The man cradled his mauled lower arm. I noticed part of a tattoo. He spun around, searching for his knife. I was lying on it. I stayed still. He glanced at Professor Salt, who lay motionless, eyes wide open, as if the setting sun was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. But I knew my dear master saw nothing. Those kind brown eyes were blind and cold, like marbles. The killer knew it too. Every time I breathed, it was as if I was being kicked again, but I managed to lift my head and snarl. I knew it was a weak snarl, but he didn’t. He backed away, grabbed Paddy’s laptop from the garden table, took his wine glass and entered the house. For the first time I noticed he was wearing a backpack. He slammed the back door shut, in case I followed. But I wasn’t leaving my master.
I heard the killer move through the house to the study – I knew exactly which creaky floorboard he stepped on – and the rasp of desk drawers yanked open, then dull thuds. He was throwing something heavy in his bag. Then paper files slid against the fabric too. He moved to the sitting room, drawers thrown on the floor. Then the clank of metal.
I crawled over to Paddy and licked his face. Perhaps he was alive after all? I so wanted to be wrong. I did it again and again and his head jerked with each increasingly desperate lick. But his eyes didn’t flicker.
I whimpered, “Wake up! Please wake up!”
I placed my snout above his mouth and sniffed for breath, hoping to feel the slightest waft of air. Nothing. I howled, my nose pointing to the darkening sky. I howled in pain and grief, as we have done for centuries. I howled because I can’t weep like big’uns. I howled because I love my master more than anything.
I stopped when I heard the front door open and shut and the man’s feet crunched on the gravel drive. A car door opened. But not quietly. It was metal screeching on metal. I smelt diesel as he drove away, and heard a tink, tink, tink of something rattling.
I grew weaker and dizzier as the pool of blood from my wound grew. But I would not leave Paddy. He was my world and someone had taken him from me. I howled again, but my head felt so very heavy. I rested it on Paddy’s chest, his white shirt drenched in blood where the blade had pierced his no longer beating heart. I vowed to myself that if I was to live I would never rest until I found the man who took him from me.’
A wall clock marks our silence as the second hand jerks around the face. I slump to the floor. Betty sidles up to me and lies, belly down, prostrate along the length of my paw, gripping it tightly as if it were a life raft in a big sea. Her head droops.
‘You poor, poor thing,’ she replies, stroking my fur, as if she is paddling her raft. ‘And poor Mr Salt.’ Then she peers up at me, nose twitching. ‘Can you tell me what happened next?’
I return to my story.
‘Some time later, I became conscious of an old, quivering voice. Sounded like Mr Grace next door, but my eyes were shut. I opened my jaw and made a sound, a whimper, or at least I thought I did. I lapsed back into unconsciousness and heard Paddy calling my name. He’s alive! I rushed towards him and he knelt down and hugged me. I tucked my head into his chest and snuffled.
“It’s okay, boy, I’m here,” he said.
We walked side-by-side along the river bank. He threw a ball into the water and I charged after it, enjoying the river’s coolness. I was floating. No effort, no paddling, I was light as air. The surface glistened in the sun and I heard the words, “Fetch. There’s a good boy.”
A piercing and repetitive wailing burst into my dream. It threatened to drag me back to reality. I wanted to stay with Paddy. But the siren grew louder and more insistent. Then footsteps, urgent voices, big’uns shouting. I felt a warm hand on my neck. It was hesitant, the person, perspiring. She didn’t like dogs, I could tell. Was she trying to hurt me? I managed to shift my head a little, which was still resting on Paddy’s chest. The hand was withdrawn in an instant and the woman leapt backwards like a startled cat.
I mustered a weak growl. I wasn’t dead yet and wouldn’t let anyone touch my master if I could stop it.
“Dog’s still alive!” the woman said.
Someone else bent over me. “Got to move him. The man could be too.”
I opened both eyes, or tried to, but the lashes touching Paddy’s chest were glued together with blood.
“No,” I growled, and tried to sit up, but the growl came out as more of a moan.
I recognised the police uniforms and those funny chequered hat bands that look like reflective dog collars. My upper body was lifted from my master’s chest, but my hind quarters stayed more-or-less where they had been. The result was I lay next to Paddy, my head facing him. The ambulance crew crouched over him searching for signs of life. A machine beeped and Paddy jolted, but his eyes still stared vacantly at the sky.
I heard, “Get a vet. Dog’s bleeding to death by the looks of it. He’s a surviving witness, poor fellow.”
“Witness? It’s just a dog!”
More voices. More sirens, car doors slammed, feet pounding up and down the side path. Someone issued orders in that sharp tone of a big’un in charge.
Another man kneeled next to me. His shoes were covered in blue booties and he wore a white body suit. He had black spiky hair and large hands. I knew he was a vet from the smell of disinfectant and various animals he carried on him. Several cats, a guinea pig, a tortoise (now, there’s an odd creature), dogs, even a Jack Russell I think I recognised called Flash, and cows. Lots of cows. Always know when a vet’s been near cows. That smell of shit stays with them for days. Of course, big’uns can’t smell it after they’ve washed, but we can.’
Betty nods knowingly. ‘Cows really stink.’
I didn’t want to say that rats are high up on the animal kingdom stink-ometer, too. Best not to offend her. I go on with my tale.
‘The vet patted my head.
“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, then he lifted my lip. “Lip colour’s not good. He’s lost a lot of blood.” He drew closer. “There’s some fabric caught between his teeth. Could be from the assailant,” he said, looking at Paddy lying next to me.
As the vet listened to my heart through a tube, a small female hand gently touched my brow. I liked her smell. It reminded me of a vanilla milkshake at the seaside. She stroked my face to relax me as she read my name tag. She was not afraid of me at all. It was Rose.
“Monty,” she said, then glanced at the vet. “Malcolm, we need SOCO to swab his mouth.”
She waved someone over, also wearing an all-in-one white suit and small white mask.
“Looks like he bit the killer,” Rose said to the lady, then to the vet, “Can you hold his mouth open while we do this?”
“I’ll give him some pain relief first.”
I felt a slight sting in the scruff of my neck and within seconds I was drowsy again. Before I knew it, strong hands had prized my jaw open and the SOCO lady had removed something stuck between a canine and my back teeth.
Rose patted me, her disposable gloves bloody.
“It’s okay, Monty, you’ve been very brave and we’ll take care of Professor Salt now.”
I looked up into a heart-shaped face and large blue eyes. I saw her properly for the first time. Her smile was genuine and in human terms