“Trust Dennis to choose the soft life and leave us here with Rosie!”
There was no sign of Charlie Lupus at the adventure playground. Rosie sat twirling the high security padlock, which she had opened with her Swiss Army knife. As dusk was starting to fall, she had done what she could with the playground apparatus. All the swing and climbing ropes she had knotted together with secret sailor knots, which were impossible to untie. Rosie had shifted most of the sandpit into the paddling pool, where she constructed a dam. There was not much else to do but wait now.
She chided herself for not making Charlie take the Slimy Green Death Oath that he would turn up.
The night crept on, with a beautiful apricot-hued full moon appearing to illuminate the darkness. Rosie was starting to lose patience. At first she did not see the massive grey dog lurking nearby. It sat watching her from the cover of a heavy-timbered climbing frame, its brown-amber flecked eyes glowing like twin flames.
Then the dog approached. Padding around the back of her, silent as a cloud shadow, it leaned over the nape of her exposed neck. Rosie’s flesh gleamed grimy white in the moonlight. Licking its slavering lips, the dog opened its mouth hungrily, exposing dangerous ivory-hued canine fangs. They drew closer to the girl’s unprotected neck. . . . Closer! Then it gave her a huge, slurping, playful lick.
“Yurrk! Gerroff!”
Rosie was aware of the perils of neck washing, whether by soap, flannel or dog tongue. All could prove fatal in her estimation. As the dog attempted a second lick, she shoved it away. “Gerroff me, y’silly pooch, go ’way an’ play!”
She found a stick and threw it, hoping the beast would leave her in peace. In an instant, the dog was back with the stick. Laying it at her feet, it sat beside Rosie, lolloping and panting. It reminded her of her friend. “I know, I’ll call you Charlie, d’you like that?”
“Woof!”
“D’you know ole Charlie? You look awful like him.”
“Woof woof!”
“Good feller, d’you know where he is?”
The big dog threw back its head and bayed. “Yaaaawwooooohhh!”
Rosie Glegg felt the hair on her head rise up straight, an electric tingle coursing up and down her spine. The howl of the grey dog was more exciting than anything she had ever experienced in her short, but full, life. Visions swirled behind its moonlit eyes, strange sights of snowbound forests, craggy mountains and far-off ruined castles.
Rosie heard the cries of frightened peasants rising above the smoke of flaring torchlights. A wild urgency tugging at her nerve ends, she looped her skipping rope around the huge beast’s thickly furred neck.
“Come on, Charlie, let’s go to the woods!”
Both dog and girl burst from the adventure playground, baying aloud their homage to the watching moon. “Aaaaaaaoooooooowwwwwoooooooh!”
The good villagers of Nether Cum Hopping shuddered as eerie howls echoed about their streets. Children tugged bedsheets over their heads and trembled. Curtains were hastily drawn, doors slammed and tightly bolted. Lights flicked on, setting houses ablaze with illumination for protection against the chilling sounds. Confusion reigned. Telephones jangled, jamming up the switchboards with calls to the police and the Noise Abatement Society (only recorded messages after five P.M.). The R.S.P.C.A. (Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) sent out a two-man patrol, looking for two dogs which somebody had roped together—or was it a child and a dog? The officers were set upon by a large German shepherd dog which lived in the lane alongside the woods. After fending it off, they reported the incident to the police, who took out a warrant against its owner. The police, however, were not convinced that it was any type of animal noise. They closed down a disco, confiscated a boom box from a group of teenagers on a street corner and issued a ticket to a young man driving a sports car (whose horn played four consecutive tunes, starting with “La Cucaracha” and culminating in “Colonel Bogey”). The Noise Abatement Society remained silent throughout the entire operation.
The Directors of Greenacres Investments P.L.C. slept soundly many miles away in London. G.I.P.L.C., as they were known, had recently purchased the woods from the Urban District Council with a view to developing it as a sporting area for upwardly mobile shooting clubs and rich foreign tourists (on the agreement that the adjacent public fields be converted into a private car park). Of late, Greenacres had been concerned with the dwindling numbers of pheasants, woodgrouse, woodpigeons, woodcock, partridge and quail. They prepared a report for their shareholders, stating that the area would be patrolled, night and day, by two gamekeepers. These men would guard the living assets (gamebirdwise), protecting them until such time as the paid members were ready to blast the birds with their custom-made shotguns. Also, they would discourage any local activities (poachingwise), thereby rendering said woodland tract a viable investment (shootingwise), whilst still complying with parliamentary regulations (environmentwise).
Clouds drifted serenely across the apricot moon, as trees and bushes swayed in the soft breeze, causing shadowy patterns through the nightshaded woodland. Rosie Glegg felt the warm rush of air as she was hauled swiftly along by the big grey dog. Its keen eyes were everywhere at once as it weaved twixt oak and elm, slid around juniper and laurel, and bounded over thistle and gorse, never once stumbling on protruding root or rock. Rosie’s wild young soul was filled to overflowing with exhilaration. She sniffed hungrily at newfound aromas. Pheasant, which smelled better than hamburger, partridge that no hot dog sausage could equal. Oh, why had she been born a mere human, forced to wear clothes and shoes instead of having fur and paws? Why could she not be a dog? Better one night as Rover than a lifetime as Rosie!
Her dog, Charlie, halted, his body quivering with anticipation. Rosie sensed it, too. Danger and adventure combined. Together they crouched in a fern bed, watching the unsuspecting gamekeeper’s back.
Gamekeeper Gordon M. Liggett perched upon his folding campstool, nibbling at a cucumber-and-marmalade sandwich. Nearby, his double-barrelled shotgun lay loaded and close to hand. Approximately six yards from where he sat in hiding, a cock and hen pheasant stood tethered to a slender rowan trunk. Gordon M. sipped Lapsang Oolong tea from his vacuum flask as he watched the live bait he had set up. Hah! Local poachers, he’d show ’em! Those working-class thieves always fell, hook, line and sinker, for the old brace of pheasant trick. He curled his lip scornfully at the unseen culprits as he pictured the scenario. Two village ne’er-do-wells clad in cheap, discount-store fashion. Probably full to the gills with beer and armed with catalogue-purchased Czechoslovakian air pistols. Hunting unlicensed for game birds, which they would doubtless sell to the Manor Restaurant and Carvery, thereby supplementing their generous State Unemployment Benefit. He imagined their conversation.
“Cor, stripe me pink, ’arry, a coupla peasants for the bag!”
“Haha, them’s pheasants, Reg, we’re peasants. Still, they’ll do nicely, thank yew. Wait’ll I get a bead on ’em!”
At this point, Gordon M. would step majestically from cover, shotgun at the ready. “Stand perfectly still, you two louts! I am a licensed gamekeeper for Greenacres P.L.C., and I’ll stand no jiggery pokery from either of you felons. Drop those pistols, hand over that sack marked swag. Now, quick march to the police station. This gun has hair triggers, y’know!”
“Blimey, don’t shoot, Guv, we’ve both got families!”