‘No, not always. It’s been a good morning. The Guvnor doesn’t always bring me something — there’ve been times he hasn’t fed me for days — and it’s not always easy to steal. The shopkeepers around here are a bit wary of me now.’
The Guvnor had disappeared inside the hut and I could hear music blaring from a radio.
‘Have you always belonged to the Guvnor?’
‘I can’t remember, to tell you the truth. He’s all I’ve known.’ Rumbo became deep in thought. Finally he said, ‘No, it’s no good. My mind goes fuzzy when I try to think too hard. Sometimes I remember scents when I sniff certain people. They seem familiar to me. I can’t remember not knowing the Guvnor, though. He’s always been there.’
‘Is he good to you?’
‘Most of the time. Sometimes he ties me up when he wants to make sure I stay in all night, and sometimes he kicks me hard for shouting too loudly. But I can’t help it. He’s got some nasty friends and I just let fly at them when they come round.’
‘What do they do here?’
‘Talk mostly. They stay in that hut for hours, arguing and laughing. There’s a few regulars who do the work around here, mess around with those heaps of junk, and things; bring new ones in. They’re never very busy.’
‘What does the Guvnor do?’
‘You’re a bit nosy aren’t you, squirt?’
‘Sorry. I’m just interested, that’s all.’
Rumbo eyed me suspiciously for a few moments. ‘You’re not like other dogs, are you? You’re… Well, you’re a bit like me. Most dogs are very stupid. You’re stupid, but not in the same way. Where exactly are you from, pup?’
I told him all I could remember and discovered I was beginning to forget my past also. I could still remember the market where I was bought, but not much more between there and the dogs’ home. It’s something that’s happening to me more and more; I have periods of complete lucidity, then my mind can go virtually blank — my past, my origins, a vague blur. I often forget I was a man.
I didn’t voice my anxiety over my human ancestry at that time because I didn’t want to alarm Rumbo in any way; I needed him so I could learn how to survive as a dog. Acceptance of circumstances comes more easily to an animal, you see, and it was that animal part of me which turned away maddening thoughts.
‘You were lucky to get away from the dogs’ home, pup. That’s the death-house for many,’ Rumbo said.
‘Have you ever been inside?’
‘No, not me. They’ll never catch me as long as I can run.’
‘Rumbo, why aren’t all dogs like us? I mean, why don’t they talk like us, think like us?’
He shrugged. ‘They just aren’t.’
‘Rumbo, were you ever… do you ever remember being… er, have you always been a dog?’
His head jerked up. ‘What are you talking about? Of course I’ve always been a dog? What else could I have been?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ My head sank miserably down on to my paws. ‘I just wondered.’
‘You’re a strange pup. Don’t cause me any trouble here, shrimp, otherwise I’ll turn you out. And stop asking silly questions.’
‘Sorry, Rumbo,’ I said and quickly changed the subject. ‘What does the Guvnor do?’ I asked again.
Rumbo’s answering glare and bared teeth killed my curiosity for the moment. I decided to take a little nap, but just before I dozed off another thought struck me.
‘Why don’t men understand us when we talk, Rumbo?’
His voice was drowsy with sleep when he replied. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes the Guvnor understands me when I talk to him, but usually he just ignores me, tells me to quit yapping. Humans are just as stupid as stupid dogs sometimes. Now leave me alone, I’m tired.’
It was then that I realised we hadn’t actually been communicating with words: it had been our minds speaking to each other. All animals or insects — fish even — have a way of communication whether it’s by sound, scent or body display, and I’ve come to learn that even the dumbest creature has some sort of mental link with his own species — as well as others. It goes far beyond physical communications: how do you explain individual grasshoppers grouping into a swarm of locusts, what makes soldier ants march, what suddenly makes the lemming decide it’s time to jump in the sea? Instinct, communication by body secretions, the sense of race survival: they all play their part, but it goes deeper. I’m a dog, and I know.
But I didn’t know then. I was a pup, and a confused one at that. I’d found a friend I could talk to through my mind, someone who was more like me than the other dogs I’d met; few had come close, but none were like old Rumbo. I gazed at him fondly through blurred eyes, then I dozed off.
Eight
They were good, those days with Rumbo. The first morning had been enlightening and the days that followed were an education. We spent a large part of the time foraging for food, visiting the huge market most mornings (it slowly dawned on me that this was Nine Elms, the fruit and veg. market which had been yanked cruelly from the Covent Garden area to an obscure South Thames position, so I knew I was in South London, somewhere around Vauxhall) and then visiting the shops to see what we could steal. I soon learned to be as swift and cunning as Rumbo, but I never became as audacious. He would disappear into an open doorway of a house and seconds later calmly stroll out with a packet of biscuits, or a loaf, or anything he could lay his jaws on (he once emerged with a leg of lamb between his teeth but he didn’t get away with that; a coloured lady came flying out and frightened old Rumbo so much with her shrieking he dropped the meat and bolted, a thrown milk bottle shattering on the pavement behind him).
Once we came across one of those pastry vans unloading its morning delivery. It was filled with trays of sweet-smelling buns and cakes, not to mention freshly baked bread. Rumbo waited until the driver had taken a large tray of pastries into the baker’s, then leapt into the open interior of the van. I held back, of course, coward that I am, and watched enviously as Rumbo jumped from the van with a lovely sugared bun glued to his mouth. He crouched beneath the vehicle wolfing his booty as the driver returned for another tray. When he went back into the shop, freshly laden, Rumbo was up inside the van again, gulping down the remains of the first bun while snatching a chocolate eclair from another tray. He did this three times, each time hiding beneath the van before the driver returned, swallowing as fast as he could, when the dope (me) decided to chance his arm. I waited until the man was well inside the shop, scrambled up into the van (no easy task for a pup) and fussily sniffed my way along the delicious racks of confectionery. Rumbo was in and out like a shot, needless to say, but me — I had to be choosy. I had just decided upon a large, succulent-looking lemon meringue tart, torn between it and the chocolate eclair oozing cream lying beside it, when a shadow fell across the open doorway.
I yelped in fright and the man yelped in surprise. His surprise turned to menace and my fright turned to more fright. I tried to explain I was starving, that I hadn’t eaten for a week, but he wasn’t having any of it. He lurched forward and grabbed for my collar; I backed further into the van. The man cursed and hauled himself inside, crouching so he wouldn’t hit his head on the low roof. He advanced on me and I retreated as far as I could go, which wasn’t far enough. It’s an unpleasant feeling when you know you’re going to be hurt and, I must admit, I indulged in pity for myself to the full. Why had I allowed myself to be led on by that thief Rumbo, that crook in dog’s clothing? Why had I let myself be bullied into this low life of petty thieving by this sneaky mongrel?
And then there he was, good old Rumbo, on the tail-end of the van, snarling at the delivery man’s back, shouting defiantly at him. He was magnificent! The man turned in alarm, bumped his head on the roof, lost his balance and fell backwards on to the trays with their squashy contents. He slipped almost to the floor of the van, only the confined space saving him, and his elbows sunk into the creamy goodies behind him.
I dodged over his sprawled legs and leapt from the van, running even as I landed. Rumbo took his time and helped himself to one more delicacy before he jumped down after me. When we stopped, about a hundred miles later, he was smacking his lips contentedly. I panted my thanks to him and he grinned in his superior way.
