A/N: What effect would intelligence like that shown in Lady and the Tramp have on dogs? This is an exploration of dogs in different circumstances, dealing with things on the same level as humans might and how it ends up effecting them. There's good, bad and ugly. (A lot of ugly)
My… would you look at the lot of us! Panting in the throes of our excitement, dragging our wet muzzles over all surfaces we can. Our leads have entwined about the legs of the waiting room chair and our sweet owner is exhausted from trying to contain our antics.
Jim Dear runs his hands around the brim of his hat nervously, lifting it up in greeting, pull it down to shield his eyes in embarrassment, twirling it and clenching it; man moves his hat like dog moves his tail. I love to watch Jim Dear when we go out, the way he twitches his moustache when we pass the bakery and rears an eyebrow at the kissing couples near the fountain. Today though, I cannot spare him much of my time, because there is a poodle across the room and two mutts have just pounced through the swaying door.
How are the bones? That coat looks mighty sleek!
I can smell dogs that have been and gone, the meaty treats up on the counter, the soap that covers the approaching ladies hands, the distress of Jim Dear as he works to untangle us noisy hounds, the perfume of a grandmother who sticks her nose high when we bound pass, the medicine perched high on the walls. There are no new dogs to bark at in this next room, but the smells are still thick and they stimulate us to shiver.
I am plucked from the pack, gently yet by no means shyly does the soapy lady hold me. She puts me on top of a table which I cannot grip well; she pats and strokes me, pinches and squeezes. I do not pay her actions much mind, I am too busy smelling the table, it has so many overwhelming scents; not just dogs this time, cats as well. How many paws have rested on this table before me? A whole suburb's worth by the smells of it!
I am taken down back to the ground, my stomach drops low at the speed and my puppy loved legs are weak when she drops me from her arms.
"What was it like? Tell me did you feel anythi-!" I don't have time to answer my sister, because now she is the one on the slippy table top. I watch as Danielle has a very different reaction to me, she is not amazed by the vortex of scents, instead by the lady. My sister tries to climb back into her arms and nuzzles the searching hands.
Everyone has their different reactions; Collette poses like she is on display, Scamp sulks, Angel gets offended, Dad nearly falls asleep and Mum takes is the view.
We are being pulled away by our necks, back into the room before. The good world changes so quickly, the poodle has swapped to a cream coloured cat and the two mongrel dogs into a tutty terrier. The cat flicks its ears back in fright, it is not used to my mob; and the terrier growls disapprovingly, nor is it.
"You coat portrays your aristocracy, yet your children act unbecomingly." The terrier yips to my mother, working its fur up in annoyance. For all my life, days of warm sun, throughout all my clear, clean, sweet life, I have never come across such words.
Mother just shakes her honeyed muzzle diplomatically to the elderly dog. It seemed an unseen brush had smoothed her fur, and all of a sudden there is elegance I have never seen of before.
"I will surely give them a talking when we return to our master's abode, but right now an attempt at discipline will be rather impractical."
In one ear I listen to Mother, in all her pure breed glory, in the other I catch a few sentences from Father, saturated in his street dog drawl.
"You caught that? That smell Scamp ol' buddy? Irresistible for you, makes your stomach bubble?" Scamp plunges his nose to the floor to smell what Father was talking about, but I could catch it from here. Though it wasn't irresistible nor making my stomach bubble. In fact, it reminded me of what Mother had smelt like back during the half moon, shortly after Scamp returned with Angel after his escape.
"That's the smell of a girl wanting puppies." I saw Angel go stiff from where she had been lying between Jim Dear's shoes. The ex-stray must have heard too. Any other time, I might have started a conversation with my friend, who was now growing rather distressed. I would have sat myself down so that I hid Angel from the boys, and started yipping briefly about what was at the top of my mind, which would be enough to distract Angel from whatever was making her eyes dart.
But I was too interested in the conversation myself. Did I have to ask for puppies at the vet when I wanted my own? Had my parents gotten me from the vet? I stayed quiet, pretending to be interested in the packet of bones that was lying up on top of a counter.
Though we puppies are the same age, Angel had seen many more things than us, and something about this conversation was making her pant in anxiety. If I was anything, it was curious. Curious how birds could ride the sky, at the magic of mirrors and of smells; hot and cold smells, young and old, yellow and purple, peppery and sugar dusted, smells were flowing over my mind like sunset over some water's edge.
No time to think about smells, no time to hang onto the conversation; for I am too busy in the midst of a flurry to sniff, too preoccupied keeping up with the striding Jim Dear to listen. I have to be careful because, look, there are so many of us, heaving against one another's sides, I could easily be caught or pushed under Jim Dear's feet.
The further we get from the Main Street, the strange, the exciting, askewer Main Street, the more our sense returns. Soon, as we pad up the paths of our familiar suburb, a conversation strikes up for the first time, a fresh change to the carnival of snuffs and barks.
It is Collette who speaks; she is a pristine replica of Mother, as pedigree looking as any pure Cocker Spaniel, even though she is a cross.
"That old terrier, who you were talking to, Mother, was rather unrefined himself."
"Some dogs are just like that dear, born and raised to think silly." Sighing, Mother's eyebrows draw together. "I hate mutts like him, probably can't smell his own food bowl because he has got so much syrupy shampoo in his coat." The others do not know what the two are talking about, but have started to slowly put together the situation.
"He was very old," I yip from where I am beside Jim Dear, making them turn their heads around as they listen. "It might have been his nap time." Scamp finds what I said funny, and he replies.
"Old dogs are like baby puppies,"
Angel goes stiff again.
"Sounds like an old prune to me." Father huffs from where he stands head and shoulders over his pack. Mother is short and we puppies are young, I sometimes wonder is Father ever feels like a giant around us. "I've come across plenty of them." He looked at Collette in concern, "did he bare his teeth at you?"
"Don't you worry Father; I can pull off the snobby act as good as any show cat." Show cats are very snobby indeed; we all chuff in amusement at the idea. Collette proceeds to puff out her chest, lift her paws higher as she walks and flick her long ears.
"Wow, you do look like a prick!" Danielle was never one for sensitivity.
We are silenced by a melodious muttering from Jim Dear. He is talking to us, or maybe he is just voicing his troubles in hopes a solution will strike up. We pass the trees that have been fenced in so they don't escape and through the shade pools of the peppermints that our neighbour keeps. Jim Dear unlatches our gate and we flow through, eager to get onto the lush grass and have our leads unbitten from our collars.
We are a whole group, an earthy vision, but now we split across our home. Mother goes into the house to check that Darling was alright without her. Scamp bounds off after a resigned Father, into the backyard were they have a conversation to continue, I imagine. Danielle is trying to lure Collette into a scuffle, but with nothing but a dismissal toss of the head Collette prances off into the house after Mother, leaving her sister to choose another target.
Angel is the one being teased now, and the scruffy lunges at Danielle, eager for her mind to be taken away from the two grey boys who had disappeared behind the house. The two play bite at one another's coats and tug their tails, they roll around and disturb a few lady bugs and grass hoppers. Growling playfully, they make me wonder where I fit in this pack; in the house, upon a cushion or in the garden, getting grass stain through my coat.
I always seem to be stuck between ideas; it is as annoying as fleas. Mother tells me I am neither one nor the other; I am something a bit different entirely. Because I don't like getting dirty, but I certainly don't enjoy the pillow life.
The thrumming of Jim Dear's heart dims and I realise he has walked away from me. I can smell the excitement of good news that runs under his suit, yet the anxiety that is gathering behind his eyes. I chase after his heels, because he does not smell well at all. Through the door, down the hall, up the stairs, across the bedroom we find Darling and Baby. They are playing with some wooden farm animals together, and I notice my Mother and sister, who are resting alike groomed models at the end of the master's bed.
Jim Dear sits down, heavy, and starts muttering placidly. Darling replies, and together they grow hysterical, with joy, then trouble, soon hushed, concerned, tight, distressed, aggressive then eventually they agree upon something. Mother and Collette doze on amongst the waves of the bed sheets and take no notice; they are not as attuned to human's as I am. I stretch out underneath the chair Jim Dear is on and try to figure out what is happening between my people.
After a while more of talk, Jim Dear lumbers out, Baby and I follow him. Together, with our equally stubby legs, we tumble down the last step of the stairs and run to keep up with the striding Jim Dear.
Baby is wrapped in his small jumper and Jim Dear grabs his town hat from where he keeps it, far out of reach, at the top of the coat rack. I wonder if they will take me with them, to wherever they are going, because they surely are going somewhere. But Jim Dear does not grab a lead for me, and pushed me aside with his boot when I try to follow them through the gate. I am left behind; because it seems that Jim Dear cannot hold my lead in his hand, it is too busy encasing Baby's fatty, young one.
I listen to their footsteps dye away, and thread my way off the grass and into the garden, a carpet of early leaf litter crunches under by paws and dream enticing beams of late summer sun steal through the hedges, tree trucks and flowers of Darling's garden. Birds that skip about in the branches above do not startle when they see me, they are tame. I hear some dog calling out, but it is not for me. I smell one of those smoky vehicles pass by on the road, but its rider does not stop at our gate.
I dig deep into the soft soil; it reminds me of chocolate ice-cream, except it is not sticky or cold. It just slips and parts so easily when I drag my claws through it and it is dark brown, an almost black in parts brown. I soon find white, hard white that won't give nicely when I dig at it, even dares to push back.
I have found my bone; I take it in my mouth. I love the way it slips between my teeth sometimes and will press against my sensitive gums. I crush it and hear the bone crack; I taste the marrow slip out of the new fracture. I work my tongue along and clean it of dirt. This is what I usually do when waiting; a puppy can spend enough sun dripped time consuming a bone that they will not notice the moon nor stars raise.
The shadows are longer when Jim Dear and Baby return, in a horse buggy this time. I sit up and upset a butterfly that had been resting on my flank. I can't see them; I can't see anything from my spot, deep in the garden. But I am content just hearing them and smelling, once I have hidden my bone I shall tumble my way out of the undergrowth, I promise to myself. I listen to Jim Dear pay the fair and gather his son within his arms.
Searching around, under milk berry trees and in the middle of bushes, I find an excellent spot. I bury my worn bone; I need to find a replacement soon, between the roots of an old nut smelling tree. I dig it deep and camouflage the spot well.
I crawl along through the garden until I reach the grass edge. Jim Dear is crouching down and fiddling with something on the ground, I would have ran over and started licking his face, for it is not often Jim Dear's face is within licking distance. But Scamp and Danielle have already beaten me to it; my siblings are nearly hyperventilating with excitement, their stubby tails can't keep still, they round about and kick like mullets. Jumping up into Jim Dear's lap they smother the man with their delight.
Father and Angel come along, but they are more interested in the iron and box. Sniffing it and walking over what Jim Dear was trying to do, it was no wonder the Master started elbowing the pack when they got too close.
I watch from a distance as Jim Dear hits thin bits of fence into the ground. My pack trots about without a qualm, as slowly a cage is made. We do not worry, not when you have a life like ours. Our bodies are ripe with spoils; eyes clear with happiness, voices rich from all the cheers we have sent into the air, coats soft from all the stroking and outstretched hands we have had to wade through.
Scamp struggles when Jim Dear lifts him high and over into the cage, it is entertainment for a while. Scamp turns about, look at me! Danielle is running around and around the cage, after a while she slows and presses her snout through the rice thin bars. A great, gobbling laugh pours out of Jim Dear as he watches. Darling comes out of the house to inspect her husband's work, Mother and Collette trail behind her and join our ramble as well.
Baby sees me and opens his arms wide, I jump up as if shocked and stream across the distance. My hanging ears work their way over my shoulder and I crash into Baby's arms so hard we both fall over. He giggles and hugs me close.
This is where I belong, in arms, against grass, surrounded by a filthy great pack, with a heartbeat pressed into my ear.
When I get stuck writing this, I consulted (shamelessly stole ideas from) Cloud Street by Tim Winton; a striking book in itself.