I imagine Paddy’s house all dark and lifeless, and my doggie duvet near the back door, complete with a very grubby, and therefore exactly-how-I-like-it, fluffy yellow duck. It pongs to perfection. Once, Paddy placed my manky friend in the washing machine. It was a front loader, so just in time I snatched it away and hid it behind some hollyhocks. Even worse, every now and again, Paddy would insist on washing my doggie duvet cover. We’d argue over it, as I held one end in my jaws and Paddy hung on to the other. Of course, Paddy was the boss so I’d let go eventually, but I could never understand why he’d want to wash away my blissful cocktail of stink. Let me explain.
My bed is an aromatic archive of my adventures, places I’ve been, animals and people I’ve met, and even old bones I’ve chewed. Ah, those bones! Most important of all, it’s a heady history of Paddy himself. Every time he touched my bed, he left his loving scent, as well as details of where he’d been, who he’d touched and what he’d eaten. My short-term memory is as sharp as a puppy’s canines. But, my long-term memory is as poor as a where-the-hell-did-I-put-my-nuts squirrel. So, my bed holds my long-term memories for me, which means I can revisit them whenever I wish. All it takes is a quick snuffle. Wash my bed and you wash away all those fond recollections – gone forever. The result? Olfactory amnesia. Very distressing. How I long to bury my nose in my doggie duvet and inhale all those happy times.
‘Goodnight, Monty,’ Rose says, startling me.
I open my eyes to find she has created a makeshift bed of cushions.
‘I’ll collect your old bed as soon as I can,’ she says. ‘This’ll have to do for now.’
I sniff the cushions and jerk my head back. Lavender, moth balls and sickness and … oh dear. Someone was once very ill in this house. And sad. Sadness has a scent too; it’s like decaying rose petals.
I rest my jowl on one paw and try closing my eyes. I am tired, but can’t sleep. I miss Paddy so much and want to be with him. My eyes spring open at the pitter-patter of tiny claws on the floor. I smell dustbins on a hot day, rotting fruit, greasy food wrappers and, strangely, a hint of hot metal, engine oil and rubber, just like the train. It can only be one thing, though: a rat. I creep towards the source of the sound. It is dark but I don’t need lights to see where I’m going. There is a small hole in the skirting board to the right of the larder door. Sticking out of that small hole is a rotund rat’s bottom. Its back legs are scrabbling on the lino’s worn and slippery surface. I can hear muttering.
‘Need to go on a diet,’ she says, with a high-pitched squeak, tail wriggling like a worm. Or what’s left of her tail. She appears to have lost half of it. I’m guessing in a trap.
I was a young pup when I discovered how much big’uns hate rats. I’d been fostered to a family who were preparing me for guide dog school. This was in Windsor and my foster dad, John Collum, was a gardener at the castle. You may know something about Windsor Castle’s history – prisoners in towers, political intrigues, sieges, royal weddings, and the 1992 fire that was supposedly an accident; the canine wee-vine says otherwise. But most big’uns don’t know about the doggie shenanigans both past and present. The royal Corgis are master conspirators and escape-artists who regularly make a break for McDonald’s on the high street. The footmen have to disguise themselves as ordinary folk and catch them before they make headlines in the Sun. How do I know this? When the Family wasn’t in residence John let me join him in the castle grounds. That was when I first met the royal canines and first saw rats in traps, many dead or dismembered. I’ll never forget it.
‘Are you stuck?’ I ask the fat, furry bottom.
Her squeak is ear-splitting and she bursts out of the hole, stubby tail first, like a cork from a champagne bottle. She sees me and does the kind of turn I’ve seen stunt car drivers do on TV – a hand-brake turn I think it’s called. Then she bolts.
‘Wait! I won’t hurt you. Just want to talk,’ I say, jogging along after her at a leisurely pace.
She tries to escape through a gap under the door, fails, and makes a dash for it in the opposite direction. This goes on for a while, backwards and forwards across the lino until I decide to sit in the middle of the kitchen and just watch her scurrying to and fro, a bit like watching a tennis match. Eventually she stops darting about and leans against a table leg, gasping for breath.
‘Mate, you’re killing me,’ she says.
‘I’m not going to kill you,’ I reply. ‘I’ve been sitting here, just watching, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Her bulbous, ball-bearing eyes assess me. ‘What do you want, then?’ she asks, her nose and gossamer whiskers twitching constantly.
‘Nothing, really. My name’s Monty and Rose adopted me today.’
‘What you done then? Got kicked out, did you? Sent to the pound?’
Her breathing is less frantic and she rests her pink paws on her pot belly. But her stare is penetrating.
I look away. ‘My master was killed by another big’un,’ I say. ‘I tried to defend him. I really did …’
I howl. I have to. I don’t know any other way. It’s just what we do. In the distance, another dog hears me and howls back, in an Oprah-like, I-hear-your-pain way. When I look down again, the rat is sitting near one of my paws and stroking my fur. Because she is so small, it feels like a feather, and it’s very relaxing.
‘There, there, you poor thing,’ she says. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. You lot are very loyal to your masters, so this must be hard for you, but I’m sure you did everything you could.’
I still can’t find words. Careful not to squash my new friend, I place my muzzle between my two front paws on the floor. She continues to stroke my fur.
‘Name is Betty Blabble. Nice to meet you, and look, sorry I was so suspicious earlier, but you’re sorta big, you know. Even for one of your lot. Gave me a shock, is all.’
‘I don’t kill other animals. No need, since I’m always fed. Might have had fun chasing a few in my time, but that’s all. You’re safe with me.’
She peers into one of my eyes. It occurs to me that she can probably see her full reflection.
‘You know, I think you’re a good egg,’ she says, nodding.
Her twitching whiskers touch my muzzle. My ears wriggle, as they do whenever I feel ticklish. She laughs, which sounds like nails scratching a chalk board, but it cheers me up.
‘Just so happens you’re in luck,’ she continues. ‘Rose might work for the filth, but she’s a good ’un. First copper I ever met who is. I only moved here a few days ago so I’m still getting to know the place, but she always has enough food in the pantry and doesn’t seem bothered with a few house guests, including yours truly.’
I lift my head, intrigued. ‘Why don’t you like the police?’
‘Well now. That’s a long story, but all I’ll say is that I’ve had a few run-ins with the Law. In my Eurotunnel days. Turned over a new leaf since,’ she announces, nodding once for emphasis.
‘Which Law?’ I can’t help asking. ‘French or English?’
I haven’t met a Eurotunnel rat before but from her slight Kentish twang I’m guessing she’s spent more time at the British end of the tunnel.