I’d earned my share of the booty. I followed him through rusted iron gates into what seemed to me to be acres and acres of lush greenery surrounded by giant foliage, but what must actually have been a fairly small city park. Rumbo disappeared into a clump of bushes and I chased after him, flopping into a panting, eyes-rolling heap on the soft soil two feet away from the spot where he’d decided to go to earth. He looked at me in a smirky way as I heaved in great lungfuls of air, nodding his head at some inner satisfaction. ‘You did all right, pup,’ he said. ‘With a little bit of guidance you could amount to something. You’re not like the other stupid dogs.’
I didn’t need to be told that, but his praise pleased me all the same. Nevertheless, I growled at him. ‘I could have been hurt there. I can’t run as fast as you.’
‘A dog can always outrun a man. He’d never have caught you.’
‘He did, though,’ I retorted, wriggling my rump to make sure nothing had been seriously damaged.
Rumbo grinned, ‘You’ll learn to take more than that in this life, pup. Men are funny creatures.’ He turned his attention to the meat lying between his front paws, nudging it with his nose then licking the juices on it. ‘Come on, come and get your share.’
I rose to my feet and gave my body a shake. ‘I’ve got some unfinished business first,’ I said huffily, and slunk off further into the bushes. When I returned only a few moments later, Rumbo was well into the raw steak, chomping and sucking in a disgusting manner. I hurried forward lest he swallowed the lot and launched myself into the meat in an equally disgusting manner. It was a fine meal, the finest I’d had since being a dog. Perhaps the excitement of the chase, the tension of the robbery, had increased my appetite, for even Bella’s sausages hadn’t tasted as good.
We lay among the bushes smacking our lips with satisfaction, our mouths still full of the steak’s juicy blood flavours. After a while, I turned to my new companion and asked him if he often stole food in that way.
‘Steal? What’s steal? A dog has to eat to live, so you take food where you find it. You can’t rely on what man gives you — you’d starve if you did — so you’re on the lookout all the time, ready to grab anything that comes your way.’
‘Yes, but we actually went into that butcher’s and stole that meat,’ I insisted.
‘There’s no such thing as steal for us. We’re only animals, you know.’ He looked at me meaningfully.
I shrugged my shoulders, unwilling or too content for the moment to pursue the matter further. But all the same I wondered just how aware Rumbo was.
He suddenly jumped to his feet. ‘Come on, pup, let’s play!’ he shouted, and was gone, streaking through the bushes out on to the open grassland. A burst of energy swept through me as though a switch had been turned on somewhere inside, and I dashed after the older dog, yapping joyfully, tail erect, eyes gleaming. We chased, we rolled, we wrestled, Rumbo teasing me mercilessly, showing off his skills of speed, manoeuvrability and strength, submitting to my wilder onslaughts and tossing me aside with the slightest shrug just when I began to feel his equal. I loved it.
The grass was wonderful to wallow in, to rub our backs against, to breathe in its heady fumes. I’d have been happy to have stayed there all day, but after ten minutes or so a surly park-keeper came and chased us away. We mocked him at first, taunting him by coming within easy reach then dodging just as he took a swipe at us. Rumbo was the more daring, actually leaping up and giving the man a gentle push in the back when his attention was on me. The park-keeper’s angry curses made us roar with laughter, but Rumbo soon tired of the game and was off through the gates without a word, leaving me to chase after him.
‘Wait for me, Rumbo!’ I called out, and he slowed his pace to a trot, allowing me to draw alongside.
‘Where are we going now? I asked.
‘We’re going to have our breakfast now,’ he replied.
Rumbo led me through a confusing number of side-streets until we reached an enormous corrugated-iron wall running the length of the pavement. We reached a break in it and Rumbo trotted through, his nose twitching for some familiar scent.
‘Good,’ he said to me. ‘He’s in his office. Now listen to me, pup: stay good and quiet. The Guvnor doesn’t have much patience with dogs, so don’t be a nuisance. If he talks to you, just wag your tail and play dumb. Don’t get frisky. If he’s in a bad mood — I’ll give you the nod if he is — make yourself scarce. We can try again later. O.K.?’
I nodded, beginning to feel apprehensive about meeting this ‘Guvnor’. Looking around, I saw we were in a vast yard filled with old broken-up and broken-down cars, all piled in precarious-looking heaps. Other, smaller heaps, were scattered around and I saw these were made up of rusted parts from the damaged cars. A weary- looking crane stood at one end and I realised we were in a breaker’s yard.
Rumbo had made his way towards a dilapidated wooden hut which stood in the centre of the metal-torn domain and stood scratching at its door, occasionally giving out a moderate bark. The shiny blue Rover parked near the hut stood out like a sore thumb among the mangled wrecks around it, the bright morning sun making its bodywork gleam disdainfully.
The door of the hut swung open and the Guvnor stepped out.
‘ ‘Allo Rumbo, boy!’ He beamed down at my tail-wagging friend; his mood seemed good. ‘You been out all night again? You’re supposed to be a guard dog, you know, stop me having headaches.’ He squatted in front of Rumbo and ruffled the dog’s fur, slapping his flanks for extra welcome, Rumbo was good — very good; he wagged his tail and shuffled his feet, grinning up at the Guvnor all the time, but not trying to thrust himself on to him, his tongue hanging loose, occasionally flicking upwards to lick the man’s face. The Guvnor was heavily built, his long leather jacket bulging tight around the shoulders. He had that fleshy-looking hardness about him, a tough nut who had become used to the good things in life — good food and good liquor. A fat cigar protruded from his mouth and it looked a part of him, like his flattened nose; he would have looked silly without either. His hair, which was just beginning to thin, covered his ears and flowed over his collar at the back. A gold-sovereign ring flaunted itself from one hand while a large diamond ring outdid it on the other. He was about fortyish and had ‘Villain’ written all over him.
‘Who’s this you got with you?’ The Guvnor looked over at me, surprise on his face. ‘Got a little girl friend, have you?’
I bridled at his silly mistake. Fortunately, he corrected himself. ‘Oh no, I can see he’s just a pal. Here boy, come on.’ He extended a hand towards me but I backed away, a little afraid of him.
‘Get over here, squirt,’ said Rumbo quietly, warning me with annoyance in his voice.
I crept forward cautiously, very uncertain of this man, for he was a strange mixture of kindness and cruelty. Generally, when you taste them, people have both these qualities but usually one is more dominant than the other. With the Guvnor, both characteristics were equally balanced, something I now know is very common in men of his kind. I licked his fingers, ready to bolt at the least sign of aggression. He stopped me as I got carried away with his delicious flavours by clamping my jaws together with a big fist.
‘What’s your name then, eh?’ He yanked at my collar and I tried to pull away, very fearful of him now.
‘It’s all right, squirt, he won’t hurt you if you behave yourself,’ Rumbo reassured me.
‘No name? No address? Someone didn’t want you very much, did they?’ The Guvnor let me go, giving me a playful shove towards Rumbo. He stood up and I could sense I was instantly forgotten.
‘O.K., Rumbo, let’s see what the missis has sent you.’ The man walked round to the boot of his Rover, unlocked it and pulled out an interesting-looking plastic bag — interesting because it bulged with what our noses told us could only be food. We danced around his ankles and he held the bag aloft out of reach. ‘All right, all right, take it easy. Anyone would think you hadn’t eaten for a week.’ Rumbo grinned at me.
The Guvnor walked round to the back of the hut to where an old plastic bowl lay and emptied the contents of the bag into it. A meaty bone, soggy cornflakes, bits of bacon fat and half a chocolate bar fell into the bowl, a rich concoction of leftovers. There were even some cold baked beans among the scraps. As a human, my stomach would have turned over; as a dog, it was a gastronomic delight. Our noses disappeared into the mixture and for a few moments our minds were concentrated solely on filling our bellies. Rumbo got the tastier morsels, of course, but I didn’t do too badly.
When the bowl was spotlessly clean, my friend wandered over to another bowl which stood beneath a dripping tap. He began to lap greedily at the water and I, my stomach fit to burst, drifted over and did the same. We slumped on the ground after that, too full to move.
‘Do you eat this well every day, Rumbo?’ I asked.
