Mo: The Talking Dog

CHAPTER 1 – SOMEONE IS BEING BORN

LATE JULY

IT WASN'T EASY BEING BORN. There was lots of squeezing which, frankly, he could do without. Then the soothing noise and security of warm liquid vanished in a whoosh, replaced by a shivering emptiness. Something large and soft enveloped him, moving up and down. He opened his tiny mouth but no sound came out. 

He felt himself lifted up then placed down next to something big and warm that he instinctively knew was his source of food and comfort. 

As he guzzled he became aware of another furry body next to him also feeding. Good.

SEPTEMBER

‘He’s done it again Mum,’ groaned Martin as he dumped his schoolbag on the kitchen table. 

  Diana Ashton looked up from the letter she was writing and tried not to smile. ‘I’m guessing you mean Dad?’

  Martin pulled a face. ‘Yeah. I love him most of the time – but not in public.’ He went to the fridge and yanked out a carton of juice. 

  Diana grinned. ‘That’s OK, you’re nearly a teenager, you are supposed to be embarrassed by your parents. What’s he done now?’

  ‘He came to watch me at football,’ said Martin, taking a swig of his drink. 

  Diana quizzed her eyebrows at Martin. ‘Doesn’t sound too bad.’

  ‘I haven’t finished. He came to watch me at football and spent the whole time pestering Chelsea’s Dad about his stupid idea.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure Chelsea’s father is used to being knobbled like that,’ said Diana.

  Chelsea was one of Martin’s school friends from junior school, the only one to move up to the senior school with him. Her father was the local MP. 

  ‘It’s all part of being a politician,’ Diana continued. She smiled. ‘Dad’s like a pit bull when he gets a good idea isn’t he?’

  ‘A good idea!’

  ‘Well, it might turn out to be.’

  ‘Oh come on Mum, he’ll never get permission to do it,’ protested Martin. Then a horrific thought struck him, ‘What if he doesn’t wait and goes ahead with it anyway? I’d never live it down.’

  ‘Don’t panic. He’s never done anything illegal before.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, I don’t think so, anyway.’ 

  Diana laughed at her son’s appalled expression before assuring him that she was joking. She hoped. 

  Martin went into the box-like room off the hall that the family rather optimistically called the study. No studying ever got done there. It housed a computer, an old telephone, a battered piano, some extra dining chairs (precariously stacked) that were only used at Christmas, and every veterinary magazine Martin’s father had ever bought. They sat in wobbly piles of differing heights, taking up most of the floor space. Martin stepped over a smallish stack and flopped down onto the comfortable old chair at the computer desk. 

He picked up the telephone handset and stabbed in Chelsea’s number, ready to apologise for his father’s behaviour. It was something he often felt he had to do.

  He caught sight of his reflection in the black computer screen and realised he was scowling. Well, he had reason to. Someone had once told him he looked handsome when he smiled. As if he cared. Still, he unfurrowed his brow and let his mouth turn up at the corners just a little. 

  Chelsea answered on the third ring. ‘Hi Martin.’

  Martin was startled. ‘How did you know it was me?’

  ‘Technology,’ said Chelsea.

  Martin laughed, noticing from his reflection that his scowl had completely disappeared now he was talking to Chelsea. 

  He apologised about his Dad.

  ‘It’s alright Mart,’ said Chelsea. ‘My Dad can take care of himself. He said it was quite interesting, actually. Something about a voice box?’

  ‘You wouldn’t think it was interesting if it was the only thing you had heard him talk about for years.’

  Chelsea wanted to know more.

  Martin sighed and started to explain. ‘Dad got the idea when he inherited Mimic from a patient.’ 

  ‘Mimic’s lovely,’ said Chelsea. ‘I’d never met a parrot until I came to your house the first time.’

  ‘He’s lovely for a few hours,’ said Martin. ‘After that you get a bit sick of his constant chattering.’

  Chelsea clucked. ‘Oh you’re just mean.’

  Martin relented. ‘He’s OK. It’s just that Dad has always wanted to give a dog a voice box like a parrot - it’s called a sphinx or something … no, syrinx. He reckons dogs are clever enough to make real conversation, not just copying words, which is what Mimic does … all the time.’

  ‘He doesn’t talk ALL the time,’ said Chelsea.

  ‘That’s true. He doesn’t talk when he’s eating,’ admitted Martin. ‘He’s a bit better than he used to be. He watches TV and gives us a break now and again. When we got him we spent ages teaching him new words. We spent days teaching him to say his name, then weeks teaching him to stop saying it every 5 seconds.’

  Chelsea laughed. Martin was telling her more Mimic stories when she interrupted, asking, ‘What’s that noise?’

  He listened. It was a tinny song, coming from somewhere in the study. ‘Sounds like Dad’s mobile, I’d better find it and take it over to the surgery.’

  After he hung up he searched the room but couldn’t find the ‘phone. The ringing had stopped, which made it harder. Eventually he called his mum and she joined in the hunt. 

  ‘Are you sure it was Dad’s mobile and not a fault on the telephone line?’ Diana asked from underneath the computer desk.

  ‘Yeah, positive,’ confirmed Martin from behind the curtains. ‘Who else would have ‘Who Let The Dogs Out?’ as their ringtone?’

  ‘True, but it doesn’t seem to be here.’ She crawled out and scanned the room, then clapped herself on the head. ‘What is the matter with us? Why haven’t we tried ringing it?!’

Martin groaned, wishing he had thought of that. He picked up the telephone handset. ‘What’s the number?’

Diana started confidently: ’0771 – er, something, something, something 921.’

‘Great, you so nearly had it,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll put the computer on, it will probably be in there somewhere.’

It was. They dialled it and listened. ‘Who Let The Dogs Out?’ buzzed out from the corner of the room. Picking their way across the magazines, Martin and Diana eventually found the mobile inside one of them. 

On the cover was a photo of a cow, gazing with pleasant dumbness at the camera. Across its chest was a headline, ‘Modified tissue trials successful.’

‘Sounds fascinating … not!’ said Martin. 

Diana picked up the magazine. ‘Isn’t this what Dad wants to do? He said growing modified tissue was the answer to his dog voice box thing.’

‘Yes,’ said Martin. ‘It’s worrying that they’re trying it with cows. What are they going to say?!’

Diana laughed. ‘I don’t think they are growing voice boxes for cows – it’s just Dad who wants to do that.’

Martin stood up. ‘I’ll take the mobile over to the surgery.’ 

He arrived in the surgery puffing, having run the half-mile across the field behind their house. Carol, the receptionist, was on the ‘phone so Martin waited, looking at his father’s patients. 

There were only two. One was a fat white cat, which was hissing through the metal mesh of its basket at the other patient, a huge grinning dog. 

The cat’s owner, a smartly dressed man, tried to hush his pet - he probably knew how flimsy the basket was and didn’t want the dog provoked into trying to break in. He smiled at the dog’s owner, an elderly man with a hearing aid. 

The sudden ping of a bell made everyone turn towards the opening door.

A stocky man stepped in, his belly a wobbling roll hanging over the top of his jeans. He hesitated at the entrance, glaring at the assembled company. Finally he jerked his head at Carol and called, slightly louder than necessary: ‘I want to put a card up. That alright is it?’

Martin noticed that Carol smiled her professional smile – the one that meant she didn’t really want to be pleasant but thought she should.

‘By all means, Mr … er, I don’t think we know you do we?’

The man looked annoyed. ‘I don’t suppose you remember everyone.’ 

He didn’t give his name, but strode over to the reception desk and thrust a hand-written index card at Carol. ‘It’s just to advertise my dog’s pups.’

Carol put on her glacier smile again. ‘Oh that’s fine. Do you have the mother? Is she well?’

‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘she’s fine. She didn’t need the vet.’ 

Frowning at Martin and the waiting customers, the man rammed his hands into his pockets and headed to the door. 

  Martin watched him climb into a small blue van. Seconds later a plume of smoke billowed out of the exhaust and the engine over-revved. When the van had pulled out of the car park, Martin looked at the card the man had left.

PUPPIES FOR SALE.

MAKE EXCELLENT, BIG GUARD DOGS. READY NOW.

  This was followed by a ‘phone number. Martin looked at Carol. Her mouth was set into a grim line and her usually happy eyes were clouded. 

  ‘Not a reputable breeder then?’ he asked.

  ‘No. We know all the breeders in this area and he isn’t one of them. Poor puppies.’ She pinned the card up on the noticeboard. 

‘Should we be advertising them?’ Martin asked.

‘We usually do with this sort of thing – in the hope they go to good homes,’ said Carol. ‘If breeders like him can’t find homes for puppies they don’t look after them lovingly.’

Martin understood.

  The doorbell pinged again.

  ‘Sorry I’m late Carol,’ said the wild-haired man who rushed in. ‘I was watching my son play football and then got caught up in rush-hour traffic.’

  ‘Your son didn’t,’ said Carol, returning to her desk. ‘Maybe you should ditch the car and take up running.’

  Henry Ashton looked bewildered until he looked past her and realised Martin was there. He grinned with surprise. ‘You didn’t say you were coming here. What’s up?’

  Martin pulled the mobile out of his pocket – scattering a flurry of crumbs and sweet wrappers, which the dog pounced on – and waved it at his Dad. ‘I thought you might need this.’

  Henry smiled and thanked him. ‘I probably will.’

  Martin turned to go but Carol stopped him. ‘Martin, while you’re here would you have a look my computer? It’s gone slow.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said. He enjoyed fiddling with computers, it made him feel he was good at something.

  Carol shifted over to give Martin room and spoke to Henry, ‘Mr Jessop with Troy is first. It’s OK, he hasn’t been waiting long.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Henry. He turned to smile at the two animal owners. ‘Which of you is Mr Jessop?’

  There was no response, but the younger man gave a slight shake of his head. Henry went over to the older man and spoke more loudly: ‘ARE YOU MR JESSOP?’

  ‘I am,’ said the elderly man, standing up and twisting a dial in his hearing aid. 

  They shook hands as Henry kept up the volume. ‘GOOD AFTERNOON. IS THIS TROY?’

  The man winced and twiddled his hearing aid again. He looked at Henry with a slightly scared expression.

  ‘Hello?’ said Henry in a normal voice.

  The man beamed. ‘Hello! New hearing aid, I’m having a bit of trouble getting used to it.’

  Henry smiled. ‘I’m Henry Ashton, dog-fixer.’ He stooped to shake paws with Troy. ‘A Dogue de Bordeaux! We don’t see many of your breed. You’re a beauty.’

Mr Jessop looked delighted, as did Troy. Henry led them both past the big reception desk and into the surgery. 

Martin clicked around on the computer and quickly realised there was little wrong with it that a clean-up and de-frag wouldn’t fix. ‘It’s nothing serious Carol. I’ve started cleaning it up, I’ll set it de-fragmenting before I go, that should sort it out.’

  ‘Oh, thanks Martin,’ said Carol. ‘The one in the surgery has gone really slow. Could that need de-thingeying as well?’

  Martin smiled and nodded. ‘Yep, a de-thingey should sort it out. I’ll get it started while I’m here.’

  The waiting room was starting to fill up with an assortment of animals - dogs, cats, rabbits, and a fat white hen. It was a beauty, with a collar of black feathers and a large red comb flopping over its head. It ignored the dogs but eyed the cats with interest. 

  ‘Why are hens always interested in cats Carol?’ asked Martin.

  ‘They are, aren’t they? I think it’s their eyes. They’re shiny, they must look peckable.’

  The hen’s owner smiled. ‘I think that’s true,’ she said. ‘Bunty will peck anything shiny. I don’t know why though, hen food isn’t shiny!’

  Martin went over to meet Bunty. She peered at him with her head on one side. He obviously looked better sideways. She let him stroke her wing feathers but fiddled around with them afterwards, putting them back where she wanted them. Martin laughed. 

  Only a few minutes passed before the surgery door opened. Mr Jessop and Troy emerged, both looking relieved. Henry handed Troy’s notes to the receptionist. ‘No charge Carol, Troy just needed a lump checking out. It’s nothing serious.’ 

  Mr Jessop pumped Henry’s hand up and down gratefully. 

  Carol shook her head, smiling. Henry had a soft spot for old people and never charged them if he could get away with it. She handed him a new set of notes. ‘Mr Prower and Wil for a booster.’

  The cat’s owner stood at the mention of his name. Picking up his cat basket, he joined Henry in the