Twenty-Nine
I bound from the car and, nose to the ground, zig-zag around the front lawn of my new home. I hoover up downy feathers that stick to my wet nose and I sneeze, sending the feathers flying. As a pup, I once tore a cushion to shreds searching for the duck inside. I found loads of feathers but never found the duck. I’m still searching. Can’t be that many naked ducks about.
‘So, what do you think?’ Rose asks, smiling.
What do I think? I think those bitter white tablets the vet gave me were worth it after all. I can’t feel my stitches and my paws seem to float above the grass as if I’m dreaming. I run over to Rose, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper in a downpour, and lick her hand. After being cooped up in a cage at the vet’s, I need the wind in my fur, big time. So I charge up and down, leaning into each turn like a motorcycle at Brands Hatch, almost tripping over a faded wooden sign on the overgrown grass that once welcomed visitors to Duckdown Cottage. It even has a white duck painted on it.
Duck!
I bolt down the side of the house to where the duck droppings are so potent it’s like fireworks going off in my head.
‘Monty!’ she calls. ‘Leave the ducks alone.’
She can’t be serious! Duck and pheasant retrieval is what I’m bred for. It’s a calling.
I go into selective hearing mode and charge for the pond, revelling in the glorious combination of mud, poultry poo and stagnant water. It’s the canine equivalent of Chanel No. 5. Most of the quack-pack sit serenely in the shade of a willow. A matronly mallard leads them in meditation.
‘Om shanti,’ the mallard intones.
‘Om shanti,’ they reply.
The others snooze, plump bodies balanced on one of their twig-like legs, eyes closed. It’s too much. I can’t resist. Time for a bit of duck toppling!
I charge at them, plumed tail held high like the battle flag of an invading army, and bark with excitement. The ducks panic, running around in circles, then scatter. Some head for the water, others bolt across the lawn, wings back. Before Rose can grab my collar, I dive for the pond, water splashing over me, cool and exhilarating.
‘Monty, stop! Your stitches!’
Mouth open, I pounce on a black and white tufted dowager and come up with her in my jaws.
‘Get off me, you slobbering fur-ball!’ she quacks and kicks me in the muzzle.
I can’t tell this squirming mass of feathers and webbed feet that I’m not going to hurt her, because I’ll drop her if I do. Sodden but proud, I trot out of the pond and deposit the ruffled bird, unhurt, at Rose’s feet. A gift. I am expecting praise, ears up, long pink tongue dangling, mouth turned up in what the big’uns – that’s our term for people – often think of as a smile.
‘Bad dog!’ she scolds, trying to catch her breath.
The duck quacks out ‘Tosser!’ as she waddles off, a little wobbly.
I watch her go, my ears flat, head lowered, tail tucked in, confused by Rose’s reaction. Not the duck’s. They never take it well.
‘This isn’t going to work if you eat the ducks. You have to leave them alone, Monty,’ she says, wagging her finger.