Tea and Dog Biscuits by Barrie Hawkins Page B

smiled. Meanwhile, Lion-Maned Dog had been going through the waste-paper bin and had found some paper that had been screwed up into a ball: he was nosing it around the carpet. Charlie picked the ball of paper up and held it aloft. Lion-Maned Dog fixed his eyes on him.
    â€˜Sit!’ said Charlie.
    It was the first time I had heard him use such a firm, authoritative tone of voice. Lion-Maned Dog sat. Charlie put a hand in a pocket of his tunic and brought out a little white paper bag. Lion-Maned Dog’s gaze moved from the paper ball to the paper bag. Charlie dropped the paper ball onto the floor and took out of the bag what I guessed was some tasty morsel, which he held up with his right hand.
    He looked down at Lion-Maned Dog and fixed him with a steady gaze. He cleared his throat.
    â€˜By authority vested in me as an officer of the law,’ he said in a judicial tone of voice, ‘I hereby pronounce that henceforth…’
    He placed his left hand on the dog’s head.
    â€˜â€¦ you shall be known as…’ He paused for a moment. The tone of voice softened.
    â€˜â€¦ Digby.’
    Digby wagged his tail. Charlie’s hand was still on his head and now he rubbed that head gently.
    â€˜And may you have a long and happy life.’

A Friend
    It was a dog that was a hundred years old.
    He stood encircled by the vet, the assistant vet, the student vet, the nurse, the trainee nurse and the receptionist.
    â€˜How could anybody do that to him?’ said the receptionist.
    For a few moments everybody gazed at him in compassionate disbelief. Then our vet’s professional instincts reasserted themselves. ‘Bring him through,’ Melissa said.
    â€˜Come on then,’ I said to him and patted my leg. It was an effort, but one step at a time he made his way into the consulting room.
    â€˜What’s his name?’ the receptionist called after me. I turned, looked at her and shrugged my shoulders.
    â€˜Let’s get him up on the table,’ said Melissa. We had not had from her the usual, friendly, ‘Hi, how are you doing?’ None of us were in the mood for a cheerful greeting.
    Dorothy and I both bent down to pick him up. ‘With what he weighs I can manage him on my own,’ I said. I put my arms around him. It was like gathering up a framework of bones. ‘Come on, lad. Up we go!’
    There was no resistance to this stranger scooping him up. Gently, I let him down onto the table. His head hung low. He took no interest in me, Dorothy, Melissa or what was going on. Either he felt too unwell or hadn’t got the strength. Or perhaps he was just past caring.
    Melissa gently raised his head then pushed back the skin round his eyes so she could check for whatever it is vets check for when they do that. ‘What do you know about him?’ she asked.
    â€˜A young chap brought him to us last night,’ said Dorothy. ‘He rang and said he’d found a German Shepherd dog.’
    Melissa was shaking a thermometer. ‘Had he found him, do you think, or was it really his dog?’
    That question took me aback momentarily. It hadn’t occurred to me that the young man might not be telling the truth, that it might be his own dog. It struck me that the question displayed Melissa’s greater experience of dealing with people and their dogs. Yet as Melissa examined the dog I thought it over and felt sure the young man was genuine. He had seemed so shocked.
    â€˜He was on the pavement,’ he had said. ‘I was parking my car and I could see something just lying there. There was nobody about – I was looking around. It was dark but I could see how thin he was and that he was alive.’
    I asked him where he’d found the dog.
    â€˜Ealing, in West London.’
    â€˜London! You’ve never brought him all the way from London?’
    â€˜Yes, I have,’ the young man said, nodding. ‘That is where I live. I found him outside