Chapter 21 – Just a Dog

The space was small, dark, and smelly. What little light seeped in through small vents high on the wall of the shed showed a row of wire mesh cages, each holding an animal. One was a small mostly white Jack Russell terrier mix with dark eyes, with tail held erect. His former owner named him Buddy, after she rescued him from a tip heap somewhere near the moor.

The little dog remembered that woman well. She was heavy, was often ruddy faced, had white hair and was kindly to strangers - people and animals alike. Her hands were rough and thick fingered, but when she petted Buddy, a warm glow ran through his body. He had dim memories of his mother and a pile of other puppies, all jostled together in a motor garage. There had been a woman there as well, one who was young, but tall and thin with brilliant shining gold hair. She cared for all the dogs, feeding and cleaning up after them. Buddy didn't know that lady's name either, but every time the chicken lady held him, petted him, or stroked his wiry fur, a wonderful feeling of love and contentment filled him, much as it had felt in a box long ago with his brothers and sisters at his mother's teats.

The heavy white-haired woman kept chickens and raised vegetables for sale in the small village nearby. Buddy enjoyed riding to the village in her old truck, often with a load of veg in the back, with brilliant sunshine streaming into the cab and fresh air blowing through an open window. He'd ride with his head held proudly at the window, imaging it was birds felt like as they flew about. Or he'd rest his head on the lady's lap and she'd rub his ears as he made contented grunts.

Buddy supposed the woman had a name – not one that he'd ever be able to pronounce as he didn't speak Human. Strangely, no humans seemed to speak Dog either, which he wondered about. In spite of this vast verbal communication divide, people and dogs did get on. He knew that some dogs herded sheep or cows, others guarded homes or shops, and some were trapped inside cottages to gaze longingly outside. Buddy was given free run of the farm, house and the village. He'd have liked to chase a few chickens for fun, but sensed that the woman would not have been very happy with him.

Although her farm was tending towards the run-down end of the farming spectrum it was a very nice place to explore, with the sea and all its lovely smells and sights blowing in off the cliffs. Trips to the small village of white cottages were a special treat as Buddy hoped he'd see his friend there.

His friend was a very tall man with short hair who always seemed to wear dark clothing with something tied around his neck. Perhaps it was the human equivalent of a collar. Buddy didn't wear a collar, and that was fine with him. The man had a natural attraction for Buddy, perhaps because he never used any sort of unnatural scent, just simple soap, and that attracted Buddy the most. He often thought that if he and the man could just have a good old petting round they might actually make a little headway in their relationship. But the man usually yelled and stamped a foot, making Buddy scamper away. But, Buddy imagined, it was part of how that man dealt with the people in his pack, as he often made loud noises at the villagers as well.

The man – his friend – had a very intelligent look about him, for a person, almost like that tall dark-haired woman who was somehow involved with the man. The woman had a puppy, that is a baby, not long ago, and shortly after the farmer lady never came home. The woman who had whelped was friendly and nice, and she smelled deliciously of human milk, which brought the little dog happy memories of his own mother. He was able to get into the brick cottage and sniff about the baby, just to inspect it – to see if it was what he expected. Yes he was right. The puppy, erh baby, was from the mating of the man and the milky lady, as he thought. Those two totally misunderstood his intentions as he bent down to lick the baby's face, merely confirming what his nose already told him.

Around the time of the whelping, the chicken lady had left and not returned. Buddy missed her as she was the nicest by far of any person he had ever known. That woman was replaced by another who was taller, much thinner, with grey hair and a lined face. She smiled a lot less than the farmer lady, but took over living at the farm and tried to keep things going. Buddy seemed to be tolerated, but just, by the tall lady, so Buddy decided to go to the village and find his friend – the tall man. He'd even been able to get into his mechanical thing that carried the man to and fro once or twice, but as part of the game, he was tossed out more than once.

Buddy whined once more. It was all part of the man's pack game, he supposed, but it was tiring. If they could only talk – communicate in a meaningful manner? Dogs, of course, had their own way of greeting each other, and a quick sniff at the hindquarters spoke so much more than the babbling of people. He had learned early on that humans didn't like being sniffed in such a way. Instead they preferred to stand or sit while their mouths moved uttering various sounds, and waving their arms around, which must be how they spoke. Buddy had made a study of those sounds, as least as much as a small Cornish dog could. He had deciphered some sounds that would make him go running to or from the person speaking – sounds expressing joy or anger, food, or danger.

People also had a funny way of speaking without making sounds. Much as dogs used their bodies and tails to express ideas to other dogs, people used their faces. They had the most delightful way of scrunching their faces into all sorts of looks – ranging from angry or sad to joyful. When the farm lady put Buddy on her expansive lap, rubbed his head, and made that certain face – wide open eyes, none of her blunt teeth showing, and wrinkles about the eyes, cheeks, and forehead – along with saying his name, Buddy, he knew that she was happy. That made him happy as well.

Buddy wasn't his name, it was just what the lady called him, and he permitted her to. Earlier names in his life had been Cute Puppy, Damn Dog, Jaime, Get Out, and Bloody Mutt, the last when he had strayed and was living rough on the streets of a town far away. Those were people names; that is names that people used around him.

Buddy, the name he allowed people to use, seemed to make people smile, especially as he wagged his tail and bounded about, his doggy smile open, eyes wide and ears erect. Then he might get a pet on the head, a rough rub down, and even the occasional doggy treat or bit of fish. There were still fishermen in the village and the boats often had scraps of fish about for a little dog to grab and swallow.

But as for names – the little dog knew his name – his real name. In human it might sound like Buddy, but inside his head his dog name meant Watcher. His mother had given him that name when he was a few weeks old, as he pushed himself out of the puppy box and stood on his hind legs with front braced against the box, standing motionless for long minutes, his dark eyes bright with intelligence as he beheld the larger world of the garage where they lived.

Watcher scratched futilely at the mesh of the small cage he was in. Some dogs in the cages did as he did, but the big dog in the corner seemed to have given up, and lay there his head sadly propped on his paws. Watcher pawed the latch piece of the door, having seen the men open it to let him out once in a while or to feed the dogs and two cats held here. He knew that if he could just push that piece up and then slide that other thing, the door would spring open. He'd tried to tell the other dogs - he ignored the cats - what he was about but they generally ignored his advice.

He sighed as he pushed at the metal door. If the farmer lady was here, with those wonderful fingers and hands of hers, she could open that door in two swift movements. It wasn't at all fair, he thought, that only people had those marvelous hands. They could carry and move things, doing so many fantastic things that dog-kind could only attempt to copy with their mouths. On the other hand, people were clearly handicapped in a number of ways. They could not run as fast as a dog, they lacked sharp teeth, and their hearing and sense of smell were likely deadened, as they often ignored things he heard or smelled. Perhaps they had made some deal long ago to have hands instead of the fantastically accomplished noses of dogs? He sniffed the air picking up the feces in the room, the odd smell of cat urine, and a mouse or two under that bale of straw. He also smelled rotten and damp wood, a pile of fresh earth by the door, and the damp smell of fog on the way.

But the philosophy of comparative biology was far beyond Watcher's abilities or even interests. What he wanted most was to get out of this bloody cage! He turned around and drank some stale water in the nearly empty dish in the cage. Farmer lady where are you? I need you!

Suddenly the door at the end of the shed cracked open and Stiffman came in. He was the younger of two men who were keeping them locked up. The man carried a paper bag of dog food and dribbled some into the bowls inside each cage. Watcher waited nervously until the man finished filling his food dish, as the man had once hit him when he lunged at the food after not having been fed for two days.

"Wot you looking at little doggy?" asked the man.

Buddy did not answer. He merely thought dark thoughts and curled his lip at the man showing some teeth in a half snarl. Now if the man would just open that door, it was a short leap plus two or three bounds and he'd be out the door! But on the way it might be nice to take a bite or two!

"Mick, are you talking to them bloody dogs again?" asked the other man who was slouched in the doorway. "Must you insist on catching these beasts?"

Buddy looked long and hard at the two men, the ones he called Stiffman for the way he moved and Fatty for the other.

"Look, Derrick!" Stiffman said, "You said yourself these dogs and cats running about would be a good source of extra cash, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Well, when we're done with this job out here, we'll move 'em on, right?"

"Right."

"Nice bit of cash in here," added the young man, waving at the cages.

"I'd have thought given the times you been behind bars, you'd not want to cage 'em up?"

The young one laughed. "They're just dogs and cats, Derrick."

"Yeah, right."

The men left the room and closed the door, so Buddy, or Watcher as he preferred, went back to work on the cage door, pushing and shoving.