‘Sometimes, squirt, you’re as dumb as the other mutts — maybe dumber. Still, I suppose it takes time to teach a new dog old tricks.’ For some reason, he thought that was very funny and repeated it to himself over and over for the rest of that day.
Another trick of Rumbo’s, using me as bait, was his diversion tactic. I would gallop up to an unsuspecting, shopping-bag-laden housewife and use all my puppy charms to make her lower her burden to the ground and pet me, maybe even offer me a titbit. If she had children with her it was even easier, for she would be forced into making a fuss of me with them, or at least drag them away. When all her attention was on me — I’d be licking her face or rolling on the ground, offering my tummy to be rubbed — Rumbo would rummage through her unguarded shopping. When he found something tasty he would streak off, leaving me to make my excuses and follow at a more leisurely pace. We often got found out before he’d grabbed anything useful, but that didn’t spoil the enjoyment of the game.
Taking sweets from babies was another delightful pastime. Mothers would howl and their offspring would bawl as we scooted off with our prizes. Sudden raids on kids around icecream vans were always rewarding, the van’s jangling jingle acting as a homing beacon for us. The coming of winter, forced us to cut down on this kind of activity unfortunately, for the parks were empty and the ice-cream vans in hibernation.
Rumbo loved to taunt other dogs. He looked down on all other animals as inferiors, resenting their stupidity, especially dogs, most of whom he considered more feeble-minded than any other living creature. I don’t know why he held such a prejudice against dogs; it may have been because he was ashamed of them, ashamed they didn’t have his intelligence, his dignity. Oh yes, rogue that he was, Rumbo had lots of dignity. Rumbo never begged, for instance; he asked for food, or he stole it, but he never grovelled for it. Sometimes he might act out a parody of a dog begging for food or affection, but this was always for his own cynical amusement. He taught me that life took advantage of the living, and to exist — really to exist — you had to take advantage of life. In his opinion, dogs had let themselves become slaves to man. He wasn’t owned by the Guvnor, he did a job of work for him by guarding the yard, thereby earning his keep, such as it was. The Guvnor understood this and their relationship was based on mutual respect. I wasn’t sure the Guvnor had such finer feelings, but I kept my opinion to myself, for I was only a pupil — Rumbo was the master.
Anyway, my companion never lost a chance of telling another dog how stupid he was. Poodles were his greatest source of derision and he would laugh uncontrollably at their clipped curls. The poor old dachshund came in for a bellyful too. Rumbo didn’t care whom he picked on, be it an Alsatian or a Chihuahua. However, I did once witness him go very quiet and reflective when a Dobermann passed us by.
He got himself, and often me, into some fine old scrapes, other dogs sensing our difference and ganging up on us. I suffered as a pup, but it certainly toughened me up. I learned to run a lot faster too. The funny thing was, Rumbo could have been leader of the pack easily, for he was strong as well as smart, a good combination for the dog world; but he was essentially a loner, he went where he wanted to go, unhampered by thoughts of others. I’m still not sure why he took up with me; I can only suppose he recognised our mutual freakishness.
He was a Romeo, too. He loved the ladies, did Rumbo, and there again, size or breed meant nothing to him. He would disappear for days, returning with a tired but smug grin on his face. When I asked where he’d been, he always said he’d tell me when I was old enough to know.
I always knew when he would be off, for a strangely exciting smell would suddenly fill the air and Rumbo would stiffen, sniff, and bolt out of the yard — with me vainly trying to follow. It would be a bitch in heat of course, somewhere in the neighbourhood, possibly a couple of miles away, but I was too young to know about such things. So I’d wait patiently for his return, moping around until he did, angry at being left behind. Still, Rumbo was always pretty easy to live with for the next few days.
Another great pastime of his was rat-catching. God, how he hated rats, that Rumbo! There were never many in the yard, he made sure of that, but occasionally the odd two or three would make a reconnoitre, looking for a fresh supply of food, I suppose, or perhaps a new breeding ground. Rumbo would always know when they were about, he had a sixth sense for it. His hairs would bristle and his lips curl back revealing yellow fan-like teeth, and he’d snarl a deep menacing animal snarl. It would frighten the life out of me. Then he’d creep forward, taking his time, and he’d mooch through the old junks, oblivious of me, a hunter stalking his prey, a killer closing in on his kill. At first, I’d stay in the background, the vile creatures terrifying me with their evil looks and their foul language, but eventually Rumbo’s hate passed on to me, turning my fear into revulsion then detestation. Detestation led to anger, and anger overcame my nervousness. So we’d rout the rats together.
Mind you, they were brave, some of those rats, loathsome as they were. The sight of nice juicy puppy flesh may have had something to do with their fearlessness, and in those early days my life was often in jeopardy, and it’s thanks to Rumbo that I’m still in one piece today. (Of course, he soon realised what wonderful rat-bait he possessed, and it wasn’t long before he’d coaxed me into acting as such.) As the months went on, my meat became more stringy — thin I think you’d call me, despite our scavenging — and my legs longer, my jaws and teeth stronger. The rats no longer regarded me as dinner but as diner and treated me with much more respect.
We never really ate them. We’d tear them to pieces, we’d break their bones — but their flesh just wasn’t to our taste, no matter how hungry we felt at the time.
Rumbo loved to taunt them when he had them cornered. They’d hiss and curse at him, threaten him, bare their cruel teeth, but he would only sneer, taunt them all the more. He would advance slowly, his eyes never leaving theirs, and the rats would back away, bunch up their hindquarters, their bodies tensed for the leap forward. They’d make their move and Rumbo would make his. Dog and rat would meet in midair and the ensuing fight would be almost too frenzied to follow with the eye. The outcome was always inevitable: a high-pitched squeal, a stiff-haired body flying through the air, and Rumbo pouncing triumphantly on his broken-necked opponent as it landed in a nerve-twitching heap. Meanwhile, I was left to deal with any of the unfortunate vermin’s companions, and this I learned to do almost as ably — but never with quite as much relish — as Rumbo.
We almost came unstuck one day, however.
It was winter, and the mud in the yard was frost-hard. The yard itself was locked and deserted — it must have been a Sunday — and Rumbo and I were warm and snug on the back seat of a wrecked Morris 1100 which was acting as a sort of temporary bedsitter until more suitable accommodation came along (our previous lodgings, a spacious Zephyr, having been broken up completely and sold as scrap). Rumbo’s head shot up first and mine was a close second; we’d heard a noise and that familiar rank smell was in the air. We crept silently from the battered car and followed our noses towards the odour’s source, in among the jumble of wrecks, through the narrow alleyways of twisted metal, the rat scent drawing us on, the occasional scratching against metal making our ears twitch. We soon came upon them.
Or rather, he came upon us.
We had stopped before a turn in the path through the cars, aware that our prey lay just around the corner, the strong smell and the scratching noises our informant, and were tensing up for the rush when, suddenly he appeared before us.
He was the biggest rat I’d ever seen, more than half my size (and I’d grown considerably), his hair was brown and his incisors were long and wicked-looking. The creature was just as startled as us by the sudden confrontation and disappeared instantly, leaving us to blink our eyes in surprise. We rushed round the corner, but he was gone.
‘Looking for me?’ came a voice from somewhere high up. We looked around us in bewilderment then spotted the rat together. He was perched on the roof of a car and looking down at us contemptuously.
‘Up here, you mangy-looking curs. Coming up to get me?’ he said.
Now rats aren’t generally given much to conversation, most of them just spit and swear or scowl a lot, but this was the talkingest rat I’d ever come across.
‘I’ve heard about you two,’ he went on. ‘You’ve caused us a lot of problems. At least, so the ones who’ve managed to get away tell me.’ (You can’t catch ‘em all.) I’ve been wanting to meet you both — especially you, the big one. Think you’re a match for me?’
I had to admire Rumbo’s nerve, for I was set to run and hide. The rat may have been smaller than me, but those teeth and claws looked as though they could do a lot of damage to tender dog-meat. However, Rumbo spoke up, not a trace of nervousness in his voice: ‘Are you going to come down, mouth, or do I have to come up and get you?’
The rat actually laughed — rats don’t laugh much — and settled himself into a more comfortable position. ‘I’ll come down, cur, but in my own time; first I want to talk.’ (Certainly no ordinary rat this.) ‘What exactly have you
