a large Springer Spaniel standing on my bed.

'It's only a Spaniel,' I muttered as I allowed my head to sink back into my pillows. As I closed my eyes, I reflected on the folly of allowing a dog to sleep on your bed the night after watching a horror film.

I felt a cold nose touch my ear and squirmed away from it. Then at a range of less than an inch, the dog howled again. I sat bolt upright with my hand clapped to my ear and waited for the ringing to stop. I suddenly remembered that I didn't have a dog. I glanced towards my bedroom door and saw that it was open. Sometime in the night, someone's dog had entered my room.

I live alone and I knew that I had locked all the doors and windows before going to bed.  How had a dog entered my house? The implications of this question brought me fully awake because there had been a spate of vicious late night robberies on country properties in my area, robberies where the victims had been treated with incredible brutality.

The dog nudged me with his head and whined. I instinctively put my arm round his shoulders.  My hand touched a medallion hanging from his collar so I looked to see who he was. The medal was simply inscribed with 'Snuffles’ written on the obverse and 'Thompson, 221 Barker Street' on the reverse.

I got out of bed and put on my dressing gown as I pondered the problem of the dog. There wasn't a
Barker Street anywhere in the area so he had to belong to a holiday maker.  The dog seemed to be quite eager to be let out so I had every hope that he knew his way home.

I was reaching under my bed for my slippers when I clearly heard a voice. The voice was muffled and had a strange growl to it. 'Where’s the safe Granny?' It said, 'Tell me or my friend will have to ask, and he isn't nice'.

My heart seemed to freeze. The owner of the voice had to be browbeating my neighbour, and for me to be able to hear him he must have been really shouting.

My neighbour, Mrs Brewer, is a widow in her eighties. She lives in an old farm house, which along with a few old outbuildings is all that remains of Mere Hall Farm. My cottage, once tied to a farm worker's job, is situated to one side of her front drive. There is easily one hundred yards between our dwellings and I am by far her nearest neighbour.

I entered my spare bedroom and peered through the window. The lights were on in her house and there was a strange van parked in the yard. Forgetting the dog, I ran back to my bedroom and scooped up my telephone.

The emergency switch board answered on the third ring and I was transferred to the police with commendable efficiency. I quickly passed on the pertinent information and I was told that a car would be there within fifteen minutes.

 Fifteen minutes seemed to be a very long time. Mrs Brewer is a frail old lady and I knew from my visits to her house that she did not have much of value. If the people in her house were the ones responsible for the recent attacks then she was in trouble.  What could I, should I, do?

The Spaniel's quiet barking from downstairs brought me out of my musings. Dealing with him gave me something to do while I wrestled with myself. I must admit I was scared. I also knew that I had to do something. The simplest thing to do was to go downstairs.

The dog was standing scratching at the back door. I unlocked it and let him out. I fully expected to see him run off down the lane back to whichever campsite or hotel he had come from, but he ran a short way up the drive towards Mrs Brewer's house.  He then stopped and looked back at me. Without any conscious thought I left the safety of my cottage and went towards him. As soon as the dog saw that I was following, he raced on towards the house.

It is probably only a side effect of adrenaline, but that night was strange. All my senses were at their sharpest. I could hear the faint rustling of birds in their nests but I think that the two of us were soundless as we raced up the drive.

On reaching the end of the drive, the dog swerved and ran into the barn. I followed and found him sitting by the shadow of some old hurdles. I turned back towards the house and was about to leave the cover of the barn when I seemed to hear a faint voice telling me to hide. I crouched down beside the dog just as a pair of men came out of the house carrying an old bureau. They placed the furniture in the van and then walked back to the house.

'The old bitch is hiding something,' one of them said. 'I'll ask her where the safe is once more. If she won't tell me, I'll cut her.'

'She's scared witless already, ' the second man replied. 'If you frighten her any more she'll die on us.'

'What does that matter?' the first man asked rhetorically. 'It isn't as if she had anything better to do.'

With that, they disappeared back into the house.

The dog gave another quiet bark. As soon as I looked at him, he leapt to his feet and started running towards the house. Unfortunately, as he left the barn he knocked against an old pitchfork, which started to topple. Fearful that the sound of something falling would attract the men I snatched the pitchfork up.

The dog paused at the front door and allowed me to catch up. Standing just outside the house I once more heard one of the robbers.

'You have ten seconds granny. If you haven't told me where your jewellery is by then, I’ll cut off one of your ears.'

With a growl, we entered the house. Whether the growl came from a human or a canine throat I could not tell you. Whomever growled spoke, I knew, for us both.

The dog raced down the passageway and vanished into the sitting room. There was a sudden scream and a pain-racked voice started shouting for help.

I entered the room to see Mrs Brewer tied to a kitchen chair. There were two men standing behind her. All three of them were staring at the third man who was trying to shake the dog off his right wrist. From the amount of blood running down his hand it was obvious that the dog had a very good hold.

The door from the hall entered behind the chair to which Mrs Brewer had been tied. No one in the room, therefore, noticed my entrance.  The nearest man to me stepped towards the dog and raised some type of machete. I just could not let him strike down such a noble beast. I shouted, I forget what, it may just have been a wordless shriek of rage. There was a moment’s silence and then the machete armed thug spun towards me and slashed at my head.

All three of them were staring at the third man who was trying to shake the dog off his right wrist.

It was purely instinctive and I swear that I was just trying to ward him off, but the tines of the pitchfork sank into his chest and he sagged to the ground.

There was a moment of silence. Then in the distance we could hear the faint sound of a siren. The dog must have relaxed his grip because the man tore his arm free and ran, closely followed by his remaining companion. I made no move to stop them; I seemed to be paralysed by what I had done.

Once again the barking of the dog brought me to my senses. I saw him standing by Mrs Brewer's chair nosing at her bonds. Her wrists had been secured with an industrial plastic binder but I managed to cut through it with a small kitchen knife.

The dog went up to Mrs Brewer and, by placing his front paws in her lap, he reared up to lick her face.  Mrs Brewer hugged him tightly and started crying.

'Snuffles,' she said. 'Thank you.'

There was something so touching about the scene that my eyes watered and I brought up my sleeve to dab the tears away. When I looked back, the dog had gone.

'Where is he?' I asked.

'He's gone back to his master,' Mrs Brewer said.

'Mr Thompson?' I asked, remembering the dog's medallion. 'Does he live near here?'

Mrs Brewer shook her head slowly.

'Lived, young man lived.' She said and noticing my puzzlement continued. 'Mr Thompson was my great uncle. He retired to this house from Scotland Yard, having been injured on duty. His elderly Spaniel, Snuffles, retired with him. I was a very young girl when I first came here and the Inspector told Snuffles to look after me.'

'How do you know it was the same dog?' I asked, privately thinking that Mrs Brewer was suffering from some kind of dementia.

'My great uncle was an artist.' She replied. 'He painted Snuffles several times. I have lived with those paintings all my adult life, so of course I know the dog.'

Seeing my scepticism, Mrs Brewer pointed at a painting on the wall. It was a good watercolour that clearly showed the same Spaniel nose to bill with a swan. I looked at the title and read. 'The Local Informant, 1895'.

At that moment, the police arrived.

The Local Informant, 1895.

About the Author

The Author was born in the South of Africa on New Year’s Day, a fact that was reported in the local paper. This was his last brush with any type of fame.

A good education was followed, eventually, by an engineering degree, and having tried the army and the police force (as a reservist in both cases), he went into the world of industry. This industrial career was mercifully cut short following an accident while playing cricket in India. As a part of his physiotherapy, he started writing again and found a satisfaction in fiction that no management meeting could ever match.

Having had animals all his life the Author lives in Bournemouth and is currently owned by a Bengal who graciously shares his time with a Labrador and a ginger tom.

Snuffles is loosely based on a wonderful Springer called Cassie who was the original snuffle hound.

More information on my work and the forthcoming novels can be found on my website at:

http://laughinglabrador.webplus.net

One Last Thing…

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All the best,

Robert