Shad Part1

"Would you like a puppy for your Birthday?", asked my wife of my
daughter. To say that I was taken aback was an understatement.
We already had a dog, a large overweight Rhodesian Ridgeback called
Red. Red considered himself not just human, but a very superior human.
He demanded the respect his status deserved. This included the use of
the best armchair or two thirds of the settee as the muse took him.
Muddy feet or wet fur were no obstacles to comfort in his
opinion.
Surprisingly, and to his amazement, this was a view not shared by the
wife.
Shrieks of "Quick, lock him in the kitchen, he's just come in from the
garden!", were all too often late by a short tail. The furniture once
more gained some extra character.
"When this animal goes, I'm not having any others", was the usual
response to his more objectionable habits.
Often, after outrageous antisocial episodes, like outbreaks of acute
flatulence when we had guests to dinner, I suspected from the murderous
looks from his 'Loving Mistress', that he would be 'going' sooner than
Nature intended.
Now, here we were, on an otherwise normal Saturday morning, standing
outside the Saddlers in town.
My wife was pointing to an advertisement in the window for Jack Russell
terrier pups. I pretended to study the postcard in the window, whilst I
watched her out of the corner of my eye. She seemed normal??
My daughter looked as surprised as I. The only thing she wanted for her
twelfth birthday in a few days time was a pony. That was out of the
question due to lack of room and even greater lack of funds. She had
resigned herself to pony books or music cassettes.
"Cor yeah!", she squeaked and the die was cast. A puppy it would be. My
daughter memorised the telephone number on the card and we rushed of
home.

"Puppies, Oh no, they went long ago", said the voice from the phone,
"That advert should have been taken down". "OK, thanks", sighed my
daughter, in disappointment.
"Never mind", said her mother, "There's got to be a puppy somewhere
that needs a good home".
"God, she really is serious about it, missing a golden opportunity to
back out of the deal there", I thought.
"It will have to be a small dog", my wife continued, "and have a short
haired coat too. I get quite enough hairs in my carpet now", and she
shot an accusing glance at Red.
He lay curled up on the armchair. He lifted one eyelid and rotated a
bloodshot orb in our general direction. Then, worn out by the
unaccustomed early exertion, (it was only ten thirty), he pulled the
shutter down, sighed, belched and resumed his kip.
"Right" ,I said, entering into the spirit of the thing, "If we must
cater for another belly, let's make it a needy one and rescue some poor
mutt from the R.S.P.C.A. shelter".

We set off for Norwich after first loading a protesting Red into the
rear of the hatchback. I thought that if the two animals were to live
harmoniously together from the start, they should be tested for
compatibility at the first opportunity. An erroneous opinion as it
events would show!
The R.S.P.C.A animal shelter at Norwich turned out to be a number of
long low buildings looking a little like cowsheds. Oblivious to the
notice at the entrance to the small car park asking visitors to proceed
to the Reception building, we began our quest for the small,
shorthaired puppy that accorded with the wifes specification.
The first area we approached was a wire mesh compound that nestled
among some bushes. These contained a motley crew of canine adolescents,
small, grubby and extremely vocal. They also, by the size of their
feet, promised to become giants among their kind.
We steered my girl away from temptation among this bunch, and into the
adjoining building. This, we found out later, was the main kennels
containing all that was on offer in unwanted, "best friends", at the
time. They were fresh from quarantine, bathed, perfumed, and looking
for meal tickets for life, after mislaying their first ones
variously.
The kennel doors, we soon discovered, had cards upon them with all the
details that were known or, in some cases, suspected about the history
and habits of its occupant. Also, we learned, a sort of kennel maids
shorthand was employed, the most important of which was 'HT'
(House-Trained).
HT, I said, was an essential requirement. I recalled Reds first
traumatic weeks and the minefield that the kitchen floor had become
each night during that unforgettable period. I wasn't keen on a repeat
performance. The missus, not unexpectedly agreed. This precondition
precluded quite a few of the inmates so we set about interviewing the
remainder.
The first one we considered was a sort of 'corgie-ish' beast. This
character was soon ruled out, as the note on its door said that it
needed to be kept outside. If we tried to place a kennel in our back
garden there wouldn't even be room enough for a sparrow to land.
The next cage contained a half grown German Shepherd. Purely out of
curiosity, I read its label. I had just reached the entry that said 'To
a Female owner only, does not take to men', when, as if to underline
the point, the brute launched itself, jaws agape at the door. There was
a sound like a rat trap closing an inch from my face and then I was
showered in spittle and fetid breath as the monster, thwarted of its
prey, bellowed its frustration from the confines of its cell.
"Stop playing with that one Dad", called my daughter, "Mummy says that
it's too big".
"Thanks, I hoped it might be", I murmured, taking a pace back. Unable
to reach its prey, the creature redoubled its frantic roaring. An
attendant appeared from a cell further down the line. She looked
suspiciously across at me. I sidled away in what I trusted to be a
casual manner. I wondered what it was that some poor unsuspecting
animal abuser had done to the beast in the past to put it off men for
life. I also wondered if they had found much more than his boots to
bury.
I smiled ingratiatingly at the kennel maid.
"Make a good guard dog Eh". I commented cheerfully and then hurried on
to catch up with the womenfolk. If it ever broke out, they could pacify
it while I made my escape, After all, they were immune to its ire, or
so the label promised.
We approached the last Kennel in the row and I looked in. There,
sitting nonchalantly against the rear wall was a three-foot long hairy
black caterpillar. It seemed to be of the variety that children are
warned about touching because it could bring them up in a rash, but
this was the granddaddy of them all.
As I gaped, the thing turned its head and regarded me calmly with a
pair of bottomless brown eyes. Then as two ridiculous tufted ears
raised themselves unevenly from the sides of its scalp I swear it
grinned at me. Well, more of a leer actually, and a look which said
"What you in for then mate?"
I should have turned away quickly and left it to its own diabolical
devices, but the next look said "Well, ain't you even gonna read me
card then?"
I read. The womenfolk stared at the thing while I described the
occupant aloud as portrayed on its door note.
MONGREL? it boasted.
If a mongrel means an unintentional crossing of breeds, then that's
accurate, I thought. No one could surely have meant for this thing to
have happened.
STRAY, ABOUT ONE YEAR OLD?
I took another look and shuddered. The body may have been a year old
but the eyes that looked insolently back into mine were timeless.
(HT).
I found it difficult to believe that the occupant of this little den
was anything trained.
The prisoner in the last cell of the row uncoiled himself from his
reclining position against the wall and stood staring at us, perched on
the thinnest, boniest legs that I have ever seen. A deep sigh expanded
a narrow chest from which the ribs threatened to burst forth and the
long thin tail quivered in a semblance of a wag. I knew then that I was
lost.
The dog, or so the R.S.P.C.A in their wisdom was claiming it to be, was
probably the most gruesome thing I had ever seen but this canine
Svengali had me cornered. There was no way I could bring myself to
reject him out of hand.
I glanced across at the womenfolk. Surely he did not take them in.
Women are always more level headed in these things, or so they
claim.
"Isn't he lovely", crooned my daughter, "Let's take him".
I had always thought she had weird tastes in Pop musicians, but I
didn't think it extended to her judgment of animal beauty as
well...
My wife was looking at him as one would look at a particularly bad road
accident.
"If we don't have him, who else in their right minds would," She
muttered. The probable truth of this statement was not lost on me, nor
was the inferred state of our mental health if we did take him.
We tore ourselves away from the vision and headed towards the Reception
area, where, had we been more observant, we were supposed to have gone
upon arrival. I half expected to find a notice warning people of
nervous dispositions to avoid the occupant of the last cell of the row
but none came readily to view. There were three other people in the
office apart from the receptionist.
One, a tall harassed looking man fought to subdue a rather, large, wet
Labrador on a lead. A boy aged about twelve, alternated between
offering his father encouragement and goading the animal to a fresh
paroxysm of struggling.
The man gripped the dog around the neck in what I believe is known in
wrestling circles as a sleeper hold. His face buried in a heaving
flank, through mouthfuls of damp fur, he tried to explain that they had
to reluctantly return the animal.
"The missus is finding it a bit of a handful...", he spluttered. I
didn't think that he seemed at all reluctant.
With a cunning feint to the left and an unstoppable rolling cross
buttock, the Labrador shrugged the man from off its back. It then
proceeded to tie his legs together with the lead.
The receptionist, who had obviously seen this sort of thing before,
calmly called a kennel maid who must have been an ex- Girl Guide by the
speed with which she released the knots from the lead and separated the
panting dog from his ostensibly heartbroken owner. The dog, loudly
protesting about 'undue interference in the contest by officials', was
dragged away, to be re-incarcerated whilst awaiting another prospective
combatant.
The next customer had called to see if they had found a dog answering
to the description of the one she had lost. She, it appeared, had had a
tiff with her live-in boyfriend and was in the process of an
acrimonious separation.
The dog had apparently decamped for more harmonious surroundings a few
days before. Her only ambition, as she explained at length to a
reluctant audience, was to retrieve the animal and make sure that the
last place it ended up was with her ex-boyfriend.
After details were taken and promises of instant phone calls in case
the errant animal was foolish enough to be recovered, she left to
rejoin battle with her erstwhile soul mate.
Then it was our turn. We explained that we wanted a dog for our
daughter and that we were interested in the one in the last cell of the
row. The receptionist looked puzzled and consulted her records.
"Ah yes", she said, "He has just been moved from quarantine
today".
"I'm not surprised he was in quarantine", I thought. "Heaven knows what
plague caused him to look like that! Probably the doggy equivalent of
leprosy".
A kennel maid was dispatched with directions and soon she appeared with
our choice on the end of a long lead, and she appeared to be trying to
keep the full length of it between them. The receptionist looked at the
inmate, then at us, then again at the animal. It was certain by her
expression that she had never seen the beast before this moment. It was
also clear that she suspected our sanity.
Then her face resumed its look of professional detachment and with an
effort, returned to the task in hand, that of shifting one more being
along fates conveyer, thus freeing its space for another needy canine
soul. We were probably circus folk collecting oddities for a
Freak-Show, and in the freakish stakes, this dog was infinitely
collectable.
I explained that we already had one dog and that we had bought him with
us to make sure that they would get on together. The kennel maid led
the mutt out into the yard and we went to get Red.
Red likes a car ride, but what he likes most of all is getting to our
destination. What he hates most of all is being left in the car when we
get there. Hence, when we finally returned to free him he really had
the doggy hump!
Opening the tailgate, I was bowled over by one hundred pounds of
brown-furred frustration. Grabbing the end of the lead as it zoomed by,
I barely managed to slam the tailgate before my arm was practically
wrenched from its socket and I was dragged to the centre of the
yard.
There stood the prisoner of the last cell in the row. Red screeched to
a halt in a cloud of cinders. With a deft hop and skip, I avoided a
collision with his ample hindquarters. I waited to see his reaction to
our potential guest.
Red, like all dogs, did not judge a book by its cover or another dog by
its kennel club specification. He judged all objects, animate or
inanimate, by its smell.
Advancing cautiously, he smelled, and was smelled right back. The
database of scents that he kept in the most closely protected area of
his bony skull identified the creature as dog, male, juvenile,
non-threatening and definitely, disappointingly, inedible.
Dismissing it as totally uninteresting, he updated the database with
the new scent and turned his attention to an exciting and evocative
aroma on a tuft of grass projecting from the concrete. The prisoner
more or less did the same, although being less experienced he took
longer, following behind Red while checking his credentials in the
canine hierarchy. He then resumed his stoical stance at the end of his
lead.
"Well", I said, "they seem to get on well together", mistaking studied
indifference for compatibility. "Are you sure he's the one you
want?"
"Oh yes please", cried my daughter, "He's so sweet".
"Yes, isn't he", I lied. Then, facing the inevitable, I said, "Let's
have a good look at him then".
I approached the scruffy creature and took stock.
I ran a hesitant hand down the bowed back and my fingers bounced over
every vertebra until my thumb dropped into a hollow space at the base
of his tail that should, by design, have been filled with pelvic
muscle. Either this animal hadn't been introduced to a full stomach for
a long time, or I had met my first anorexic dog. The fur had the
texture of rusty Brillo pads and a fine coating of dandruff settled
lightly onto my shoes.
I looked at the hopeful expression on my daughters face and the uneasy
one on my wife's'.
I raised an eyebrow and the Missus nodded. Right, I thought, if the
boss has given her approval, I can't be blamed for the havoc that this
beastie is certain to create. There's no way that anything could look
like this and still be domesticated. I'd be at work while it ate the
furniture and dug holes in the carpet and I could always have my meals
in the car.
"OK", he's all yours", I proclaimed and I took the end of the lead from
a grateful kennel maid and passed it to my daughters eager grip.
Leaving her to examine her prize, and hoping to find her still intact
when we returned, we entered the reception building, taking Red with
us, in order to get the paper work completed.
We were in and out of that building like the wind. I almost suspect
that they were trying to get rid of us before we came to our senses and
returned the weird thing we had found and asked for a proper dog!
We did however have a very official looking document that promised that
we could return the pooch, no questions asked, if things didn't work
out. I just hoped that they wouldn't pack up and move to the other end
of the country, leaving no forwarding address, the very next day.
Red was reinstalled in the rear of the car where he watched in
incredulity as we hoisted the little creature onto the back seat. It
promptly curled up and with matted snout wrapped in a grubby tail, was
instantly and noisily asleep.