Well, look what jumped out of a hopper of dog food - another plot bunny?
Regular Denizens, Lurkers, and Hangers-On of the Jimiverse (where I set my SPN fanfics) will know about Jimi - he's the Winchesters' Rottweiler-shaped half-Hellhound. He loves to eat junk food just like his Alpha, he farts lavender scent and he's frightened of thunderstorms. He's quite possibly the happiest, friendliest dog in the world. Until you threaten one of his people, which you really don't want to do, because his Hellhound heritage has given him some rather interesting traits and talents. Naturally he was with Dean when he headed into L-Space, so now he's the guest of the City Watch, and he just wants to make friends and eat Mrs Biddlestaff's cookies...
The Ambassador
Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom, member of the City Watch Forensics Department – well, up until Igor arrived, she was the Forensics Department – picked up the ball again, and threw it. The large dog whuffed happily, and chased it across the tea room.
"He looks like a Lipwigzer," she remarked, as the dog fetched the ball and sat in front of her, giving it back and watching hopefully, visibly willing her to throw it again.
"He aint no Lipwigzer, Sergeant," snorted Corporal Nobby Nobbs, who, given that he had been declared to be human on balance of probabilities only after a thorough investigation and ultimate decision from the Patrician, might be expected to have a modicum of insight into non-human pedigrees.
"He's built like one," Cheery pointed out, "Even if he's bigger than most I've seen, and he has the colouring."
"He's pretty close to the breed standard," remarked Sally, the Watch's only vampire. "Back home, I have relatives who'd cheerfully give their left fang for a stud dog like him."
"Yeah, but there's little tells," Nobby insisted, as Cheery threw the ball again. "Like, frinstance, did you notice the way he pigs down Mrs Biddlestaff's Jammy Jimmy biscuits without chewin' 'em?"
"All dogs love treats," smiled Cheery, "And you eat Jammy Jimmies without chewing them. In fact, you eat them without paying for them."
"Yeah, well, but, the point is, the point is," Nobby pressed on, "The point is, he only ate the biscuit, and not your arm. What I'm getting at is, this dog shows a complete total and utter lack of any inclination whatsoever to tear any living being within a hundred feet limb from limb. The most ferocious thing he's done so far is use ruthless emotional blackmail to get a belly rub. And that, Sergeant, means he aint a Lipwigzer. And let's not even talk about the thing with the door..."
"He are indeed a remarkable dog," opined Sergeant Detritus.
"Well, he does belong to a remarkable man," shrugged Cheery, "It takes a real talent to get Mr Vimes from zero to Ready To Go Completely Librarian Poo in less than five seconds on a first meeting."
"I have to accompany Mr Vimes to the Palace," the voice of Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson preceded him into the mess room, "So Cheery, could you..." his eyes fell on the dog. "Oh, hello there!" The dog immediately trotted over to Carrot, and sat up on his haunches, proffering the ball. "My, what nice manners you have!"
"Shame we can't say the same for his owner," growled Sergeant Angua.
Carrot patted the big square head, and looked at the tags and charms on the collar; one of them was a name tag. "Jimi. Is that your name? Hello again, Jimi! I saw you fetch Constable Shoe's arm for him when we arrested your master – you are a good dog."
Constable Shoe was carefully stitching his arm back on with the ease of practice that could only belong to a zombie well versed in dealing with the little problems of being undead, like having parts of your anatomy drop off unexpectedly. "He is," he echoed, "Usually when it falls off, any dog that spots it grabs it runs off with it, but Jimi brought it right back to me. With hardly any slobber on it at all."
"What's he doing in here?" demanded Angua, her irritation rising. The strange man who was apparently Jimi's owner had made for an interesting morning: he'd just appeared, armed with a miniature gonne, then killed a very strange vampire, after which he'd almost punched out Carrot, beaten Reg up with his own arm, burned her with silver and tried to hit Detritus – and come out smirking. The man named Dean Winchester had pushed all of Commander Vimes' buttons like a squid with an accordion, and had not just made Sergeant von Uberwald's hackles go up, she was pretty sure that if she took her helmet off all her hair would stand on end. Seriously, it was as if the guy had spent years studying how to annoy a werewolf just by grinning. "Didn't Igor bed him down in one of the cells?"
"He did," Cheery confirmed, "But he just strolled through the door."
"Well, who let him out?" snapped Angua. "Who left the bloody door open?"
"Nobody," confirmed Detritus. "Like Cheery said, he just strolled through the door." The troll paused thoughtfully. "Although, generally, it are more usual for a dog to wait until somebody open a door before he walk right through it..."
Carrot took the ball from the large black dog, and rolled it smartly along the floor right towards Detritus. Trolls not being known for their sprightliness, Detritus just stood and watched it roll towards him, and disappear between the tiny gap between his feet that was just big enough to let it roll through.
The dog charged after it, and, when he got to Detritus, disappeared right through the troll as if he wasn't even there, emerging on the other side to grab the ball in triumph.
"Like I said," shrugged Detritus, making a sound like the start of a landslide, "It are more usual for dogs to go around solid stuff, not through it. Do not do that again, please," he rumbled equably at the dog, "It are quite a weird feeling."
"You are a remarkable dog, aren't you, fella?" smiled Carrot, as the canine visitor brought the ball back to him. "I wonder how he does it?"
"Perhaps where he comes from, he hangs around an occult midden?" suggested Corporal Nobbs. "You know, like them strays who hang about behind the University kitchens. Develop all sorts o' strange traits, they do – I was patrollin' there last week, and this rat came up to me and said that it wished to report an attempted murder, then this cat came along and said he was goin' to complain to the Patrician about Watchmen goin' around and talking to other people's lunches, which he reckoned was unhygienic..."
"Well, if doors won't hold him, we can't let him wander about unescorted," Carrot said firmly, "Somebody will have to keep an eye on him, chaperone him."
"Forget it!" Angua curled her lip. "I'm not babysitting a dog, especially one who belongs to such an utterly irritating smartarse!"
The dog moved away from Carrot to sit right in front of her, a picture of devoted canine companionship. He dropped the ball at her feet, then dialled his big brown eyes all the way up to 'Awwwwwww', cocked his head adorably, and lifted a paw, whuffing a polite canine enquiry.
Acquaintance? I am Jimi! Will you play?
Angua let out a sigh. "I never saw the attraction in the whole ball chasing thing." She nudged it with a foot, sending it skimming back across the mess with Jimi in cheerful pursuit.
"Oh, I would never set a sergeant to babysit a dog," Carrot reassured her, "But I would be grateful if you would help me to locate a citizen whom I think would be well suited to the job…"
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It really wasn't fair, thought Gaspode, peering down at the small creature he'd cornered. He was small and kind of terrier-shaped from certain angles, which suggested that he had a bit of terrier in him, a dozen sixty-fourths at least, which suggested that he should be heir to the behaviours and proclivities of terriers, the unthinking unblinking instincts that drive those small but determined breeds to chase down their prey, digging relentlessly, following it through tunnels or burrows or undergrowth or other seemingly impossibly small spaces, to bail up the fleeing target, then dispatch it with a single rapid-fire snap of jaws, then bask in the feeling of a hunt finished, a job well done, secure and content in the knowledge that he was predator feeding on prey, and that was the way it should be.
Yes, occasionally there would be a hunting dog that turned out to be squeamish about blood, or a greyhound that didn't want to chase, and even the odd terrier who would peer disdainfully down a rabbit burrow and give a human an eloquent look that clearly said 'Hang on, hang on, can we just be clear about this, you want me to do what?'
But this, this was just embarrassing.
"Look, try to see it from my point of view," he told the mouse, who cowered against the brick wall at the back of Unseen University, "I'm a dog. Dogs are canines. Canines are coursing predators, that means, when we get hungry, we look for prey, we chase it down when it runs, then we kill it and eat it. That's how it's supposed to work. Unless you're one of them smug bastards with a family and a mat by the fire and a bowl with your name on it, but the point is, the point is, in the grand overall scheme of things, the overarching idiom of Canine, that's how it's supposed to be."
"Can't we talk about this?" quavered the mouse, "Can't we at least have a civilised discussion about this?"
"That's exactly my point!" Gaspode whined, "I shouldn't be havin' a civilised discussion with anybody, let alone my lunch! And my lunch certainly shouldn't be attempting to make a case for murarian compassion! It aint my fault I ended up with higher thought processes, what with that high energy magic leakage oozin' out all over the place from the University, giving me a super-ego, when I shouldn't even have an ordinary ego, I should be operating on one hundred percent unquestioning doggy id, not wondering about the existential considerations of dining on a fellow creature. It's not right, it really isn't."
"But I have children!" pleaded the mouse, "Lots of children, and grandchildren, and great grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren, and great-great-great grandchildren!"
"Well, you can be satisfied with the knowledge that you've done what your species needs of you, you've passed on your traits," humphed Gaspode, "I'm jealous, really I am. Now run so I can bloody chase you, I haven't eaten for three days, on account of havin' too many conversations about the moral dichotomy faced by a technic'ly omnivorous individual who could theoretic'ly choose to abstain from eating meat, I tell you, since I ate that pamphlet from that weirdo in the orange robe touting vegetarianism my life has been hell…"
"Ah, there you are!" proclaimed a bright voice behind him.
The moment Gaspode was distracted, the mouse made a dash for a tiny gap in the brickwork.
"Oh, great," griped the dog, looking up at Carrot and Angua, "It's Captain Clueless and his faithful sidekick, Sergeant Cynic."
"Hello, Gaspode," Carrot greeted him, "I have some good news for you!"
"You are here to tell me that the Patrician has mandated the feeding of poor stray doggies as a compassionate public service, woof woof?" suggested Gaspode.
"No, not exactly."
"Then unless you've come to tell me that Throgbongle and Daughter have mistakenly stocked too many carcasses for their butcher shop, and are throwing out enormous cuts of meat into the street, I don't want to hear it."
Angua, more familiar than Carrot with the way Gaspode's mind worked, in fact with more insight than Carrot into the way minds in general worked, ignored the sidekick crack. "There could be a sausage in it for you."
"Yeah?" Gaspode squinted up at her. "A proper sausage, with actual meat in it, or one of those things that Dibbler sells?"
"The thing is," Carrot continued, "The most wonderful opportunity for you has presented itself."
"Opportunity can go and stuff its head up its own bum," pronounced Gaspode. "Because any time somebody uses the word 'opportunity' to me, it's never anything good. The opportunity to go running headlong into peril, the opportunity to get myself torn to pieces, the opportunity to get tangled up in stuff man ought not wot of, let alone dog, why these are described as 'opportunities' is beyond me. I'm not stupid," he added resentfully, "I've chewed on some very thick books, you know."
"The thing is," Carrot told the small glowering dog, "We have a visitor to our city, and he's in need of a native guide to look after him, and this would be a wonderful opportunity for you to act as an ambassador for Ankh-Morpork."
"I know about ambassadors," Gaspode said, "They're fat and smug and they dress funny. I also know they get fed really well – do I see a banquet bein' laid before me in my honour, I don't think so."
Angua produced one of Mrs Biddlestaff's Jammy Jimmy biscuits and tossed it to the small dog, whose snout snapped it out of the air before his brain could even register that a delicious morsel was in transit towards him. "Detritus was very thorough in his upending of Nobby – we got enough change for another packet of Jammy Jimmies, and two packets of Lemon Yoyos. One of those packets is yours if you do this."
"Yoyos?" Gaspode licked crumbs from his whiskers. "Them with the sticky stuff between shortbread?"
"The very same," intoned Angua.
Gaspode stared hard at each of them. "Say I was to agree to be your ambassador," he said carefully, "Where the hells is your visitor from, Planet Woof? 'Cause otherwise, there could be a bit of inter-species confusion; I aint that keen on speakin' Human to humans who know I can speak Human, it undermines my usual way of doin' my modus operandi, you see…"
"We don't know exactly where he's from," shrugged Carrot, "We know his name is Jimi, and that his owner has gone to the Palace with Mr Vimes."
Gaspode got one look at the dog that stepped around Carrot's legs, let out a piercing 'Yaipe!' and shot up Angua like a rat up a drainpipe.
"Get off me, you idiot!" she snapped, grabbing him by the scruff.
"I aint ambassading a Lipwigzer!" squealed Gaspode, "And a bloody big one too, you want somebody to ambassad a Lipwigzer, get a Troll, and make sure he's wearing thick armour!"
"He's not a Lipwigzer," Angua rolled her eyes.
"He looks like one," Gaspode pointed out.
"According to Igor, he's of a breed practically identical to a Lipwigzer, with one or two very small but important differences," Carrot informed him.
"Yeah? Like what?" demanded the small dog, still squirming.
Carrot reached down and petted Jimi's big earnest face, then held up his hand. "See this hand?"
"Yeah, what about it?"
"It's still attached to the rest of me." He took a Jammy Jimmy from his pocket, and showed it to Jimi, who sat, then took it politely. "Also, notice how, when offered food, he takes only the food, and not the arm offering it."
"But look at the size of him!" complained Gaspode, "Did you know that in Canine, the words for 'smaller' and 'snack' are the same?"
"It's about context," growled Angua, putting him down, "Don't be melodramatic."
"But he'll eat meeeeee!" whined Gaspode.
"No he won't!" Angua scolded, "Nobody with half a brain would eat you, with your collection of diseases."
Gaspode cringed as the huge dog loomed over him, reaching down to sniff noses.
Acquaintance? I am Jimi! He wagged his tail. Let us range! There are many new scents! We will be happy!
"Oh great, another bloody mental giant," sighed Gaspode, "Put a helmet on him, and he could be Captain Canine Carrot, woof woof, he's got the stench of Good Boy all over him."
"He needs somebody to look after him," said Carrot.
"Him? Him? You might as well as set a hamster to babysit a noble dragon! What does he need protection from?"
"He's not from around here," Angua couldn't help herself, she reached down to pat Jimi, "He needs somebody with street smarts, somebody who can speak his language, to keep an eye on him."
"Yeah yeah," griped Gaspode, "Loyal and dutiful little doggy assists the Watch, diligent servant of Man, woof woof, he's a Good Booooieeeeeee!"
Jimi bent down to lick Gaspode's ears affectionately. We will be friends. We will be strong, and happy.
"I think that you two will become great friends," Carrot smiled, "So, if you could bring him back to the Watch House later that would be much appreciated."
"And also remunerated," added Angua, "In a biscuit-like fashion."
"Fine." Gaspode looked up at the happy, earnest face way above him. "Well, I suppose we can begin with a tour of the middens at Shambles, that's sometimes a place for a good feed, if you don't mind a bit of a stink and the odd maggot." He peered hopefully up at Angua. "I don't suppose you'd like to go, you know, plain clothes, and join us, help me show the big guy around?... right, right, forget I asked," he added hurriedly as the Sergeant's lip curled, "Can't blame me for askin'. So, Jimi, tell me, where you come from, do they do sausages?"
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"So, the thing is, humans know that dogs can't talk, right?" Gaspode muttered to Jimi, as they sat watching the people in the busy street. "And, since dogs can't talk, anythin' I say must come from inside their own head, be their own idea, like, frinstance, 'Oh what a dear little doggy, doesn't he look hungry, I should give the dear little doggy somethin' to eat, preferably somethin' with a nice chunk of meat in it'."
You speak Upright? Jimi cocked his head.
"Yeah, yeah," sighed Gaspode, "And let me tell you, the whole self-awareness, existential uncertainty, theory of mind thing, it aint all it's cracked up to be. Can make dinner time pretty damned awkward, to say the least. So," he eyed a group of workmen shrewdly, "You leave the talkin' to me, and just wear your brain-explodin'ly attentive Good Dog face, and… hey!"
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Dave Wankle was balancing on a low plank of scaffold about to knock in the last of the nails to secure the large timber beam before knock-off when, in accordance with Sod's Law, the damned hammer slipped right out of his sweating hand.
Swearing, he was preparing to descend to retrieve it when a large black dog suddenly trotted out from the mouth of a nearby alley.
His first impulse was to climb further up the scaffold, because the damned thing was a Lipwigzer, and a huge one at that, but before he could do so, the animal picked up the hammer, then stood on his hind legs, putting his front paws against the plank, and offered the hammer to him with a helpful 'whuff'."
"Er, good boy?" Dave ventured tentatively, warily retrieving his hammer. The big dog wagged his tail, then sat, a picture of canine attentiveness that could've been painted and titled 'Man's Devoted Servant'. Curious, he climbed down from the scaffold.
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Swearing to himself, Gaspode watched the vignette play out before him – he'd heard of humans being described as Dog People, but Jimi was clearly a People Dog. He darted out towards the small group, where Jimi was entertaining them by fetching a chunk of wood.
"Where the hells did you get a Lipwigzer from, Dave?"
"That aint no Lipwigzer – they wouldn't let a male that big out of Uberwald with his balls still attached, for a start – and he don't act like one. See how he didn't bite through my hammer?"
"He looks like one."
"Well, he aint. Watch this. See?"
"All I see is an idiot feeding a beef and pickle sandwich to a dog."
"What you see is a dog with nice manners eating a beef and pickle sandwich, and not the man who is holding it. That, my friend, means he aint a Lipwigzer."
"What if he's, you know, one that aint right in the head? My old Dad had a hunting dog that was terrified of rabbits. Maybe he's one of them mutables."
"Could be some lordship's dog, out for a bit of a stroll. Costs a fortune to import one. Friendly fella though, aren't you? Oh, look, he's brought it back again, aren't you clever, here you go."
"If your missus finds out you're feeding her tea cake to a dog, she'll go spare."
"Well, you'd need teeth like a bloody Lipwigzer to eat her damned tea cake. I should get her to make bread for us sometime, it'd save us a fortune in bricks next time we have to lay a foundation… don't give him that, bacon's not good for dogs!"
"According to Dr Lawn, food from Harga's isn't good for anybody…"
They were discussing the merits of adopting the large dog as site mascot, because he was such a happy thing and clearly a Good Dog, when another stray, one who looked less like a dog than a group of rats wrapped in a badly frayed rug, suddenly appeared.
Dave found himself reaching for another sandwich, thinking Oh, the poor little thing, he looks so starved, he must be the big one's bestest friend, I must feed him, oh yes, pick one with not so much pickle chum, when the foreman stood up and yelled at the newcomer to get away you disgusting filthy thing, and aimed a kick.
And then, the most unexpected thing happened.
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"I'm not complainin'," Gaspode assured his larger companion, "I'm not, and I'm grateful, mate, there's not many in this world would lift a finger or a paw to stop me gettin' a kick."
That was wrong, Jimi rumbled, anger lingering in his voice, He should not have tried to hurt you.
"Well, no, in an ideal world, no," Gaspode agreed, still somewhat shaken by what he'd seen, "But I'm a street dog, see? Now, humans, they love a fawning yes-dog like yourself, no offence meant, but you really are a Good Dog, you're made of Good Dog, far as I can tell, and I've seen 'em all, from lap-dogs to nutjobs like Big Fido, but I'm warning you, you act like, like, you act like…"
…You suddenly extrude teeth like a butcher's knives and your eyes glow red and you growl like an angry volcano and you chase a foreman up a ladder like that…
"You act like they don't expect you to act, they'll call you rabid, and somebody will be along to put you out of your misery, or more importantly, out of anybody else's misery before you can cause it." He paused. "Er, that thing with the teeth, I've never seen that before. You sure you aint part Lipwigzer?"
I am a Dog of the Blood, Jimi told him, The Blood of the Pit, and I am a Hunter's Dog.
"Yeah? 'Cause I thought Lipwigzers were descended from a breed of herding dogs. Gods know what they herded. Werewolves, maybe. What do you hunt?"
I Hunt the wrong-things, with my Alpha and my Second. They are Hunters. My pack is strong and happy, and we kill the wrong-things.
"Well, you certainly got a talent for solicitin'," sighed Gaspode. "If you can just try to keep the whole I'm About To Devour Your Soul thing under control, we might have a good day of scavenging. Now, that trail of cow patties we smelled earlier means that the Shambles will be busy, so I suggest we take a tour of one o' the city's more fragrant areas: plenty to roll in and something to eat, it's a one-stop shop."
Their progress to the Shambles was, well, somewhat shambling, because Jimi was eager to check out the smells and sights of the city. He was also, Gaspode found out, an irrepressible Good Boy.
First, he paused to retrieve a parasol for a lady who dropped it, sitting up to offer it back to her. She smiled and patted him, and found him a toffee from her bag.
At the next intersection, he darted out into the path of a spooked horse to stop a cart, averting disaster. The carter praised him, and offered him a piece of ham sandwich of dubious provenance whilst simultaneously being somewhat bewildered by his own thought processes at the same time.
Oh, look at that sweet little doggy, I bet he's as brave and helpful as the big one, I should give him some too, jeez, mister, was that sandwich even made in the Century of the Fruit Bat?
"I'm not sure whether to be impressed or appalled," Gaspode told Jimi as they resumed their trip, "You're either the most dutiful dog ever whelped, or a cringin' embarrassment to your species. Still, I suppose it don't matter, so long as the food keeps coming – seriously, you could teach Mrs Palm's Ladies of Negotiable Affection somethin' about soliciting."
I protect my Pack, rumbled Jimi, I am a Hunter's Dog. I am a Guardian, and a Hunter. I protect my Pack, and my Pack protects others. We stop the wrong-things. This is the way of things.
"Protectin' others from wrong-things, huh?" nodded Gaspode, "I dunno where you'd even start in this city, chum, there's so many wrong-things, I mean, frinstance, there's cats, you can't tell me they aint all unnatural creatures from some other eldritch dimension, and ladies who wear peeled animals round their necks, I mean, why don't they just grow their own fur, I've seen some of 'em who could, if the whiskers are anythin' to judge by, and don't get me started on alchemists, people have the nerve to accuse me of smelling bad… ew, speakin' of smellin' bad, we should probably cross the road, I smell toddler, and them things aint sanitary… hey!"
Ahead of them a small child was chasing a ball along the gutter, but was too late to grab it before it rolled down a grating. In bewilderment, he sat down, and cried.
Despite Gaspode's warning, Jimi darted through the traffic to the child's side, and put his head right through the metal grate as if it was made of smoke to retrieve the lost toy. The child snuffled into stunned silence as the ball was dropped gently at his feet.
"Well, that's somethin' you don't see every day," mused Gaspode, "Maybe they got leakin' magic where he comes from…oi!" He scampered to Jimi's side, where the child began giggling as the big dog tenderly licked the tears from his cheeks. "Be careful doin' that, that's unhygienic, that is, you got no idea what diseases it might have!"
The pup must be safe, Jimi rumbled, gently but firmly butting at the small boy to urge him away from the street traffic and back towards an anxious female voice.
"You can't save 'em all," grumbled Gaspode, "Mark my words, some of 'em are so daft it's hard to know how they survive, it might even be better for their species if the really daft ones didn't, I gnawed on this book, once, an interestin' theory, called Natural Rejection, or Survival Of The Least Daft, which means, basically, that in any particular environment, in the long run, the least daft ones will do well enough to survive and reproduce and the most daft ones won't." He watched the mother sweep up the child and hustle it indoors. "O' course, I suspect the bloke who wrote it never visited Ankh-Morpork." He turned his nose to the breeze. "Now, can we try not to save anybody from 'emselves just for a little while? If we're late, there won't be any chance of getting a look-in."
They eventually made their way to the Shambles where, as Gaspode had predicted, a herd of cattle had been driven for slaughter earlier in the day. By the time the slaughtermen had finished with it, there wasn't much of a cow that couldn't be sold to somebody, somewhere – meat to the butchers, hides to the tanners, hooves and bones to the gluemakers, horns to the carvers, strange wobbly bits to the wizards and alchemists and even stranger wobblier bits to the poorest inhabitants of the city, who were prepared to eat anything further up the food chain than boots (and even them, some of the strangest wobbliest bits could be made into boots, if your feet were cold enough). When all bovine bits of use to the citizenry had been removed, the leftovers were dumped on the middens on the banks of the Ankh River.
Every street dog in Ankh-Morpork knew the fundamental rhythms of the Shambles, so by the time each load of leftovers was dumped, a crowd was eyeing each other off, sizing each other up, and mentally calculating the risk in claiming a spot at the midden against competitors versus the payoff of a filling, if somewhat fragrant, feed of probably-no-more-than-a-day-old cow bits.
"We've just got to box a bit clever for this," muttered Gaspode, nose turned to the air, "Shep the Pup is here, and Ole Scratch, and he'll be in a foul mood, too, smells like his waterworks is givin' him trouble again, and Froufrou, don't mess with her, I swear, she's part Lipwigzer and part crocodile…"
Food! Jimi let out a happy bark and headed purposefully down the mucky river bank, ploughing through the tangles of weed, scum and rubbish left by the tide and the city. Treats!
"Hey, wait for me!" yipped Gaspode
The street dogs of Ankh-Morpork weren't stupid. Rat-cunning, shadow-stealthy, salesman-persistent and flea-ridden, perhaps, but not stupid. The moment Jimi appeared and made his way towards the leftover goodies, they gave way, recognising that on this occasion, discretion would be the better part of valour (or at least the better part of not getting mauled if a fight broke out). Gaspode, being the least prepossessing of the city's mutts, was accustomed to being last in the pecking order, so it was something of a delicious novelty for him to take his place at Jimi's side at the head of the line, where he could take a first pick of the buffet.
"Who's yer friend, Gaspode?" growled Shep, his one malevolent eye watching Jimi warily.
"This is Jimi," Gaspode replied around a mouthful of something delicious, "He's visitin'. He's a dog of the Blood."
"What does that mean?" yapped an elderly terrier with snaggled teeth.
"Dunno, exactly," said Gaspode, "I think it means that if you cross him, he'll tear your throat out and watch until all your blood comes out then he'll eat you and lick all your blood up too, so you'd better all just wait until we've finished. Wow," he marvelled, gulping down another morsel, "This is amazin', I had no idea that you could get such good bits leftover from a cow, I mean, it's like Dibbler's sausages but without the weird skin stuff on the outside…"
Jimi's size and Alpha presence meant that there was no need for him to watch his back. Standing right next to Jimi, Gaspode was in nirvana, and intended to enjoy the prestigious access that he was pretty sure he would never experience again. So they were both completely absorbed in the moment, as dogs having fun are wont to be, especially if there is food involved – as a result, they didn't notice the other dogs melt away silently.
They didn't realise that anything was happening until the sturdy net dropped over them.
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Malmont Dagg liked to think of himself as a self-made man, in the sense that he had made his own way in the world, living off his own toil and smarts and practical nature, clawing his way out of the Shades and to a position of respectability. Well, a position where he was respected. Or at least, where a lot of people were afraid enough of him that they pretended to respect him, and as long as they handed over the money, that was good enough for him.
Other people might have pointed out that in fact over the years he had largely made his living off the poor, the desperate, the unfortunate, or the unlucky whom he enticed or just outright fleeced. But they certainly wouldn't say it within hearing of Malmont.
The Law would technically classify him as a common criminal, albeit smarter than the usual run of petty shyster, and more economical, since he acted as his own standover man.
In reality, The Law classified him as some of the lowest scum in the criminal sewer of Ankh-Morpork, because at least other criminals confined themselves to hurting other people to make their ill-gotten gains...
Whatever he was, he was universally acknowledged by all, in tones of fear or angered disgust, by his more common title: King of the Pit. He liked that: it made him feel important, and strong, and fearsome. Oh yes, Malmont knew about fearsome, it was his trade to know about fearsome.
Which is why he was so pleased with the latest catch that Cringing Ted, one of his most reliable suppliers, had brought before him.
"I found you fresh meat, Mr Dagg!" Ted announced excitedly in the voice of someone anticipating a large boost to his cash flow situation, "I found you a Lipwigzer! You aint never had an actual Lipwigzer in the pit! Not even Harry King has an actual Lipwigzer!"
"He's not, you know," Malmont eyed the dog that gazed up at him with soulful eyes, "Well, not a full blood, anyway."
"Sure 'e is," protested Ted, "Look at 'im!"
"He is magnificent, Ted," the King smiled, taking in the size and build of the dog before him, "Absolutely magnificent. But there are little tells, Ted, a dog man like you should be able to pick them up. For a start, they would never let an entire male out of Uberwald, you know that. Especially not one this size. Plus, there's the little matter of the muzzle."
"Muzzle?" echoed Ted in confusion, peering down at the large dog's face. "What's wrong with his muzzle?"
"Nothing wrong with his actual muzzle," Malmont clarified, "More the fact that he's not wearing one."
Ted looked non-plussed, then reached down to pat the dog, who panted happily at the attention. "Well, 'e doesn't need one, Mr Dagg. He had a collar on, and 'e walks real nice on the lead."
"That is my point exactly, Ted," Malmont smiled the smile of a kindergarten teacher seeing one of her less intellectually developed charges start to eat the paint. Again. "If he was an authentic pedigree Lipwigzer, he wouldn't be wearing a collar and lead. He'd be wearing a muzzle, several stout ropes and a few nervous hangers-on struggling to stop him from tearing them to pieces. He would not, be clear about this, Ted, he would not be sitting calmly next to you wearing the sort of Good Dog expression such that the Society for Treating Animals Better Than People Often Treat Other People would like to put his iconograph on the front of their annual fundraiser calendar."
Ted's face fell as he heard his anticipated cash advance suddenly go into retreat. "Yeah, but, yeah, but, it's the quiet ones you have to look out for, innit?" he insisted. "The ones who don't need to put on a show, who don't need to put on a big display of lookin' tough. This dog, this dog, he's tough, on the inside."
Malmont Dagg would never have made the living he did arranging illegal dog fights if he wasn't a canny judge of canines, and whilst Cringing Ted talked, he had been observing the dog. The thing was, Ted might have been desperately trying to drive up the price he would get for his latest catch, but he was right. The dog sitting before him did indeed look like a very large Lipwigzer – for his clientele, he would definitely pass as a Lipwigzer – and he carried himself with the air of a dog who knew he had nothing to prove to, or fear from, anyone or anything that walked on two legs or four.
This was no street dog, no abandoned pet or runaway. Malmont had no idea where he had come from; but then, he didn't care. Somehow, by complete chance, Cringing Ted had brought him a true Alpha male.
He let a magnanimous smile slide onto his face. "Tell you what, Ted, since he's such a big boy, and impressive to look at, the punters won't care how nice his manners are – we'll keep him separate until the fight, and the size of him alone will convince them he's a Lipwigzer."
"I can put a studded collar on 'im," suggested Ted, looking hopeful once more, "And a muzzle. Make 'im look fierce, before 'is bout."
"That's great idea, Ted," Malmont agreed, thinking that if the dog wore a muzzle at least nobody would see the happy doggy smile he wore, and any dog could be made to snarl if you gave it enough of a thrashing. "So, I have a venue in mind, there's an unused shop in Boggle Street with a large basement..."
"No good, Mr Dagg," Ted cut in, "There's a Watch gargoyle keepin' an eye on it. I strolled past, yesterday."
Malmont swore under his breath. The dogfights he organised were illicit on a number of fronts: the Patrician had outlawed them, declaring that if the citizens of Ankh-Morpork wanted to be cruel they would have to content themselves with being cruel to members of sentient species who were capable of being cruel back. This law was one that the Watch seemed particularly enthusiastic about enforcing; facing Commander Vimes or Captain Ironfoundersson was not something he wanted to do, and if there was any truth to the persistent rumour that the Watch had at least one werewolf in their ranks, he definitely did not want to run afoul of the Law. Besides that, he operated outside of the Gamblers' Guild, running his book outside of their control, and they could be decidedly more creative in bringing offenders to account than the Watch was permitted to do.
And then there was the S.T.A.B.T.P.O.T.O.P. He had seen one of his competitors (who had since gone out of the business) being picketed by a group of irate well-to-do middle-aged women, led by their patron and most vocal demonstrator Lady Sybil Vimes, and the thought of that was more frightening than the Patrician, the Law and the Guild put together.
"Never mind, I shall identify and procure a suitable venue," Malmont continued. "Meanwhile, find a pen for him, and...Ted, why do you have a rat on a string?"
"It's another dog, Mal," Ted told him, "It was with the biggun. I caught 'em both with the one net."
"That?" Mal frowned. "Are you sure?"
"I think he's the big fella's friend," Ted suggested, "Because they were at the Shambles, an' they were standing together, eating. But he wasn't getting et."
Malmont shrugged. "Looks like he's got a bit of terrier in him. They have terrific drive and physical courage, terriers. Put him in with the big one. We can always use small feisty critters for blooding the youngsters."
"Right you are, Mr Dagg." As Ted made to leave, the small dog started to yap irritably. "So, who will you put the big fella up against?"
"Funny you should ask, Ted," Malmont smiled like a shark spotting a struggling swimmer wearing a bathing suit made of offal, "Because I've been waiting for another suitable opponent to come along. One that will give good sport. One that won't get torn to pieces too quickly, the crowd don't like that. Now we've found one, we must act quickly. You can put the word out; I have an updated list for this evening's event. I have an entire male Lipwigzer for the pit. And he's going to fight The Butcher."
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The small ragged dog continued to yap angrily as Cringing Ted led both animals through a kennel consisting of pens that looked like they had been fortified against invasion – or, more likely, against outvasion. A raucous din of deep savage barking began the moment he opened the door, but the large dog remained calm, trotting obediently on his lead to an empty pen.
"The strong silent type, huh?" Ted said to him, unable to resist reaching down to pat the dog's head. "Well, it's sensible of you to save your energy. You're gunna need it, against The Butcher. Gods, what a waste of you that'll be."
Gaspode continued to snarl and slaver as the man left. "Oh, this is just great, this is," he grumbled, "You have to get us out of here, right now, you have to... what are you doing?"
Sleep, replied Jimi, yawning as he circled on the grubby sacking in a corner of the pen then made himself comfortable. Our ranging has been enjoyable, and I am tired.
"Look, you're a visitor to this city," Gaspode told him urgently, "An' so I understand that you don't understand, but what you don't understand is that we are currently in extremely dangerous peril!"
Jimi let out a contented humph as he lay down. There is no danger here, he said mildly. I smell food preparation.
"Gods preserve us from hungry optimists," muttered the little dog, "Look, try to get your big earnest Good Boy head around this: we have been caught for Malmont Dagg, the King of the Pit! 'E runs the most brutal dog-fighting ring in Ankh-Morpork! 'E's always one jump ahead of the Law, two ahead of the Gamblers' Guild, and he's gotta have a mole in the Society for Treatin' Animals Better Than People Often Treat Other People, because he can smell their pickets a mile away. He makes money by settin' dogs to fight each other. To kill each other. And you are gunna go up against The Butcher!"
There is no danger here, Jimi repeated with maddening calm certainty. There is no dog here that can harm me.
"Yeah, well, if ten percent of what I've heard about The Butcher is true, you might not actually be fighting an actual dog, actually," snapped Gaspode. "And I'm the best informed street dog on the street, I keep an ear to the ground, and the other one cocked to listen to humans. The Butcher has been makin' money for Malmont Dagg for about a year now. No fighting dog ever lasts that long. Tied in a sack as a puppy and thrown off a cliff, some say. Others say the whole litter was eaten by a bear, and The Butcher ate the bear from inside out to escape. In fact, I did hear that last year The Butcher fought a bear, and won. The King of the Pit made a bloody fortune on that one." He sat and whined nervously, scratching at a ragged ear.
What sort of dog? asked Jimi.
"Nobody knows," Gaspode replied gloomily. "At least, nobody canine – any dog who gets to see The Butcher doesn't live to tell the tale. Dog-shaped, presumably, or nobody would bet on the bouts, so there's a bit of dog in the mix, yeah, but also part crocodile, part shark, and part hideous thing made of teeth from the Dungeon Dimensions that man ought not wot of, and dog shouldn't be doin' any wotting either, for preferential choice." Gaspode stared hard at his large companion. "Let me spell it out for you: you are gunna be fed into a four-legged mincing machine, while bipeds bet money on how long it will take for you to die, and I am gunna be used as a squeaky toy to train another dog, so that it will last as long as possible when it gets fed in after you! Look, that thing where you put your head through a solid iron drain grating, can you do that with the rest of yourself? Can you get us both out of here?"
Jimi licked Gaspode's ears companionably. There is no danger here. I will come to no harm. I will not allow harm to come to you. You are my friend. We will be strong and happy. Nap. Then we will range again.
"Oh, great," sighed Gaspode, curling up next to Jimi's reassuring bulk, "You're like the passengers on that ship the Humongous, the most luxurious vessel ever built, they said she was unbreakable, an' all the passengers were sailin' along, enjoyin' their luxury, and even after she hit an iceberg they were convinced that they were in no danger, and nobody realised that they were gunna die until the polarity bears jumped off the ice and started devourin' everybody, so we'll just sit here and listen to the band play Closer To You My Gods, shall we?"
Jimi appeared to be happy to do exactly that; in the time-honoured ritual of Dog Taking Repose, he yawned, lay his muzzle on his paws, farted contentedly, and went to sleep.
With a sigh, Gaspode followed suit. There wasn't much he could do otherwise, and if there might be a feed in it, at least he would die on a full stomach.
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