Nobody's Dog Page 2

  Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden cry. A small dog was yapping excitedly, ‘Bennie’s going out! Bennie’s going out!’

  Streak pricked up his ears. Digby licked his lips and glanced at the greyhound for an explanation.

  ‘That’s Lily calling,’ the older dog responded. ‘Bennie’s pen is next to hers. He must have been chosen.’

  ‘By one of the outsiders?’

  ‘Yes. This is how it happens. It’s quite sudden. The visitors make a selection and you’re taken away to another place to see how you like each other. Then, if all goes well, you’re out of here and settling down with your new owners before you realize it. Some dogs come in here and go out again almost at once. But Bennie’s been here a while.’

  ‘Lucky dog,’ said Digby. ‘Just listen to Number One now! He sounds beside himself. Is it because he was overlooked again? It’s so sad, all these unwanted animals shut up here together and none of us knowing why or when we’re likely to leave.’

  ‘It is sad,’ Streak agreed. ‘But there’s no excuse for that racket. A lot of the dogs here have no manners at all.’

  3

  Under the greyhound’s soothing influence Digby gradually managed to accept the regime of the Dogs’ Home. He still ached for his old home, but in time he got used to the brisk, pleasant young staff who cared for the inmates. Streak was wonderful: always quiet and understanding. He never howled. His fatalistic approach set an example to Digby, who began to spend less time dwelling on his own unhappiness. Occasionally the occupants of the pens changed as a dog was chosen and another took its place. Otherwise each week was identical to the preceding one. Food, exercise, companionship, solitude, visitors, din. That was how the days were made up. Until a day came which was like no other.

  For some time Digby had been taking a little more interest in the outsiders than he had at first. There were all kinds and all ages. Some had soft, inviting voices, others were boisterously friendly. Once in a while Digby would even show the faintest sign of friendliness back. A feeble wave of his tail or an appreciative look in response to some kind words was, however, as far as he ever permitted himself to go. And then, one afternoon, Frank arrived.

  Frank was a tall, slim, dark-haired young man, dressed casually almost to the point of scruffiness in worn jeans and T-shirt and a leather jacket. He had an open, honest face which had the pink glow of someone who spent a lot of time in the fresh air. A small gold earring dangled from one ear. But it was his voice which Digby noticed first. The collie heard it drifting towards him along the corridor as Frank made his tour of the pens. Something about it made Digby curious. It was quite unlike any voice he had heard before. Many of the outsiders sounded sympathetic or compassionate. Frank did, too, but there was something else. There was a quality of understanding in his tone that was most unusual in a human, as though the young man had somehow experienced the same kind of suffering as the animals had; as though in some way he was on their level. As he came along the corridor all the dogs fell quiet – all those that were sensitive to his voice that is. Number One, of course, was barking so loudly he couldn’t hear anything except himself. Digby trotted to the grille and stood on his hind legs. Frank was talking to Streak. Then he strolled up to Digby’s pen. Man and dog held each other’s gaze. Frank’s brown eyes seemed to penetrate Digby’s heart.

  ‘Well, I wonder what you’re doing in this place?’ the young man said. ‘I sometimes come in here to get out of the cold, and because I like to imagine I could have a dog of my own one day, but I bet you didn’t choose to be here, did you? I wonder where you came from?’ Digby seemed to understand every word. He whined and tried to lick the young man’s hand. Frank smiled. His face glowed. ‘It’s as if we know each other,’ he whispered. He lingered a while, talking softly, then murmured, ‘How I wish I could take you with me,’ and walked slowly on. Digby dropped back on all fours. A feeling of emptiness swept over him, unlike anything he had ever felt before. He stood motionless, his head hanging low. Number One was bellowing, ‘Take me! Take me!’ Digby didn’t hear him.

  For days he could think of nothing but the face and voice of the young man. Many other visitors came and went, showing varying degrees of interest in him, but Digby remembered none of them.

  Then one day one of the young women who fed him entered his pen and slipped a leash round his neck. As he was led away, his ears barely registered Streak’s plaintive voice calling, ‘Farewell, Digby. Be happy – and make sure you don’t come back.’ He was brought to a room he hadn’t seen before. There sat a middle-aged man wearing an anorak and corduroys. Digby was quite still. The man got up and greeted the dog. Digby scarcely reacted. There was some discussion amongst the humans while Digby sat, quivering with nervousness. Another woman came into the room and, after a further short period of talking, Digby’s leash was removed. The man fished inside a carrier bag and took out a leather collar and lead. With some difficulty the collar was fitted around Digby’s neck. The dog was so jumpy that the man took an age to get him ready. Then they were outside in the yard, walking towards the door that opened into the street.

  Traffic thundered past in either direction. Digby’s old fear returned and he reacted violently. The man’s arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket as the dog tried to escape.

  ‘Hey, wait on! Wait a moment,’ the man called as he was dragged into an involuntary run. He pulled back on the lead. ‘You don’t need to do that. There’s no danger. I’m going to look after you now. Don’t worry, we’ll soon be out of this.’

  Digby licked his lips nervously. The man had a kind voice and Digby felt a little comforted. They proceeded into a quieter side street and the man marched along briskly. Digby was used to a lead and kept pace obediently. He was beginning to wonder if he was being taken to a new home. If so, it was unlikely to be the home he longed for.

  The side street came out on to a major road where the traffic was at its worst. Digby hung back.

  ‘No use doing that,’ the man told him, dragging him slightly. ‘We have to cross here.’ He had to force Digby to the kerbside, and they waited by some traffic lights. Digby trembled. When the lights changed to red the other pedestrians walked swiftly across, but Digby had to be urged to move. The man succeeded in pulling him to the island in the middle of the road but Digby was now in a fever to escape and put on a spurt. It was too late for the man to stop him. With his arm at full stretch he was hauled into the path of traffic turning from the left. A car which had swung round the corner too fast braked with a screech, but the man was struck hard and knocked to the ground, his grip on Digby’s lead automatically loosening. The dog galloped away, avoiding the converging vehicles by a hair’s breadth, trailing the lead behind him.

  All traffic came to a standstill as people rushed to the scene. The man in the road didn’t move. One young boy, spotting the fleeing Digby, tried to stop the terrified dog by stamping on the trailing lead, but the collie only increased his breakneck speed and yanked the lead from beneath the lad’s foot. Frantic now, Digby ran even faster, skidding into a side road at the first opportunity as his instinct guided him away from the din.

  A young man walking on the other side of this road saw the dog race past. Realizing something was wrong, and afraid the collie might come to harm, he began to run after the dog. Digby was tiring, and after a few minutes the young man was able to grab him. Then something wonderful happened. The young man spoke, and Digby recognized the warm tones of friendship and sympathy instantly. This was the outsider who had talked to him so kindly in the Dogs’ Home. Digby quivered with relief. He knew Frank and Frank knew him. They both felt they had found each other.

  Frank had no idea how the dog came to be where he was, but it was clear that something had frightened him badly. He obviously couldn’t be left to run free, and Frank felt it was up to him to take charge.

  ‘Whatever it was that brought us together,’ he told Digby, ‘I think we were somehow meant for each other.’

  Digb
y responded at once to his voice, wagging his tail and putting out his tongue to lick Frank’s hand.

  ‘We’ll go home then,’ said Frank. ‘I know your name. I’ve had it in my mind ever since I saw it on the door of your pen. So, Digby, come with me now.’ He took up the lead and gave it a wipe. ‘That’s it. Now we’re ready. It’s this way we want.’

  They walked down a succession of residential streets, each one similar to the one before. Digby padded along, not even pausing to sniff. At length they came to a road called Keserly Street and arrived at a large Victorian house on the corner. It was almost the last of its kind in the neighbourhood where the huge old dwellings from another era had been steadily replaced by flats and smaller modern houses. This building had certainly seen better days. Many of the windows were cracked or broken. Some were boarded up. What paint was left around them was flaking. The front door had once been varnished but was now bleached and stained by weather. The brickwork was crumbling in several places, as was the path leading to the front door. What had once been a garden was now rampant with huge weeds and overgrown shrubs. Digby could smell a variety of human and canine scents. Already he could pick out Frank’s among them. The strange odours, however, alarmed him. Frank pushed at the front door and it creaked open. There was no lock.

  ‘In we go. Your new home,’ he whispered to Digby.

  A radio blared away somewhere upstairs. Frank released Digby from the lead and took him into a room that led off the hall. There was no carpet on the floor, only newspaper, and no curtains at the window. A broken table, a chair with a torn rush seat, and a number of orange-boxes and plastic milk crates stood about the room, these last holding Frank’s few belongings. Against one wall lay a bare mattress, two skimpy blankets rolled up next to it. Frank sank on to the mattress and took a swig from a half-empty milk bottle that had been left on the table. Digby sat down, licking his lips. Frank looked at him for a moment. Then he jumped up, fetched a plastic bowl from one of the crates and poured some milk into it.

  ‘Share and share alike, Digby,’ he said kindly.

  Digby wagged his tail and bent to drink. He lapped sloppily at the milk, which was not very fresh. The blaring radio suddenly stopped. There were footsteps on the stairs. An older man, bearded and long-haired and very unkempt, came into the room. A pungent smell hung about his grubby clothes, and Digby backed away.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Frank said. ‘Norman won’t hurt you. I’ll see to that.’

  The man called Norman was looking, without much interest, at Digby.

  ‘Where did you find him?’ he asked gruffly.

  Frank explained what had happened.

  ‘You’ll get some attention with that one,’ Norman conceded. ‘He’ll draw the punters in all right.’

  Frank frowned slightly. Digby was still looking nervous. ‘I didn’t just rescue him for money,’ the young man declared. ‘This is the dog I told you I liked at the Home. And he likes me, I can tell. We’ll be great mates together, Digby and me.’

  ‘You can never tell,’ said Norman. ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘Later,’ replied Frank. ‘Where’s Chip?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘Perhaps he’d better be introduced to Digby now. What do you think? It could be awkward when it gets dark.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Norman clumped up the bare wooden stairs and returned almost at once, holding a black and brown mongrel that looked something like a Manchester terrier by the scruff of its neck. Chip jumped forward eagerly, but Norman pulled him back. Digby stood his ground, his ears cocked. The dogs’ tails showed their willingness to be friendly.

  ‘No problem,’ Norman grunted, walking Chip forward a little so that the dogs’ noses could explore each other. ‘They’ll be fine.’

  Digby was taller than Chip but Chip was bolder. As they assessed one another Digby thought of Streak for the first time since he had left the Dogs’ Home. How dignified and superior he was compared to this cocky young mongrel.

  ‘You’re a classy one and no mistake,’ Chip was muttering as he circled the collie. ‘Don’t know how you’re going to make out. Street life’s not what you’re used to, I bet.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Digby.

  There was no time for explanations then because Norman was pulling Chip back again. Digby was left to puzzle over the other dog’s remarks. Then he felt Frank’s hand on his head, stroking along his neck to his shoulders, affectionately but firmly. Digby relaxed. As long as Frank was around he was sure he’d be all right.

  Later that day Frank snapped Digby’s lead on and took him out of the house. It was late afternoon and growing cool. Digby had had nothing to eat since leaving the Dogs’ Home. His stomach rumbled. He had been used to a meal in the early afternoon in his pen. However, there didn’t seem to be any prospect of food at present. Frank was walking along in a purposeful way. They came to a busier street where throngs of people were scurrying to and from a wide entrance between buildings. It was the beginning of the evening rush hour, and Frank was returning to one of his regular pitches outside an Underground station.

  He made Digby sit down against a wall. Then he looped the end of the lead a couple of twists round one leg of his jeans and tied a loose knot before pulling a mouth-organ from his pocket and beginning to play. Digby didn’t like the sound and laid his ears back. He wanted to run, but now he was on a short lead. Frank braced himself against Digby’s tugging and continued to play. People hurried past without giving them a glance. Frank finished one tune and wrenched a crumpled cap from an inside pocket of his leather jacket. He dropped it to the pavement by his feet and fished around for his few remaining coins, which he dropped into the upturned cap. Then he started to play again.

  Digby was hungry and miserable. He hated the sound of the music and, without Frank’s comforting voice, began to feel neglected. He raised his head and howled. Now some of the passers-by glanced in their direction, amused by this odd duet. Coins started to tinkle into the cap to join the ones that Frank had put there. Digby howled louder. Frank seemed to have forgotten him. Frank blew and sucked harder to drown him out, but Digby reacted with ever more desperate cries of anguish. Many Underground travellers were laughing at the din. Frank watched the money lining his cap. It was mounting up nicely. He wanted to stop playing – Digby’s howls were almost too upsetting – but he dared not while money was collecting like this.

  ‘Oh, stop your moaning,’ he pleaded after finishing another tune. Digby’s eyes begged for attention. Frank squatted down and gave the dog a sympathetic hug. ‘This is for your benefit too, you know,’ he murmured. ‘We’re going to have a real good supper tonight.’

  As the number of travellers dwindled Frank tucked his mouth-organ away and counted up his takings. He let out a low whistle. ‘Well, you’ve earned your keep already,’ he declared. ‘And you deserve a reward. I knew we were right for each other.’ He pocketed the change hurriedly. ‘Now we’ll go and spend it!’ he laughed. ‘Otherwise it’ll wear holes in my pockets.’

  Spending the money was easy. Frank marched to a nearby McDonald’s and bought giant-size portions of burgers and chips. The smell of the food had Digby, waiting outside, drooling uncontrollably. Frank found a bench by a little green, a short walk from the station. There they shared the meal, Frank passing every other piece of meat to Digby, who swallowed it gratefully. When they had finished Frank said, ‘Now we need to buy some supplies.’ He re-counted his money and set off once again, this time to a small local supermarket. There was enough money to buy bread, butter, milk, cheese, apples, dog food, some canned drinks, and a few tins of food that didn’t need heating.

  Back in the squat Frank arranged his provisions in his boxes and put the bread, butter and milk on the table.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked Digby. The dog thumped his tail on the floor agreeably. He was quite happy in these unusual surroundings. He had been fed and exercised and was ready to fall in with anything Frank might want to do.
Frank poured some milk into a bowl.

  ‘This is yours now,’ he told the collie. ‘It’s Digby’s bowl. No one else must use it.’ As Digby drank Frank bent and stroked his soft coat. ‘We’re a team, aren’t we, you and I?’ he crooned. ‘We’re best mates. We don’t need anyone else.’

  Digby turned and licked Frank’s hand, his warm brown eyes seeking his young master’s.

  ‘Well!’ said Frank softly. ‘I believe you understand every word I say to you.’ He threw himself on to his mattress and stretched out contentedly. ‘There’s room for two here,’ he offered, patting the side of the mattress invitingly. ‘We’ll keep each other warm.’

  Digby needed no second bidding. He hastened to the bed and the two snuggled down together. The room wasn’t entirely dark before they fell asleep.

  4

  During the night Frank and Digby were woken by a commotion in the hall. Norman, who had been out when they had returned earlier, came back. In the unlit house, he tripped over Chip who had been with him, and crashed to the floor. Chip yelped as Norman’s heavy body fell almost on top of him.

  ‘Damn the animal!’ Norman swore. ‘Will you get out of my way, you stupid dog?’ There was a thump and another yelp. ‘Serves you right! I’ll give you another one if you don’t clear off!’ There followed a scrabbling noise. Chip was evidently trying to escape up the stairs. Suddenly Norman began singing in a loud but not unmelodic voice.

  ‘Oh no,’ Frank groaned, his hand smoothing Digby’s taut body reassuringly. ‘Someone’s been buying him drinks. Now we’ll get no peace.’

  The singing was extraordinary. Norman veered from folk-song to pop to a ballad and back again. Frank held his head. Norman started on a hymn.

  ‘This is too much, isn’t it, Digby?’ Frank jumped up and switched on a torch. ‘Shut up!’ he called, but Norman was well into his stride now and ignored him. Frank went out to the hall. ‘Come on, now. Let’s get you to your bed. You need to sleep. And so do we!’ he added emphatically.