The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog by Robert Warr Page B

again and placed it in my bowl.
    ‘Sorry, boy,’ he said. ‘I expect that a gentleman’s dog always eats from a bowl, don’t you?  I bet you love a nice piece of meat.’
    Not likely, I thought , not when it’s covered in some type of poison. I have seen the ugly results of several poisons and this little dog was not going to co-operate.
    Tom Dawson obviously realised that I wasn’t going to eat the liver. With a sudden lunge of his left hand he grabbed for my collar.
    I jumped backward , avoiding his hand by inches. With my hackles up I snarled at him, exposing my teeth. If he wanted to play rough, I was his dog.  I would willingly bet my teeth and claws against his fists and boots. At that point, he reached back into his pocket and produced a knife. This changed the odds drastically in his favour. All of the sudden the kitchen stopped being a safe refuge and became a trap.
    I started barking; unfortunately, your uncle did not come running through the door. I looked around and saw that the landlady was being held back by her husband. I was on my own.
    Suddenly Tom Dawson came at me. I turned and ran but felt his hand catch on my tail.  Frantically I span round and bit him hard on the wrist. He let go and cursed me in a loud voice. I used my temporary respite to back away.  I saw him smile and realised that I had managed to trap myself in the corner. He crouched down with his arms outspread and came on. There was only one way out. Using all the power in my legs, I jumped at him. The top of my head hit him under the jaw and he tumbled backwards, with me on his chest. His shoulders hit one of the legs of the table.
    I saw something fall off the table. There was a massive crash of crockery and we were enveloped in a blinding cloud of white powder. With one more spring, I was free. I raced through the open door into the welcome darkness of the yard.
    I saw another man in front of me and rather belatedly remembered the other poacher. He looked at me and screamed. Turning on his heel, he fled.
    ‘Tom’s killed the dog,’ he wailed, ‘and its ghost is after me. Run before you are all doomed !’
    Hearing this , I realised the crash had been a flour crock falling off the table. Obviously, I was covered with flour and as I ran, grains were being shaken from my fur and catching the faint starlight. Now I am always prepared to join in, so as I ran I started to howl. I learned something that night that surprised me; a frightened poacher can outrun a Spaniel and jump seven-foot hedges to do it.
    When my prey had made good his escape, I went down to the river for a quick swim before trotting back to the inn. Predictably, I met your uncle halfway back. He did not say anything, but he did reach down and pull my ears, which in another way said it all.
    We returned to the inn to find that the company was laughing themselves hoarse over the actions of John Prior. It seemed that the innkeeper had dropped the flour, scaring the little dog, who had run, covered in flour, into the night. Poor John Prior had seen the apparition and run for it. I always find it really odd how events alter with the telling.
    We went to bed soon afterwards. Your uncle , as normal, quickly drifted off to sleep. As soon as I was sure he would not reawaken, I left my blanket and carefully got on to his bed. I sat there watching his face for over an hour before he started having a hunting dream. You can always tell this state of sleep because his eyes start moving rapidly behind their lids and often his hands and feet start twitching.
    As soon as my master was in this state of sleep, I put my muzzle close to his ear and told him everything I had learnt. I spoke to him in clear English, as I am speaking to you now. When I had finished I told him twice more. Then I returned to my bed and went to sleep. This is a method I have often used to tell my master anything. As you will see, it always seems to work.
    I woke up before dawn to go fishing with your uncle. I