from my view so I rushed to join Rumbo, excitement at the prospect of food elating me.
‘Keep still, pup. Don’t make a nuisance of yourself or we’ll get nothing,’ he scolded.
I did my best to remain calm, but when the man behind the counter turned to face us, a juicy-looking sausage held between two fingers, it was too much for me. I jumped up and down in anticipation.
‘What’s this, then, brought a mate along? This ain’t meals-on-wheels yer know, Rumbo, I can’t start feedin’ all yer mates.’ The man shook his head disapprovingly at Rumbo, but nevertheless dropped the sausage between us. I made a grab for it, but my companion was quicker, snarling and gobbling at the same time — not an easy thing to do. He gulped the last morsel into his throat, smacked his thin lips with his tongue and growled. ‘Don’t take liberties, shrimp. You’ll get your turn, just be patient.’ He looked up at the man who was laughing at the pair of us. ‘What about something for the pup?’ Rumbo asked.
‘I suppose yer want something for the pup now, do yer?’ the man asked. His tired old eyes crinkled and his large hooked nose became even more hooked as his grin spread wide across his thin face. He was an interesting colour actually: yellow with deep mahogany etchings patterning his features, greasy but still somehow dry skinned, the oiliness being only on the surface. ‘All right then, let’s ‘ave a look.’ He turned away again and as he was about to find me something a voice called out, ‘Cuppa tea, Bert.’
One of the porters leaned his elbows against the counter and yawned. He looked down at us and clicked his tongue in greeting. ‘You wanna’ watch this, Bert, you’ll ‘ave the inspectors after you if you ‘ave too many of these ‘anging about.’
Bert was filling a cup with deep brown tea from the most enormous metal teapot I’d ever seen.
‘Yerse,’ he agreed. ‘It’s usually the big one on ‘is own. Brought a mate today though, probably one of ‘is nippers, looks like ‘im, dunnit?’
‘Nah,’ the porter shook his head. ‘The big one’s a proper mongrel. The little one’s a crossbreed. Got a good bit of Labrador in ‘im and… let’s see… a bit of terrier. Nice little thing.’
I wagged my tail for the compliment and looked eagerly up at Bert.
‘All right, all right, I know what you want. ‘Er’s yer sausage. Eat it and then scarper, you’ll ‘ave me licence.’
He threw the sausage down at me and I managed to catch it in mid-air; it burnt my tongue though and I had to drop it hastily. Rumbo was on it immediately. He bit it in half and swallowed. I pounced on the other half, but Rumbo stood back, allowing me to gulp it down. My eyes watered from the heat of it and I could feel its warmth working its way down my throat.
‘Sorry, squirt, but you’re here only because I brought you. You’ve got to learn respect.’ Rumbo looked up at the snack-bar man, barked his thanks and trotted away from the stall.
I glanced at the two chuckling men, said my thanks, and chased after him.
‘Where we going now, Rumbo?’ I shouted.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he reprimanded, waiting so I could catch up. ‘The trick is not to be conspicuous in a place like this. That’s why they don’t mind me coming in, because I behave myself, keep out of their way and… ‘ he looked meaningfully at me, seeing I was about to run after a rolling orange which had fallen from one of the display stands '… and I never take anything unless it’s offered to me.’
I ignored the orange.
We left the market, accepting half a black soggy banana each on our way, and skipped along into the less cluttered streets.
‘Where are we going now?’ I inquired again.
‘We’re going to steal some food now,’ he answered.
‘But you just said back…'
‘We were guests there.’
‘Oh.’
We found a butcher’s on a busy main road. Rumbo stopped me and peeked round the open doorway. ‘We’ve got to be careful here, I did this place last week,’ he whispered.
‘Er, look, Rumbo, I don’t think…'
He hushed me up. ‘I want you to go in there over to the far corner — don’t let him see you till you get there.’
‘Look, I’m…’
‘When you’re there, make sure he does see you, then you know what to do.’
‘What?’
‘You know.’
‘I don’t know. What do you mean?’
Rumbo groaned aloud. ‘Save me from stupid mutts,’ he said. ‘Your business, you do your business.’
‘I can’t. I can’t go in there and do that.’
‘You can. You’re going to.’
‘But I’m not in the mood.’ The thought of the danger had put me in the mood, though.
‘You’ll manage,’ Rumbo said smugly. He sneaked a look back inside the shop. ‘Quick, now’s the time! He’s cutting meat on his slab. Get in there, quick!’
He bustled me in, using his powerful jaws to nip my neck as encouragement. Now, I’m sure you’ve never seen two dogs act this way outside a butcher’s shop before, but there aren’t many dogs like Rumbo and me around, just the odd few. You’ve seen dogs mugging kids for their ice-creams and sweets, though, and I’m sure you’ve caught your own dog stealing at some time or other. What you haven’t seen — or perhaps noticed — is organised canine crime. Most dogs are too stupid for it, but I can assure you it does exist.
I entered the shop and slunk along under the counter where the chopping butcher couldn’t see me, looking back pleadingly at my forceful partner. There was no reprieve in his dark brown eyes. Reaching the end of the counter, I cautiously looked up, the sounds of that falling chopper making my body judder with every blow. I made a dash for the corner and squatted, squeezing my bowels to make something happen. We were lucky it was still early morning and there were no customers to complicate things. After a few strained grunts, I began to have some success. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to draw attention to myself and could have squatted there in peace for quite a long while had not Rumbo lost patience and begun yapping at me.
The butcher stayed his small meat chopper in mid-air and looked over to the doorway.
‘Oh, it’s you again, is it? Wait till I get hold of you,’ he threatened.
He hastily placed his chopper on the counter and started making his way round towards Rumbo. That’s when he saw me.
Our eyes met, his wide and disbelieving, mine wide and knowing only too well what was going to happen next.
‘Oiii!’ he cried, and his journey round the counter took on a new pace. I half rose, but running was a problem at that particular moment. Instead, I did a sort of undignified shuffling waddle towards the open doorway. Rumbo was already up at the counter, sorting out the nicest cut for himself while the butcher’s whole attention was focused on me. The red-faced butcher had picked up a broom in the course of his journey, one of those heavy jobs used for scrubbing floors as well as sweeping. He waved it in the air before him like a knight’s lance, its base aimed at my backside. There was no avoiding it and my awkward predicament didn’t help matters.
Thank God the broom had a multitude of bristles, strong and hard but not as strong and hard as the handle would have been. I yelped as they cracked down on my rump, the butcher extending his arm so I was sent scuttling across the floor. I skidded and rolled but was up like a rabbit, running for the open doorway, Rumbo close on my heels, at least a pound and a half of raw steak hanging from his jaws.
‘Oiiiii!’ was all I heard from the butcher as I flew down the street, my partner-in-crime keeping pace and chuckling at his own cleverness.
Men and women hastily stepped to one side when they saw us coming and one man foolishly tried to snatch the dangling meat from Rumbo’s mouth. Rumbo was too wily for that and easily avoided the grasping hand, leaving the man sprawled on hands and knees behind him. We ran on, Rumbo keeping a measured pace beside me and much amused by my panic. Finally he called out through his clenched mouth, ‘This way, squirt, into the park!’
The urge to go my own way, to get away from this thief, was great, but my appetite was greater; besides,
