THE LIFE OF RILEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND

Chapter Sixteen: A Boy and his Dog

Every boy should have a dog at least once in his life, girls too, for that matter, because the joy they bring will last them a lifetime. We had a dog, we called him Spike, naturally, and he was the best dog in the whole world. I claimed him as my dog, Mike claimed him as his, and Dad referred to him as the "mutt", as in the well-known phrase: "Get that bloody mutt out of here!"

He was a cross between a Cairn Terrier and an Irish Sheepdog, so we were told, and he was beautiful. He had long golden-brown hair and a whitish belly, that is, when he wasn't playing in the mud, and he stood about three hands high, or up to my knees, which ever was the greater. The trouble was, his hair was so long that unless the wind was in the right direction you couldn't tell which of him was the front and which was the back. Occasionally, we would have to get the scissors out and give him a trim at both ends so that we could be sure which end to feed him.

Apart from his physical appearance though, he was indeed a wonder dog. We'd wonder where the heck he had got to, we'd wonder how he got himself so dirty...but seriously, he really was a great dog. It is not likely he would have won any show awards, but to me he was the Champion of Champions.

I would take him for walks along the canal, sometimes he would take me, and we would have the time of our lives. I would tell him to sit and wait and would walk away up the canal until I was almost out of sight. There he would stay, a tiny, loyal speck in the distance, waiting intently for the command to come. I would whistle just once and he would spring into action, galloping towards me as fast as he could, all legs and flying tail and hair streaking behind him.

Sometimes we would go hunting for rabbits on the marshland, but we never did catch one. I don't think either of us would have known what to do with it if we had. But it was fun trying.

On one occasion we were sitting on the side of a small hill beside the marshland discussing amongst other things the prevailing political situation and how the governmental changes would affect the economy. Between us and the marsh there was a wire fence with posts planted every few yards and it was on the bottom wire where my feet were resting. Along came a black-and-white cow to join in the conversation. Spike was not amused by this rude interruption and began to show his displeasure. "How dare you come barging in like that!" he barked.

The cow for a moment was taken aback by all this. "What's all the fuss about, then?" she mooed at him. "I only wanted to hear what you had to say about the Prime Minister, for Heaven's sake!"

"Why don't you push off?" Spike continued. "This is a private conversation!"

Well, the situation was getting out of hand. Fancy two people talking to each other that way! I took hold of Spike and held him on my lap the better to control him and chastise him if any foul language were used.

The cow came forward and poked its snout through the fence-wires, sniffed huffily and said: "Now, look here, young man, you've no right to speak to me like that!"

Spike, by now, was livid. He began to lose his temper and started yapping in a most disgraceful manner.

The cow took a step backwards then lunged forward straight at Spike. "Take that!" she said, as she charged right into him. Unfortunately, I was behind him and I too copped the full force of the blow. Now, if you have never been in a situation like this, I can tell you the strength and power of a cow is awesome. I was pushed back so hard into the embankment that I left my imprint. Archaeologists, should they discover this human shape in the hillock a century from now, will scratch their heads and wonder what kind of prehistoric man once lay there.

Spike yelped and dashed off to higher ground to consider the folly of his behaviour. I lay on the side of the embankment with the wind knocked out of me. "Thanks very much, Spike!" I said, as I tried to catch my breath. "Next time, don't involve me in your arguments, okay?"

But we were great pals really. Nothing could affect our affection for each other. Day in and day out we would roam around the island together, fossicking here, grubbing there, searching for adventure under every rock. We'd talk to the horses, or watch the shrimp boats chug up and down the river, or feed the swans in the canal. It was amazing the number of things we liked doing together. Everything I liked doing he liked doing also, everywhere I wanted to go he would want to go too. It was all terribly convenient.

He was the only dog actually residing on the island and guarded his territory jealously. It was the biggest territory in all Doggidom, but Spike was up to it. Any intruder who came sniffing around, large or small, he would send them packing and wishing they'd never set paw on the wretched place. In Dogland he was a bit of a loner, something of a rebel when all was said and done. He was a bit like Dad in some ways: great with the women, but a tyrant with the men.

His mother was a beautiful lady named Stanner who herself came from a mixed family and looked nothing at all like Spike. His father had slinked away on the first train out of town after the consummation and was never seen again in those parts. When Stanner gave birth she increased her family by nine or ten in one night.

Dad was not amused. He asked us which one we wanted, and, no, we couldn't keep all of them, and we picked Spike. The rest he placed into an old hessian sack together with a few house-bricks and consigned them all to the bottom of the canal. We watched in dumb silence as this sentence was carried out. Dad never turned a hair.

Six months or so later, when Spike was able to take care of himself, Stanner suffered the same fate. The look on her face as she was placed in the sack was enough to tell you she knew what was about to happen. Why have you betrayed me? she asked with her sad, accusing eyes. What is it that I have done to have you treat me this way?

On that day I learned what pain really meant. Dad was steadfast in his explanation: "We can't keep two bloody dogs, yer know. Yer think money grows on trees?" He threw the sack into the canal and it sank immediately. Having completed his business he walked away without further comment as Mike and I looked down at the spot where the sack had disappeared. A few bubbles signified the end of dear old Stanner.

Fortunately, life does go on. Even in the most tragic circumstances, especially when you are young, it seems that Nature uses time to heal the wounds. You can never forget, all you can do is cope.

With the cruel demise of his mother, Spike and I became closer. I would protect him, he would protect me. It was the same, I'm sure, with Mike. Although he never said much about Stanner's ghastly departure, it was obvious that he had suffered too.

As Spike grew, he became selective in his choice of humans. Mike and I were always his favourites, of course, and he did allow other people to pet him. But he remained loyal to us. If anyone else were to give him orders he would look at them with contempt and ignore them completely from then onwards.

One of his favourite pastimes was chasing after coal-poachers at night-time. He was extremely cunning. He would wait until the thieves had loaded the filled sacks on their shoulders and then dash at them and sink his teeth into their ankles. What a commotion he would cause as their shouts of pain and foul curses shattered the calm night air. We would watch from our bedrooms and laugh our little heads off at the night-burglars, until Dad came up and threatened to get the leather strap out.

But they were to get the last laugh; at least that was how it appeared to us when what happened soon after took place. Spike didn't come home one night. We searched all over the island but there was no sign of him. At daybreak we resumed the search but he was nowhere to be found. What a state we both were in. Where could he have got to? All day long we scoured the island calling out his name and giving our special whistle, but he never came. On the third day I found him. He was lying down in the ruins of a building about a hundred yards from the house and looking in a terrible state. Patches of his hair had fallen out, his eyes seemed to be popping out of his head, and his mouth was all scabrous and slathering. I ran to him to pick him up and he gave out a feeble growl. He's been poisoned! I thought to myself.

I ran home as fast as I could to get Dad. "Dad, Dad, Spike's been poisoned!" I shouted, as soon as I got inside. "Can we get a doctor for him?"

Dad came out and followed me to the spot where Spike was. He took one look at him and turned back to the house. "Stay here with him." he commanded, and walked away from me. I sat with Spike and tried to comfort him, talking gently to him as Dad went back to the house. "Dad's going to phone for the doctor, Spike," I told him. "We'll soon get you well again."

In a few minutes Dad emerged from the house and began to walk towards me with his hands behind his back. "When's the doctor coming, Dad?" I shouted, as he approached. He did not answer me. At last he came up next to me and from behind him he produced a hessian sack.

"No! No, Dad! Don't drown him!" I screamed. "Dad! Dad! Please!" I continued, trying desperately to drag him away.

"Out of the way, yer silly bugger," he shouted at me, and pushed me to one side. I threw a brick at him and hit him on his back, he turned round and lashed out with his foot. "Wait till I get you home, yer little bugger!" he shouted at me. But I was beyond caring about what would happen to me.

He placed Spike in the sack and added a few house-bricks and carted him off to the edge of the canal. "No, no, don't do it, Dad! I'll look after him," I cried, but he would not listen to me. He threw the sack into the canal, it floated for a couple of seconds, as if he was saying goodbye to me, then sank to the bottom, as the bubbles came to the surface. Spike was no more.

The death of the pups was a tragedy, the loss of Stanner shattered my confidence, Spike's death broke my heart. I could take the lean times, the meagre rations; I could take the beatings; even the countless humiliations; but this was something I couldn't take. From that moment on my father was the devil. No matter what he did to me, no matter how many times he beat me, he could never hurt me again.

I must say this, even after all the tragic events caused by my father, to have a dog is a wonderful thing. The good memories I have of Spike will never be erased. He was a wonderful dog, he was my friend, he was the best.

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