5.
After a quarter of a mile plodding across the muddy field, Tom’s excitement started to dwindle. He left the herd of cows to his left, looking like tears of blackness in the dark. He didn’t dare to switch on his light, fearing being spotted, and looked at the stadium-like lights for guidance as he would a lighthouse. He stepped more than once in a hole and more than once he was sucked in by a pool of wet mud that refused to let him out without a struggle. When he got to the kennels’ compound Tom had become a part of the landscape, caked with dirt and turf. His feet were as heavy as lead and in his mouth the metal taste of excitement mixed with that of clay. He could only hope his camcorder had escaped the mud bath.
Some twenty steps away from the metal fence surrounding the kennels, Tom stopped, got rid of his muddy gloves and took out his camcorder. He swept across the kennels with the night vision function activated. He saw no movement and heard no sound. Not even from the dogs. A thick green plastic covered the metal fences from the outside. Tom approached the dogs' cells and cut a hole in the plastic with his Swiss knife. He examined a few cells. They all seemed empty. It could be that the dogs were in their boxes and were not interested in Tom. In any case, what would Tom gain if he found out whether the cells were occupied or not? After surveying most cells on that side of the kennels, he felt exasperated. What was he doing? What did he expect to find? What was he doing there?
He sat down on a bail of straw, feeling stupid. He sat there for a long while, refusing to leave and without reasons to stay, wondering what to do next. And then that shriek. One lone dog started howling and gasping. It didn’t stir a reaction in the other dogs, if there were any. It came from the cell closest to the woods at the east end of the compound. Tom rushed there, cut a whole in the plastic. There was an Alsatian in the middle of the enclosure, lying on his side, moaning and gasping for air. And then Tom felt the smell. A repulsive, overpowering smell of damp and decay, like a moist basement that’s been shut for years, a smell that didn’t linger in the air but seemed to be suddenly casting on him like a flush of water from a hose. He couldn’t breath. He dropped on his knees, fondled with his pack bag clumsily, felt for his first aid kit. He struggled with the toggle, then with the plastic box. He took some strips of bandage and sprayed them with water and spirit and pressed them to his nose and mouth. Slowly he rose and stepped away from the forest and the moaning dog. As suddenly as it started, the smell stopped between three and four steps away from the cell. Tom sat on the grass, recovering. He realised now his little expedition had not been in vain. There was something very wrong with this place.
He rubbed the wet bandages over his face and hands, feeling better. And then he heard the sound of disturbed vegetation coming from the forest. He sprayed on the floor, belly down, blessing the darkness. A person emerged from the woods, wearing a surgical mask and gloves and covered with a plastic cape with a hood, and holding a long cane. He approached the metal shed that stood on that side of the compound, similar to the one in the other end. A couple of nails were stuck under the overhanging roof of the shed, on which the hooded person hung his cape and mask. It was the bloke with the black paste glasses. He unlocked the shed’s door, which was a passageway into the compound, and walked away. Tom waited in exhilaration before he dared to put his head up. Only then he realised the dog had stopped its howling. Tom stuck his eye in the tear he had cut before in the plastic, and saw the dog in what appeared to be a deep sleep.
The woods, Tom said to himself. The key to all this is in the woods. He took the mask and cape and entered the forest. He stumbled into many fallen trees, the head of roots suspended in mid air like some fossilised mythological beast. Undergrowth and stingy branches seemed to strive to arrest his progress. His lamplight cast more shadows than light. He wasn’t sure if he was following a path. And then he felt the stench again, certain as a searchlight, guiding him eastwards. He followed it across a little stream and around a hill. It led him to a crater-shaped clear amidst the tortured branches of three old oaks. He stopped, searched around with his lamplight. Turned the camcorder on, swept with the nocturnal vision. There were strange growths in the ground, lichen like shapes. Through the camera they looked dead white and ectoplasm green. He switched it off and scanned them with the lamplight. They were the weirdest, biggest lichens or fungi he had ever seen. He couldn’t even remember seeing things like that in nature documentaries. And perhaps it was the yellow light of the lamp, but they were rosy in colour, even fleshy. He crouched and tried to look closer. The edges of the fleshy petal things were darker, almost red, and it gave the things the appearance of pig’s ears on the countertop of a family butcher’s. He couldn’t bring himself to touch them, and he actually took one step back so that he wouldn’t stand on them. They felt like treading on a pile of meat. He scanned the whole area again. The fungi covered a good ten square metres. Some fungi stood almost two feed high. Tom pointed the lamplight at the closest one. He gasped. It could not be. What in the world was that? It looked almost, it was very similar to, oh my god, it’s exactly like...
He felt an explosion at the back of his neck and started to fall. He still had time to thing that the weird, horrible fungi looked exactly like a dogs head. He was unconscious before his face touched the ground.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Kennels, Chapter 3
3.
Tom felt like being sick.
‘But it can’t be! It has eyes, and these are... teeth?’
‘Yes, teeth. And these are ears, and these here, legs’ said the man, as Tom traced the shapes in the screen with the tip of his finger, as if he needed to point at them to understand them.
‘But wasn’t your dog a male?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘But... these are...’
‘Yes sir, puppies.’
‘Puppies!’ Tom had a hard time reconciling those scrambled shapes with the furry, sweet, cute balls of hair that usually spring to mind when one hears the word ‘puppy’.
‘I was gobsmacked, I tell you. The thing is, you see, when he opened them... Well, he said they were tumours after all, with a... how did he put it? A whimsical shape. But he said they were definitely not faetuses, because they had no organs, no nothing. They were just odd clusters of ... cells. But to be honest, I would have preferred them just to be puppies! It’s even worse to think that tumours can grow to look like that!’
Tom agreed wholeheartedly.
‘You said the vet took these things to a congress?’
‘He said he would, and promised to keep me posted. Next thing I know, he never made it to the congress and the things had been destroyed.’
‘How?’
‘Well, the vet didn’t talk to me in person. When I rang he was always in a visit, and when I went there he was always out. I ambushed him one day’ laughed the man ‘cornered him in his own drive. He went pale and lied through his teeth.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That a clumsy assistant had left the freezer open on a Friday evening and everything in there went off. That the things had to be destroyed because they were rotten. Baloney! Then he had the nerve to say that he had decided against presenting them in the congress anyway. Upon reflection, he said, he had decided we had gotten overexcited about nothing. The nerve! By then I had already found out that the practice was very cosy with Ickfield Kennels.’
‘Cosy? How do you mean?’
‘That practice runs all the tests and checks for the kennels. They are breeders as well, you know, very successful. The practice gets very good publicity and a lot of regular money from Ickfield.’
‘You think the people at Ickfield had him destroy the things?’
‘I’d bet my house on it.’
‘But why?’
‘Look, it’s obvious that there is something fishy about that place. Your dog and mine, I can swear, they are only two out of many.’
‘What do you think they’re hiding?’
‘Oh, I’ll tell you what. The government must be conducting experiments there! With stem cells, perhaps. Genetics, whatever. Or maybe it’s some pharmaceutical company. It can’t be legal or else they wouldn’t need to do it in that place.’
‘But why use animals that have owners?’
‘I never said they intended what happened to our dogs to occur. I’m sure they were bad mistakes. God knows. But I tell you, there’s others out there.
Tom felt like being sick.
‘But it can’t be! It has eyes, and these are... teeth?’
‘Yes, teeth. And these are ears, and these here, legs’ said the man, as Tom traced the shapes in the screen with the tip of his finger, as if he needed to point at them to understand them.
‘But wasn’t your dog a male?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘But... these are...’
‘Yes sir, puppies.’
‘Puppies!’ Tom had a hard time reconciling those scrambled shapes with the furry, sweet, cute balls of hair that usually spring to mind when one hears the word ‘puppy’.
‘I was gobsmacked, I tell you. The thing is, you see, when he opened them... Well, he said they were tumours after all, with a... how did he put it? A whimsical shape. But he said they were definitely not faetuses, because they had no organs, no nothing. They were just odd clusters of ... cells. But to be honest, I would have preferred them just to be puppies! It’s even worse to think that tumours can grow to look like that!’
Tom agreed wholeheartedly.
‘You said the vet took these things to a congress?’
‘He said he would, and promised to keep me posted. Next thing I know, he never made it to the congress and the things had been destroyed.’
‘How?’
‘Well, the vet didn’t talk to me in person. When I rang he was always in a visit, and when I went there he was always out. I ambushed him one day’ laughed the man ‘cornered him in his own drive. He went pale and lied through his teeth.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That a clumsy assistant had left the freezer open on a Friday evening and everything in there went off. That the things had to be destroyed because they were rotten. Baloney! Then he had the nerve to say that he had decided against presenting them in the congress anyway. Upon reflection, he said, he had decided we had gotten overexcited about nothing. The nerve! By then I had already found out that the practice was very cosy with Ickfield Kennels.’
‘Cosy? How do you mean?’
‘That practice runs all the tests and checks for the kennels. They are breeders as well, you know, very successful. The practice gets very good publicity and a lot of regular money from Ickfield.’
‘You think the people at Ickfield had him destroy the things?’
‘I’d bet my house on it.’
‘But why?’
‘Look, it’s obvious that there is something fishy about that place. Your dog and mine, I can swear, they are only two out of many.’
‘What do you think they’re hiding?’
‘Oh, I’ll tell you what. The government must be conducting experiments there! With stem cells, perhaps. Genetics, whatever. Or maybe it’s some pharmaceutical company. It can’t be legal or else they wouldn’t need to do it in that place.’
‘But why use animals that have owners?’
‘I never said they intended what happened to our dogs to occur. I’m sure they were bad mistakes. God knows. But I tell you, there’s others out there.
Friday, February 6, 2009
The Kennels, Chapter 2
2.
At first Tom made excuses. The dog was acting weird because he had been at the kennels. Different place, different people, lots of unknown dogs. A couple of weeks later, the dog was still acting weird. It was subtle. He was quiet, still as a lizard. He moved more like a cat than like a seven-year-old labrador, and glared around without blinking. When he took him for a walk, instead of pulling and trying to sniff everything, the dog would walk calmly next to him and watch. When they bumped into another dog, he would be groaned at, but he would never retort. He just glared.
Tom was alarmed. He could not ignore it and he could not explain it. He couldn’t get rid of the disturbing feeling that this was not his dog.
One night, Tom was suddenly waken up by the sound of a high-pitched moan, one single sound. It was pain or anxiety and made Tom’s heart sink. He jumped off the bed and stumbled downstairs. He found Baloo sitting upright, stiff as a statue of Anubis, and looking at him with an expression that Tom could only describe as spiteful.
The morning after he took the dog to the veterinary. All he could really say was “he’s acting weird.” The vet did tests and took samples. He was even tempted to leave the dog there overnight. When he realised how eager he was to get rid of him, he made himself take Baloo home.
When the vet got back at him, she sounded funebre. Tom rushed to the practice, Baloo with him.
-Baloo has a tumour. –said the vet, with a motherly tone. –In his abdominal cavity. It’s very big. We could try and remove it, but a tumor this size... The most compassionate thing would be...
-To put him to sleep. –said Tom, too shocked to decide what he was feeling. –It’s the cancer the cause of him acting so strangely?
-Well, it could be. A tumour this big must surely be causing him pain. And perhaps the hormones...
Tom didn't believe her.
-I need some time. –he said after a moment.
-Sure. Take him home and, well, take your time.
-I’d rather he stayed. –said Tom all too quickly. And felt obliged to explain –In case he is in pain. You can look after him better, can’t you?
She invited Tom to bid his dog goodnight. Tom cleared his throat and approached the animal. Dog and human stared at each other with obvious mistrust. The vet thought it was very weird, but didn’t say a word.
Once he arrived home, Tom felt the emptyness of the house and struggled between sadness and relief. Mostly he felt guilty. He told himself that the tumor explained everything. He battered himself for his lack of compassion. He went back to the vet’s the next morning with the firm purpose to look after the dog until suffering became too much.
His resolution crumbled when he faced those brown reddish eyes, cold as ice, that seemed to tell “I know what you are planning”. He signed there and then to have the dog put to sleep, cremated and disposed of.
A few days later, still in shock everytime he came back from work to an empty house, a man came to him.
‘Your dog died of cancer, right?’ he said, out of the blue.
‘Who are you?’ was all Tom could reply.
‘My dog had cancer too, and he also caught it at Ickfield!’ said the man, as if that cleared everything.
Tom didn’t say “you don’t catch cancer”.
‘How do you know?’
‘We go to the same vet. Well, I used to go to a different one, but never again.’
‘What’s this all about?’
‘Look, this is what happened to me. When we went to Gran Canaria we left the dog to the kennels at Ickfield. When he came back he was all strange. A couple of months later there was blood in his poo, so we took him to the vets, the old one. They told me he had cancer. My missus wouldn’t have it put to sleep, so they operated. The dog died in surgery apparently. The vet said he’d never seen anything like it. He said he would like to take the case to a science congress or something. I asked to see what he was talking about. He showed me this’ he fumbled for his mobile phone. ‘You don’t have a week stomach do you?’ said, protecting the screen with the palm of his hand.
‘What are you talking about?’
The man showed him the mobile’s screen. At first Tom didn’t understand what he was looking at. Suddenly he realised, and gave a start.
‘Oh my god.’ He said, suddently feeling ill. ‘What is this?! Are these...?’
‘Yes’, said the man, triumphantly, satisfied with the reaction of his audience.
‘But, dear god... It has eyes!’
At first Tom made excuses. The dog was acting weird because he had been at the kennels. Different place, different people, lots of unknown dogs. A couple of weeks later, the dog was still acting weird. It was subtle. He was quiet, still as a lizard. He moved more like a cat than like a seven-year-old labrador, and glared around without blinking. When he took him for a walk, instead of pulling and trying to sniff everything, the dog would walk calmly next to him and watch. When they bumped into another dog, he would be groaned at, but he would never retort. He just glared.
Tom was alarmed. He could not ignore it and he could not explain it. He couldn’t get rid of the disturbing feeling that this was not his dog.
One night, Tom was suddenly waken up by the sound of a high-pitched moan, one single sound. It was pain or anxiety and made Tom’s heart sink. He jumped off the bed and stumbled downstairs. He found Baloo sitting upright, stiff as a statue of Anubis, and looking at him with an expression that Tom could only describe as spiteful.
The morning after he took the dog to the veterinary. All he could really say was “he’s acting weird.” The vet did tests and took samples. He was even tempted to leave the dog there overnight. When he realised how eager he was to get rid of him, he made himself take Baloo home.
When the vet got back at him, she sounded funebre. Tom rushed to the practice, Baloo with him.
-Baloo has a tumour. –said the vet, with a motherly tone. –In his abdominal cavity. It’s very big. We could try and remove it, but a tumor this size... The most compassionate thing would be...
-To put him to sleep. –said Tom, too shocked to decide what he was feeling. –It’s the cancer the cause of him acting so strangely?
-Well, it could be. A tumour this big must surely be causing him pain. And perhaps the hormones...
Tom didn't believe her.
-I need some time. –he said after a moment.
-Sure. Take him home and, well, take your time.
-I’d rather he stayed. –said Tom all too quickly. And felt obliged to explain –In case he is in pain. You can look after him better, can’t you?
She invited Tom to bid his dog goodnight. Tom cleared his throat and approached the animal. Dog and human stared at each other with obvious mistrust. The vet thought it was very weird, but didn’t say a word.
Once he arrived home, Tom felt the emptyness of the house and struggled between sadness and relief. Mostly he felt guilty. He told himself that the tumor explained everything. He battered himself for his lack of compassion. He went back to the vet’s the next morning with the firm purpose to look after the dog until suffering became too much.
His resolution crumbled when he faced those brown reddish eyes, cold as ice, that seemed to tell “I know what you are planning”. He signed there and then to have the dog put to sleep, cremated and disposed of.
A few days later, still in shock everytime he came back from work to an empty house, a man came to him.
‘Your dog died of cancer, right?’ he said, out of the blue.
‘Who are you?’ was all Tom could reply.
‘My dog had cancer too, and he also caught it at Ickfield!’ said the man, as if that cleared everything.
Tom didn’t say “you don’t catch cancer”.
‘How do you know?’
‘We go to the same vet. Well, I used to go to a different one, but never again.’
‘What’s this all about?’
‘Look, this is what happened to me. When we went to Gran Canaria we left the dog to the kennels at Ickfield. When he came back he was all strange. A couple of months later there was blood in his poo, so we took him to the vets, the old one. They told me he had cancer. My missus wouldn’t have it put to sleep, so they operated. The dog died in surgery apparently. The vet said he’d never seen anything like it. He said he would like to take the case to a science congress or something. I asked to see what he was talking about. He showed me this’ he fumbled for his mobile phone. ‘You don’t have a week stomach do you?’ said, protecting the screen with the palm of his hand.
‘What are you talking about?’
The man showed him the mobile’s screen. At first Tom didn’t understand what he was looking at. Suddenly he realised, and gave a start.
‘Oh my god.’ He said, suddently feeling ill. ‘What is this?! Are these...?’
‘Yes’, said the man, triumphantly, satisfied with the reaction of his audience.
‘But, dear god... It has eyes!’
The Kennels, Chapter 1
1.
‘Here it is, Ickfield Road.”
Tom watched ahead for any car coming from the opposite direction and turned to the bumpy road leading to the kennels. It was a dreadful drive, with deep holes that seemed to be always pooled with water, and mounds that shook the car passengers around like sand in a rattle. There weren’t any lights, and the windows of the neighbouring farmhouses seemed to be lurking from their hiding places behind the trees like evil cat’s eyes. It hadnt’ rained for a while, but now a ragged white mist seemed to be setting down.
‘What a ghastly night.’ said Tom, as he struggled with the wheel to keep the car from smashing into the wooden fences flanking the road. Jack clutched his handle and didn’t say a word. He was always nervous around cars anyway, and a bad road like that made him feel like he should have gotten a better coverage on his life insurance policy. The drive turned amidst big empty fields sprinkled with construction materials and machinery. ‘I believe they’re looking to enlarge the business’ said Tom. They passed two huge gravel pyramids over six feet tall. ‘I think they’ve been meaning to fix the road for a while but haven’t gotten round to it yet.’ None of that helped Jack, who was very sorry already for having asked for a drive home from Tom after he had told him that he needed to pick up the dog from the kennels on the way from the airport.
The road ended abruptly past the gravel mounds, to a couple of blindingly bright stadium-like lights pointing to the road. If you managed to see past them, there was a long one-storey old house and a sizeable compound of open air spaces delimitated with metal grid and concrete columns. It looked like Guantánamo prision. Tom parked next to a huge, muddy 4x4 and turned off the car.
‘You wanna come?’ he said to Jack.
‘I’d rather wait.’ said Jack, without much thought.
Tom dismounted and walked to the long flat house, feeling his pockets for his checkbook and trying not to tread on the many mud pools in the way. Jack shuffled a bit in his seat, his back already pretty knackered from the flight and now all but done for from the drive. It was very cold and the tip of his nose felt like an egg right off the fridge. He hated that. The stadium lights went right into his eyes. He pulled the visor down but it only helped a little. He wanted to go home. He looked to the long flat house for Tom. It seemed to be taking him forever.
In the corner of his eye a glimpse of movement caught his attention. A little shadow had blocked the lights for a second, perhaps a bat. He noticed then there were long fenced corridors between each space. He couldn’t see any dogs inside the cells from where he was, but Tom had said they were always full. ‘Great facilities you see. Each dog gets a big space to run and a heated refuge. The other place where I used to take Baloo had only a couple of square meters and they promised to walk them twice a day, but you never know if they do, do you. This is a good place. But you need to book with weeks in advance, they’re very popular.’ Jack wasn’t really interested but had nodded out of politeness. Now he was bored, so he got off the car, buttoned up and took a couple of steps in no particular direction, his hands deep in his coat’s pockets, his nostrils smoking white steam. He approached the nearest cell. A hysterical stream of high-pitched barking greeted him. He didn’t like dogs or know much about them, but he could tell a Yorkie when he heard one. Annoying little buggers. The fenced space was as muddy and empty as the fields around. Scattered around where old shoes, leather bones, rubber balls and cloth rags. He didn’t know whether they belonged to the dog or to the kennels. He couldn’t have said for the life of him how long had they been there. Mud seemed to date everything there to the times of World War I.
The yorkie shutted up and peace was restablished. Jack cherished the silence. After a couple of minutes, though, he realised that it was strange. Didn’t Tom say it was always full? Didn’t dogs got excited by other dogs barking? Why was it so silent?
A metal clank clanked behind him. It was the door of the metal shed attached to the fence, which now he saw was like a protected passageway. A young man came out of it covered with a padded jacket, a cap and a blanket, rubbing his black paste framed glasses in his t-shirt. ‘Y’alright?’ he said, striding towards the long flat house and putting the glasses back on. Jack could have sworn without seeing them that they would be greasy and blurry. The bloke went in and he went out in about a second, back in the metal shed, clanking the door shut behind him. Tom came out of the house.
‘Alright?’ he said to Jack. ‘We’re almost done. They’ve gone to fetch him.’
Jack nodded, blowed steam.
‘The owners here’ said Tom in a murmur ‘they’re a middle aged couple, they always seem to be at each other’s throats.’
It started raining. Jack went back in the car.
Ages later, the bloke in a padded coat and cap came out of the metal shed with a bundle of blankets and a dog tied with a rope leash. It was a handsome black labrador, very nervous and very boisterous.
‘Oh, bugger.’ said Jack to himself in the car, with scenes of chaos and mayhem in his mind, in which a black labrador jumped on Tom in the middle of the motorway causing a dozen cars road accident with ten dead and fourty injured.
Tom put his own leash on the dog, who tried to stay put for the operation but was simply too excited to be able to sit still. Tom had never managed to train him properly, but it was a good dog and Tom liked being greeted with such a display of joy. Padded-coat and cap removed the rope leash.
‘’Kay then, see ya.’ He turned and went back into the metal shed.
Tom lead the dog pulling and jumping to the back of the car. The happy labrador tried to jump onto the boot before the door was fully open and banged his head. Jack cursed to himself again. Baloo the dog jumped in successfully the second time and sat down wagging his tale, pretty happy with himself. Tom shut the boot, got in the car.
‘Off we go then.’ said Tom, feeling cheerful. Even though it was so dark and his gesture would probably go amiss, Jack felt the need of smiling to Tom.
They wrestled the road back. Baloo in the boot didn’t make a sound. Jack was tempted to feel relief but reserved judgment. Animals are unpredictable.
They left the road between the farmhouses and entered a more civilised roadway. A few minutes later, already on the motorway, with the constant, almost soothing rubbing of smooth pavement under the wheels, it became starkly obvious that there was no conversation. When Tom spoke again, Jack could have sworn he was just looking for something to break the silence. He wasn’t.
‘How quiet he is, Baloo I mean. How strange.’
Jack nodded and mmmhed.
‘No, I mean it. Do you think he is ok?’
‘Leave him be, he must be tired.’ Jack said, begging that his driver would focus on the road and solely on the road.
‘Tired from what?’ replied Tom, rhetorically. ‘Baloo!’ he called. ‘Are you alright Baloo?’
Oh for Christ sake, cursed Jack inside his head. Do you expect him to reply?
‘Oh, there he is.’ said Tom eyeing the rearview mirror, with a relief people like Jack could never feel or understand.
Jack turned back his head –not even he could tell why- and was startled: there it was, Baloo’s head emerging from behind the back seats, looking at him. He wasn’t panting or moving at all for that matter, just staring right into his eyes.
‘Christ!’ mumbled Jack. ‘He scared me!’
Tom laughed.
‘He wouldn’t harm a fly.’
He eyed the rearview mirror again and Baloo’s eyes confronted him there. Tom realised he understood what Jack had meant, but didn’t mention it.
‘Here it is, Ickfield Road.”
Tom watched ahead for any car coming from the opposite direction and turned to the bumpy road leading to the kennels. It was a dreadful drive, with deep holes that seemed to be always pooled with water, and mounds that shook the car passengers around like sand in a rattle. There weren’t any lights, and the windows of the neighbouring farmhouses seemed to be lurking from their hiding places behind the trees like evil cat’s eyes. It hadnt’ rained for a while, but now a ragged white mist seemed to be setting down.
‘What a ghastly night.’ said Tom, as he struggled with the wheel to keep the car from smashing into the wooden fences flanking the road. Jack clutched his handle and didn’t say a word. He was always nervous around cars anyway, and a bad road like that made him feel like he should have gotten a better coverage on his life insurance policy. The drive turned amidst big empty fields sprinkled with construction materials and machinery. ‘I believe they’re looking to enlarge the business’ said Tom. They passed two huge gravel pyramids over six feet tall. ‘I think they’ve been meaning to fix the road for a while but haven’t gotten round to it yet.’ None of that helped Jack, who was very sorry already for having asked for a drive home from Tom after he had told him that he needed to pick up the dog from the kennels on the way from the airport.
The road ended abruptly past the gravel mounds, to a couple of blindingly bright stadium-like lights pointing to the road. If you managed to see past them, there was a long one-storey old house and a sizeable compound of open air spaces delimitated with metal grid and concrete columns. It looked like Guantánamo prision. Tom parked next to a huge, muddy 4x4 and turned off the car.
‘You wanna come?’ he said to Jack.
‘I’d rather wait.’ said Jack, without much thought.
Tom dismounted and walked to the long flat house, feeling his pockets for his checkbook and trying not to tread on the many mud pools in the way. Jack shuffled a bit in his seat, his back already pretty knackered from the flight and now all but done for from the drive. It was very cold and the tip of his nose felt like an egg right off the fridge. He hated that. The stadium lights went right into his eyes. He pulled the visor down but it only helped a little. He wanted to go home. He looked to the long flat house for Tom. It seemed to be taking him forever.
In the corner of his eye a glimpse of movement caught his attention. A little shadow had blocked the lights for a second, perhaps a bat. He noticed then there were long fenced corridors between each space. He couldn’t see any dogs inside the cells from where he was, but Tom had said they were always full. ‘Great facilities you see. Each dog gets a big space to run and a heated refuge. The other place where I used to take Baloo had only a couple of square meters and they promised to walk them twice a day, but you never know if they do, do you. This is a good place. But you need to book with weeks in advance, they’re very popular.’ Jack wasn’t really interested but had nodded out of politeness. Now he was bored, so he got off the car, buttoned up and took a couple of steps in no particular direction, his hands deep in his coat’s pockets, his nostrils smoking white steam. He approached the nearest cell. A hysterical stream of high-pitched barking greeted him. He didn’t like dogs or know much about them, but he could tell a Yorkie when he heard one. Annoying little buggers. The fenced space was as muddy and empty as the fields around. Scattered around where old shoes, leather bones, rubber balls and cloth rags. He didn’t know whether they belonged to the dog or to the kennels. He couldn’t have said for the life of him how long had they been there. Mud seemed to date everything there to the times of World War I.
The yorkie shutted up and peace was restablished. Jack cherished the silence. After a couple of minutes, though, he realised that it was strange. Didn’t Tom say it was always full? Didn’t dogs got excited by other dogs barking? Why was it so silent?
A metal clank clanked behind him. It was the door of the metal shed attached to the fence, which now he saw was like a protected passageway. A young man came out of it covered with a padded jacket, a cap and a blanket, rubbing his black paste framed glasses in his t-shirt. ‘Y’alright?’ he said, striding towards the long flat house and putting the glasses back on. Jack could have sworn without seeing them that they would be greasy and blurry. The bloke went in and he went out in about a second, back in the metal shed, clanking the door shut behind him. Tom came out of the house.
‘Alright?’ he said to Jack. ‘We’re almost done. They’ve gone to fetch him.’
Jack nodded, blowed steam.
‘The owners here’ said Tom in a murmur ‘they’re a middle aged couple, they always seem to be at each other’s throats.’
It started raining. Jack went back in the car.
Ages later, the bloke in a padded coat and cap came out of the metal shed with a bundle of blankets and a dog tied with a rope leash. It was a handsome black labrador, very nervous and very boisterous.
‘Oh, bugger.’ said Jack to himself in the car, with scenes of chaos and mayhem in his mind, in which a black labrador jumped on Tom in the middle of the motorway causing a dozen cars road accident with ten dead and fourty injured.
Tom put his own leash on the dog, who tried to stay put for the operation but was simply too excited to be able to sit still. Tom had never managed to train him properly, but it was a good dog and Tom liked being greeted with such a display of joy. Padded-coat and cap removed the rope leash.
‘’Kay then, see ya.’ He turned and went back into the metal shed.
Tom lead the dog pulling and jumping to the back of the car. The happy labrador tried to jump onto the boot before the door was fully open and banged his head. Jack cursed to himself again. Baloo the dog jumped in successfully the second time and sat down wagging his tale, pretty happy with himself. Tom shut the boot, got in the car.
‘Off we go then.’ said Tom, feeling cheerful. Even though it was so dark and his gesture would probably go amiss, Jack felt the need of smiling to Tom.
They wrestled the road back. Baloo in the boot didn’t make a sound. Jack was tempted to feel relief but reserved judgment. Animals are unpredictable.
They left the road between the farmhouses and entered a more civilised roadway. A few minutes later, already on the motorway, with the constant, almost soothing rubbing of smooth pavement under the wheels, it became starkly obvious that there was no conversation. When Tom spoke again, Jack could have sworn he was just looking for something to break the silence. He wasn’t.
‘How quiet he is, Baloo I mean. How strange.’
Jack nodded and mmmhed.
‘No, I mean it. Do you think he is ok?’
‘Leave him be, he must be tired.’ Jack said, begging that his driver would focus on the road and solely on the road.
‘Tired from what?’ replied Tom, rhetorically. ‘Baloo!’ he called. ‘Are you alright Baloo?’
Oh for Christ sake, cursed Jack inside his head. Do you expect him to reply?
‘Oh, there he is.’ said Tom eyeing the rearview mirror, with a relief people like Jack could never feel or understand.
Jack turned back his head –not even he could tell why- and was startled: there it was, Baloo’s head emerging from behind the back seats, looking at him. He wasn’t panting or moving at all for that matter, just staring right into his eyes.
‘Christ!’ mumbled Jack. ‘He scared me!’
Tom laughed.
‘He wouldn’t harm a fly.’
He eyed the rearview mirror again and Baloo’s eyes confronted him there. Tom realised he understood what Jack had meant, but didn’t mention it.
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