Nobody's Dog Read online

  The cool night air revived Digby after a while. He staggered to his feet, still breathing painfully. He saw the puddle and sank his muzzle into it, lapping greedily. The water made him cough and swallowing was agony, but gradually the liquid soothed his throat. Digby drank his fill and lay down again. He was very tired, and felt very alone. He had no way of knowing whether Green or the repulsive Ken was likely to return. He didn’t understand what had happened; why he had been so tormented. He had no strength left and was far too weary to make his escape, and soon he fell asleep.

  Digby awoke to find a grey cat sniffing at him. He got to his feet. The cat stood his ground, sensing that the dog was no threat. He watched the collie slake his thirst a second time from the puddle, and then the animals eyed each other.

  ‘I’m as dry as dust,’ Digby said. His voice rasped. He lifted a foreleg and scratched at his collar with a paw. ‘I wish I could get this off. It does chafe so. My poor throat!’

  ‘Have you been in a fight?’ the cat asked.

  ‘No. Much worse.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh!’ Digby gasped. ‘Do you really want to know? It pains me to talk right now.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ the cat replied. ‘I’m not bothered.’

  ‘I’ve got to get away,’ Digby fretted. ‘They might come back. But I don’t know where to go.’

  ‘Who might come back?’

  ‘The men.’

  ‘Have you run away?’

  ‘No.’ Then Digby remembered how the nightmare had begun. ‘Well – yes, I did to begin with. I lost my master. And then – then the men came and snatched me. My master tried to rescue me, but . . .’ Digby sank to the ground again. He was still very weak and his stomach was as hollow as a drum.

  The cat stared at him. ‘You’re not making much sense,’ he said flatly. ‘You lost your master but he tried to rescue you? How’s that possible? You dogs are all the same. You let humans run your lives for you. You can’t turn round without them giving their permission first. I’m not surprised you end up bamboozled by them.’

  Digby wasn’t up to an argument. He saw the cat was about to leave him. ‘Before you go,’ he croaked, ‘can you tell me if there’s anywhere to hide round here? I must get away from this place.’

  The cat considered. ‘You’d better follow me then,’ he advised.

  Digby heaved himself upright. The cat eyed him critically. ‘Are you sure you can manage it?’

  ‘I’ll try. I have to. Oh, if only there was something I could eat! I’m starving.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ the cat said, ready to run.

  ‘You’re quite safe,’ Digby told the animal. ‘I’m not a hunter.’

  The cat led off across the little park, crossed the empty road and snaked through a wrought-iron garden gate. Digby kept him within sight but was flummoxed by the gate. He was too big to pass through it as the cat had done, and far too weak to attempt a jump. He sat down on the pavement. The cat seemed to have disappeared.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ Digby decided. ‘I’ll have to do the best I can for myself. There’s no one to help me.’ Suddenly the cat’s head bobbed up between some plants in the garden. ‘I can’t get through here,’ Digby explained rather irritably.

  ‘Of course. I forgot your shortcomings for a moment,’ the cat answered. ‘It doesn’t matter. There’s another way.’ She jumped on to the garden fence and stepped skilfully along its narrow top to another gate. This one was wooden. ‘You can climb, I suppose?’

  Digby was angry now. ‘Are you taunting me? Can I climb?’ he snapped. ‘Have you ever seen a dog climb anything?’

  ‘No. Another shortcoming, I believe,’ the cat remarked, stretching his forelegs. ‘You dogs haven’t many accomplishments, have you? I can’t think what humans see in you. Except they like to have a pet they can boss around.’

  Digby growled with exasperation. ‘What did you lead me to this dead end for?’ he demanded.

  ‘Give the gate a shove,’ said the cat. ‘Even Streak can do that.’

  Digby froze. ‘Streak?’ he gasped.

  ‘The dog here. The humans had to have a dog. Disrupting my life!’

  Digby began to see why the cat objected to dogs so much. ‘What sort of dog is it?’

  ‘What sort? What sort is there?’ the cat returned contemptuously. ‘One with four legs, a tail and a very silly face.’

  ‘Can he run fast?’ Digby was tingling with excitement.

  ‘I have to grant him that,’ the cat said. ‘He has the most extraordinary legs. Long black spindly things that seem to be made of elastic. But that’s all he can do, run.’

  ‘He’s a greyhound, isn’t he?’ Digby cried. ‘And I know him!’

  The grey cat’s eyes grew very round. ‘How could you?’ he queried. ‘He’s only been here a short while.’

  Digby explained about the Dogs’ Home. ‘Is he here now? Can I see him?’

  ‘No, you can’t see him,’ the cat replied stiffly. ‘He’s kept in a kennel round the back. Anyway, I thought you wanted to hide?’

  ‘Yes,’ Digby said, disappointed. ‘Shall I bury myself among these plants?’

  ‘That wasn’t what I had in mind,’ the grey cat told him. ‘You’d soon be noticed there. Come this way.’ He took Digby to the corner of the house where an open door led down to the cellar. Digby took one look, saw the yawning black gulf beneath him and backed swiftly away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ the cat asked, genuinely surprised. ‘You’re trembling all over.’

  ‘I’m not going into another of those places. Is this some kind of trick?’

  ‘Whatever are you talking about?’ the cat hissed. ‘How can it be a trick? I’ve never seen you before.’

  ‘It’s just like where the man tied me up,’ Digby explained. ‘I’m sorry. It makes me go all jangly. I didn’t know what I was saying. I’ll lie down here in the garden for a while until it’s light.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ The cat was becoming bored.

  ‘Will Streak come out?’

  ‘Not on his own. He’s not allowed,’ the cat answered superciliously. ‘He has to be shackled to a human before he can take a step.’ His contempt for a dog on a lead knew no bounds.

  Digby was weary. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he muttered. ‘If that’s the case, how could you have seen him run?’ He lay down. ‘I’ll wait for him,’ he said.

  9

  After Digby had been whisked away in Green’s car, Frank returned dejectedly to Keserly Street. Chip dogged his heels all the way, but his company was small consolation to the young man. To have come so close to rescuing Digby only to fail was the worst possible outcome. Frank knocked on Miss Crisp’s door. She had his holdall ready. He quickly gave her the news and handed back her note.

  ‘I shall distribute this,’ the woman said. ‘You never know; someone may have seen something.’

  ‘You’re very determined.’ Frank looked sad. ‘I’m afraid I’ve lost heart myself.’

  From there he made his way to the hospital. Norman was recovering well and Frank wanted to tell him about Chip.

  The old man was sitting up in bed and looking cheerful. His beard had been trimmed and his hair cut and combed. ‘Frank, my dear boy,’ he greeted his friend, ‘you’re a wonder.’ Frank deposited Norman’s radio by his bedside. ‘I never dreamt you’d take this trouble over me.’

  ‘I’ve found Chip,’ Frank said. ‘I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Oh, that dog.’ Norman chuckled. ‘He can look after himself all right. He knows how to make out. Is he with you now?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s lurking in the car park. He follows me around. But we’ve no home, Norman. The squat’s demolished.’

  The old man took a moment to digest the news. Then he said phlegmatically, ‘It’s a wonder it didn’t happen before – it’s been on the cards for years. So you’re on the streets now?’

  ‘What else? And Digby’s been stolen.’ He related the pa
st events.

  Norman listened to the tale but wasn’t one to be put out. ‘There’s nothing more you can do,’ he said. ‘Don’t waste your time fretting. And I’ll take the other one off your hands when I get out of here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Frank asked in amazement. ‘You’re surely not going back to street life?’

  Norman looked conspiratorial. He winked and leaned towards his visitor. ‘Listen,’ he whispered. ‘They’re trying to find me a place in a hostel. But they don’t know me. I’m a singer.’ He raised his voice and warbled a few bars of a popular song. ‘I’ve been singing in here,’ he resumed. ‘I keep ’em all entertained. And I’ll go on with it when I get out, whenever that is. I’m a singer and I sing for my supper.’

  ‘You’re too old to go back on the road,’ Frank told him. ‘You should be sensible. You’ve got used to a warm, dry bed and a bath.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, son,’ Norman replied stubbornly. ‘I’ve been a rover and a balladeer all my life. I’ve sung in bars all over the country. I’m too old to change. What about you, now? What plans have you with your life ahead of you?’

  ‘I’m looking for a new squat,’ Frank said. ‘I’ll keep Chip with me until you come out or until he tires of me. I’ve had some help, and there’s some heavy labouring work going in the park. I’ll try my luck there. And I’ll keep busking.’

  ‘Good boy,’ Norman nodded. ‘Keep in touch with me, or I won’t know how to find you.’

  They shook hands. Chip was waiting for Frank in the car park. The mongrel cocked his leg thoughtfully against a Range Rover as he saw the young man appear. Mr Perfect didn’t seem quite so sure of himself these days.

  Digby skulked among the bushes in the garden for what seemed an endless night. Occasionally he was able to doze but the misery of hunger always nagged him back to wakefulness. He longed to see Streak and he greeted the daylight in a fever of impatience. There was no sign of the grey cat and Digby wondered just how secure he was where he lay half screened by plants, waiting for the house to come to life. He was dying to know how Streak had arrived at this place. And he felt he could use the benefit of Streak’s wisdom again.

  At last the front door opened and an elderly man came out. Digby pressed himself against the ground. The man walked slowly to the wrought-iron garden gate, leading a grizzled black greyhound. As soon as they were on the pavement and heading away from the house, Digby leapt up. He squeezed a forepaw through the gap underneath the other gate and tugged. Slowly it yielded, and as soon as there was space enough Digby dashed through. He pattered along behind the other two. His hope was that Streak would eventually be released to run free, enabling him to confront the greyhound before the elderly human could prevent it. But there seemed to be no possibility of its happening. Streak was kept constantly under control. In a while the greyhound sensed another dog behind him. He turned his long head, saw Digby and stopped dead. The elderly man urged Streak forward but the old greyhound sat on his haunches, whining strangely. Now Digby had no choice but to ran up.

  ‘Streak! Is it you?’ Digby yelped.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Bouncing Jet Streak of Fleetwood. Your old pen pal!’

  The dogs frolicked around one another in joy and excitement. The old man was so astonished to hear the quiet Streak barking that he took a while to recover himself.

  ‘Stop! Stop it, Streak!’ he ordered. He tried to shoo Digby away, assuming the collie was from a neighbour’s house. ‘Go away, go on. Go home,’ he cried ineffectually. Digby ignored him.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ Streak whispered. ‘Are you living nearby? Tell me quickly.’

  ‘I’m lost,’ Digby wailed plaintively. ‘And I’m starving. I need help.’ His choking voice made Streak’s elderly owner realize something was amiss, and he bent down to lay a sympathetic hand on the collie’s head. This simple act of human kindness was too much for Digby. Worn out by fear, ill-treatment, hunger and thirst he collapsed under the man’s touch with an exhausted whimper.

  ‘Dear dear me,’ the old fellow murmured. ‘Poor creature. There’s something wrong here.’ He could see there was no name tag on Digby’s collar. ‘I’d better see what I can do.’ He released Streak to pick up the collie. ‘Come on, Streak. You can have your walk later,’ he said. ‘This dog needs attention.’

  On the short walk home Digby’s stomach made itself heard in no uncertain manner. ‘So that’s it, is it?’ the man pondered. ‘He needs food. I wonder if that’s all that’s wrong with him? Well, we can soon put that right, anyway.’

  Back in the house Digby was given milk and a plate of meat and biscuits. The smell of the food was sufficient to revive him and he made short work of it.

  ‘What are we going to do with him?’ the man’s wife asked. ‘That’s no dog we know.’

  ‘No indeed,’ the old gentleman agreed. ‘I think he may be lost. Or abandoned,’ he added as an after-thought. ‘One hears such things.’

  ‘Should we ring the police?’

  ‘I think so. But there’s no rush. The poor animal needs rest. We can put him outside with Streak. You should have seen them together. Gambolling about like a couple of puppies.’

  While Streak’s interrupted walk was resumed, Digby was made comfortable in the greyhound’s kennel. The elderly lady watched him fall asleep with satisfaction. While he slept the grey cat came to inspect him, not at all pleased that Digby appeared to be permanently lodged in his garden.

  ‘This is too much,’ he muttered. ‘Is this a replacement, or are we to have two dogs now?’ But there was no waking Digby and the collie was still fast asleep when Streak returned. The greyhound lay down outside his kennel, content to keep quiet until his friend was ready to tell him what had happened. After a while Digby stirred and sleepily opened one eye. When he saw Streak’s gentle face he let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you there,’ he said. ‘I feel so much better.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ said Streak. ‘Are you up to telling me your story?’

  ‘I am. But first – how did you come here? Were you chosen at last?’

  ‘Yes. Even I’ve found a home,’ Streak said happily. ‘They’re very kind people. I hope I’ll see out my days with them.’

  ‘I’m so glad. Do you get on with the cat? He doesn’t seem to appreciate dogs.’

  ‘Max? We tolerate each other. I don’t let him bother me. But how do you know about him?’

  ‘I’d better start from the beginning,’ Digby said. ‘Oh, Streak, how happy I am we’ve met again.’

  Streak listened patiently and without interruption to Digby’s tale. ‘Poor friend, you’ve suffered badly,’ he said afterwards. ‘How unlucky can a dog be? You’ve twice lost your home and your master. But things will be better now. You’ll see. They’ll look after you here.’

  Digby was doubtful. ‘They didn’t choose me, Streak. How do you know they’ll want a second dog? Besides, I want to find my young master. He was very good to me.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure of it. Humans are very clever, aren’t they, Digby? Perhaps my owners can find yours for you.’

  They were trying to do exactly that. The old man had telephoned the police who confirmed that a dog answering the collie’s description had been reported missing. As soon as they could arrange it, a police dog handler would call to collect the animal. The old man and his wife were delighted by the outcome and went outside to see how their visitor was coming along.

  Digby’s general air of contentment as he lay side by side with Streak told them all they wanted to know. The comradeship of the two dogs was heartwarming. ‘It’s as if they knew each other,’ the old lady said wonderingly. Digby did indeed feel settled. But always at the back of his mind was the memory of his recent ordeal. The images of Ken and Green still loomed large.

  In the afternoon the peacefulness of the garden was abruptly disturbed when the policeman arrived to take Digby away. Digby took one look at the burly uniformed figure and went in
to a panic. To him there was no distinction between the officer and the two sinister strangers who had captured and tormented him. The old couple could not quieten the collie, who chased hither and thither across the garden, terrified of being captured again.

  ‘He hasn’t been well. He’s obviously frightened,’ the old lady commented unnecessarily.

  Streak attempted to calm Digby down with his gentle calls but the policeman raised objections. ‘Perhaps you could remove your own dog, sir?’ he suggested politely. ‘I don’t feel his barking can help the situation at all.’

  The old man hastened to comply. But in the scramble Digby fled into the house along with Streak, then out of the open front door. It took no more than a few moments for the collie to tug the wooden gate ajar just as he had done before, and he was off down the street before anyone had realized what had happened.

  The policeman jumped into his vehicle, hoping to keep the runaway in sight, but Digby veered off the main street as soon as he found an opportunity. He had the sense to realize he needed to get under cover. He pelted down a narrow lane only to find it led nowhere; a brick wall blocked off the end. There was a wide entrance on one side where two tall gates had been swung back. Digby ran through and found himself in a big yard where several hefty motor coaches were parked. Instinctively he aimed for one and crawled into the darkness underneath. The acrid smell of petrol and oil was overpowering, but Digby had no option but to remain where he was. He could see a pair of human legs moving across the yard and he was determined to stay hidden.

  What Digby did not know was that he had preserved his liberty at a tremendous cost. By escaping the policeman he had sacrificed his chance of being reunited with his master.

  10

  Unknown to Digby, who only had flight on his mind, the old couple had hurried into the street to watch the policeman’s efforts to catch him. They had temporarily forgotten Streak, who was able to sneak out behind them. The greyhound was really upset by Digby’s sudden disappearance when they had only just found each other again. He stood in the garden, whining softly.