instead she said: ‘I’ll be off then, fellas. See you.’ And she disappeared into the camouflage of the bushes, as she always did when humans were around.
‘We will continue our lesson tomorrow,’ said Henry, completely unruffled by the whole Rottweiler experience.
‘OK,’ I said, as Adam took hold of my collar. ‘I’ll see you.’
And on the walk home, I was already thinking of it, my next lesson. I breathed in the morning air – car fumes, chip papers, cat shit – and tried to make sense of it. I breathed in further. I could pick out Henry, Lear, Joyce – their scents all still evident in the morning air. As we turned the final corner, I could still identify other park smells. They stayed with me, as strong as ever. Ugly, putrid smells. Squirrel blood, human vomit, and something else. Dank and heavy. Something I didn’t recognise. And yet, I couldn’t help thinking that this unidentified smell was the key.
This was the thought that kept with me all day.
If I could work it out I could predict the future.
I could stop the bad things.
I could protect the Family.
The Labrador Pact: Resist the Springers
Springer spaniels are a danger to our mission. They no longer view themselves as the guardians of the human Family, and have proved willing to sit by and watch its destruction. Furthermore, the mutinous propaganda which fuelled the Springer Uprising now holds an influence over other breeds.
In particular, these are the key aspects of Springer behaviour which must be resisted at all costs:
– Escaping leads
– Ignoring danger-signs
– Exploiting the kindness and generosity of our human masters
– Failing to nurture the canine powers of secret diplomacy
Labradors are encouraged to avoid all forms of contact with this increasingly hedonistic and debauched breed. Whenever a Springer approaches, turn the other way. Whenever you detect their scent, spray your own in its place.
Reckless Springerism will never be tolerated among Labradors.
We will never be weakened.
Our duty will prevail.
sigh
Adam let out a sigh that lasted so long he had nearly transferred the entire contents of the kitchen table to the dishwasher by the time it had been fully exhaled.
During the sigh Charlotte screeched her chair back, stood up, and walked out of the room, typing into her phone as she went.
Table cleared, Adam tightened his tie and gave me a look which asked: What have we done to deserve this?
He fed me. My bowl of meat jelly and biscuit.
A dog’s dinner.
A dog’s breakfast.
I wolfed it down.
More morning sounds upstairs: footsteps in hurried competition. The whole house getting louder and louder, as it did on the mornings when Kate went to work at the gift shop, when she joined the other members of the Family getting ready for their busy day. The noise reached its thunderous peak as everyone, in quick succession, riverdanced their way downstairs and slammed the front door behind them.
Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam.
After that last slam the house was never more quiet. As I slumped back in my basket, as I settled back and washed my paws, the silence seemed to be speaking to me. Whether it was canine intuition or delusion I cannot be sure. But it seemed to be telling me that this routine, the routine which bored and warmed me at the same time, was not going to survive. All of a sudden, the entire room was full of secrets, concealing its advance knowledge within every object. And this feeling stayed with me for some time before I decided to bark for the rest of the day. To shut up the silence and its unwelcome premonitions.
smell-heap
That evening, Adam was still not in stick-throwing mood, no matter how many I dropped at his feet. Instead, he went over and sat on the empty park bench.
I kept a close watch while sniffing my way around the damp flowerbeds. He was looking at the big new house, its windows glowing orange in the dark. But then, suddenly, he flinched away. A door closed.
Someone was coming.
I stood, motionless, and observed as a dog emerged from one side of the house, leading a woman to the gate in the fence separating their garden from the park. With the gate closed behind them, the woman unclipped the dog. The dog, not having noticed me, flew off towards the oak trees and the smell-heap behind. Of more interest was the woman, who was taking slow, but deliberate, steps towards the bench.
Adam, I could see, was making an anxious effort to look relaxed. He leaned back. Then forward. Then back again, resting an elbow on the top of the bench.
I can’t remember what was going through my mind as I jogged over to join them. I certainly had no idea that this was a turning point, the start of my true mission and the battles which it involved.
Lying down in front of them I could take it all in. I could take her all in. It was the smell that first hit me. It wasn’t her natural scent, of course, but a bizarre mixture of perfume and something else. Something strong enough to make me feel slightly dizzy.
But Adam wouldn’t notice. He’d notice how she looked. I knew that, even then. And so, how did she look? By human standards, I suppose she was attractive. Long hair, as golden as Henry’s. Large, puppy-dog eyes. Her skin was tight and glowed with health. She must have been half his age.
I sat up and waited with him by the bench. Not because I was particularly worried. I wasn’t. It’s just that you have to be careful, don’t you, not to breach the Pact. But the thing is, from the moment I had made my decision to wait with Adam and the woman, I realised I had made a mistake. Rather than protecting him from any potential threat of conversation, I realised I had given her an excuse to lean over, stroke the back of my neck, and say: ‘Wow! She’s a lovely dog, isn’t she? What’s her name?’
‘Yes, yes. She is, isn’t she,’ Adam paused, as if making a silent calculation. ‘Actually, it’s a he. Well, a half-he. He’s had the –’ He completed the sentence with a mime of scissors snipping the air.
The woman laughed. ‘Oh poor thing, poor –’
‘Prince, he’s called Prince.’
I tried my best not to encourage further conversation and focused instead on the woman’s dog, who was stalking a squirrel from behind one of the flowerbeds. And then I realised. I caught his scent. He wasn’t just any old dog. He was a Springer. A Springer. This was not good at all. We had to leave; I had to do something. I started to bark at Adam and the woman, but they paid no notice. Their conversation continued.
‘I’m Emily.’
I turned to see her hold out her hand.
‘I’m, um, Adam. Adam Hunter.’
Emily’s Springer, who had been throwing me the odd glance as he sniffed his way around this new territory, now trotted over.
‘Wah-hey, a Labrador!’ I did my best to ignore him as he sniffed around me. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Loosen up. I don’t bite.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re a Springer. I cannot talk to you.’
‘Oh yes, the Labrador Pact, of course. Well, it may put your mind at rest to realise I’m only half there.’
‘Sorry?’