nor do they to any dog — they recognise particular sounds. I was just happy to be among friends.
A sharp whistle shrilled through my ears and a loud moan went up from the children. Reluctantly, and only after a few sharper blasts from the whistle, they turned away and left me, my shoulders pressed hard up against the railings in an effort to follow. Sunshine Hair stayed till last and gave my neck a long, hard squeeze before departing. I woofed at them not to go, but they stood in rows with their backs to me, occasionally sneaking a look round, their shoulders jerking in suppressed giggles. Then, row by row, they filed into a miserable grey building and the door was closed behind the last one.
I stared blankly into the empty playground, distressed that I’d lost my new friends. I grinned and straightened up as little white faces appeared at upstairs windows, but these were soon joined by the older, wizened face of a teacher whose harsh, muffled voice carried across the playground, ordering the pupils to return to their seats. A boy who was slower than the rest got his ear tweaked as encouragement. I stayed there for a few more hopeful minutes, but finally, and mournfully, I tugged my head loose from the railings.
Dogs generally have happy spirits, and most emotions are sacrificed to inquisitiveness anyway, so when an old man cycled by with a shopping-bag dangling from his handlebars, I forgot my disappointment and trotted along after him. I could see a leafy sprig protruding from a hole in the base of his shopping-bag. I think it must have been rhubarb — it had a sweet tangy smell — and it looked very appetising. I soon caught up with him, for he was quite old and peddling very slowly, and before he had a chance to notice me I leapt up at the tantalising sprig. I was both lucky and unlucky.
I pulled the leaf and its stalk through the hole, but the sudden action unbalanced the cyclist and he came crashing down on top of me, machine and all. The breath was knocked from me so that my yelp of pain was only a crushed squeal. I spluttered for air and tried to apologise to the old man for bringing him down, but my words emerged as a series of wheezy grunts which he didn’t understand. He flailed his arms around, trying to hit me, not even trying to sympathise with my hunger, cursing and groaning as if he’d been tossed by a bull on to a bed of nails. And I’d managed to break his fall too!
There was no point in my staying, he wasn’t in the mood to offer me any food, so I tried to struggle free of both man and machine. A few hefty clouts from him helped me considerably and I was delighted to discover the contents of the shopping-bag had scattered along the pavement. I ignored the long red stalks whose brief taste of foliage hadn’t excited me tremendously and dashed at a juicy looking red apple. My jaws clamped down on it — not an easy feat, for it was a large apple — and then I scampered out of range of angry fists and abusive language. It was fortunate his feet were tangled up in the bike frame otherwise I’m sure they’d have been used to send me on my way. At a safe distance, I turned and dropped the apple on the ground before me. I had meant to apologise again for I did feel sorry I’d caused the man to fall and hurt himself, but his purple face and shaking fist convinced me he wouldn’t be pacified. So, picking up my apple, I made off, looking back once to see him being lifted to his feet by two passers-by. He seemed all right as he hobbled around testing his aged legs, so I continued on my way.
I found a reasonably quiet side-street and settled down against a wall to eat my plunder. My appetite never seemed to be satiated in those early days and those ‘experts’ who tell you dogs need only one meal a day are talking through their hats. Certainly a dog only needs one meal a day to get by, but then, so does a human. How would you feel if that’s all you had? And how would you feel if you had to fast for one day a week, something the ‘experts’ also recommend? What’s the use of a glossy coat and a damp nose if you’ve got a gnawing stomach? I wolfed that apple down, core and all, as if it was all I’d eaten that day. The sun beat down on me and I dozed off, forgetting my problems, drowsiness forcing me to accept what was.
One of those inevitable English summer showers aroused me and I automatically looked at my wrist to see what the time was. The sight of my thin, hairy dog’s leg shocked me into reality. I trotted to my feet and shook myself, then looked around; it must have been mid-afternoon and I was hungry again.
I set off down the narrow street, investigating new smells as they came to me, chasing a beetle as it scurried across my path, calling hello to a dog being lead by a man on the other side of the street. The dog, a disdainful little corgi, ignored me and I just wasn’t interested enough to make conversation. It slowly dawned on me as I trotted on that I needed a quiet safe place, somewhere I could rest and try to unscramble my jumbled thoughts. I needed food and I needed protection. Some kind of sympathy would have been welcome too.
But I didn’t find it that day.
I pushed my rump back in the doorway to avoid the drizzling rain spattering against my nose and foreface. It had been an afternoon of wandering and wondering; the sun had been dimmed by the steady drizzle and the damp had made the people even more insulated. Earlier on, the streets had suddenly become crowded, overwhelming me with their congestion so that I could only cower miserably under a railway arch. After what seemed a long time, their numbers dwindled and I ventured forth again, but by now my spirits had caved in completely. My tail dropped between my legs and my eyes scarcely left the pavement in front of me. As the evening drew on and the light faded, my loneliness had increased to such an extent that I was tempted to go back to the dogs’ home — the Return of the Prodigal, Lassie Comes Home. The thought of being put to sleep — murdered, I mean — wouldn’t have deterred me. I would be good, I would play the underdog to its lowest level, and the keepers would forgive me, give me another chance to prove my worthiness to be an unworthy creature, to be just another dog. I couldn’t remember where the hell the dogs’ home was, though.
I gazed longingly up at lighted windows, yearning for company, drinking in the inviting smells, but the rain drove me on, searching and just not finding.
The hour was late now and, apart from the occasional swish of a passing car, the streets were cold and empty. I huddled in the doorway, and my wretched spirit huddled within me. Tiredness made my eyelids droop, only hunger keeping me awake. Questions invaded my misery.
This place wasn’t familiar to me, yet I knew it was London. Was I from London? No, I wasn’t from London. How did I know? I just knew. I had a memory of green fields, open space; a town, but not a big town. They had formed the greater part of my life, these fields and this town. Where were they? If only I could find them. And yet I knew this city, even if this particular district was unfamiliar. Had I worked in London? I had a sudden vision of a woman, in her late fifties, plump but not large, smiling and holding her arms out, and it seemed she held them out to me, calling a name that was soundless to my ears. Her head became that of a dog’s, and was just as warm, just as affectionate, just as welcoming. My two mothers vanished from my mind and were replaced by the figure of a man, a man who appeared quite normal, handsome in a featureless way, and his environment was somehow different, not part of the scene I had just envisaged.
I hated him. Was it me?
My thoughts wearily wandered on, uncontrolled, undirected: the child again, obviously mine; the girl — young woman — certainly my wife; a house; a street, a muddy lane; a town. The name of the town almost came to me; the names of the girl and the child hovered behind a tissue-thin barrier; my own name was rising from ocean depths and about to break surface. But a car swished past and the names scattered like startled fish.
I watched the car’s rear lights recede into the distance, twin reflections on the soggy road diminishing with them, suddenly reinforced by brake lights, and disappearing as the vehicle turned a corner (even that seemed familiar). I was alone again in an empty world and with an empty head. Then I saw the ghost.
Have you ever seen a ghost? Probably not. But have you ever seen a dog suddenly become alert, for no apparent reason, his ears cocked, his hair bristling? You’d undoubtedly think he’s just heard something that’s escaped your ears, somebody walking by the house, another dog barking somewhere far in the night: and many times you’d be right. But often, it’s because he’s aware of presence — a spirit. He won’t always be alarmed, perhaps just disturbed; it depends largely on the nature of the ghost itself. It could be friendly or unfriendly.
Think I’m going a bit far now? Just wait till later.
The ghost drifted across the road towards me, a shadowy form, a wispy, vaporous figure. It didn’t see me, or, if it did, it chose to ignore me, and as the shape drew nearer, I was able to distinguish a face, shoulders, and a part of a torso. The apparition seemed to be wearing a jacket, and I could certainly make out a shirt-collar and tie. Why wasn’t it naked — why do astral bodies never seem to be naked? Don’t ask me, I’m only a dog.
Now, I was disturbed, I admit it. There was nothing evil emanating from the spirit, I’m sure, but it was my first ghost both as a dog or as a man. My hair stood on end and my eyes widened. My mouth suddenly felt very dry. I was too frightened even to whine and the power to run had left me completely.
It had the saddest countenance I’ve ever seen, a face that had been made aware of the ills of mankind, had learned the first lesson in death. It passed by me, close enough to touch, and I could clearly see the rain drizzling
