Chapter 11: I was Never a Saint

Now most of you are thinking that I’m some kind of hero; some kind of wise canine saint. I gotta tell you the truth is… I ain’t. In actual fact I’m not sure that I actually believe in saints at all. There are creatures that encounter a kind of grace that enables them to forgive themselves and learn from their mistakes. Then there are others of us who go on doing the same stupid thing over and over again.

I maybe older and wiser now but I ain’t no saint.

I guess what I’m saying is that I didn’t save any Aquatic Warbler on that Rocky Beach in Bruges. No sir, in actual fact I did the opposite. Please don’t hate me for this. The truth is I have never seen so many birds in one place in my whole life; I was like a teenage boy in a night club of girls. There was an urge inside of me that I couldn’t control. It was the untamed wild hunter that lives and breathes inside of “every” dog and I did more than chase those Warbler.

It was the first time I had tasted blood and I would be LYING if I didn’t admit that I enjoyed it.

Oh even as I write these words I can feel your disdain. If you were looking for some kind of Canine Christ again I tell you… it ain’t me. I’m a beaten up, worn out, old three legged dog who roamed the streets for most of his life. I’ve scrounged and screwed most of my way through life. I ain’t a hero.

I’m very ordinary dog in every ordinary way.

The thing about the Warbler that I remember the most is the shrieking that they made when I charged towards them… it was kind of a warble. The mad, crazy contorted panic as they ran, flew, crashed into each other from all directions. I don’t recall Rich shouting me or calling me off. In fact when I looked over my shoulder he had a strange knowing smile on his face.

Gus and his bird watching group well they were screaming at Rich. Ugly old Agatha started beating him with her binoculars; pleading with him to call me off. I don’t think they realized that nothing he or Lily said could have make me stop.

There was a beast inside of me and he was now my master.

I do not wish to describe the carnage I caused on the beach that day. Those Warbler had migrated all the way from Somalia and they were tired and weak from their flight. They were easy prey for a young healthy dog like me. Was I wrong to do what I did? Did I actually have a choice? Can you refuse the beast that lives insides of you?

These are the questions I ask myself nearly everyday.

If there is one thing that I will always regret about that day on the beach in Bruges, it was the pain that I caused Lily. I remember catching a glimpse of her face as I tracked my way back across the rocks. It wasn’t that she was horrified by my indecency. It wasn’t that she was disgusted by the warbler blood that dripped from my jowls. Lily was simply staring at the horizon, looking out to sea.

Lily could no longer look at me and that was what really hurt me…

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Chapter 10: The Aquatic Warbler and the Bird Watchers

What happened the day after Lily and I met Rich almost defies belief. An ordinary man living on the street would see a seven year old girl and a young street dog has some kind of hindrance; but Rich was no ordinary man. What he saw was an opportunity…

Shortly after the sun rose that morning the three of us took a trip down the main street of Bruges. I remember how tender my well worn pads felt as I trod down that cobblestone street. It was lucky that Rich moved at such a slow pace, that was the thing about in him, he was never in a hurry. He stopped to greet each of the locals that we passed with a “Gidday mate” and a friendly smile. I remember some of them smiling back; but if I’m honest, most of them they didn’t want to know him. But none of that seemed to matter to Rich it was as though he valued the greeting more than he valued their response.

He spotted his first victims at around 9 o’clock. The leader of the pack was a ginormous man, with feet the size of dinner plates and he stood on the steps of the town hall surrounded by a gaggle of middle aged girls. A few minutes later I would find out that this rosy cheeked and ever so slightly drunk Barbarians name was Gus ver Plonk. Gus was wearing striped trousers which were a couple of sizes too small with matching suspenders that were no longer necessary. A pair of binoculars hung from his neck and he was shouting excitedly in a very high Flemish voice…

“Ladies we have heard that the migrating flock of Aquatic Warbler are less than 25 kms away. They’ve come all the way from Senegal to their summer home here in Bruges!” Gus was jumping up and down and flapping his wings in excitement as he talked. One thing I’ve always noticed is that men with high voices always seem to love animals.

Anyway as we approached the group Rich lent down and put his finger across his lips motioning to Lily to keep quiet. He gave her another peppermint and she agreed.

“Well. Hello there.” Rich’s voice positively boomed. “Is this the bird group?” The 12 rosy cheeked women with matching binoculars and clipboards were suddenly all staring at us.

“We’ve come to see the birds.” Rich flapped his arms to make sure they understood. Gus got down off his soapbox and waddled towards us.

“You ave come to zee za birds.” He said somewhat excitedly in Rich’s language.

“Come all the way from Australia. We got our own flock there and we’ve been following them all around the world. Me, the dog and the girl.”

“Well za Warbler don’t go to Australia they live in Africa and Europe.” Gus replied defiantly in a manner that made you think Rich had offended his mother. A good con artist however never misses a trick.

“Well that’s what everybody thinks. But I’m telling you mate, in the northern parts of Oz up near Ramboggabogga we discovered thirty six dozen Warbler. The finest breeding pairs I’ve ever seen with me own two eyes. We followed them to Senegal, up the coast,all the way to Bruges. Me girl’s worn her feet raw”

Gus looked down at Lily’s worn feet.

” My names Ivan,” Rich said seizing the opportunity. “And this here is little Lisa. She don’t say much and the dog here, well we call him Rufas after his father.”

I felt like I was one of the gang with my own fake name. I found myself thinking very seriously about how I would best play the role of an Australian dog. I figured that if I dumbed him down a bit, and acted all rough and macho… that should do it. So I let rip with my deepest, heartiest, roughest bark.

“That’ll do Rufas!” He shouted at me, which wasn’t fair because he hadn’t told me to keep quiet. He looked across at Gus and then down at me. “He’s just excited about seeing the Warbler, aren’t you boy? He can smell them when they get close.”

“Well my name is Gus and you are welcome to join us.” Gus turned and introduced us in Flemish to the gaggle of bird watching girls and we got ourselves a standing ovation. I think they were particularly taken with the handsome young “Aussie” dog in his prime who had traveled the world tracking the scent of their famous Aquatic Warbler(never have I had my ear scratched so many times); although I’m sure Rich would tell you a different story.

The bus ride out to the Warbler Colony must have taken a good hour and Rich pretty much talked the whole time. He was particularly taken by an ugly Flemish maid in her late forties called Agatha. This ladies fingers were covered in fine gold jewelery and she carried herself in a very austere fashion and she stunk of an exotic perfume that irritated my sensible nose. What Rich saw in Agatha I could not see? But I gotta tell you I got a little tired of him talking about Australia, and the farm and my dad Rufas and Lisa’s late mother. He sure knew how to spin a yarn.

So you can imagine my relied when I finally got to stretch my young legs on the rocky shore of the Opal Coast. The Warbler were coming and I got to tell you I could smell them and they smelt good…

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Chapter 9: On the Street

It was after 9am and well after sparrows fart when I emerged from the deepest of slumbers. Lily’s arm was cast across my chest and my head lay pressed against Rich’s well worn, ripped up jeans.  I shook myself awake and looked up, Lily had collapsed against Rich in the night and her head was squashed underneath his smelly armpit.

As I stretched out my paws Lily awoke, gasping in fright. I remember the look on her face as she surveyed Rich with much suspicion.  He didn’t say anything he just looked back at Lily and then down at me with his heavy sleepy eyes.

“Morning fella,” We looked at each other for the longest time; almost like lovers might gaze at each other. I remember him reaching out his hand, eternity seemed to pass before he touched me.  His hand brushed the hairs underneath my chin as slowly he began to scratch me. Even the memory of it makes me quiver with pleasure.

“You don’t want to scrap no more, do you fella?” he whispered in that accent that I had never heard before. “Think I’m going to call you Scrap.” And that was it, that was how a street dog from Bruges got his name. You might not think that it is much of a name, but it’s my name and he gave it to me and I wouldn’t change it for the world. It was the best name I could ever have.

” You can call me Rich or ruff, ruff, ruff or whatever the fuck you want.” He said laughing ironically. Now some of you may be disgusted that a man would curse in front of a dog or a gypsy girl and if you’re offended I apologize. But you got to understand that Rich, he was a hard living man and on the street things are different. I’ve always tried not to judge a man by his language or his clothes, because in my long doggie years I’ve come to realize that those things don’t mean very much at all.

After all I got kicked in the ribs in Paris by men in Armani suits and on the streets of Budapest a beggar gave me the last piece of his hot dog when there wasn’t any meat left on his bones. So I figure it’s what’s on the inside not the outside that really matters. And even little gypsy girls get jealous.

“He’s mine!” Lily snapped at Rich in Flemish, pulling me away and hauling me up onto her lap protectively. Rich smiled as he pulled a dirty little cigarette out of his pocket and wedged it in the crack of his mouth.

” There ain’t no point owning anything gypsy girl,  you should know that. We’re all just spending time.” He lit his cigarette and pulled a ragged old notebook from his pocket. His voice had a strange kind of rhythm, like that of a man ambling down the street, he began to recite…

time isn’t
livin’
time isn’t
dyin’
this is just our
intermission
livin’
without any
authors
permission

You might not think we understand a word but all dogs love poetry and I was no different. I remember  Lily looked kind of confused as Rich reached out his dirty hand.

“Rich. My name is Rich. Here have one of these.” Biting on his cigarette he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of peppermints and offered one to Lily. I would like to say that Lily made a decision to trust Rich and that is why she took a peppermint… but in truth I think she was just hungry. But at any rate their friendship was built on that peppermint.

“Lily.” She said simply reaching out her hand.

(to be continued)

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Chapter 8: They called him Rich

He was the roughest, raggiest most uncouth man that I have ever met in my entire life. His beard was a twisted concoction of reds and browns and his shoulder length hair hung from his head in sick greasy coils. He was clearly rolling drunk as he prodded Lily awake with his dirty finger…

“Gimme some bench gypsy girl.” Is what I think he said, although at the time I was not a bilingual canine and he spoke in a language and with an accent that I had never heard before. Lily was now wide awake and I could sense the deep fear and confusion that lingered beneath her eyes.

“Stay away from me.” She barked defiantly at him in Flemish so I barked too, bearing my teeth, lunging at him, fiercely protecting my Lily.

“Oh you got yourself a wild one gypsy!” He said laughing, and it was the richest, deepest most beautiful laugh that I had ever heard. A lot of people say that you can’t love a drunk, a beggar or a drug addict or any person that don’t have no self respect. Well I’m here to tell you that it is simply not true. A person with no self respect is like a land without a fence, you can go anywhere and you can see everything. And that was the way it was with Rich… he was a wild, vile beast of a man, but with him there were no fences. There was not a piece of him that could be contained or predicted upon in any fashion. He was like me and that is why I guess I loved him from the moment we met.

So I’m sitting on that bench bearing my teeth and barking like a crazy dog. He looks at me and throws his head back and he howls up at the moon like he was a wolf or something. I gotta tell you, just between you and me it was a pretty good howl. I remember movie goers were coming out a theater and they were giving us some pretty strange looks. We must have barked at each other for a full five minutes until the moon got so tired of his howling… that it pleaded with me to stop. So I finally relented and I lay down and put my head on Lily’s lap.

“Your not a bad fella” he said as he sat down on the bench next to us. “Got the heart of a lion you have,” he added and I couldn’t stop grinning. “I’ve been walking all night, ” he said to Lily. But from the blank look on her face I could tell that she didn’t understand a word of what he said.

He looked tired and worn out as he lent back on the bench and for the first time I saw that there was a sadness behind the light in his eyes. Even though he was free to go where-ever he pleased, even that he carried no luggage, he was carrying something… and it was big and heavy and cumbersome.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him as he fell asleep on that park bench. He was the sort of guy who could make you laugh and cry all at the one time. But it was his laughter that was infectious and that’s what made me giggle as my crazy homeless drunken friend lay on his back and snored up at the moon.

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Chapter 7: Street Dog Songs

How does a seven year old and an innocent young pup survive on the streets of Bruges? They grow up very fast that’s how.

It was a ten mile walk from the Gypsy compound to the outskirts of Bruges. I remember the hard frost that clung to the grass and the icy puddles that we did our best to dance around on that long, long walk into town. The thing that surprised me most about Lily was how unaffected she was by the events of the night before; how quickly she moved on. I guess it was the gypsy in her blood; the continual wandering and the ease at adapting to new circumstances. I don’t believe she could have told you exactly where we were going that morning, but somewhere deep inside, some part of her already knew. As for me I had very little need for anything much other than a friend.

We must have painted quite the picture walking down those narrow tree-lined country lanes. Lily with her wild untamed hair singing those old gypsy songs, me skipping happily beside her, humming along. Several people stopped us on our way into Bruges, asking Lily questions, offering her rides. But she wouldn’t tell them anything, she always refused. I think Lily had decided that it was better if she trusted nobody; that if she was going to survive, well then she was going to have to make it on her own.

***

I was dog tired, it was 5pm when we hit Bruges and the sun had already begun to close it’s eyes. It was the furtherest I had walked in my entire life and the pads on my feet were worn raw and tender. Still it was the first time I had ever seen a city and it blew my mind.

Cars racing everywhere, lights flashing, a visceral sensual delight; people walking down the sidewalk talking so loud that it made my ears hurt. Dogs on leashes and people bending down to pick up their poo! I got to tell you that one made me laugh. Fancy being so important that a human being had to pick up all your droppings. I remembered thinking that those dogs must have some kind of royal canine blood pumping through their veins to have a human on a chain, following you everywhere and collecting all your shit. I should have liked to have been such a prince. But I knew the moment that I hit that city… I was born to be a street dog, nothing more nothing less.

Lily clung to the walls as we walked down the pavement and I could tell that she had never seen a city either. I remember crossing over the canal, that murky water, lit up by city lights, smelled like death to my canine nose. It must have been close to 8pm by the time we finally sat down on a park bench right opposite a large bell ancient bell tower in the center of Bruges.

I know it was about eight because I could barely keep my eyes open when that bloody great bell tolled eight times and I fell of that seat and did a backwards flip. Ever since that moment I’ve never understood the ridiculous preoccupation that my two legged friends have with time. I don’t understand why would you create a device to constantly remind yourself of your mortality? Barking mad.

Anyway Lily took off her shoes and socks and I got quite a shock. The skin on the soles of her feet was worn right through and her feet were bleeding raw. I wanted to make it better so I licked at her little pink feet. She winced but she was brave and she didn’t cry as I continued to clean her wounds with my tongue. Some of you probably don’t realize that the saliva from a dog tongue is sterile (unless you have just eaten garbage) and it contains several medicinal properties.

Anyway after I had cleaned up Lily’s feet I snuggled up next to her. She wrapped her coat around me and we both fell fast asleep on that hard old park bench. The bell had tolled twelve when Lily woke up with a big fright…

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Chapter 6: The Attack on the Gypsies

It was late when Lily came to fetch me from the Volkswagen on that fateful Friday night. But soon the stars were out and I was walking through the Belgium meadow with Lily. She was singing sweetly and everything felt right with the world. If there is one thing I’ve learned in my old doggie life… it’s that sometimes when every thing feels right, it’s all about to go very, very wrong.

I still curse myself for not noticing anything strange about the two workman at the gate. Their overalls smelt fresh and new like they were just out of a packet. And the way they were digging that hole? That was not the way experienced workmen dig holes. Even now with my three old legs and the arthritis in my right hip I could still dig a better hole than that. We were probably no more than a hundred yards from the gate when the lights came on and all hell broke loose. It was the first time I’d ever heard a siren.

Lily grabbed me by my new red collar and threw me behind a tree. Together we lay there pressed into the cold wet grass as we watched the whole scene unfold. It all happened so quickly. It was frantic, organized chaos.

A police car, it’s blue lights flashing, it’s siren shrieking, roared through the gate of the Gypsy compound sliding to a halt on the gravel in front of the open fire. Two men jumped out of the car, shouting…

“Get on the ground. Get down. Get down.” They raised shotguns to their shoulders. Gypsy women shrieked and fell to the ground.  An older Gypsy man cursed loudly and threw his guitar at the men. He jumped through the fire, disappearing into the flames. I never saw him again.

More police cars roaring through the gate. More men with guns and dogs on chains. Gypsies running everywhere. Dogs barking, dogs chasing Gypsy women and children. I felt so ashamed.

A flying machine rose from beneath the hill. Chopping through the air with a deafening clatter and bringing forth a strong wind that caused my eyes weep. Lily covered my ears with her tiny  hands as the flying machine drenched the compound in light. There was no where, no darkness where the gypsies could hide, no place was out of sight.

Gypsies lay scattered around the compound, surrounded by men who were dressed like shadows. That is the thing about light, the brighter it is, the darker your shadow. I remember looking across at Lily, I don’t think I’d ever seen her pretty green gypsy eyes as wide as they were that night.

Lily was watching as the shadowy men surrounded a gypsy wagon in the center of the compound. The flying machine hovered no more than twenty feet above the wagon… bathing it in its bright light. A mans voice echoed through a loud speaker. I couldn’t tell exactly where he was because  it seemed like he was everywhere.

“Come out. With your hands up. Come out with your hands up…” the Flemish voice commanded. I looked at Lily, her little hand covered her mouth, the worry etched across her tiny forehead. I was pretty sure I knew who’s caravan that was.

Now some men are born stupid, and some men are stupid when they are drunk. My question is… how does a man who is born stupid behave when he is drunk? I have to believe that the man with a kingly name  (who we met in a previous chapter) was both stupid and drunk on this particular night. I often wondered how such a stupid man could be possibly be Lily’s father? She was only seven and she was smarter than him.

A measure of intelligence in my canine mind is knowing when you should fight and when you should give up. Now this particular gypsy must have known that his caravan was surrounded by at least twenty men with guns. Even if he had an arsenal of  military weapons and special skills, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. So to come charging out of his caravan with a meat cleaver and a carving fork…

Half-way through his second stride the bullets hit him. He tumbled and fell, rolling down the ramp of his wagon until he was still. I would have covered Lily’s eyes with my paws if I could.

We lay together under that tree for hours that night. Neither of us speaking or barking, or saying anything for that matter. We watched as they put Lily’s father in a sleeping bag and did up the zip. We watched as one by one the Gypsies were handcuffed and lead up the ramp into a different sort of wagon. We watched as the gypsy wagons were hitched up to other trucks and towed away.

As the sun began to strike the edges of the morning sky the last of the gypsy wagons was towed away and all that was left was the space where the people had once lived and the charred remains of a fire that once burned. Lily had lost everything and I remember her holding me. I remember the taste of her salty tears. I remember her body shaking until she could cry no more.

Of course I can’t speak for Lily but what happened that day was a terrible thing, but it was also a good thing because it was the beginning of our adventure…

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Chapter 5: Life in the Caravan

Every dog has to leave his mother if he wants to be a real hound. It’s strange because I once knew a dog in Amsterdam who had lived with his ma his whole life. It was odd to always see them together and in all honesty I have to say that he wasn’t right in the head. He was afraid of everything and I guess that’s why he never left.

I would have been a terrible pet. I was born a street dog and I’m still a street dog through and through. Some dogs grow up thinking that wandering is a bad thing, that you should mark your territory and stay inside your fence. But I can’t help it, there’s something about a fence or a leash that don’t make me feel free inside. There was a whole world out there that I needed to explore. I guess that’s one of the reasons I chose to leave that day with Lily.

I remember years ago there was a time when I was feeling particularly blue. I had been incarcerated for months and a friend of mine, a little street buddy called Jack took me to see a wise old sage, a standard Schnauzer named Dougal. Dougal was an expert in the field of canine depression and he told me that he believed I suffered from an acute condition of canine claustrophobia.

My claustrophobia stems from the nine months I spent hidden in that tiny caravan with Lily. Lily had her own little wagon, actually it was a rusted out old Volkswagen parked off to the side of the groove where all the other gypsies lived and that’s where we stayed. There was room for her in her fathers wagon, but Lily preferred to be on her own, she preferred to be with me. I don’t know why she kept me hidden, all the other gypsy kids had dogs, I guess she just wanted me all to herself.

Anyway every Friday night when the music was playing, and the gypsies were drinking and dancing around the fire she would take me back to the barn to see mother and my five brothers. It was a like a giant weekly reunion. Lily used to stand all the puppies up against the wall and measure us one by one, I think she wanted to make sure she was feeding me right.

For a long time I was always the smallest and littlest of the pups and my brothers would lie on their backs and gurgle about in mirth.  Sometimes this would make me so angry that I’d feel the rage boil up inside and I would pounce on the closest fattest prick, grabbing at his ear, tearing at it with my tiny razor sharp teeth. Then it would be all on, each one of us biting, hissing, clawing, spitting at each other, grabbing whatever we could get.

Then Lily would cry and mother would have to step in and split us all up. It wasn’t the fighting I hated the most, it was the having to apologize that really got to me. Mother was always tougher on the other guys though, I think she knew that I was different, maybe even a little odd and not quite right in the head myself. I always knew that she truly loved me, that was why she let me leave that very first day with Lily.

I guess I’ve digressed a little bit from my “action adventure” story today. The truth is I have been avoiding telling you something, because even though I’m very old and it happened a long time ago, remembering it still causes me a good deal of pain…

You see something happened late one Friday night on the way to see Mother and the boys in the barn. The memory of it is still as fresh and as vivid in my mind as though it were yesterday. But it didn’t happen to me, it happened to Lily…

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Chapter 4: Lily & Me

Chapter 4: Lily & Me

She raced towards her father as fast as her impy little legs could carry her. By this time I had found a tiny eye hole in her jacket where a button was missing so I manage to see the whole thing unravel. He turned to her, his cheeks, a fiery red highlighting the drunken venom in his green eyes… “Lily!” he roared, slurring slightly as he lowered the rake.

“Don’t you hurt her. Don’t you Daddy. Don’t” Lily stamped her tiny gypsy foot so hard that I swear I felt the concrete floor shake. But there is no telling some men now is there?

Well this pathetic excuse of a man shouts back at my little princess… “I’ll do what I bloody like Lily!” and he turns and begins to raise the rake towards mother who is still barking the barn down. So then Lily, lovely, sweet, unpredictable Lily, who was like a soft toy with a real lion inside, reaches up (I swear on my late mothers grave I’m not lying) and snatches the rake off her father.

“No Daddy! No Daddy! No!” And she starts belting him across the bum with the rake with all the strength she can muster. My eye nearly popped out of that button hole as that horrible man tried to fend off his daughters blows. That’s when mother joined in snarling and biting at his legs, tearing the denim away from his flesh. I remember hearing some very high pitched choir boy like shrieking as he fled from the barn… mother still hanging off his buttock and Lily still beating him with that rake.

Lily told me later with much glee, that his ass had been so sore and swollen that the other gypsy men held him down that night and a witch had taken her needle and thread and stitched everything back into one piece. Apparently he didn’t come out off his caravan for a whole week.

Lily’s little heart was still racing at well over 200 beats/minute (mine too) as she turned back into the barn to face mother who had wearily returned to her litter of five boys. Mother was pawing at her mouth trying to get the denim out of her teeth. This time mother didn’t bark as Lily approached.

I remember Lily’s little hand reaching inside the jacket. I remembered her gentle touch as she lifted me out into the light. She held me out in front of her and looked into my big eyes… I would like to state for the record that at this time I definitely smiled. A lot of people think that a dog smiling is just a figment of their owners imagination… not so. We can smile, it’s very subtle, we just don’t like to show it off all the time that’s all. Anyway Lily patted down the fuzzy bit of hair on the top of my head and gently put me back on the ground in front of mother.

“She belongs to you,” she said simply in flemish and she and mother looked at each other for the longest time. Then mother looked at me and moaned, it was a slow gentle moan and I turned and I looked up at Lily and I could see that she was crying again. What mother was saying with that moan was that I could make a choice… that I could stay with her and my brothers in the nest  or I could leave with Lily?

It wasn’t the only time in my life that I have been forced to make that choice… to stay or go? To settle down or begin an adventure? It wasn’t the only time but it was the first time. I was young, too young to leave mother and my brothers but Lily was alone and I knew she could do with a friend like me.

Help me decide what to do by answering the following question…

Come back next Tuesday the 16th of June and read Chapter 5: The adventures of Scrap.

Chapter 3: The Red-faced Man

Chapter 3: The Red-faced Man.

He was the ugliest man I have ever seen. He was shaped like an egg and almost as round as he was tall. He threw open the barn door with such fury that it fell off it’s hinges and with a large THWACK it fell face down on the dusty concrete floor. When the shower of dust finally settled, through the crack in the door I saw his face for the first time.

The first and most prominent member of his family of chins was square and hard, and like an upside down smile it framed the bottom of a despicable oil painting we shall call his face. The junior members of the “chin” family followed underneath in ever decreasing wobbly and sloppy circles.

He wiped his thin mouth with back of his fat, stubby ring covered hand and roared in pikey flemish… “Lily! Lily!”

Lily pulled me in close to her. I felt the top of my head brush against her smooth skin. She smelt like jasmine. I looked up at her and saw that horrible fear in her eyes and the trickle of tears running down her cheeks. I licked one of those tears and it tasted salty. She looked at me like my lick was the sweetest kindest thing she had experienced in her entire life. She started hugging me so tightly that I could hardly catch my breath.

This whole time of course Mother is barking the house down; baring her old yellow fangs, hissing and spitting at the ugly man. I had never seen this kind of fury in mother before and at the time it confused me some. As I’ve grown older I’ve come to understand it more… a creature will do almost anything to protect the object of it’s love; it wouldn’t be right if it was any other way.

The ugly red faced man came towards mother, stopping only to pick up the rake. Later I found out his name but I will not mention it here , for he was not worthy of such a kingly name. His green eyes were like slits of cold gray steel and his greasy hair clung to his balding scalp in wet stands and I heard him curse at mother as he tossed away his empty bottle of gin.

After the sound of broken glass came a tirade of flemish profanities. He bore down upon her, brandishing the rake like a club. Mother did not back down, she didn’t even stand her ground, she moved towards the ugly man, with the kind of dignified ferocity that I have tried my whole life to emulate. The last thing I remembered seeing was the evil in the ugly mans eyes as he raised the rake above his head.

It was the last thing I saw because Lily opened her jacket and tucked me inside. I was so close, her racing heart literally lumped against the side of my head. Lily. Brave Lily. Lovely, sweet, gentle, easy to love Lily threw open the cupboard door and screamed… “No Daddy. No!”…

Chapter 2: The Little Girl

Chapter 2: The Little Girl

I remember the first time I saw her, it was mid-March and just before sunset. The door to the barn was thrown open and she stood in the doorway. She could have been no more than three foot six and her bright auburn hair danced around in little circles, kissed and licked by the evening sun. Her name was Lily, she was an impish little Belgium gypsy girl. Her eyes were as wide as saucers as she rushed into the barn.

Lily was not smiling, there were tears gushing from those deep green saucery eyes; eyes that I would come to love more than life itself. Her breathing was ragged and raspy as she slammed the door shut behind her. She raced across the barn, and tripped over a rake and tumbled into a stack of hay bales, scraping her elbows raw on the coarse straw. I still remember her almost childish, voiceless, breathless cries as though it were yesterday.

Lily was looking for somewhere to hide because somebody was chasing her. As she came towards us my mother started barking aggressively, I guess she was trying to protect us but I remember pleading with her to STOP because I could tell that this barking was not going to help Lily; and although in my life I’ve been afraid of many things… I was never ever afraid of Lily

Anyway mother kept barking and Lily kept on running, looking for a place to hide. She ran right past us towards a large old broom cupboard that was leaning against the wall. She jumped into that cupboard and pulled the squeaky broken old door closed to within half an inch. What I did next changed my life forever.

I went to Lily. I wobbled across that room on my little wee puppy legs; I still had four of them at that time remember. There’s always been something about a girl in distress that I can’t resist. Some dogs are born cowards and some dogs are born brave. I may have been small for my age but I had the good fortune to be one of those who was born brave and I would have done anything to help that little girl.

I was half-way across the floor of that barn, when I heard the voice, it is not a voice I will every forget. “Lily. Lily. Where are you?” It was a gravely, old Flemish voice that even then caused a river of shivers to trickle down my spine.

I was so close to the cupboard now that I could see one of Lily frightened green eyes peering out through the crack. Suddenly that eye was looking down right at me; we stared at each other for the longest time. I don’t want to get too romantic or nostalgic on you, but right from that moment there was special knowledge, a mutual understanding that existed between the two of us.

In the background my mother was still barking the house down and I heard the voice again, much closer now almost at the barn door. That was when Lily did something that would change her life forever she opened the barn door and pulled me inside…