Damp Meeting

It was--

I can't believe I'm going to say this, but it was a dark and stormy night. Pissing it down to be exact. And I was stuck out in it of course since I was out on the road again. Let's just call it a little misunderstanding in the last town, the sort of misunderstanding that involves scythes and pitchforks. No flaming torches though. Too wet.

And I'm not a happy bunny. I'm fighting off a chill and losing, which isn't a surprise when you've been sleeping in the rain with an empty belly, so I'm not skipping along in a tra la la manner. I'm considering putting one foot in front of the other an achievement and I'm just reaching the point where I'm wondering why I'm still doing it. A barn or a toolshed still sound better prospects than another hedgerow though, so I keep plodding. In this mud it's more like plopping. But I don't have any footwear to ruin and mud's softer than road.

What happens to interrupt this pathetically fallacious scene of misery is a gatepost, which I haven't noticed because my eyes've been on the ground directly ahead. They're not working that great recently and if I fall chances are I won't be bothered to get up again. Second or third take I realise that it's gateposts plural and they've a driveway attached, and a leap of logic tells me probably with a building on the end of it.

I don't detect signs of plural inhabitants as I crunch sorely up the stone chippings. No lights on that I can make out. I smell one guy for sure and the usual faint muddle of visitors and tradesmen. No children, which would be just as well. I'm great with kids but people round here don't let strange dogs in if they've got a child around.

Not ones with red eyes, anyway.

As I go I'm still debating if it wouldn't be easiest to leave well enough alone. Recent events in mind I don't much feel like being around people anyway. Well, maybe there'll be no one in or they're all asleep and I won't have lost anything. Big places like this have stables but stables can be problematic. Horses and me don't get along, being stood on really would be too much at this juncture.

Maybe they'll have some gone-off chicken they wouldn't mind getting rid of.

It's this that wins out by the time I come across the front door. I have a vague idea you're meant to go round the back but right at the minute I couldn't give a stuff for the niceties. My voice is weak, but "Yowl" I say, and "Howl". Repeatedly.

A man opens the door, looks down at me and says "Yes?".

Pride doesn't get you anywhere if you're a beggar, so I give my best heartrending whine, and beg. This is scrutinised and just when I'm convinced it isn't working, "oh come on then" says the bloke and he holds the door open.

I'm in. Hahaha. I follow while dripping copiously, which when I'm more on the ball I try not to do since it gets you thrown out quicker. We come into a hopeful-smelling room with a low banked fire still burning. I walk up to this and collapse grandly in front of it with a squelch.

"More sog than dog, aren't you," says the man while getting down something that looks blankety. I've heard that people in big houses didn't know where their blankets are without someone showing them, apparently wrong. It turns out to be a towel and I graciously put up with being dried. Not that I have the strength left to move. Maybe I just can't be bothered.

The guy's businesslike, probably kept dogs in the past although I can't smell any. He tuts once or twice at the state of my feet and at one point examines my ears and eyes - which makes me flinch but he doesn't say anything. In fact when I'm ill enough the old baby-reds look more of a dullish brown, lucky for me.

Drying finished with, or at least when the water content of the towel is the same as on me, I stretch out and watch this man move around. He's put more wood on the fire. My vision still isn't working so well but my nose isn't sluggish and I smell cured meat. When this is presented on a dish I make it to my feet and give it a big wag.

He puts it down. "There's a good boy," he says all in the same reassuring talking-to-dogs voice, "and by the way, that's poisoned."

My jaws freeze halfway to the goods, drooling a bit. "Smells all right to me" I say, and then I say "Oh bollocks."

Our gazes meet. I'm ready to leg it. "It's fine," says the man, "eat away." I'm by no means at ease, but my nose never lies and there's definitely nothing in there that can hurt me. Plus there's been no "devil dog, kill it" yet and that's definitely a good thing. I think. What the hell. I eat away. I lick the plate. And then I nose the plate hopefully (well, you never know).

The guy spreads a dry blanket out. "You can sleep on this," he says. "Sorry to trick you." Then he leaves.

The kitchen door's ajar. I could leave now, I think to myself, and be well ahead of the game. Full belly, no fuss and no awkward questions in the morning. He won't go looking for me surely, people have better things to do. He'll eventually convince himself he imagined the whole thing. I'll be free once more, my own dog, doing my own thing with nobody knowing my secret.

I'll be back outside freezing my nuts off in the middle of a rainstorm.

The fire does look inviting. I spurn the blanket and climb into the fireplace. Cosy. I lie down among the logs. I'll stay here just for ten minutes. Maybe twenty. I count to about four and a half before I'm sleeping like another log.

Next thing I'm aware of it's daylight and the blaze is down to an embery glow. Wide awake suddenly I skid on a couple of the ex-logs and send them scudding over the flagstones. I manage to paw them back into the fireplace, charcoal mess everywhere now but nothing I can do about it. The door's open. I stretch. Bits of me crack. I feel much better. I follow the sound of voices.

My person's out at the front driveway with someone else, one of the shorter solid types with the greenish skin that you don't see many of round here. They're talking about masonry chisels or something equally enthralling. I go over, giving it more of the wag and the nice friendly puppy act.

"I say, I didn't know you had a dog," the visitor says. I hold up a foot and he looks delighted and shakes it.

"Neither did I," mine says wryly.

The visitor is rubbing my flank, to both of our liking. "Well it's about time you had one. A country gent like you with all the open fields and woodland around here... who's a good big doggywog then?" I squirm up to him shamelessly.

The human throws up his hands in a they're all against me sort of way.

Truth is I don't know what to do. I sort of like the guy, there's something about him that I can't smell or see but it just seems good. I haven't had a proper home before - this might be what it feels like. It's crazy but I've got half a mind to hang around and give it a try.

He knows I can talk. Perhaps he knows what I am. It's too much risk.

I sit around anyway while they finish talking about masonry chisels, occasionally chewing a hock but generally showing off how quietly I can wait.

"Well," says the visitor eventually in an I'm about to take my leave voice, "I'd better be going, and someone's been waiting very patiently." Wag wag wag, I go. "I'll leave you to your dog."

"My--" Pinching the bridge of his nose the human appears to give up. "I'll see you soon then, you old soft touch."

Once we're alone again he gives me a look. Wag wag, goes I. "Were you staying for breakfast?" he asks extremely dryly.

I look over my shoulder. The road'll still be there.

"If you insist," I say.

*worships*

(Move this comment if it's in the way. I had to proclaim my awe, that's all.)