When I was nine, life’s limit was announced by privet hedges, but that wasn’t the case for dogs. They could squeeze underneath them, between the trunks, and steal into anyone’s back garden if they wanted.
When dogs strayed into our garden, my mum would run out and stamp her foot and shout ‘Go on! Get out of it! Shoo!’ Mum was at work today though. I was on my own. I was scared stiff of dogs when I was nine.
This one was a big mongrel with a shaggy, dark coat and a long, wonky tail that looked like God had stuck it on for a joke. It was moping around the border of the garden, stopping here and there to sniff in the weeds. It was in no rush at all.
I spied on it through the kitchen window, holding my breath – afraid that it might hear my breathing and charge at me.
I had to make it go away – that’s what you did when stray dogs came in your garden. They were full of fleas, they babbed everywhere, and they had jockoff teeth that could bite through to the bone.
I crept to the door and opened it just enough to peep my head out, tingling at the thought that we were now sharing the same air.
Sharply I whispered over: “Shoo! Oi! Shoo!”
It looked up and stared right at me. I thought it was going to charge. I got ready to slam the door shut, but it just stood there.
“Shoo! Shoo! Go on!” I said. Still nothing.
I stepped over the threshold and, acting myself into boldness, walked out into the garden. “Oi! Shoo! Go on!” I shouted, stamping my foot on the ground, feinting attack like I’d seen my mum do.
The dog started to move. Then it stopped, as if not quite convinced that it had to. I stamped again. “Shoo,” I shouted.
This time it moved. It went back to the gap in the hedge and disappeared.
I couldn’t believe it what had just happened. I couldn’t believe I had got rid of this big black dog… all by myself.
I went back inside with my head fizzing, my heart thumping. It was an intense feeling I hadn’t felt before. I thought of how my mum, the master in shooing unfamiliars away from the house, would be proud of her son.
That night I couldn’t stop thinking about the big, black dog. I lay awake, wondering where it could have come from, why it came to our garden. But most of all I thought about other people’s lives going on beyond those privet hedges, people who were happy to keep dogs and didn’t worry about fleas and about them babbing everywhere. And anyway, not all dogs did bite people. Some dogs weren’t like that.
Maybe this was one of those dogs. I imagined that it could be my friend. I imagined us going out on adventures together. He would protect me from the mean lads on the estate. He would do tricks, bring me my shoes. This dog. This big, mongrel dog that fate had plonked right in my garden.
The next morning, I went to check whether the dog had come back and, to my surprise, there it was, sniffing in the weeds by the hedge.
I watched it again from the kitchen. But today I felt different. I didn’t want to be scared. I didn't feel scared. I wanted it to be my friend.
Give him something to eat, I thought.
I took a custard cream from the biscuit tin and cautiously stepped outside.
I crept onto the grass holding the biscuit in my fingertips. He looked over at me, his nose twitching in the air.
“Here dog. Here boy,” I whispered.
He sniffed.
I inched forward until I was right next to him. There was no way back now. If he’d wanted to bite chunks out of me, there was nothing I could have done. For some reason, this made me feel calm.
I held out the biscuit.
“Here,” I whispered again. He padded up to me on his big, hairy paws and, with a last cautionary sniff, took the custard cream.
I felt his wiry whiskers against my hand.
Just like the day before, I felt that quickening feeling, an uncontrollable rush with no words or thoughts attached to it. I couldn’t believe it. I, who had been so petrified of dogs, had now made a friend of one – and not just any dog, but a big, scraggy mongrel with a huge, wonky tail. I felt as if I could do anything.
Unblinking, I watched him eat the biscuit. He lapped up the crumbs that had fallen on the grass, licked his chops, then looked up at me, panting.
“Wait there,” I said.
I ran to the house and grabbed four more custard creams from the tin. When I went back outside he’d moved much closer to the door. He was stood right next to the house. My mum would have had a fit.
I strode up to him and held out another biscuit. “Here boy. Biscuit.” He took it without hesitating this time. I waited until he had finished it and handed him another, then another, then the last. He chomped them all down.
He looks up at me and I look back at him, my new friend. I look at his scraggy, dirty coat and his silly tail that bobs from side to side like a dowsing rod, with a strange, uneven motion.
‘What now, dog?’ I ask. But the dog has no answers. He only looks up at me.
For a moment I don’t know what to do.
I ruffle his matted mane. I say “Good boy”, then I walk back inside.
I look out of the kitchen window. He won’t go. He just looks at me. I want something to happen but nothing does. Why is he just standing there? He's already had five biscuits. He should go now before my mum comes home. This wasn’t how I imagined it.
I heard the sound of keys in the front door. Mum was back. I looked towards the front door and when I looked back he was gone. I decided not tell mum about my new friend. It was my secret.
The dog came back to the garden every day for two weeks. At the same time of day he wriggled through the hole in the hedge and waited in front of the kitchen window. I gave him a custard cream, ruffled his mane, then told him to go.
After two weeks, there were no biscuits left in the tin.
On the last day the dog wriggled into the garden and I walked out to him with my hands empty. But he still looked up at me expecting to be fed.
“They’re all gone,” I say. He just looks up at me. He is panting softly.
They are all gone. Is that all you can do - stare at me with those ‘Can I have another biscuit?’ eyes.
Suddenly I can’t stand the sight of this dog any more. Suddenly I see it for the stupid, greedy animal it is.
Is that all you wanted, I think. Is that all you can do – eat biscuits?
My eyes cloud over. I bite down on my tongue. The dog looks up at me. Its mouth is open. Its tail is bobbing from side to side. I stamp on the ground and I growl, “Get out!” I stamp and I growl again. “Get out! Get out of it you fucking scrubber! Get out!” And the big, black dog runs, runs back to the hole in the hedge and out of sight.
Wiping my stinging eyes on my sleeve, suddenly I panic: what will mum say about the missing biscuits?
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