The Dog Problem

I was woken at just after 4.40 one morning by a hammering on my back door.

 

I was most surprised. It’s extremely rare for Alun to rise before dawn and he never visits before he has been to collect the mail from the 6.30 boat. It must be something important I reasoned. I quickly threw on some clothes and rushed downstairs, to find Alun in an agitated mood.

 

“There’s a dog, Jed, a stray dog, running amok all over the island.”

 

“Are you sure?” I said, it seemed unlikely. Our island is five miles from the mainland, a long way to swim for even the fittest of dogs, and the boatman refuses to carry dogs because they are “hideous, germ-infested monsters.”

 

“It’s true Jed, it woke me in the middle of the night with its barking and general recklessness.

 

I let Alun lead me to the north shore, where the dog was last heard, and sure enough, clearly visible in the moonlight, there was a black Labrador running and barking all over the beach.

 

“It must have come from the mainland, Jed.”

 

“Well it needs to go back to the mainland,” I said. “I like animals, but not dogs. What if it runs wild and attacks my geep?”

 

“I agree Jed, we can’t allow dogs here, on our little island. Why, the council don’t provide so much as a single dog-litter-facility. Where’s it going to poo?”

 

“Anywhere it wants to,” I said bleakly, “that’s the nature of dogs.”

 

“It can’t stay here Jed, not on our peaceful, quiet little island. They’re full of fleas and bad habits. We’ll have to catch it and get the boatman to take it back to the mainland.”

 

“Catch it? What with?” I had visions of us chasing the dog haplessly around for hours to no avail, but I was wrong. It was well-trained and came to attention as soon as it was called.

 

“Good dog,” said Alun, in spite of his contempt for the species. I admire this about Alun, when he needs to he can be polite to those he totally despises: dogs, sharks, Daleks, I’ve even known him be polite to council officials, though that was a life or death scenario.

 

The dog sat to attention, panting with exhaustion. Alun undid the string he used as a belt and tied it round the dog’s neck, as an improvised lead.

“We’ll take him down to the morning boat, it’s due in half an hour, we’ll get the boatman to take it back to the mainland.” 

 

“Your trousers have fallen down,” I said.

 

“Never mind about trousers, I’ll leave them here and come back when we’ve got rid of the dog. Sometimes you have to get your priorities right, and for me it’s dog over trousers every time.” Alun has an undoubted art of coining the perfect phrase for a situation.

 

Thus it was with Alun in trouserless attire that we led the stray black Labrador down to the bay to await the boatman.

 

“What’s that?” the boatman asked.

 

“It’s a stray dog,” Alun answered. “We need you to take him back to the mainland.”

 

“A dog! He’s not getting on my boat, dogs are all hideous, germ-infested monsters.”

 

“I know,” Alun said, “that’s why we want to get rid of him.”

 

“Well you’ll have to get rid of him another way. Dogs carry the plague and all sorts of other diseases. It’s why my predecessor died, carrying dogs on the boat.

 

“I thought he got drunk, fell in the sea and drowned.”

“Well, that’s true, I suppose,” the boatman admitted, “but it was the dogs as drove him to drink. All that barking and scratching.”

 

Despite our best efforts we couldn’t persuade the boatman to carry our dog. Frustrated, we returned to my house, minds already buzzing with ideas for alternative plans.

“I’ll phone the council, Jed,” Alun said. “As soon as the offices open I’ll call and ask for them to collect the dog and put it in a compound. 

 

We had to wait for several hours for the council to open so I tied the dog to a protruding nail, to stop him worrying my geep.  As soon as the clock reached office hours Alun rang our mainland council official. He made the call on speakerphone, so I am able to report the conversation in full.

 

“We want you to take your dog away.”

 

“I don’t have a dog.”

 

“Not your’s personally, but it’s from the mainland. It’s running amok.”

 

“Oh, it’s you isn’t it, one of those Happy Island chaps. So how can you tell it’s from the mainland, by the accent?”

 

“Yes, it barks just like you do. Besides, we think it has rabies.”

 

“Rabies?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What on earth makes you think I’d want a rabid dog? It’s far better off on an abandoned island where nobody ever goes.”

 

“We live here. We’re not nobody.”

 

“Yes, yes, but you’re different, besides there are only two of you and you’ve already been exposed. I shall call an emergency meeting of the council, we must stop the rabid dog escaping to the mainland.”

 

Thus it was for the first time in living memory the council actually took action, issuing an immediate ban on transport of dogs from Happy Island and issuing a warning that the island was infected with rabies. The island was to be quarantined for a period of three months.

 

Luckily the boatman decided to ignore the ban, which meant we still got access to mail, essential supplies and the latest gossip, though of course his own personal ban on dogs remained.

 

We managed to convert the empty house into an impromptu dog kennel, though the still spent most of its days chasing around the island causing trouble.

 

One morning I was surprised to be woken early by a hammering on my back door.  After quickly dressing and dashing downstairs, I discovered it was Alun, in an excited mood.

 

“It’s the dog Jed,” he said, breathlessly.

 

“What’s he done now?”

 

“He’s dug up the bones of a Roman soldier, Jed.”

 

“A Roman soldier, here on Happy Island?” it seemed unlikely.

 

“Yes Jed, I’ve always believed there was a Roman influence on our culture and I’ve finally found the evidence, thanks to the dog.”

 

“So where was this long-buried soldier?”

 

“In my vegetable patch. I’ve never really dug deeper than the brussel sprouts, the dog must have smelt the bones.”

 

“So what’s his reward, does he get to eat the bones?”

 

“Of course not Jed, they’re important historical remains, as well as being some old soldier’s leg, it would be disrespectful to feed a human being to a dog, even if he was Italian. Besides, there’s no meat on them now. No, I’m going to make him co-author of my paper.”

 

“Your paper?”

 

“The article I’m writing about the discovery for the Off-Mainlander Magazine.”

 

“A dog is being published in the Off-Mainlander Magazine! I’ve been trying to get in the Off-Mainlander for years, I’ve submitted hundreds of articles.”

 

“Ah, but you didn’t dig up Roman remains Jed.”

 

“I’m a published author with a sizeable following. I’m not a greedy dog that got lucky. I’m going to write a letter of complaint to the magazine.”

 

“They’ll never publish it Jed,” he said. He was right, they never did. Instead they published Alun and the dog’s article in full, together with a photo of the two holding the bones. The article proved so popular that the dog got a regular column ‘Doggie Diggins’.

 

Alun and I argued constantly about the dog, who he now regarded as the best thing to have happened to the island. With the rest of the world officially shunning us, at least I had one ally left in the world, the boatman.

 

“I can’t understand it,” I said, “Alun’s gone completely soft for that dog.”

 

“Always was a fool, that Alun. It’s the reason he had to leave the mainland, getting inappropriately emotionally attached.” Before I could learn more of this important gossip, the boatman suddenly, for no apparent reason, the boatman stopped mid-sentence, turned, and jumped into the water, where he splashed around wildly for several minutes.

 

Of course, if you know the boatman at all you will recognise this behaviour, he suddenly gets overcome by his love of the sea and can leap into the ocean at no notice, whatever the weather, even breaking through ice when he has to.

 

However, on this occasion he was joined by the dog, who leapt into the ocean beside him. The two of them thrashed around in the waves for what seemed and age and when they eventually climbed out they both shook themselves dry all over me.

 

“I thought you didn’t like dogs,” I said, as the boatman was busy ruffling the fur of his newly-established friend.

 

“Well I don’t,” he answered bluntly, “but I do like anybody or anything that shares my passion for leaping in the water.”

 

From that day forth every time the boatman visited the dog would join him for an impromptu slash around in the sea. I had lost my only ally and was forced to watch as the dog won himself wider and deeper affection across our small community than I had ever achieved.

 

However, my fear that the dog would attack the geep never materialised. Indeed, the geep loved to play with the dog and he was forever chasing them around the island.

 

“You should enter him for one of those geep-dog competitions,” Alun said one morning, “he’s a natural”.

 

As my geep run free on a relatively small island I had never needed a geep dog, however, Alun was right, the dog was a natural.  I bought a whistle off the boatman (who claimed to sell anything you could possibly need) and started training the dog. Coincidentally that month’s Off-Mainlander magazine contained an entry form for the off-mainland sheep and geep dog competition.

 

I sent off the form and a little over a month later the boatman, breaking a lifetime rule for his splashy friend, took the dog, my geep and myself to Sheepish Island, where the competition was being held. Though the dog was banned from visiting the mainland, the ban didn’t extend to visiting other islands, who are frequently overlooked in the mainland council’s plans. The dog was wonderful, the geep obeyed his every command, walked through the maze and across the assault course without so much as pausing for breath. We won first prize in the geep herding category, which entitled automatic entry to the Finals, to take place on the mainland in a month’s time (by when the quarantine period would have elapsed).

 

I was most excited, even though Alun wasn’t impressed when I told him the good news.

 

“But you were the only entry, Jed,” he said, “there aren’t any other off-mainland islands with geep to herd.”

 

“It’s still a trophy,” I said. Indeed the silver trophy we were awarded was the first silverware I have achieved in my life, albeit it was the dog and geep that did all the work. All I did was whistle.

“I’m glad you’ve changed your mind about the dog, at last.”

 

“I have,” I admitted. “In fact I think it’s time to stop referring to him as the dog. He’s a resident of the island now, we should give him a name.”

“We could call him Jed,” Alun suggested.

 

“We can’t call everyone Jed or Alun,” I said, “it just gets confusing. We’ll have a formal vote tomorrow when the boatman arrives.”

 

However, my plans went the way of most of the plans and schemes hatched on our island over the years. Early the next morning I was woken by a hammering on my back door. It was Alun, his face streaming with tears.

 

“The dog’s gone, Jed,” he said.

 

“Gone?” I said. It seemed unlikely. “But he’s banned from visiting the mainland, the council have issued an order.”

 

However, Alun was right. We searched the island from top to bottom, but the dog was nowhere to be seen.

 

A few days later Alun again disturbed my sleep early, running to my house from the 6.25 boat, which brings the mail.

 

“It’s a postcard Jed,” he said, “he’s sent us a postcard.”

 

Sure enough there was a card from Stray-Dog Island. There was no writing on it, but it was sealed with a pawmark.  Stray Dog Island is one of the lesser-known islands on our archipelago, frequently missed off the maps by cartographers who are afraid of getting their ankles bitten.

 

“He must have gotten bored of having no other dogs to play with Jed. Our friendship wasn’t enough for him.”

 

I said nothing. What could I say? It’s a sad fact that an island as small as ours, lacking in basic facilities and doggie play-mates, struggles to retain visitors beyond a few hours, days at best.

 

Every time Alun and I strike up a new friendship it inevitably ends with the person, or animal, leaving to go to a more densely populated, exciting place. The only animals to remain are the odd-shaped misfit animals, the miniature elephants and the sheep-goat hybrids I call my geep.

 

Sometimes a paw-stained postcard, a few stray memories and an inter-island geep-herding championship medal are all that remain.