Fluke by James Herbert Page B

Page 37
    by.
    He got himself, and often me, into some fine old scrapes, other dogs sensing our difference and ganging up on us. I suffered as a pup, but it certainly toughened me up. I learned to run a lot faster too. The funny thing was, Rumbo could have been leader of the pack easily, for he was strong as well as smart, a good combination for the dog world; but he was essentially a loner, he went where he wanted to go, unhampered by thoughts of others. I'm still not sure why he took up with me; I can only suppose he recognised our mutual freakishness.
    He was a Romeo, too. He loved the ladies, did Rumbo, and there again, size or breed meant nothing to him. He would disappear for days, returning with a tired but smug grin on his face. When I asked where he'd been, he always said he'd tell me when I was old enough to know.
    I always knew when he would be off, for a strangely exciting smell would suddenly fill the air and Rumbo would stiffen, sniff, and bolt out of the yard - with me vainly trying to follow. It would be a bitch in heat of course, somewhere in the neighbourhood, possibly a couple of miles away, but I was too young to know about such things. So I'd wait patiently for his return, moping around until he did, angry at being left behind. Still, Rumbo was always pretty easy to live with for the next few days.
    Another great pastime of his was rat-catching. God, how he hated rats, that Rumbo! There were never many in the yard, he made sure of that, but occasionally the odd two or three would make a reconnoitre, looking for a fresh supply of food, I suppose, or perhaps a new breeding ground. Rumbo would always know when they were about, he had a sixth sense for it. His hairs would bristle and his lips curl back revealing yellow fan-like teeth, and he'd snarl a deep menacing animal snarl. It would frighten the life out of me. Then he'd creep forward, taking his time, and he'd mooch through the old junks, oblivious of me, a hunter stalking his prey, a killer closing in on his kill. At first, I'd stay in the background, the vile creatures terrifying me with their evil looks and their foul language, but eventually Rumbo's hate passed on to me, turning my fear into revulsion then detestation. Detestation led to anger, and anger overcame my nervousness. So we'd rout the rats together.
    Mind you, they were brave, some of those rats, loathsome as they were. The sight of nice juicy puppy flesh may have had something to do with their fearlessness, and in those early days my life was often in jeopardy, and it's thanks to Rumbo that I'm still in one piece today. (Of course, he soon realised what wonderful rat-bait he possessed, and it wasn't long before he'd coaxed me into acting as such.) As the months went on, my meat became more stringy - thin I think you'd call me, despite our scavenging - and my legs longer, my jaws and teeth stronger. The rats no longer regarded me as dinner but as diner and treated me with much more respect.
    We never really ate them. We'd tear them to pieces, we'd break their bones - but their flesh just wasn't to our taste, no matter how hungry we felt at the time.
    Rumbo loved to taunt them when he had them cornered. They'd hiss and curse at him, threaten him, bare their cruel teeth, but he would only sneer, taunt them all the more. He would advance slowly, his eyes never leaving theirs, and the rats would back away, bunch up their hindquarters, their bodies tensed for the leap forward. They'd make their move and Rumbo would make his. Dog and rat would meet in midair and the ensuing fight would be almost too frenzied to follow with the eye. The outcome was always inevitable: a high-pitched squeal, a stiff-haired body flying through the air, and Rumbo pouncing triumphantly on his broken-necked opponent as it landed in a nerve-twitching heap. Meanwhile, I was left to deal with any of the unfortunate vermin's companions, and this I learned to do almost as ably - but never with quite as much relish — as