Sad, Bad, and Barking Mad.

This is the chapter in my book where Horace meets his future friend and bodyguard. He is an accountant on the run from 1960s London Gangsters and a bungling cop who needs to show his superiors that he is not the idiot they know him to be. The book can be bought from Amazon. 'Sad, Bad and Barking Mad.'

 Kilgore the scrap yard dog lay in his tea-chest kennel in the old rope factory courtyard.  His tormentor and archenemy Mogsie the feral cat slept peacefully on the south side of the tiled roof basking in the spring sunshine.  Once the sun had circled around to the west and cast a shadow on the roof, it would be time to have some fun with the dog.

  Mogsie stretched, yawned, strolled down the roof and onto the pan tiled wall that surrounded the courtyard where Conan Murphy and son stored their scrap metal and army surplus machinery.  The tormenting feline loped along the seven-foot high wall like a leopard on the limb of a tree.  He arrived at the point opposite Kilgore’s kennel where he sat tantalisingly meowing, watching the dogs ears twitch, then his massive black nose did likewise, as he awakened, sniffing the air for a scent to match the noise that had disturbed his peace.  The cat stared with a look of contempt in his yellow eyes.  He knew that because he was high up on a wall his scent would waft upwards and out of the dogs scent range.  Kilgore opened one eye; –the blue one on the right, the one on the left was brown, - he could see the cat but decided not to go after it straight away.  He had often tried that, and learned the futility of the manoeuvre.  No, He would wait; let the cat get too confident.  Then he would make it regret the two years of torment that he had gone through at the cats hands; well his paws actually.

            The cat confidently jumped down from the wall, with head and tail in the air he strolled across the yard, making sure that he stayed just out of range of the big dog’s jaws.  Kilgore waited until the temptation became unbearable.  The cat had gone down on his belly; with his ears forward in hunting mode, he crawled closer to the t-chest; but still not near enough for Kilgore to reach him.  He stood up, arched his back and spat a challenge.

            Not for the first time, Kilgore’s temper got the better of him.  He answered with a growl, then dashed out from his t-chest, lunged at the cat, snapped his large jaws together and only tasted thin air.  With the agility of a grasshopper, Mogsie sprang into the air and onto the t-chest.  Kilgore wondered where he had gone to; he soon found out when the cat jumped onto his back.  Kilgore bucked like a rodeo horse, but Mogsie hung on with his claws deep in the dog’s flanks.  The pain seared through Kilgore’s body like a thousand knives.  He decided to roll onto his back to try to crush the howling cat beneath his massive bulk.  Mogsie knew what would be the dog’s next move so he had already bailed out and had run back up onto the pan-tiled wall.  Kilgore ran barking and growling after him.  Jumping up and down like an acrobat on a trampoline, he tried to grab the cat by the head.  Every time his head arrived level with the cat, a paw armed with needle sharp claws tapped him on the nose, first a left then a right he hit the target every time like Mohammad Ally the alley cat scored hit after hit.  The dog gave in tired and exhausted.  He retired to his kennel cursing the moggie and swearing vengeance one day.  Mogsie jumped down onto the cobbled street outside the yard and strolled away towards the fish docks and his fish offal dinner.

            Conan Murphy senior unlocked the old rope factory gates.  Conan Murphy junior called the dog’s name,

            ‘Kilgore,’

He called in an unusually soft voice.  The dog became confused.

            ‘Kilgore my handsome lad where are you?’

The dog was more confused.  He crawled back further into the back of his tea chest.  Murphy senior turned to Horace.

            ‘The little devil he’s hiding from us.  Perhaps he is behind that old army truck.  Come on sir we’ll take a look,’

He beckoned Horace towards the truck.  Murphy junior took his chance to pick up an iron bar whilst Horace had his back to him.  He crept over to Kilgore’s tea chest and smacked the bar down on top of the makeshift kennel.  Kilgore’s massive head appeared slowly, he ventured out furtively.  His hypnotic light blue eye and soft brown eye darted around in their sockets as he watched for any sign of the cat.

            Horace looked round; the dog looked at Horace with its head tilted to one side.  Horace scratched at his black Beatle wig.  The dog raised his tan coloured eyebrows.  Horace raised his ginger eyebrows.  In astonishment he said,

            ‘By Jove you were right, He is a mixture.  One ear looks like it belongs on a Labrador the other on an Alsatian.  His eyes are different colours and look at the size of the brute.  He must be at least four feet at the shoulder,’

            ‘Oh yes I can see you know your dog’s sir.  Go on take him he is yours,’

            Horace hesitated for a moment.

            Kilgore’s father was the product of many generations of unscrupulous breeders.  His ancestry on his father’s side went back as far as Viking war dogs crossed with Irish wolfhounds.  Then they introduced Bullmastiffs into his genes.  War dogs became redundant due to modern warfare, so gamekeepers employed by feudal landowners took them on as poacher fighting dogs, subsequently they introduced scent hounds in order to help hunt down the offending poachers and tear them to pieces.  Poachers realised how valuable these dogs could be as allies so they introduced dog-fighting bullterriers into the breed by walking passed the gamekeepers cottages with on heat bull terrier bitches.  Their offspring would fight any dog to the death and sort the gamekeeper out at the same time.  Latterly, a more law-abiding community introduced Alsatians for their intelligence, making it easier to teach them to hold a felon at bay without tearing in and ripping their throats out before their handlers arrived on the scene.  His mother was an afghan hound crossed with a greyhound for stamina as well as speed crossed with a Bedlington terrier for a bit more killer instinct and finally a border collie for intelligence.

            No one; wanted a litter of puppies from such a pairing; especially not the Romany gypsies, who owned both dogs.  However, the two animals had different thoughts.  All that was on his father’s mind was to have a good shag with the on heat skinny bitch that lived at the next caravan.  Whilst the latter needed to satisfy her flaming heated desire for a shag with whatever randy dog should happen to come along.  Come along he did; in the form of Thor the dog of thunder balls.

            This resulted in Kilgore’s birth to Molly the lurcher beneath a Romany caravan.  He had not seen his mother for two years; not since the day that someone lured him into a tea-chest by throwing a large piece of raw beef into the back of it; then they nailed the lid down and transported him to his present location.  For the last two years, he had lived in the tea chest, a refuge from the heat in the summer and the cold in the winter.

            Con Murphy senior interrupted Horace’s thoughts,

            ‘A big fine animal sure enough; he’s a bit of a throw back.  Don’t you think?’

            ‘A throw back, by Jove?  I’ll say he is and he’s picked up a few other breeds as he rebounded along on his way back to wherever his ancestry started out from,’ Horace retorted. 

            ‘Are, yes sir, but I can see that he likes you sure enough…  Look at the loving way he is gazing at you,’

            Kilgore really had taken a liking to Horace.  If the latter had been able to read the dogs mind, he would have known the reason.  Although they say that dogs only see colours in monochrome, the shape and dark colour of Horace’s black wig, against his lightly coloured ginger eyebrows and sideburns were the nearest Kilgore had seen to his mother’s black and tan head.  If that was not enough to remind the dog of happier times, Horace’s sharp features, brown eyes and pale city dwellers face, matching with that of his mother’s thin long nosed white face and brown eyes did the trick.  The dog’s dreams of being safely home with his mum had not come true, but to Kilgore the distant happy memories came flooding back.

            Horace relaxed, as the dog’s body language confirmed Con seniors’ opinion.  Kilgore tilted his head to one side again, eyed Horace up and down, Horace smiled; the sight of his large teeth confirmed it.  Horace Tims was indeed a kindred spirit of some sort.  The dog’s tail wagged so much that it spun around in circles.  He galloped towards Horace; before the Murphy’s could stop him his front paws were on Horace’s shoulders, Horace fell onto his back and the dogs soggy wet tongue slapped around his face and ears taking care to pay special attention to the latter in the same way that his mother had done when she nursed him.

            The two Cons slipped a rope into Kilgore’s broad leather studded colour and heaved him off towards the old army truck, where they secured him by tying the rope to the tow bar.  Kilgore snapped and snarled at the two Irishmen; his lifelong tormentors who were used to dodging his teeth, they were out of teeth snapping range long before the dog realised that they had tied him securely to the tow hook.

            Horace scrambled back onto his feet straightened his wig, brushed the dust from his grey beetle suit and turned to leave, wiping his wet face and ears with his handkerchief as he went.  The two Murphy’s were not going to let him go without Kilgore though.  They untied his towrope from the tow bar.  Kilgore ran after his new friend.  As the dog preferred to be in the lead, he headed towards the open gates in front of Horace.

            ‘Don’t let him through those gates sir.  He is not used to the traffic…  Grab hold of his rope,’

 Con junior shouted.  The rope trailed passed Horace, so he did as Con junior asked.  However, he could not halt the dog.  Kilgore had decided to make a break for freedom.  He ran off through the gates with Horace in tow.  Murphy senior and junior slammed the gates together behind them, spat on their palms and shook hands gleefully.

Don't forget that if you  like this chapter the book can be bought from Amazon