The car smelled of dogs - other dogs like him, but female. They had left their loose hairs on the blanket and in the folds of the seat. And there were other smells: fishy, muddy smells and an occasional drifting reminder of a woman's perfume.
The car stopped. The men got out, the younger one tied some string to the dog's collar and led him into the street. The older man patted the dog on the head, told him to be good and got back into the car. After that, the black dog rarely saw the older man, only as a distant figure walking two roly-poly Labradors or as an occasional acquaintance when he was out roaming and wandering and scavenging.
The man led the black dog through a small, untidy garden and into a small, steamy kitchen. There was a woman and two very small girl-children and a warm glowing fire and a frightened cat that leapt nail-sharp onto a windowsill and out of the window. There were gentle hands examining his head and his dull-and-dirty coat and his tail; gently touching his soft mouth-pouch where that stupid little terrier had taken their rough- and-tumble game too far, and bitten and ripped and torn; probing the holes in his forelegs, from the same stupid terrier or was it another fighting dog or was it when he'd been caught in that tearing, biting wire across those fields? And then there was food - lots of it. And then more. And the black dog stretched his young, battle-worn body before the radiant fire, rested his large, square and heavy head on the hearth, and went to sleep, leaving one ear standing guard and ready to run.
The weeks passed. His coat became glossy and black; jet-black, coal-black. His torn flesh healed. The man took him for long explorations across rolling green fields full of the trails of rabbits and badgers and foxes, past the sheep that must-never-be-chased and through the sweet-scented herds of cows. The children climbed onto his resting body and stroked his big head. He slept in the small kitchen, curling his large body tight into the new cardboard box that the woman gave to him every week after she had unloaded the groceries. Round and round and round he went, sinking his body lower and lower into the box, until he was curled tight as a ball, straining the seams and rounding the edges. After a couple of days, the new cardboard box wasn't new any more, it was bent and battered and muddy from his paws. But it was his sanctuary, his home and his nightly resting place.
When his coat was very muddy, the woman tried to wash him. He stood four-square on the bathroom floor, refusing to budge. Not in that white slippery tub, thank you very much! And the woman couldn't coax or push or lift him - so he ended up outside, tied to a fence in the garden, being drenched and drowned with buckets of warm water and brushed and scrubbed and then more water and more rubbing and brushing and barking barking barking all the time, bouncing and shaking and scratching and spraying soapy water all over the woman and the garden and the path and enjoying it all.
But sometimes, the wanderlust got to him again. Days when he just couldn't stay inside the house or in the garden. It didn't happen when he was out walking loose at the man's heel or chained by a leash to the woman or running free with her on the disused road: but only when he was in the house or the garden. And a small dog would ramble by. Or a cat. Or a workmen's van was driving past. Or someone was walking to the bus stop at the top of the village. And then he was gone, out into the world, running down the road, sniffing at the grass and the telegraph poles and looking for a playmate.
One day, the black dog reached the bus a few minutes before the neighbour and her children, the children who often came to play with his woman's children. He climbed aboard, took a seat near the driver and sat there, among the other passengers, waiting patiently for the bus to start; looking through the window at the fields and the passing slow cars and the blue sky and the cotton-wool clouds. The bus driver was laughing. Then the neighbour arrived and firmly told the black dog to "Get off this bus and go home right now!", but he had more important things to see to first, like a swim in the stream and an investigation of the dustbin that someone had thoughtfully left, unlidded, in the street.
For a wonderful stretch of four long summer weeks, he found some new friends and a regular mid-afternoon snack. There was a workmen's van that sat not far from the man's house, just a bit further along the row of houses that all looked almost the same. Every day, when it was quiet and none of the children were around and all the men were gone from the houses, the van would arrive and the workmen would climb out, pick some things out of the back of the van and go into one or another of the houses. And later, when the sun was high in the sky, the two workmen would reappear, sit in the front seats and open paper bags full of the smell of fresh bread and sausage or ham or cheese... and soon, every day, the black dog was also sitting on the front seat of the workmen's van, between the two men, sharing every sandwich and cake and sausage roll and cleaning up the crumbs from the floor. It wasn't as if he didn't eat well at home, it was just - well, if it's there, you might as well eat it, no? And if it was there and you could smell it but you couldn't see it, you'd better find it before someone else does, right?
Two or three times, kindly motorists saw him roaming along under the hedgerow and took him for a ride in their car. They took him to a friendly place in the local town, where all the men wore blue suits with shiny buttons. The men always fed him well and gave him a clean bed to sleep on, and the next day the man or the woman would appear, attach his lead and take him home again. The men in blue suits always patted him on the head and said, "See you next time!" It wasn't a bad life, really...
Sometimes his scavenging gave him problems. Once, after a regular, fruitful dustbin-dive, he had a frightful pain. Every time he squatted down to relieve himself. And he howled and howled. And nothing happened... so he squatted again - and howled even louder. The woman came running. Then the man. And he was put into the car and taken to a person who wore a white overall and smelled strange, rather like the kitchen floor when it was wet or the bucket where the woman put the children's nappies, before there were any nappies in it. And the person in the white overall patted him and stroked him and then prodded him somewhere very sore, and he growled and showed his long white teeth. Then the person in white pushed something sharp into his shoulder...
... and there was the sound of a biscuit tin being opened. The black dog's legs wouldn't stand straight, they were like the jelly that he found in the middle of those big, long bones that the woman sometimes brought back home in the groceries box... but he could definitely hear biscuits in the next room. He wobbled to the door, hooked his paw round and pulled the door open: and then sank into a red-eyed heap on the floor, eyes glued to the biscuit being raised from the tin to an open mouth...
Another time, when the floor was cold under his paws and the wind was whistling in the hedgerows, he pushed his way out of the back door, barging past the woman as she opened the door to go outside, and trotted off to visit the woman-who-brought-cakes-home-every-night. They weren't fresh cakes from the oven, or even yesterday's-cakes, but they were cakes all the same and she always saved some for him. She also had about twenty evil-smelling fire-spitting needle-clawed cats in her house, so he was never invited inside, not like some of the other houses, but the cakes were put on the doorstep. This time, there were lots. Lots and lots. Big chunks of brown cake full of interesting tastes and textures. And he ate more and more. And he just had to eat all of it, it was so good and anyway if he didn't, the cats would or that skinny old dog from down the road, and that wouldn't do at all, would it? Trouble was, when he eventually rolled back home, he was so full that he was promptly sick all over the floor. And as he stood there looking surprised and guilty, the woman exclaimed, "Oh you bad dog, you've stolen someone's Christmas Cake!" And he looked down at the pool of fresh vomit, at the red cherries steaming, and wondered if this would mean no supper...
He respected the man. The man took the black dog for miles over the muddy-in-winter, sunny-in-summer fields. The woman and the children often came too. Sometimes he went walking just with the woman and children, but it wasn't as much fun and they didn't go so far. And the man would stroke his big head or fight with him or throw sticks for him to chase and lose in the long grass. And when the man was out of the house, he'd wedge himself onto the windowsill by the front door, looking for the van which would arrive as the sun went down. Then he would rush bouncing and barking to greet him.
The woman was different. She didn't give him any problems - she gave him his food, brushed his coat and stopped it itching, stroked him and let him sleep heavily across her feet when he was tired after a busy day. She didn't, she couldn't stop him when he had to get out of the house - all he had to do was to hook his paw around the door just as she was opening it, pull hard and push the woman with his body at the same time - and there he was, free as a bird in the garden and down the lane and off into the world... But he owed her something. He didn't know what for, but he knew he owed her. And there was a way he could pay her back.
Sometimes, the man got very angry. He would shout at the black dog and raise his fist or his long brown boot. Then the black dog would retreat to his kitchen cardboard box, curl himself round and stay there, with only his white teeth showing and a deep-throated growl saying, try it if you like but I'm ready... But sometimes the man wasn't angry with the black dog, but with the woman. The man would raise his voice and then his fist. And then the black dog knew what to do. He would hurl himself at the man, snarling and showing his pointing, glistening teeth. And he would bark deep in his throat. And he would put his threatening, rapid, ready body between the man and the woman. And the man would have to stop what he was doing and kick the black dog until he was out of the room and back in the kitchen with the door shut and locked, where he would continue to bark and snarl and growl. But then once, just once, the woman raised her voice to the man before the man raised his. And, of course, the dog knew what to do. He put himself between the woman and the man - and barked and snarled at the man. After that, he was locked in the kitchen when the man was in a bad humour. And he couldn't help the woman any more.
There was a cat who lived in the garden. She was half-wild and smelled of farmyards and rabbit burrows. She wouldn't come near the black dog and she wouldn't go into the house. She gave birth to a litter of kittens in the garden shed. And later, the kittens emerged, grey and black and tabby. One of them was never quiet. He miaowed constantly. If he was inside the house, he miaowed to go out. If he was outside the house, he miaowed to come in. And he had no fear of the black dog. He would chase the black dog's tail as he wagged it. He would climb onto the black dog's back then run down the other side. He would curl his small, tabby-and-white body between the black dog's big paws and sleep on the green grass under the summer sun. The black dog would share his daily milk and food with the kitten. No one else was allowed to touch his food, but the tabby-and-white kitten could eat his fill - which wasn't very much, because he was so small. The rest of the kittens, and the half-wild mother, disappeared, but the black dog's kitten stayed and he stayed around the black dog, even following him when he went walkabout, trotting down the road on his small tabby paws. Even when the tabby-and-white kitten was no longer a kitten but a full-grown, prowling tom-cat.
But it couldn't last forever. Nothing ever does. The wanderlust grew stronger. The autumn winds were blowing and reminding him of chases and roamings and far-away fields. The black dog was irritable and needed some excitement...
He was sitting in the garden in front of the house when a small dog trotted by. A small, stuck-up little squirt of a dog who looked as if he needed to be shown what a real dog looked like. Because he might be a little less stuck-up if he'd learned how to play... and without a backwards glance, the black dog rushed out onto the street, bowling into the little animal without seeing anything but a small, stuck-up, potential playmate. Unfortunately, the playmate was attached to a leash. And more unfortunately still, the leash was attached to the most vociferous, most wealthy and most obnoxious old lady in the village. And as she pulled her little darling from the rabid attack of the huge black monster, the leash became entangled and the old lady tripped and the leash was pulled by one-or-another of the two playing dogs and the old lady fell and it could have been very serious, she could have been killed, a dangerous dog like that attacking a small defenceless beast and the old lady could have had a heart attack, she was so frightened, or she could have broken her neck...
So very soon after, the black dog was back in the back seat of a car. The older man was driving, his ginger whiskers showing beneath his old tweed hat. The man was stroking his head and looking at him with sad eyes. The black dog was resting his large, heavy head on the back of the man's seat. And looking at the road ahead, leading onwards, leading far, far away...
Alison