To my relief and surprise, he forgot about the woman as a noisy fight broke out between this group of football fans. They were so close that I worried, again, about Kelly’s safety as well as that of the other passengers.
As the fight had intensified, cans of beer were thrown around and one hit Kelly on her head. She yelped and barked, adding to the noise and confusion.
Just then, the Metro arrived at Cornbrook station and, as the doors opened,, the crush intensified and, then, just as quickly, eased. “Police! Come on, get off the Metro!”
I wondered just to whom the policeman was directing his order, when I realised that the group who had been standing close to me suddenly disappeared. There were many grumbles and complaints about missing the match, but they followed the instruction obediently and left the Metro.
“Thank goodness for that!” It was the woman who had helped me to find the support rail. “Drunk, at this time! They deserve to miss their match.” Many people agreed with her. “Is your dog alright?”
I put my hand on Kelly’s head and searched for a lump or cut. There was a small lump, presumably caused by the beer can hitting her. Even so, she still appeared bright and alert. “I think she’s alright, thanks.”
“Good. Drink always brings out the worst in people.”
At Old Trafford, the fans poured out of the Metro. The friendly woman told me that there were, now, a few empty seats. I thanked her and found the seat she had indicated, relaxing for the rest of the journey to Brooklands station.
When we arrived home, I had asked my mother to take a look at the lump on Kelly’s head.
“Oh, poor Kelly. What did that nasty man do to you?”
“You’d get a shock if she replied”, I said.
Feeling sorry for Kelly, Mum said, “I think I should bathe her head. It may be hurting her, but she can’t tell us.”
Thankfully, the lump disappeared over the next few days and Kelly appeared to be fully recovered. This horrible incident on the Metro was never repeated, partly because, on local match days, I had decided to use a taxi to return to my home, avoiding any further possible confrontations or injuries to Kelly.
After watching a little television, I decided to have an early night, Kelly and I going upstairs by ten o’clock.
One of my most prized possessions was a tiny, talking book player, which I had bought three years earlier. Made in Switzerland, my Milestone 312 talking book player was only the size of an NP3 player. An SD card memory could hold many books at the same time and, yet, by connecting a pair of earphones, I could listen to my choices from the RNIB’s massive talking book library, without disturbing anybody else.
Over the past three years, I had read nearly one hundred books. These ranged from the Jason Bourne adventure series to E. L. James raunchy “Fifty Shades of Grey”. My favourite author had always been Glenn Cooper, an American author whose books were brilliantly ingenious and mysterious stories such as “Library of the Dead”. Another of my favourites is “Watchers” by Dean Koontz, partly because it features a highly-intelligent Golden Retriever. Apparently, the author actually has this breed of dog as his pets. Obviously, my liking for intelligent dogs had influenced my choice of this book.
I always read these books late at night, mostly in bed before I was feeling tired enough for sleep. One thing I had not forgotten was to inform the Talking Book library of my change of address.
Ready for retiring to bed, I decided to check my weight. Talking bathroom scales could provide readings in about five different languages, but I settled on English and pressed the memory button. This told me my weight the last time I had been standing on the scales. When the message announced that the scales were ready for use, I stood quite naked and still on the unit. “Eleven stones, ten and three-quarter pounds”. This was only half a pound lighter than a week earlier and about average for my height of five feet eleven inches. I could have the weight in Kilos, if I wished, but had become used to the older imperial measurements.
I did wonder if I would manage to get a proper sleep, that first night in my new house and new bed. After reading the last couple of chapters of Stephen King’s thrilling, lengthy story, “Under the Dome” for about half an hour, I think that I must have fallen asleep fairly quickly, but started with a shock when I felt wetness on my face. My first thought was that the ceiling must be leaking, yet I felt certain that it had not been raining during the night. Still half asleep, I realised that Kelly was licking my face. “What is it, Kelly? Why can’t you sleep?” I ran my hand down her back and was stunned to discover that her normally smooth hair was rough to the touch, as though some hairs were standing on end. The poor dog was whimpering a little, obviously terrified by something. “What’s wrong, Kelly?” She remained immobile, not wanting to leave me alone. I spoke firmly to her. “Please be a good girl and Lie down on your bed, Kelly. You are going to have to get used to sleeping, here, in our new house. It’s strange for me as well, you know.”
I pressed the button on my talking watch and groaned as I realised that it was only forty minutes past midnight. Slipping out of bed, I took the dog to her own bed, which was only a few feet away, positioned against the wall separating the two bedrooms. Obediently, she, sluggishly, climbed on the bed and lay down, yet still appeared quite unsettled. I stroked her, trying to calm and reassure the poor dog. “What is the problem, Kelly? Listen, it’s work day tomorrow and we both need some sleep, so be a really good girl and settle down, please.”
It took me quite a while to fall back into my usual deep sleep and the next I knew was the alarm waking me at six-thirty, next morning. My disturbed night had left me tired and, possibly, even a little grumpy, although I would be the last to admit that I could, ever, be so described.
I let Kelly out to relieve herself, as she seemed eager to visit her run. When she returned, I fed her, then grabbed a quick breakfast for myself. I followed this with a shave, shower and pulled on my working suit.
By eight-fifteen, Monday morning, Kelly and I were walking towards the Metro station, ready for a new working day. Once we were in the office, I told Suzanne about Kelly’s strange behaviour the previous evening.
“It is such a big change for her and she will need time to adjust and settle in. I can understand how it must feel to her”, Suzanne sympathised.
I had thought that she may still be troubled at my office on that day, but, strangely, I had no problem with Kelly, until we were returning towards the house around five-thirty. She slowed, noticeably and I had the distinct impression that she was unhappy about something, but, what? Once inside, she appeared to be okay and I carried on with the evening routines. A ready-prepared microwave meal saved time and filled the dining kitchen with a strong, savoury smell. Okay, I was playing safe and saving time, but it did satisfy my hunger. After dinner, I decided to groom Kelly. If nothing else, brushing the thick coat, always appeared to relax her. Similarly, I found the grooming process also quite therapeutic. After about an hour of grooming, the bin was full of Kelly’s loose hair and her coat felt really smooth and silky to the touch.
I then settled down to watch television, a gentle, relaxing way to end the day. I was thankful for the audio description of TV dramas, as, without this feature, it would be impossible for me to follow the complex story of this police drama series.
When it came to bed-time, I hoped that Kelly would settle down and allow me to sleep through the night, without disturbance.
Normally, when I had gone upstairs, Kelly had always walked by my side, even though she had neither lead nor harness. On this night, however, she hung back a little, as though she was uncertain that ascending the stairs was the correct thing to do.