A dog’s sixth sense – Rest Less

Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.

Yesterday, as I had an early appointment, I did a street walk with the sausages. Though perhaps a bit boring, it’s good for them as they are still quite reactive to traffic and people coming towards or behind them. I’m aware that the more they do it, the better they’ll be, as long as they feel safe and secure, so I keep reassuring them. Much as I hate it from a pain perspective, I also recognise that it’s good for me, too, so we all benefit.

We were all quite relaxed, and I was pootling along with them when I noticed a man coming towards us, though there was nothing remarkable about him. As he got closer, he smiled and greeted me with a cheery good morning and then stopped.

Willow immediately started to bark (which is not unusual), but this was combined with noticeably unusual behaviour even for her. She literally shrank back, making herself as small as possible behind my legs. Her tail was right between her legs, her hackles were up, and she was peering up at him, barking aggressively. This is something she never does, being a timid but very friendly little dog.

At the same time, Bear, these days totally laid-back and always friendly, began a throaty growl, baring his teeth, moving backwards, too, so that he put himself between me, Willow and this man. I was genuinely shocked, and my first thought was: What do they know about this person that I don’t?

The man came up short, also reacting to their behaviour and stepping back, saying, “Oh, I just wanted to say hello, I love Dachshunds!”

I smiled wanly and said, apologetically, “Sorry, they’re rescues!” before quickly moving past him, Willow leading the way, anxious to run. Interestingly, Bear, as well as moving forward with us, continued growling and kept stopping and looking back behind us to see where this man had gone. The man himself just kept on walking, but both dogs were obviously anxious, and their behaviour was so out of character that it was clear something was very wrong.

Many years ago, with my first Dachshund, Henry, I moved into a housing association flat on the first floor of a small block. The housing association had recently taken over the flats and, while pets had previously been prohibited, the new management was keen to try it. As the first pet on the block, both Henry and I had been interviewed. We were lucky because Henry was the perfect candidate. Quiet, very friendly, obedient and, frankly, the easiest dog in the world who, way before it was considered normal, came to work with me every day, meaning he had his own references.

I was teaching at a middle school, and I had asked for unpaid leave when Henry needed an operation to remove his dew claws. The Head, reluctant to lose me, asked me if he was the sort of dog who could come in with me. I laughed as he absolutely was. If asked to stay in his bed, he wouldn’t move for love nor money (or biscuits), and he was the calmest, kindest and friendliest dog in the whole world.

We agreed that Henry would come to work with me, and one of the parents lent me a pushchair to transport him to and from, so that he wouldn’t need to walk.

Once his stitches were out, I left him at home as usual. At about 7:45 in the morning, the Head popped his head around my classroom door with a: “Henry, look what I’ve got for you!” When I explained that he was at home, the stitches having been removed on the Friday, the Headteacher said, almost affronted, “I don’t care, go and get him immediately, he’s part of our family now and we need him here!”

That was the beginning of a three-year contract where Henry came to school with me every day, never on a lead and was a vital part of helping the children in our care, and it was during this time that I moved home. The Headteacher had written him a reference and they were quite impressed by him, so interview successful, we moved in.

We’d been living there about three months when one morning during half-term the doorbell rang. Henry would always give two deep woofs, come to the door with me, tail going 19 to the dozen but silent. I shut him in the sitting room and went to open the front door.

There was a man, probably in his early 40s, casually but smartly dressed. As he spoke, Henry unusually started to bark from behind the door. The man showed me a housing association ID card and told me that they were replacing some windows in the ground-floor flats. He said that he wanted to check the windows in all the flats, so that any necessary repairs could all be done at the same time.

Inviting him in, I opened the sitting room door, saying, “Don’t worry about the dog; he’s friendly…” as Henry flew at him, growling and barking. I was deeply shocked as the man was clearly afraid and backed off. In spite of my shouting ‘No!’, Henry kept going, avoiding my trying to grab his collar as this man backed off down the hall, with Henry attached to his trouser leg growling and shaking him. I was appalled, apologising profusely as the man frantically escaped, saying: “I’ll come back another time when you’ve got that dog under control!”

I couldn’t believe it and felt awful, remonstrating with a now-calm Dachshund who just looked at me, tail wagging! Worried about the Housing association’s new ‘pet’ policy, I telephoned their office to apologise again and try to rearrange an appointment when I would ensure his usual exemplary behaviour. The housing officer listened to me and then asked me a lot of questions, finishing with: “Is the man still there?”

I said I thought he was, as he’d gone upstairs. She told me to close my front door and wait in my flat, saying someone was coming, before hanging up abruptly. Totally confused, within minutes, I heard sirens and three police cars (those were the days) came screeching up. From my window, I watched as officers ran into the building. Seconds later, my doorbell went. Worried by recent behaviours, I shut Henry in the bathroom (though he was his usual ‘waggy’ self) and opened the door to the police.

To cut a long story short, the man who knocked on my door was a conman who, having gained access to various flats in the area posing as a housing officer, had robbed them, intimidated them and then sexually assaulted the often elderly residents. All the victims were female and there had been a recent spate of attacks.

As it turned out, the housing officer I’d spoken to only the day before had been in touch with the police about four women in another block, all victims of an attack. Still on the premises, the police managed to catch this wanted man inside the flat of one of my elderly neighbours upstairs.

Henry, always the friendliest of doglets, had known that this man was a threat and knew what I had not, when I let that man into my home. He was rewarded with a box of Bonio biscuits from the police officer who took my statement, and the housing association gave him a certificate for bravery and a tin of dog biscuits, labelling him a ‘hero’. I’ve never been more proud.

Since that first incident, I have learned to always trust my dog’s instincts, and I’ve had three truly remarkable incidents with different dogs where I categorically know that my dogs have shielded me from harm and dangerous men. They have that sixth sense we don’t have and will protect us, at risk to themselves.

I always say to people, “Learn to read dog!” It will always stand you in good stead, for a whole host of reasons, this being one of them.

Of course, I’m sorry if this man yesterday was harmless, but Willow and Bear clearly didn’t think he was, and, at risk of an over-reaction, I’m listening to them!

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