Friend Toby.

    As promised, I have submitted an small  excerpt from my second story in my new book Butchers Creek.
 It is a story of our little dog Toby.  Toby passed away about one year ago.
        

Friend Toby

Sitting on the dry grass along the banks of that small stream, he had been about to collect water in an old battered tin, intending to boil a couple of duck eggs; he had collected earlier in the day. 

            With a dry stick of willow, he dabbled in the water.  A little way up stream, bobbing in the shallow water, a dirty waterlogged bag, caught his eye.  It was with idle curiosity, he watched the bag drift on the gentle rippling waters, swirling that sodden sack slowly in the direction of the bank.  A tiny movement, as if something struggled briefly, attracted Peter’s attention.  Struck with a sudden interest to retrieve that bag, he clambered to the waters edge.  Stopping the bag with his stick, he lay it up on the grassy bank, where, with thick stubby fingers, he untied the knotted twine wound around the opening.

            Pulling his sleeve up he reached inside, gently lifting out a small cold ball of soggy hair.  A tiny little dog, maybe a month or two old lay in his dirty palm.  ‘What callous person,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘would let this little pup die such a death?             Again he reached into the sodden bag; once more he retrieved a small body.  Both little dogs had passed away; cruelly drowned in that cold water. ‘How many more,’ he whispered, thrusting his hand into the bag.            

            Retrieving a third and last one of those little dogs, a lump rose in Peter’s throat.  Only when this soggy ball of hair, lying in the palm of his hand moved slightly, did Peter realize that this little dog had only survived by the skin of its teeth.

            Gently, with his forefinger, he stroked that small dog along the length of his stubby nose.  ‘C’mon little fella,” he whispered, “lets see if we can get you warm again.”      

             Gently, he massaged the small chest in an attempt to drive any water from the dog’s lungs.  He was rewarded with the sound of a feeble cough, and a dribble of fluid came from the dog’s mouth.  He smiled, putting his mouth over the little dog’s nose; he softly blew into its tiny lungs.  Again he was rewarded with a tiny noise, as the pup spewed up water and sucked in air.  

             Peter removed his battered old bowler hat, exposing several long strands of graying hair, pasted with sweat to his otherwise bald head.      Many times, he had told those who cared to listen, how he came by that special hat. 

            “You know, I can never, for the life of me remember his name,” he would say, “Prime Minister so and so, he was one of the best this country ever had, he gave me this hat.  You know, we were just like this.”  He said, crossing his fingers, indicating how close he and the Minister were.  True or otherwise, it certainly made for a good story and helped pass the time of day between old friends. 

            Placing the small inert form inside the sweat stained hat, he covered it with a torn and discoloured rag, a portion of which he frequently used as a handkerchief.

Crooning, he rocked the small body.  Perhaps it was the warm sickly smell of stale sweat and grime in the hat that gave the pup strength to live. 

Eyes glistening, Peter gazed into that hat.

            Small brown soulful eyes twinkled back at him.  A single tear trickled down Peter’s leathery cheek, a wrinkly crevasse guiding it on its sluggish journey, to where it disappeared into the mass of food stained whiskers.

“What are we going to call you, little fella, aye?”  Peter talked away to his new found friend.  “Toby sounds like a good name for a little boy.”    Laughing, after he had turned several names over in his mind.  “Yeah, I think we’ll call you Toby, what do you think about that, eh?”