One Dog and His Boy

17 Honey on the Hill

Mick had told them the quickest way out of Todcaster. They had walked steadily along quiet streets, which turned into country lanes as they came closer to the moors. Li-Chee had started off very full of himself. He had been a small dog before but now, shorn of his golden pelt, he was a very small dog indeed, not much bigger than a well-fed rat. Inside, though, he was a lion, and when Pippa tried to carry him part of the way, he yelped with outrage. But after a few hours everybody needed a rest. Now they were leaning against a low stone wall, and around them were fields and low hills. A curlew called, a soft wind blew. Mick had managed to find some bread and butter for them and a few biscuits which they shared with the dogs.

“I don’t know why he did all this for us,” said Hal. “I hope I get a chance to repay him some day.”

“You could do it by going on being his friend,” said Pippa – and Hal looked at her, surprised. He hadn’t been brought up to think that friendship was enough. You had to give people something solid: a present or money. But of course Pippa was right.

They were thinking of moving on when they heard a piercing whistle from the hill behind them. The dogs pricked up their ears, as they did at any sound, and flopped down again.

Except for Honey. One minute Honey was beside them. The next second she had jumped the wall – and was gone.

Old Selby the shepherd had come out of his cottage in a gloomy mood. His back ached, his knees were stiff, but that wasn’t what was making him feel wretched. His niece had found a place where he could spend the rest of his life in comfort: a room in a block of flats called Rosewood, built as sheltered housing in the town. Rooms like that were hard to find and she had showed him round proudly.

“See how warm it is,” she said, pointing to the radiators. “And there’s a warden here all the time. If you want anything you just have to press the bell.”

It was very kind of his niece, but when he thought of Rosewood his blood ran cold. He had not found it warm but unbearably stuffy. The people looking out of their rooms to give him a friendly greeting as he went down the corridor made him feel stifled, and out of the window you could see nothing but houses and still more houses.

Selby had been a shepherd on these hills for fifty years. He’d lived in the same stone cottage, run the same breed of sheep, woken each day to the sound of birdsong and the soughing of the wind. But old age had overtaken him, as it had overtaken his dog, Billy. Billy had been one of the best sheepdogs in the country but now he limped and wheezed when he had to run fast.

Well, it was no good fighting against what had to be. His niece was right. He couldn’t really manage any longer. He’d have to sell the flock and find a home for Billy, and with luck both he and the dog wouldn’t last too long.

Meanwhile, the sheep had to be gathered from the hill and brought down into the fold for dipping. The dog had done it a thousand times, and now he waited, ready for the command. He would go on till his lungs burst, but Selby knew how much it cost him.

Selby fetched his crook and sent him off. Billy ran up to the flock and lay down behind the sheep. He was panting pathetically but he waited, ready as always to do his job.

Old Selby put his fingers to his mouth and whistled, the sign that Billy was to start the gathering. The sheep were widely scattered today, and as obstinate as only sheep can be and they knew that Billy was no longer the threat he had once been. He began to round them up, but a couple of ewes broke away and went off to the left. The dog chivvied them back but now the rest of the flock was separating again. One old ewe, a thoroughly bad-tempered animal, had begun to graze.

Old Selby, watching, shook his head. It was no good hoping. He was too old to train another dog. There was no escaping Rosewood.

But now, when Selby was feeling so wretched, there was worse to come. A honey-coloured blur streaked up the hill and headed straight for the flock. A fox? No, a stray dog. A sheep worrier as likely as not.

“Blasted townies, letting their dogs off the lead,” he grumbled.

He began to struggle up the hill, waving his stick, knowing there was nothing he could do if the dog was a killer.

Then he stopped dead and stared.

The new dog had come round behind the unruly flock in a wide run and now, head low, totally concentrating – sometimes darting left or right to check breakaways – she was gathering the animals into a tight bunch. Then she dropped down behind them, ears pricked, with Billy at her side.

She was waiting for instructions. A trained dog? Was it possible?

Half wondering if he was dreaming, Selby whistled again, giving the signal to start the fetch.

And slowly, expertly, the unknown dog began to move the flock down the hill towards the fold. Any stragglers were immediately brought back. She seemed to know what the sheep were going to do before they knew it themselves. She could run like the wind when it was needful, but there was no hassling, no snapping at their heels. With Billy helping as best he could, she sent them steadily to where they needed to be.

For Honey, as she worked, the miserable months she had spent at Easy Pets fell away. It all came back to her – how to anticipate the movements of the flock, how to prevent trouble… She could feel the wind blowing through her coat. Her eyes shone. She could have run like this forever.

Within minutes the sheep were streaming like a white river into the fold, and Selby moved forward to close the gate.

“That’ll do,” he said to both the dogs, and Honey, who had flopped down beside him, looked up, her plumed tail waving, for she remembered those words from her former life, and knew what they meant. That the job was over, and had been done well.

Ten minutes later Selby sat in his kitchen, drinking a cup of tea. Honey was lying on the hearth rug beside Billy, who had made room for her, and as he looked at her, Old Selby allowed himself to dream.

What if it really was a miracle? What if this wonder dog had come to save him and his flock? With a dog like that he could last another five years, and then they’d know what they could do with Rosewood.

He was interrupted by a knock at the door and he opened it to find a small girl, breathless and looking very worried.

“I’m sorry to bother you but you haven’t seen a dog – a rough collie, white and black and sable? She just took off and vanished when she heard a whistle.”

Selby let her in and pointed to the rug.

“I thought it was too good to be true,” he said as Honey got to her feet, tail wagging, and came to greet Pippa. “You know she’s a proper sheepdog, don’t you? One of the best. You should have seen her on the hill.”

“Yes, I know. She was trained somewhere not far from here but the man who owned her had to sell his farm. She was bought by a family with small children who teased her and—”

Pippa broke off. She had nearly been stupid enough to mention Easy Pets.

Honey was still welcoming Pippa, rubbing her nose against Pippa’s legs. It was Pippa who had set her free. She remembered the other dogs, she remembered the journey they were taking.

But then she ran back to Selby, and looked up at him. Here was her true master; it was here that she could do her real work and be herself. And she sat down between Selby and Pippa, in a moment of confusion and despair.

Old Selby bent down and pulled her ears. He knew he could keep her. If he said “sit” she would sit. If he said “stay” she would stay, and she would do this till the day she died.

Pippa was silent, remembering Francine. Honey would have to choose, but was it fair to make her? She was a different kind of dog. There had been a girl in Pippa’s class whose parents had decided to get divorced. The girl had managed all right till she was asked to choose which of her parents she wanted to live with, and after that she had simply fallen apart.

If it was so hard for a person to decide, could one ask it of a dog?

In the end it was old Selby who did the choosing. He had never taken another person’s dog, and he would not do so now, but the next moments were the hardest he could remember.

He raised his stick and spoke to Honey.

“Go on. Be off with you,” he said in his gruffest voice. “Get out of here.”

Honey whined, and looked up at him and licked his hand, but his stick was still raised, and slowly, very slowly, looking back over her shoulder, she followed Pippa out of the door.

Selby stood on his porch and watched them go. Miracles occurred all right, but not, it seemed, for him. His eyes were watering, and angrily he wiped them with his sleeve.

“Blasted wind,” he muttered.

Then he turned back into the house, and went to phone his niece.