‘Those bloody dogs!’ he said to Ewan, when he appeared behind the station counter. ‘They are everywhere. And wherever they are, they poo and put everyone at risk of the pestilence that is toxoplasmosis.’
‘What dogs are you meaning—?’ Ewan began.
‘All of them, but especially all of them that Annie McConville keeps in that so-called sanctuary of hers. It is getting more and more crowded. They yap and yowl and create all manner of noise. I bet loads of the locals have been in complaining.’
‘Er – no, I believe you are the first, Mr McNeish.’ Ewan picked up a pen and opened the ledger to take notes. ‘So, is it an official complaint that you are wanting to make.’
‘A complaint? Me? About Miss McConville?’ Rab McNeish looked scandalized. ‘Not at all. I am just reporting how things are. It is my duty as a good citizen to report when I see loose poo around the place. And there is lots of it, let me tell you. There are dog waste bins all over, but are people using them?’
‘Are you suggesting that Miss McConville is not using these bins?’
Rab shook his head in consternation and creased his brow. ‘No! Leave Miss McConville out of this, will you? It’s those incoming folk, I am betting. They come in their boats and their camper-vans and they let their dogs run wild. You’ll have to do something about it.’
Ewan was starting to get flustered. He looked up from the ledger as the door opened and saw with relief Sergeant Morag Driscoll enter. His stomach responded to the smell of the hot rolls by gurgling.
‘Ah, Sergeant Driscoll,’ he said. ‘Good to see you back. I was just listening to Mr McNeish here and he was telling me—’
‘I was just reporting about all the dogs. They are everywhere, Sergeant. Everywhere!’
Morag pursed her lips. ‘That is curious. Miss Melville was just talking to me about dogs. She was wanting us to do some investigating.’
Rab McNeish jabbed a finger in Ewan’s direction. ‘You see! You see?’
‘But I don’t see that it is a police problem,’ Morag added.
Suddenly the door opened again and Inspector Torquil McKinnon rushed in, his Cromwell helmet under one arm and the Bullet’s panniers over the other. His bagpipes protruded from one and the bedraggled floppy head of a mongrel dog from the other.
‘Can’t stop, folks,’ he said, as he ducked under the counter flap, heading for his office. ‘I’ve got a sick dog here.’
Rab McNeish took a step backwards. ‘Sick, did he say?’ Then, jabbing the air at both Ewan and Morag he quickly retreated to the door. ‘Ugh! Mark my words, I told you so. We’ve got a problem on the island.’
Ewan stood scratching his head as the door swung to behind the undertaker.
‘You look as if you’ve been half bitten to death, Ewan,’ Morag observed. ‘What is it? Midges?’
‘Aye. But speaking of biting, are those butteries up for grabs?’
Morag was still reeling from her encounter with Miss Melville and her parting remark. With a sigh she handed them over. ‘They are all for you, my wee darling. Now what say you make us all a cup of your best tea and let’s see what the boss has just brought in.’
Torquil placed the panniers on the easy chair beside his desk then gingerly lifted the dog out. It was shivering and its teeth were chattering. He lay it down on the floor and it whimpered, before weakly licking his hand once.
‘You poor wee fellow. You look exhausted.’
He fetched a towel and, as gently as he could, he tried to give it a rub down.
Morag tapped on the door then let herself in. ‘Tea and a buttery is on its way, Torquil.’ Her eye fell on the puppy and she smiled. ‘What a bonny wee dog. Where did you find him? He looks as if he’s been swimming.’
Torquil told her of finding the animal tied to a piece of timber.
‘It was lucky for him that I came along. I reckon he would either have died between now and the next tide, or it would have taken him out again and then he would have been done for.’
‘So someone was trying to get rid of him?’ Morag asked in disbelief as she squatted down to stroke the dog. ‘How cruel can anyone get? Why he’s little more than a puppy.’
‘That’s what it looks like. And I just hate cruelty to animals.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘We’ll put a poster up and maybe ask Calum Steele to put something in the West Uist Chronicle. If someone claims him, and they can convince me that they didn’t try to drown him, then they can have him back.’
He opened the door in answer to Ewan McPhee’s gentle kick on the door frame. ‘Ah, a buttery. Thanks, Ewan.’ He took a roll and a mug of tea and sipped his tea. ‘But I suspect that no one will show up.’
Ewan bent and patted the dog. ‘I heard what you were saying, boss. So what are you going to do with him now? Should I phone Annie McConville and see if she’ll take him in?’
Morag sucked air between her lips. ‘Actually, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Miss Melville collared me in Staigs and told me that she’s inundated with strays. She wants us to do something about it.’
Torquil groaned. ‘Us? What does she expect us to do?’ He looked at his colleagues who both shrugged. ‘Then I guess we’ll have to just hold on to him for now. We’ll see if we can’t get him back on his paws.’ He nibbled his roll. ‘We’d better get some dog food in, Ewan.’
‘I’ll go and get some right away, boss. But would it be OK if I popped up to the moor? I sort of left my hammer up there.’
Torquil grinned as the big constable explained. ‘Aye, go on, Ewan. And while you’re getting the dog food, see about a collar and a lead. You never know, before long you might be taking him up to the moor for a regular walk.’
The outside bell rang, indicating that the front door had opened. There was the sound of heavy boots outside. Ewan took a step towards the door, but stopped with his hand on the handle.
‘Does that mean we’ll be keeping him here, boss? A station dog?’
The office door opened and a peal of synchronous laughter rang out. Two tall men, both even taller than Ewan, dressed in fishermen’s oilskins and wearing bobble hats came in. It was the Drummond twins, Douglas and Wallace. They were as identical as identical twins can be.
‘A station dog!’ Douglas exclaimed.
‘Ah, our two special constables,’ said Ewan with a half smile, theatrically looking at his watch. ‘Good of you to drop in. How was your fishing?’
‘Good enough, thank you, PC McPhee,’ said Wallace.
‘But stop evading the question, Ewan McPhee,’ said Douglas. ‘Did you just say that this was the new station dog?’ He pursed his lips as he looked down at the forlorn looking animal. ‘Is it the runt of the litter?’
Torquil explained how he had found the dog. He scratched its head, eliciting another whimper, then a turn of the head and another feeble lick on the hand. ‘Since we do not know his name, until further notice to the contrary, I propose to call him Crusoe.’
‘After Robinson?’ Morag queried, with a smile. ‘You do that Inspector McKinnon, but could the station sergeant ask a simple question – where is he going to stay at night? Here on his own at the station? I only ask because if you are thinking that we can share his care out between us, as we do the night duty, I can’t offer to take him home because of my Jim’s asthma. He reacts to dog fur.’
Ewan shuffled his size fourteen feet. ‘And I am afraid that my mother won’t have another dog in the house since our old Labrador died.’