PAUL HASTON

Chapter 1

 

 The sound of squawking, and I scurry to my bedroom window. Sheep dogs are supposed to be intelligent, although ours seems to be the exception. In the farmyard below, the youngest of the hens has its tail caught in Twitchy’s mouth.

“Naughty dog,” I yell, banging on the window. With trousers slipped on, and before I can say ‘boo to a goose’ (as Aunt Agnes would say), I’m sliding down the banister, a useful alternative to our rickety old stairs.

A fire burns in the kitchen hearth, the smell of roasted chestnuts wafting up.

“Caleb, where’s your shirt?” Ma shouts. “You’ll catch your death---”

“Can’t stop,” I say, skipping across the granite slabs. “Twitchy!”

“Not that bloody dog, again” Ma shouts, as I crash through the back door. “She’ll have to go---".

Ma’s protest is lost in a flurry of feathers and banging gates. Like all ‘good’ border collies, Twitchy has the hens hemmed into one corner of the yard. Except that she’s supposed to be a sheep dog. Not a hen dog. And she’s not even a proper sheep dog, if truth be told. The runt of the litter, my Da supposed her too scrawny to help with the sheep on the farm. Rather than give her away, she became a hybrid, a house sheep dog.  Or rather, my house sheep dog. A non-working dog that’s allowed inside. Except that Twitchy’s hardly ever inside the house. Most of the time she’s outside, herding hens in the yard. Maybe, Da got it wrong about the “too scrawny” business.

“Here,” I shout, glaring at the animal. Of course, Twitchy takes not the blind bit of notice. As cute as she is, Twitchy has a mind of her own. She’ll only do something if it suits her at the time. Quickly, I wrestle the hen from Twitchy’s mouth and herd the pack (if hens can be called a pack) back into the shed, dragging the latch bolt over its fastening.

Big brown eyes gaze at me, her nose as moist as a wet rag. Of course, she has the advantage. I’m unable to be annoyed with her for more than two seconds at a time. And she knows it.

“Come on,” I say. “Food!”

The dog’s ears flick back, her head cocking to one side. A sure sign that she has understood. Food is one of several instructions she understands, and being the most important, as far as she is concerned, is normally listened to. Twitchy is in the habit of eating three good meals a day. More than any normal dog, I’m sure. And, unfortunately, I’ve made the mistake from the get-go of insisting Ma gives her the best. None of your cheap dried kibble. Prime roast chicken is the order of the day. The sort of food that a prince might eat at a banqueting table. Strangely, the dog never seems to actually put on weight. Born scrawny, she remains at 18 months old, as undersized as you could imagine a border collie could be. ‘All skin and bone’ as Grandpa Bertie says. I suppose it’s something to do with the chasing around she does, hassling the farm yard animals, getting into mischief and playing truant whenever she feels like it!

A rumble, and I turn. Da approaches in the tractor.

“Hey, young man. Where’s your shirt,” he says, bringing the vehicle to a halt and jumping from its cabin. His boots are covered in mud, a tired looking grin across a face that is bronzed.

“Sorry, Da. The hens were squawking,” I say.

Twitchy’s head bows.

“Nothing to do with the dog, then?” Da says.

My feet shuffle on the cobblestones. “Nah,” I say, bowing my head also.

When I glance up, he is frowning. “I see. You know what that dog needs. A bit of toughening up.”

“No, she doesn’t,” I say, wrapping my leg instinctively around the animal.  “You’re the one who said she is too scrawny.”

His frown deepens. “I know,” Da says. “And I’ve been regretting it ever since. Inside, you’ll catch your death---“

“That’s what Ma said,” I say, finding a grin.

“And where’s your shoes---?"

Da’s words are lost in a confusion of jumping claws and slobbery wet kisses. I re-enter the kitchen with Twitchy in hot pursuit, finding myself breathless once again!

“Hey,” Ma shouts. “Not over my nice clean floor.”

“What?” I say.

A set of muddy paw prints run across the stone slabs.

“Naughty dog,” I say, for the second time that morning.

Twitchy’s tail is between her legs. I wiggle my finger at her, but her bark only seems to make matters worse.

“Out,” Ma shouts, directing Twitchy towards the pantry door.

The dog pauses, before bolting to her crate. I run after her. “Just for a minute,” I say. “Until I get your food.”

Of course, the word ‘food’ has her darting out of her crate again, almost as soon as she has entered.

“Any chicken?” I say, rummaging in the fridge.

“That dog!” Ma says, with a sigh. “Spoilt rotten, she is.”

“No, she isn’t,” I say, knowing that she is.

With the bones extracted, the individually fingered pieces of meat are placed into her silver bowl. “There you go, Twitchy; food.”

The silver platter sits unattended on the stone slab, with Twitchy giving me that look. The one that says ‘Are you stupid? Of course, it’s food.’

“See; you’re over-feeding her,” Ma says, with a swish of her apron. “Dogs are only supposed to have one good meal a day.”

“I know,” I say, brazenly. “Breakfast.”

“And the rest!” Ma says, clattering a serving bowl out of the cupboard.

The back door opens and I decide that retreat is probably the best form of defence. Da is not usually in the best of moods when he’s been rounding up the sheep. Probably because there aren’t enough sheep dogs on the farm. And whose fault is that?