got against us rats, friend? I know we’re loved neither by man nor animal, but you have a special dislike, haven’t you? Is it because we’re scavengers? But then aren’t you worse? Aren’t all captured animals the lowest scavengers because they live off man — as parasites? Of course, you can’t even dignify your existence with the word 'captured' because most of you choose that way of life, don’t you? Do you hate us because we’re free, not domesticated, not… ‘ he paused, grinning slyly,’… neutered as you are?’
Rumbo bridled at this last remark. ‘I’m not neutered, rat-face, they’ll never do that to me!’
‘It doesn’t have to be a physical thing, you know,’ the rat said smugly. ‘It’s your mind I’m talking about.’
‘I’ve still got a mind of my own.’
‘Have you, have you?’ The rat snorted. ‘At least we vermin run free, no keepers for us.’
‘Who the hell would want you?’ Rumbo scoffed. ‘You even turn on each other when things get rough.’
‘That’s called survival, dog. Survival.’ The rat was displeased. He rose to his feet. ‘You hate us because you know we’re all the same — man, animal, insect — all the same, and you know rats live an existence others try to hide. Isn’t that so, dog?’
‘No, it’s not so, and you know that!’
There were a lot of ‘you knows’ flying around. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what they were talking about.
Rumbo advanced towards the car, his coat bristling with rage.
‘There’s a reason for rats living the way they do, just as there’s a reason for the way dogs live. And you know it!’
‘Yes, and there’s a reason for me to tear your throat out,’ the rat spat at Rumbo.
‘That’ll be the day, ratface!’
They ranted at each other for another five minutes before their anger finally boiled over. And it boiled over in a strange way.
Both rat and dog went suddenly quiet as though there were nothing left to say. They glared into each other’s eyes, Rumbo’s brown and bulging, the rat’s yellow and evil; both pairs were filled with hate. The tension between them mounted, a screaming silence, a building of venom. Then, with a squeal, the rat launched himself from the car roof.
Rumbo was ready. He leapt aside so that the vermin landed heavily on the hard earth, then struck out for the rat’s neck. But the rat squirmed away and turned to meet Rumbo’s charge. Teeth clashed against teeth, and claws dug into flesh.
I stood there, stunned and fearful, watching them try to tear each other to pieces. Growls, snarls and squeals came from the struggling bodies, but it was Rumbo’s yelp that set me into action. I rushed forward, shouting at the top of my bark, trying to find the rage to give me the courage. There wasn’t much I could do, for they were locked together in a writhing embrace, rolling over and over, flaying each other with their feet, biting, drawing blood, ripping skin. I could only lunge in whenever I caught sight of that stinking brown fur, nipping at it with bared teeth.
Quite suddenly, they drew apart, panting, beaten, but still glaring into each other’s eyes. I saw that Rumbo’s shoulder was badly torn and one of the rat’s ears was shredded. They crouched, bodies quivering, low growling sounds at the backs of their throats. I thought perhaps they were too exhausted to carry on, but then I realised they were only regathering their strength.
They sprang at each other again and this time I sprang with them. Rumbo caught the rat by the throat and I managed to bite into one of his front legs. The taste of warm blood sickened me, but I clung to the creature with all my strength. He rolled and squirmed and snapped at us; I felt a sharp pain across my shoulders as he scythed across them with his teeth. The shock made me lose my grip of his leg and, twisting his body, the rat kicked out at me with his hind legs, sending me rolling across the frozen mud.
I rushed straight in and received a deep gash across my nose from the rodent’s claws. The pain sent me back again, but I returned just as quickly. Rumbo still had the rat by the throat, endeavouring to lift him from the ground and toss him, a trick I’d seen him use to break other vermin’s backs. The rat was too big, though — too heavy. At least the grip Rumbo held prevented the rat doing serious damage with those teeth; he’d cut my shoulders but could have seriously wounded me had his incisors been allowed to sink in. Such was his strength that the big rat managed to break away. He ran free, turned, and streaked back into us, twisting his head from left to right, striking at our vulnerable bodies with his vicious weapons. Rumbo cried out as he was gored along the flank. He staggered to one side and the rat, with a shout of triumph, flew at him. But in his excitement, he’d forgotten about me.
I leapt on to the rat’s back, bringing him down with my weight, and biting into the top of his head, breaking a tooth against his skull. The rest was messy and unglorious: Rumbo leapt back into the fray, and between us we managed to kill the creature. The rat didn’t die easily, and even to this day I have a grudging admiration for the fight he put up against two heavier opponents. When his squirming finally stopped and the last gasp left his bloody body, I felt not just exhausted but degraded too. He had had just as much right to live as we had, despicable though he was in the eyes of others, and his courage could not be denied. I think Rumbo felt the same sense of shame even though he said nothing.
He dragged the dead body out of sight beneath a car (I don’t know why — a sort of burial, I suppose) and returned to lick my wounds for me.
‘You did well, pup,’ he said wearily between licks. His voice had a quietness to it that was unusual for him. ‘He was a big brute. Different from most I’ve met.’
I whimpered as his tongue flicked across the gash in my nose.
‘What did he mean, Rumbo, when he said we’re all the same?’
‘He was wrong. We’re not.’
And that was all my friend had to say on the subject.
The rat incident soured me for the killing of others of the species; I’d fight them certainly, chastise them, but from then on I let them escape. Rumbo soon became aware of my reluctance to kill and grew angry with me; he still hated the creatures and slew them whenever we came in contact with them, perhaps with less relish than before, but with a cold determination.
I’ve no wish to dwell on our dealings with vermin, for it was an unpleasant and ugly part of my dog life, albeit a very small part; but one other incident has to be mentioned because it shows just how deep Rumbo’s hate went for these unfortunate and unblessed creatures.
We came across a nest of them. It was at the far end of the yard and in a car which lay at the very bottom of a tumble of others. The vehicle’s roof was crushed flat, there were no doors, and nestled among the stuffing of a torn back seat were a dozen tiny pink rats suckling from their recumbent mother. Their little bodies were still glistening and slick from their birth. The scent drew us like a magnet and we wriggled our way through the twisted junk to reach them. When I saw the babies and the alarmed parent, I prepared to retreat, to leave them in peace. But not Rumbo. He tore into them with a fury I’d never seen before.
I called out to him, pleaded with him, but he was oblivious to my cries. I ran from the place, not wanting to witness such slaughter, and flew from the yard, away from that terrible destruction.
We didn’t speak for days after that; I was bewildered by Rumbo’s savagery and he was puzzled by my attitude. It has, in fact, taken me a long time to come to terms with the brutality of animal life, and of course it was my very ‘humanness’ which hindered my progress (or regress — however you care to look at it) towards this acceptance. I think Rumbo put my sulkiness down to growing pains, for growing I certainly was. My puppy fat had almost disappeared entirely, my legs were long and strong (although my back legs were a little cow-hocked). My toenails had been kept trimmed by the constant running on hard concrete and my teeth were firm and sharp. My vision was still excellent, still vivid, unusually lucid. (Rumbo had the normal dog’s eyesight: not quite as good as man’s and unable to distinguish colours too well. He could see all right in the dark, though, perhaps better than me.) My appetite was extremely healthy and I had no trouble with worms, tartar on the teeth, mange, constipation, diarrhoea, irritable bladder, eczema, ear-canker, nor any other normal dog ailments. Nevertheless I did itch a lot and it was this irritation that brought Rumbo and me together again.
I had observed him scratching with more and more frequency and, I had to admit, it had become almost a full-time occupation for me, this sucking of fur and raking of skin with hind legs. When I actually saw the little yellow
