Another miserable night for me. I must be unique in knowing the full meaning of the expression ‘a dog’s life’. I know of no other animal who goes through so many highs and lows of emotion as the dog. Maybe we make trouble for ourselves; maybe we’re over-sensitive; or maybe we’re just stupid. Maybe we’re too human.
I hardly slept. I kept expecting the door to swing open and the ancient demon to appear and deal out more punishment. But it didn’t swing open; in fact, it didn’t swing open for another three days.
I whined, I howled, I grew angry and barked; but nothing happened. I messed on the floor and cried because I knew it would get me into trouble. I starved and cursed the mouse who’d got me into this predicament. My throat grew sore because I had nothing to drink and I cursed the malicious cat who’d caused this situation. My limbs grew stiff because of lack of exercise and I cursed Miss Birdie for her senility. How could she change from being a charming, delicate old lady one moment into a raging monster the next? All right, I know I was to blame to some extent — her cat had gone head-first through the window — but was that enough reason to lock me up and starve me? Self-pity sent me into a sulk that occasionally welled up into anger, then receded into a sulk again.
On the third day the door handle rattled, twisted and the door slowly opened.
I cowered beneath the pianoforte hardly daring to look up, prepared to take a beating with as little dignity as possible.
‘There, there, Fluke. What’s the matter then?’ She stood smiling down at me, that sweet granny smile, that gentle innocence which only belongs to the very old or the very young. I snuffled and refused to be lured out.
‘Come on then, Fluke. All’s forgiven.’
Oh yes, I thought, until your next brainstorm.
‘Come and see what I’ve got for you.’ She left the doorway and disappeared into the kitchen, calling my name in her enticing way. A meaty smell came my way and, tail drooped between my legs, I made my way cautiously after her. I found Miss Birdie pouring a whole tin of dogfood into a bowl on the floor.
I might be unforgiving but my stomach has a mind of its own and it insisted I go forward and eat. Which I did of course without too much inner conflict, though I kept a wary eye on the old lady all the time. The food soon went and so did the water that followed, but my nervousness took a little longer to disappear. Victoria watched me all the time from her basket in the corner, flicking her tail in a slow, regular movement of cold fury. I ignored her but was actually pleased to see she’d come to no real harm by diving through the window. (I was also pleased to see the bald tip of her tail.)
I shied away when Miss Birdie reached down to me, but her calm words soothed my taut nerves and I allowed her to stroke me and soon we were friends again. And we remained friends for at least two weeks after that.
Victoria made a point of keeping out of my way and, I confess, I made a point of keeping out of hers, too. I would scamper down to the town with Miss Birdie when she went shopping and always did my best to behave myself on these occasions. The temptation to steal was almost irresistible, but resist it I did. I was reasonably well fed and the dreadful incident of my fight with Victoria was soon forgotten. Miss Birdie introduced me to all her friends (she seemed to know everybody) and I was made a great fuss of. In the afternoons I would romp in the fields behind the cottage, teasing the animals living there, inhaling the sweetness from the budding flowers, revelling in the growing warmth from the sun. Colours zoomed before me, new smells titillated my sense: life became good once more and I grew healthier. Two weeks of happiness, then that rat of a cat managed to upset everything again.
It was a sunny afternoon and Miss Birdie was in her garden at the front of the cottage tending her awakening flowerbeds. The front door was open and I trotted backwards and forwards through it, enjoying the luxury of having a home where I could come and go as I pleased. On my third or fourth trip, Victoria wandered in after me, and I should have realised something was going to happen when she slyly started a conversation with me. Being a fool and eager to make friends, I readily laid my suspicions to one side and answered her questions, settling down on the rug, prepared to have a good natter. As I said before, cats, like rats, aren’t much given to conversation and I was pleased Victoria was making the effort on my behalf, thinking she had accepted me as a permanent guest and was trying to make the best of things. She asked me where I came from, if I knew any other cats, if I liked fish — all sorts of inconsequential questions. But all the time her yellow eyes were darting around the room as though looking for something. When they rested upon the huge dresser with all its fine crockery she smiled to herself. Then came the insults: What was a mangey-looking thing like me doing here, anyway? Were all dogs as stupid as me? What made me smell so? Little things like that. I blinked hard, startled by this sudden change in attitude. Had I offended her in some way?
She came closer so we were almost nose to nose, and stared intently into my eyes. ‘You’re a dirty, snivelling, fleabitten, worm-riddled mutt. You’re a thief and a scoundrel!’ Victoria looked at me with some satisfaction. ‘Your mother was a jackal who coupled with a hyena. You’re vulgar and you’re nasty!’
Now there are many insults you can throw at a dog and get away with, but there’s one we will not put up with, one word that really offends us. That’s right — dirty! (We often are, of course, but we don’t like to be told so.) I growled at her to be quiet.
She took no notice, of course, but ranted on, throwing insults not worth repeating here, but some quite ingenious for one of her limited vocabulary. Even so, I would probably have borne all these insults had she not finally spat in my face. I went for her, which is exactly what she had wanted all along.
Up into the dresser she went, spitting and howling. I tried to follow her, shouting at the top of my lungs, finding some nice insults of my own to call her. Victoria backed away along the dresser as I tried in vain to reach her and, as she moved her body backwards, so the ornamental plates which stood balanced upright on the first shelf came tumbling down.
A shadow fell across the doorway but the half-wit (that’s right) carried on barking at the wailing cat. I only became fully aware of Miss Birdie’s presence when the rake came down heavily on my back. I scooted for the front door, but the old lady had sprung wings on her heels and reached it before me. She slammed it shut and turned to face me, the rake clutched in her gnarled old hands like a lance, its iron-toothed end almost touching my nose. I looked up at her face and gulped loudly.
It had gone a deep purple, the tiny broken veins seeming to explode like starbursts across her skin, and her once kind eyes pressed against their sockets as though about to pop out and roll down her cheeks. I moved a fraction of a second before she did and the rake crashed into the floor only inches behind me. We did a quick circuit of the room while the cat looked on from her safe perch on the dresser, a huge smug smile on her face. On our third lap round, Miss Birdie spotted her and took a swipe at her indolent body with the rake (I suppose the frustration of not being able to catch me had something to do with it). It caught the cat a cracking blow and she shot off the dresser like a ball from a cannon and joined me in the arena. Unfortunately (more so for us), Miss Birdie’s sweeping blow at Victoria had also dislodged more plates, together with a few hanging cups and a small antique vase. They followed the cat but of course refused to join us in our run; they lay broken and dead where they had fallen.