Miss Birdie threw her hands up in surprise and beamed with delight. ‘What a pretty dog!’ she exclaimed and I wagged my rump with pride. She advanced on me and clasped my head between white-gloved hands.
‘Oh, what a lovely boy!’ She rubbed my back and I tried to lick her face, congratulating myself on finding another Bella. ‘Yes, yes, he is!’ she went on.
After a few moments of unbridled affection she bade me goodbye and strode on, waving at me as she went. I bounded after her and tried to leap into her arms, slobbering and grinning and desperately trying to fawn my way into her heart and charity. I admit it: I had no shame.
Miss Birdie gently pushed me down then patted my head. ‘Off you go, now, there’s a good dog,’ she said in her kind way.
Sorry Rumbo, but at that point I whimpered.
Not only that, I hung my head, drooped my tail and looked cow-eyed at her. I was pathetic.
It worked, for she suddenly said, ‘Oh my poor dear, you’re starving, that’s what it is! Look at those skinny old ribs.’ My chin almost touched the ground as I hammed up my performance. ‘Come along then, dear, you come with me and we’ll soon put you to rights. Poor little wretch!’
I was in. I tried to lick her face again in glee, but she restrained me with a surprisingly firm hand. I needed no encouragement to follow her, although she seemed to think I did, for she constantly patted her thigh and called out ‘Come along now.’
She had plenty of energy, this charming old lady, and we soon reached a rusty iron gate, behind which was a muddy path leading away from the road. Tangled undergrowth lay on either side of the narrow path and there was a constant rustling of hidden life as we made our way along it. I sniffed the scent of Miss Birdie along this well-used route, not the fresh powdery smell that followed in her wake now, but a staler version of it mingled with the scents of many animals. Now and again I stopped to explore a particularly interesting odour, but her call would send me scampering onwards.
Suddenly we emerged into a clearing and a flint-walled cottage stood before us, its corners, door and window openings reinforced by cut stone. It was a beautiful scene — like walking on to a chocolate box — and in perfect character with Miss Birdie herself. Smug with my own cleverness, I trotted up to the weathered door and waited for Miss Birdie to catch up with me.
She pushed open the door without using a key and beckoned me to enter. In I went and was pleased to find the interior of the cottage matched the quaintness of the exterior. Ancient furniture, worn and comfortable, filled the main room in which I found myself, there being no hallway. Well-cared for ornaments were scattered around the room, one of those interesting dark-wood dressers filled with delicately painted crockery taking up a large part of one wall. I wagged my tail in approval.
‘Now let’s just see if you’ve an address on your collar, then we’ll give you some food, eh?’ Miss Birdie placed her handbag on a chair and leaned forward over me, reaching for the name-plate on my collar. I obligingly sat down, determined not to kill any golden geese through over-exuberance. She peered shortsightedly at the scratched lettering on the nameplate and tutted in mild annoyance at herself.
‘My old eyes are getting worse,’ she told me, and I smiled in sympathy. I would dearly have loved to have told her of my own peculiarly clear eyesight, of the many changing colours I could see in her face, of the blue deepness in her ageing eyes, of the sparkling colours all around us, even in her faded furniture. It was frustrating to have to keep these things to myself, and even Rumbo had been unable to understand my visual sensitivity.
She felt inside her handbag and produced a light-rimmed pair of spectacles and muttered ‘That’s better,’ as she put them on. She still squinted through the lenses but managed to make out the name on the strip of metal.
‘Fluke,’ she said. ‘Fluke. That’s a funny name for a dog. And no address. Some people are very careless, aren’t they? I haven’t seen you around before, I wonder where you’ve come from? Bet you’ve run away, haven’t you? Let me look at your footies… ‘ She lifted a paw. ‘Yes, they’re sore, aren’t they? You’ve come a long way. Been badly treated, haven’t you? Thin as a rake. It isn’t right.’
My hunger was making me a little impatient by now and I whimpered again, just to give her the idea.
‘Yes, yes. I know what you want, don’t I? Something for your tummy?’ It’s a pity people have to talk to animals as though they were children, but I was in a forgiving mood and willing to put up with a lot more than baby-talk. I thumped my tail on the carpet in the hope that she would take that for an affirmative to her question. ‘Course you do,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you something.’
The kitchen was tiny, and lying in a basket on the floor, fast asleep, was Victoria.
Victoria was the meanest, surliest cat I’ve ever come across, either before or since that time. Now these feline creatures are renowned for their tetchiness, for they believe they’re a race apart from other animals and well above you lot, but this monster took the prize. She sat bolt upright, her fur bristling and her tail ramrod-straight. She hissed disgustedly at me.
‘Take it easy, cat,’ I said anxiously. Tm only passing through.’
‘Now you settle down, Victoria,’ said Miss Birdie, equally anxious. ‘This poor doggie is starving. I’m just giving him something to eat, then we’ll send him on his way.’
But it’s no good trying to talk sense to a cat, they just won’t listen. Victoria was out of her basket in a flash, up on to the sink and through the half-open kitchen window.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Miss Birdie, ‘you’ve upset Victoria now,’ and then this nice old lady gave me a hefty kick in the ribs.
I was so shocked I thought I’d imagined it, but the pain in my side told me otherwise.
‘Now let’s see what we’ve got,’ Miss Birdie said thoughtfully, her index finger in the corner of her mouth as she looked up into the cupboard she’d just opened. It was as though nothing had happened and I wondered again if anything actually had. The throb in my side assured me something had.
I kept a safe distance between us after that and watched her warily when she placed a bowl of chopped liver before me. The food was delicious but marred by my sudden nervousness of the old lady. I just couldn’t understand what had happened. I licked the bowl clean and said thank you, very aware of my manners now. She fondled my ears and chuckled approvingly at the empty bowl.
‘You were hungry, weren’t you?’ she said. ‘I’ll bet you’re thirsty now. Let’s give you some water.’ She filled the same bowl with water and placed it before me again. I lapped it up greedily.
‘Now you come with me and rest those poor weary legs.’ I followed her back into the main room and she patted a hairy rug in front of the unlit fire. ‘Rest there, nice and comfy, and I’ll just light the fire for us. It’s still too cold for my old bones, you know. I like the warm.’ She prattled on as she put a match to the already laid fire, her words soft and comforting. I became confident again, sure that the strange incident which had taken place in the kitchen was merely a slight lapse on her part, caused by the shock of seeing her beloved pet cat leaping through the window. Or maybe she’d slipped. I dozed off as she sat in the armchair before the fire, her words lulling me into a warm feeling of security.
I woke in time for lunch, which wasn’t much, she being an old lady living on her own, but she gave me a good portion of it. The cat returned and was further put out at the sight of me gobbling down food which she felt was rightfully hers. However, Miss Birdie made a big fuss of her, running into the kitchen and returning with an opened tin of catfood. She poured some of it on to a small plate and laid it before the sour-faced mog. With a menacing look at me, Victoria began to eat in that jerky cat fashion, neatly but predatorily, so unlike the clumsy, lip-smacking manner of us dogs. My portion of Miss Birdie’s lunch was soon gone and I casually sauntered over to Victoria to see how she was doing, ready to help her clean her plate, should the need arise. A spiteful hiss warned me off and I decided to sit at Miss Birdie’s feet, my face upturned and carefully composed into an expression of mild begging. A few tasty morsels came my way, so my fawning was not in vain. This disgusted the cat even more, of course, but her sneers didn’t bother me at all.
After Miss Birdie had cleared the table and washed up, we settled in front of the fire once again. Victoria kept an aloof distance and came over to settle on the old lady’s lap only after much enticement. We all dozed, I with my head resting on my benefactor’s slippered feet. I felt warm and content — and more secure than ever before. Perhaps I should stay with this kind old lady and forget my quest, which might just bring me more misery. I could be happy here; the cat would be a mild annoyance but nothing to worry about. I needed some human kindness, I needed to belong to someone. I’d lost a good friend and the world was a big and lonely place for a small mongrel dog. I could always search out my other past at some future time when I learned to live as I was. I could
