We became seriously filthy. Without anyone saying, ‘He’s filthy!’ I didn’t get cleaned up, just brushed thoroughly once a week. Which was just perfect as far as I was concerned. Mother advised us to run away if ever our Humans threatened us with Shampoo as it would strip off all the oils that water-proofed our coat. A hose down with water was acceptable but not enjoyable so running away was still a good option. On the other hand, brushing was essential and a Soum de Gaia always stood still for grooming unless of course an incompetent Human hurt you, in which case clamping your teeth around her hand worked wonders – not actually biting of course, just pointing out that pain could go in two directions. I had trained Marc well as a groom. He would start at the bottom of whatever area he was working on, brushing out clumps and tangles at the ends first, then hum a little tune while he worked his way towards the root sections. He always worked along the direction the hair grew, lulling me half-asleep when he followed long sweeps along my back and haunches, until he was satisfied with his work. Then, he’d give a few strokes against the grain and finish off with a light massage with a rubber brush to remove any loose hairs. All very pleasurable. And after a week of splashing through puddles and rolling in anything that smelled interesting, I’d be willing to admit that my weekly brushing was a necessity. Marc never let me down but he was letting himself down, badly.
It’s possible that he was still grooming himself weekly but if he was, it didn’t show. His face was prickly against my tongue and his clothing was more and more rewarding to lick, salty and offering hints of egg or tomato sauce. ‘I’ve got to sort myself out,’ he told me. ‘Everything’s going to the dogs – no offence. Even the toilet’s so miserable that it’s stopped cleaning itself now she’s gone.’
If everything was going to the dogs, then that meant me so I made the most of it. The bathroom door was permanently open so I went back to drinking from the toilet. As the toilet seat was always up, there were no complaints this time about the water sprayed all around. In fact, there were no complaints. I was now comfortably installed on the sofa beside Marc in the evening as well as on his bed for the night. I knew that a paw wasn’t the same as a hand to hold but he’d get over her. He would start some new project. Perhaps something exciting would happen at that ‘work’ he went to every day. Little did I know.
I’d grown so used to being left alone that I could hardly be bothered chewing a bit of carpet or wallpaper. If I did, it was more for old times’ sake than for any real frisson. So I was a bit surprised when Marc came home, saw I’d torn just a teeny strip of wallpaper – and he tore a strip off me! I hadn’t been told off since Christine left. And for something so trivial! I didn’t understand it at all. And then he repaired the torn wallpaper! I just wasn’t in the mood to start the game again so I left it alone. I couldn’t work out what was going on. Marc was coming home from work and, after our walk, cleaning the house. He vacuumed, dusted, washed surfaces. He did some touching up on paintwork. He threw away the piles of newspapers and washed up the nine mugs that were all over the house, growing mould in coffee dregs (even I found the contents a bit off-putting). He cut our walk short, using words that filled me with dread, ‘Have to stop there today, boy. Things to do.’ He didn’t even seem to remember Christine’s Things To Do.
Then he came home from work for an hour, sometimes in the morning, sometimes afternoon, ‘to show people round.’ It reminded me of the Choosing when I was a pup. Even the voice Marc used was the same as our Human had used with the Choosers. Surely he wouldn’t sell me? Of course not. I put such an unthinkable idea out of my mind and made the most of our pre-breakfast walks, our evenings together and whole weekends of shared activities.
A man and a woman were ‘shown round’ twice. Then three times. Then Marc spent an evening stroking me beside him on the couch. There were tears in his voice when he spoke to me. ‘I’m sorry, old son. I know you don’t understand a word I’m saying but you’ve been my best friend and I’m going to miss you. But I’ve thought about it all and it just won’t work, taking you to live in an apartment. I’ve got to sell the house anyway, to give Christine her share, and then this promotion came up, Paris. It’s a big chance for me. I’ve got to get on with my life. But it wouldn’t be fair on you to take you with me. You’ll be better off with Jean-Pierre and Beryle. There’s no point drawing things out. It’s only going to be harder.’ Who for? I wondered, my head fuzzy with incomprehension.
The doorbell rang. Marc let in a loud jolly voice and a sweet, low one. ‘Oh the darling,‘ said the sweet, low one, stroking me under the chin just where I like it.
‘The kids will love him,’ said large jolly voice.
‘I’ll come and get you when I’ve got sorted out,’ Marc told me. ‘I promise.’ He clipped the lead to my collar and gave me away.
That was the start of the parallel universe. Everything was like what I knew but different. And I mean everything.
‘Get in the car, boy,’ loud jolly told me, and there was an open car boot, so I jumped in. But that wasn’t how it was supposed to go. It should have been Marc’s voice, saying, ‘Hup’ and ‘Good boy’ and the boot should have been lower and more homely, emitting old smells of wet dog – me – not aerosol gases and artificial orange. I stuck my nose to the window to see where we were going but it steamed up so quickly I could just see flashes of houses, lamp-posts, cars, houses, lamp-posts, cars.
And then front door, hallway, doors into a kitchen, a sitting-room. I knew what they all were and recognised none of them. My ears were on full alert so when Jean-Pierre shouted, I jumped backwards, starting a metallic clang from the radiator that caught me in the back.
‘Hey, kids we’re home!’ Jean-Pierre yelled up the stairs. His name, like everything else, tasted alien. Then there was noise everywhere, whooping and running down stairs and arms waving. I had nowhere to go so all I could do was lay my ears back and let my fur speak for me. It couldn’t have been more erect if twenty bears had turned pack and were charging at me, and I was just about to growl at them all to quieten down a bit and stay still, when Beryle did it for me.
‘Calm down now! It’s all new to him and he’s bound to be a bit nervous so just take things slowly.’
‘ Woooah, he’s huge! Can we stroke him?’ Before there was an answer, hands waved over my head like snakes and I had to duck so as to avoid them. If they didn’t get the message, I’d have to give a warning air-click with my teeth.
‘I don’t like the look of that,’ commented Jean-Pierre. ‘I thought he was supposed to be friendly and good with kids.’
‘Give him time. Let him sniff your hand first, underneath his nose not above it. Then if he’s happy, stroke underneath his chin...’
‘How can I tell if he’s happy?’
‘If he’s happy, he stays still, looks a bit more relaxed. Watch, like this.’ And once again, Beryle moved her hand gently towards me, let me sniff lavender and cinnamon, and then she stroked under my chin, calming me, so I hardly noticed the two squeaky ones putting their hands on me at the same time.
‘Let Sirius settle down for a while till he gets used to us.’ The pack moved towards the sitting-room so I followed and turned round and round in the doorway to make myself comfortable for a long sleep, somewhere I could keep half an eye out for trouble.
‘No, not there Sirius.’ A big hand grabbed my collar and stopped me lying down. I was too tired and confused to complain so I allowed myself to be dragged into a corner. ‘That’s your place.’ I closed my eyes, drifting into a world of endless puppyhood, sitting between Marc and Christine on a sofa that turned into swift river currents, Newfie barking ‘swim with the current, patou, don’t waste your strength crossing it till you have to.’ I could feel little fingers curling into my fur from time to time but it was Christine and Marc so that was all right and I let myself drift far away. Newfie would rescue me if the current was too strong.
Gradually, the strangenesses became ordinary. Food smelled as usual but it was difficult to relax and eat when the squeaky voices were jumping around and shouting. They moved so quickly that I was tempted to play with them, a little game of chase and catch their arms in my mouth, like I used to do with Marc. Then they flapped a lot, which was exciting so I’d firm up my hold a bit and give a little shake. They liked that and squeaked louder, but, ‘That’s too rough, Sirius,’ Beryle kept telling me. ‘Boys, Sirius didn’t mean to hurt you. He’s just learning what he’s allowed to do here.’
She was wrong. I’d learned pretty quickly what I was allowed to do. Absolutely nothing. Lying in doorways? No. Sitting on the couch? No. Bedroom? Absolutely forbidden, as were several other rooms. Digging? No. Playing? No. In fact, I hadn’t yet worked out anything that was fun, that I was allowed to do. And ‘No’ usually meant a big hand grabbing the back of my collar. ‘You have to be firm with a dog, especially one this size.’ I really didn’t like my collar being grabbed and I’d tried to tell Jean-Pierre that I preferred to be asked politely. When I felt the yank on the collar, I’d turn my head, very sharply towards his hand, just warning him, but he never took the hint.
Essentials like sleep and food were permitted, in the prescribed places. Jean-Pierre took me out on the lead each day and, from the lamp-posts and verges, I worked out who my neighbours were. I could tell what their Humans had been eating from the dustbin scents, and if Jean-Pierre allowed me a sniff-stop, I knew where the rats and squirrels had crossed our path. All this was as it should be but it was as if there was a silent machine at the other end of the lead. Jean-Pierre was an enigma. He didn’t talk to me, he rarely touched me – apart from hauling on my collar.
Our walk always went the same way and the same distance, past two streets north, past four streets west, past one street south and then past five east, back to the house. I still couldn’t call it home. Sometimes on these walks, we’d meet someone he knew and then I’d hear Jean-Pierre speaking.
‘Beautiful dog you’ve got there.’ A strange hand would dive onto my head and I’d duck. Or someone I’d met a few times would do the same and I’d accept that. Or someone more polite would offer a hand to sniff and follow up with a caress along the side of my face.
‘A bit dominant,’ Jean-Pierre would say. ‘But nothing I can’t handle. You just have to wait till they show you proper respect before you reward them with affection. Wife and kids are a bit soppy with him but I keep the balance. Fantastic pedigree. His father’s a champion.’ And then they’d have a chat about their families, or work or fishing. I wasn’t well-enough behaved to be taken fishing, I’d heard Jean-Pierre telling Beryle.
And so my life plodded on. I passed whole stretches between nightfalls without telling myself that Marc had promised he’d be back. My tail wagged when I saw Beryle smile at me. She sneaked me little bits of cheese or saucisson and gave them to me if I’d sit for her. She told me that Jean-Pierre worked too hard, had lots of worries and that when he was on holiday he was a different man. This different man took her out for meals, kissed her a lot, played with his children, wore shorts. But I just had to take her word for it as there was no way they were taking me on holiday. I’d heard Jean-Pierre telling Beryle that.
I let Gilles and Fred chase me around the garden and tried not to knock them over when I changed direction. I wasn’t scared any more of them whooping while they ran, or of their little hands diving into my fur. Sometimes we sat together, and I felt the old warmth of the puppy-pile flooding me as their skinny little bodies flanked mine. If Gilles was there on his own, he’d tell me about school, how he liked English but got stuck in Maths, and how he’d have to work on his Maths because he wanted to be a doctor. And if Fred was there on his own, he’d tell me about how his big brother was the most important thing in his life, how he didn’t think he’d manage when Gilles went up to big school and he was left to fight his own battles. And I’d listen and wonder what it really meant, being a brother.
All in all, I was starting to belong, when it happened. I had two feeding-times, early and late. Early was peaceful, just me and Beryle, and I could relax. Late was like eating in the middle of a wolf-attack. Gilles and Fred were just home from school, charging around the kitchen, grabbing biscuits or crisps or some cheese out of the fridge, passing behind me, beside me, pushing each other and shouting. Beryle was shouting back at them to get them to behave and the stress was buzzing in my head like a hornet. Usually, Jean-Pierre was still at work but on this occasion he had come home early, right into kitchen chaos, where I was trying to swallow the second half of my bowl of food.
His voice boomed over the others. ‘Stop that racket, all of you.’ Beryle turned red, probably from stopping in mid-shout. Gilles let go of Fred, who lost his balance, grabbed at a chair and kept falling. His half-eaten sandwich fell straight into my dog bowl where I was concentrating on eating and I snapped at the unexpected treat as it arrived in mid-air, followed a second later by Fred’s hand as he kept falling and stretched towards my bowl to break his fall. Fred shrieked, whether because he was shocked by falling or whether because he saw my teeth snapping near his hand, I’ll never know. He started to cry and Beryl pulled him up, sat down herself, pulled him onto her lap and comforted him. Jean-Pierre was glaring at me. I turned back to the remaining food, a pleasant aftertaste of bread and cheese lingering in my mouth.
‘That is it!’ the voice boomed. ‘If anything, he’s becoming more aggressive!‘ I felt sorry for Gilles as it was only the sort of brotherly spat that would be forgotten in five minutes when the two of them would be building Playmobil cities together.
‘But Jean-Pierre...’ Beryle began. Fred was choking on his tears, crying because he was crying and couldn’t stop, not because he wanted to. A bruise was already starting on his knee.
‘You’ve been too soft with him from the start – I did warn you! Two months now and he’s getting worse!’ Beryle cuddled Fred closer. ‘And I’m not having a threat to my child staying in this house a moment longer!’ I looked at Gilles, wondering when he too was going to burst into tears. His face was ashen.
‘Dad, Izzie didn’t mean it,’ he whispered. And my heart broke as I heard my real name at the same time as I understood. I was the aggressive one. I would have to go. Even then, I thought Fred would sort it out, or Beryle. Fred sobbed louder. Beryle opened her mouth.
‘I’ve never seen him do that before.’
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you! Well even if it’s true, it’s once too many.’ Look, I begged them with my eyes, cheese sandwich, not a mark on Fred, not a mark. I would never. But I knew from the taste turning sour in my mouth that there was no trace of cheese sandwich. I knew how slow Human perceptions were. Perhaps even Fred thought I’d meant to bite him.
‘No, Beryle. You saw that programme on TV. A dog that will bite someone who touches his food is dangerous and I’m not having a dangerous dog round my children. Another little accident like that and Fred might not be so lucky.’ The lucky individual was still crumpled and bemused on his mother’s lap, his shoulders heaving, his lip trembling.
‘What are you going to with him?’ Beryle asked, her voice quieter and quieter. I could hear the hum of the fridge.
‘The only responsible thing. I’ll take him to the S.P.A. refuge.’
‘No!’ screamed Gilles. ‘You can’t get rid of Izzie!’
‘One day you’ll understand, son.’
‘I hate you!’ Gilles rushed from the room and his feet thumped two stairs at a time up to the slam of his bedroom door.
‘We promised Marc,’ Beryle said.
‘Not to take on an aggressive dog, we didn’t. And he’s moved to another life, no chance of him taking the dog back, so it would be cruel to even tell him. No we’ve got to do the responsible thing, however hard it is.’ Jean-Pierre tousled the hair of his younger son. ‘The dog will be well looked-after and they’ll find an owner with no children, who can give him the discipline he needs – no soppiness.’ His gaze made it clear where the soppiness had come from. Beryle returned the gaze, hard-eyed, her arms tightening round her son. ‘I’m sure Daddy’s right,’ she lied, ‘Izzie will find someone who loves him as much as we do and can look after him better.’
And so, after some collar-dragging, I found myself left at the S.P.A.. Sirius of the Soum de Gaia, aggressive dog, not to be trusted with children.