You Scratch My Back, and I'll...
by James Blears
Although she was seven years old, she was a heavily built blonde, headstrong, and a right little madam, when the mood took her… which was often!
Initially a precocious extrovert at an even younger age, and cute with it, her tenderness and innocence had been replaced by introspection, frustration, and aggression. She had become shy of people, then wary, and finally dangerous.
It mostly stemmed from isolation, wrapped around a soul-destroying life of moping about with little to do, and even less to look forward to.
As her puppy fat disappeared, she acquired a lean, gaunt, world-weary, melancholy gait, which was intermittently punctuated by short bursts of fury.
Yet Freda craved love and affection.
I often used to stroke her face and head, through the wrought iron bars of the fence which separated our adjoining house from that of the neighbours’, where she existed.
She would greedily nuzzle my hand and gaze dreamily into my face, with her steady and trusting liquid-brown eyes.
As Spanish Mastiffs go, she had a poor, shambling physique. Her paws were splayed outwards, tipped with claws which were uncomfortably long and ragged. Her coat was dull, and her large teeth were prematurely yellowed. Her spine stuck out like an arrangement of smoothed pebbles, and her muzzle was already flecked with grey.
Her muscle tone was poor, because she was seldom taken on walks. Yet when she was, she used all her considerable strength to pull against a sturdy leather lead, so that her diminutive owner was invariably treated to a spurt of landfall water-skiing!
She spent so many of her days and nights alone, as they often went away on extended holidays, or for shorter breaks to their holiday home, two hours’ drive away. She’d only gone once with them, but never again, because she’d soiled the inside of their SUV.
Before we really got to know her, they would empty a bag of croquettes onto the tiled patio, on their way out. It did little good, because she would immediately gorge the lot, leaving her with a swollen belly and nothing for the following days.
When she did leave a little for a rainy day, often as not it would rain cats and dogs, so the food’s residue became a gooey mess, slopping around.
On longer absences, the stench from the accumulating piles of poo forced us to close the back windows, even on the most stifling days. Sometimes it was enough to make you retch!
My wife, who’d become quite friendly with her next-door neighbour, was easily slipping into the habit of nipping across for a coffee, or to borrow “a cup of sugar,” then nattering ten to the dozen.
They were going to throw a party, we were invited, and we accordingly took across some extra chairs to accommodate a sizeable and growing guest-list.
I quickly bored of the chatter, and it was equally apparent that they were more than tiring of my hovering, out-of-place presence.
“I think I’ll go into the back yard and introduce myself to Freda.”
The conspiratorial, steady, conversational hum momentarily cut, and stencilled eyebrows were raised.
But before meaningful protests could be mounted, I shut the dining-room door behind me, went into the utility room behind it, and advanced towards the plate-glass door. A huge face pressed against it, smudging the glass with slobber and piping-hot breath.
I felt a pang of apprehension as I saw her jaws working, but no snarls were emitted, so I took a deep breath, turned the key, and opened the door.
Her bulky enthusiasm almost bowled me over, while her whimpers of desire interlaced with short, staccato barks of joy were truly daunting and deafening.
She was appreciably taller and bulkier than she had appeared from the other side of the fence. Her head came above my hip, and I’m over six feet in height.
The black trousers of my suit were smeared with slobber and my previously pristine white shirt had a dirty, great big paw print in the chest area.
She calmed down a little, which is more than could be said for our German Shepherd and Labrador on the other side of the fence, who were going bananas with pure jealousy.
I placed my hand on the huge dome of her head, and her tongue hung out of her mouth waggishly.
Getting back into the house was a quest which was obviously well beyond me.
It would have been churlish to shout for help. And of course, she wasn’t prepared to allow the only prospect of a playmate to escape! I threw a ball for her. She didn’t budge an inch, looking into my face adoringly. I pointed to the distant yonder, pretending there were incoming hordes of airborne intruders ready to invade her territory. She stood her ground, tolerantly wagging her tail, not fooled for an instant by my utterly pathetic attempt at deception.
Finally, her attention was momentarily distracted by the aggravating tones of a colleague across the small valley, barking its heart out, and in desperation, I struck out for the fence, half-scaling it before she realised my craven desertion. She briefly howled her disapproving dismay at my perceived betrayal, in a wolf-like baritone. But she had forgiven me some time later, when I returned with a morsel and a pat.
This time, it seemed they were packing for a prolonged trip, cramming suitcases into the boot. Boxes of toys - some for children - were cluttering the windows of their road warrior, which had been shampooed, polished, and buffed to a glossy gleam.
Freda was slumped disconsolately in the backyard, staring listlessly towards a far horizon.
But treats for her lay ahead. I had impetuously volunteered to be her mentor, skivvy, and guardian in their absence. An offer which was snapped up with alacrity.
I’d convinced myself that the food-drop, poop-scoop, and getaway through the slamming garden gate could be deftly and daily achieved. And often as not, her ravenous hunger overcame her vigilance. I was usually in and out in a jiffy.
But taking her for a walk was simply out of the question. When he tied her to the front fence whilst he hosed down his motorbike with a high-powered jet, she barked herself hoarse, snarling and straining every sinew to get at passers-by, intent on tearing them limb from limb. They scurried past like scalded cats as she strained, baring her teeth. There was only a stout and taut piece of leather holding her back.
One day, I was running late. It was a Saturday, I was on my way to the gym, and the afternoon was drawing to a close. If I didn’t hurry up, the basking steam of the showers would be reduced to a tepid trickle, the sauna controls would register a room-temperature zero, and tired staff would be harrying patrons because they were determined to wend their way home.
I was dressed in a pair of shiny Manchester United shorts and a non-descript, off-white, thin singlet.
It had been almost a week since they had left. I was now augmenting the dwindling food-supply they’d left with our own, and she was enjoying its higher quality and variety.
With nothing else to look forward to apart from my daily visits, which were now the highlight of her day, it was getting considerably harder to dodge her and escape back home.
Over-eager to rush through the routine, which she was becoming wise to, I was just too animated. So, she, in her turn, entered into the spirit of urgency by matching it with boundless enthusiasm.
As she jumped up and lunged, I instinctively turned my back, remembering those untended claws, which then painfully raked my back.
I dropped the plastic bag of food, which scattered, and she turned her attention to its contents, leaving my escape route clear. The poops could wait until later.
As I drove like a demon incarnate to the club, I felt my back stinging. I could feel hot welts surfing along my skin.
I rushed through my program of exercises in a vain and foolish attempt to catch up, although I was never going to reel in lost time.
Several ancient, big-bellied patrons lolled around the changing-room like basking sharks as I peeled off my sweaty clothes and tripped along to the showers, steam-bath, and sauna.
The sauna was the obvious option, as they often forgot to switch it off long after they cut the steam in the vapour, so I opened the door with a jerk. A pale, shapeless, middle-aged man was sprawled over the slats like a rare joint of undercooked, Argentinian beef.
His pallid rolls of fat glistened with beads of sweat and his face was flushed crimson. I inwardly rejoiced, thinking that he couldn’t possibly stand much more of the brickbat slap of heat which greeted me as I’d walked in. But I’d underestimated his powers of heat-endurance and lonesome thirst for conversation.
As I turned my back to climb onto a higher shelf, he let out a gleeful whoop and a low whistle of admiration.
“Which wildcat did that to you?”
The vulgar welter of his laughter nettled me considerably, and even more so the physical discomfort I was currently suffering. My mistake, and it was a considerable one, was descending to his vulgar level by entering into the poor spirit of a banter-exchange.
I did try to measure my response in cool, casual, measured terms, but I think it came out a trifle terse and prissy:
“Which wildcat lady did that to you, sonny?” he repeated.
I sarcastically replied: “A gentleman never talks about that sort of thing… but I would suggest she behaved like a real animal!”
It was now too late, because I’d been drawn into a witty, wink wink, nudge nudge routine. But the vanity of smug one-upmanship had made it irresistible.
“Does the Missus know about all this?” he chortled. “I’m presuming YOUR missus is not capable of this sort of passion!”
The anger rising in me was checked by the fact that he was at least a head taller than me, and a good, paunchy thirty pounds heavier - the possessor of brutish strength when manhandling weights. I’d seen it with my own eyes. So, I parried:
“Oh yes, and she doesn’t mind a bit! Doesn’t see her as real competition.”
My off-the-cuff rebuff was rewarded with another churning and insensitive guffaw. But then he alarmed me by sidling up in a most conspiratorial way. He was so close, I could smell his body odour and unbrushed teeth.
“What’s she look like?” he sneered.
I thought carefully before replying, “Well, she’s large and tall and well-built.”
He smacked his lips succulently, and his eyes grew acquisitively wider.
“What nationality is she? Is she foreign?”
“I believe that she’s Spanish in origin, but her colouring is blonde.”
“They’re a passionate lot, and no doubting it. Where does she live?”
I was beginning to enjoy myself, and in doing so, I let my big, stupid mouth run away with me.
“Oh, she lives with our next-door neighbours.”
“What’s her name?”
“Freda!”
By now, the heat was beginning to get to me, and I wanted to draw things to a close.
“Look, I really don’t think she’d be your cup of tea at all. She’s not all that hygienic and she tends to bite and scratch an awful lot.”
Even though the effect of the joke was one-dimensional and one-way, I was still deliciously savouring it.
He leered.
“Well, I might just get spruced up, one of these fine days, and come and introduce myself to your fine, young lady! I’ve got quite a lot of time on my hands lately, since my divorce went through.”
I just couldn’t resist it, and departed, grinningly suggesting, “Be my guest!”
The next day, the neighbours were still not back, and I fed Freda early. The poo was smeared all over the place, so I cleaned the patio with soap and bucket-loads of fresh water.
I’d taken a brush to comb the burrs out of her coat, so she could look her best for their return (whenever that might be…)
She licked my hand affectionately as I pulled matted tufts of dead hair out of the brush’s spokes. How could I blame her for her clumsy show of affection, which had left me with no need of a backscratcher for the rest of my life?
My wife and I bundled the children into the car. We were going to see her parents and wouldn’t be back until dark. But my chores were over, and I was looking forward to a pile of sandwiches, some civilised conversation, and perhaps a game of football with the kids in their spacious back garden before we headed home.
All was right with the world. My stomach was full, my wife was glowing in the company of her parents, the kids were happy playing video games, and the sun was still shining outside.
Admittedly, their elderly Jack Russell could be a bit tetchy. But at the moment, it was comfortably curled up in its basket in an alcove, well out of sight and mind.
We arrived home considerably later than I’d hoped. My wife had lingered chatting to her mother, and I’d resisted the impulse to ruin a lovely day out with obtuse, ill-placed impatience.
As we drew up to the house, flashing lights blinked insistently, harshly punctuating the velvet darkness. Two police cars and an ambulance were splayed outside our neighbours’ house. The doors of the ambulance were ajar, and I thought I could make out the bulky shape of a familiar body underneath a heavily bloodstained sheet.
A hand on my shoulder made me almost jump out of my skin.
The policeman’s face was ashen white and drawn.
“It’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen! He was literally ripped apart - the poor, drunken sod.”
My heart was thudding ten to the dozen. My mouth was open and so dry, I couldn’t find any words.
He paused for breath and wiped his glistening forehead before conspiratorially continuing:
“You’ll never believe it! He climbed the fence and was trying to get into the house when the dog got him. People even heard him calling her name!!!” He performed a credible imitation, which might have made me smile or even laugh in different, less tragic circumstances:
“'Freda darling… I’m here!’ Can you bloody believe it?”
“What’s happened to the dog?” I heard myself whispering.
The policeman met my eyes with a sharp, rebuking stare and incredulity, as if he could hardly believe his ears, and with spirit, he retorted: “We had to shoot it, of course! No alternative. It was stark, raving mad! We couldn’t get close to the body, which it was standing over. It would have savaged the lot of us as well! Oh, and by the way, while I’m thinking of it, someone was saying HE was a friend of yours?”
My heart missed a beat! I was frozen in horror and the realisation of the havoc that just a few foolish, jokey, casual words had caused.
He pointed to the back of the ambulance, shuddered, and slowly shook his head.
“Un-bloody-believable! It never ceases to amaze me what some people will do when they’ve had a few! Eh?”
Initially a precocious extrovert at an even younger age, and cute with it, her tenderness and innocence had been replaced by introspection, frustration, and aggression. She had become shy of people, then wary, and finally dangerous.
It mostly stemmed from isolation, wrapped around a soul-destroying life of moping about with little to do, and even less to look forward to.
As her puppy fat disappeared, she acquired a lean, gaunt, world-weary, melancholy gait, which was intermittently punctuated by short bursts of fury.
Yet Freda craved love and affection.
I often used to stroke her face and head, through the wrought iron bars of the fence which separated our adjoining house from that of the neighbours’, where she existed.
She would greedily nuzzle my hand and gaze dreamily into my face, with her steady and trusting liquid-brown eyes.
As Spanish Mastiffs go, she had a poor, shambling physique. Her paws were splayed outwards, tipped with claws which were uncomfortably long and ragged. Her coat was dull, and her large teeth were prematurely yellowed. Her spine stuck out like an arrangement of smoothed pebbles, and her muzzle was already flecked with grey.
Her muscle tone was poor, because she was seldom taken on walks. Yet when she was, she used all her considerable strength to pull against a sturdy leather lead, so that her diminutive owner was invariably treated to a spurt of landfall water-skiing!
She spent so many of her days and nights alone, as they often went away on extended holidays, or for shorter breaks to their holiday home, two hours’ drive away. She’d only gone once with them, but never again, because she’d soiled the inside of their SUV.
Before we really got to know her, they would empty a bag of croquettes onto the tiled patio, on their way out. It did little good, because she would immediately gorge the lot, leaving her with a swollen belly and nothing for the following days.
When she did leave a little for a rainy day, often as not it would rain cats and dogs, so the food’s residue became a gooey mess, slopping around.
On longer absences, the stench from the accumulating piles of poo forced us to close the back windows, even on the most stifling days. Sometimes it was enough to make you retch!
My wife, who’d become quite friendly with her next-door neighbour, was easily slipping into the habit of nipping across for a coffee, or to borrow “a cup of sugar,” then nattering ten to the dozen.
They were going to throw a party, we were invited, and we accordingly took across some extra chairs to accommodate a sizeable and growing guest-list.
I quickly bored of the chatter, and it was equally apparent that they were more than tiring of my hovering, out-of-place presence.
“I think I’ll go into the back yard and introduce myself to Freda.”
The conspiratorial, steady, conversational hum momentarily cut, and stencilled eyebrows were raised.
But before meaningful protests could be mounted, I shut the dining-room door behind me, went into the utility room behind it, and advanced towards the plate-glass door. A huge face pressed against it, smudging the glass with slobber and piping-hot breath.
I felt a pang of apprehension as I saw her jaws working, but no snarls were emitted, so I took a deep breath, turned the key, and opened the door.
Her bulky enthusiasm almost bowled me over, while her whimpers of desire interlaced with short, staccato barks of joy were truly daunting and deafening.
She was appreciably taller and bulkier than she had appeared from the other side of the fence. Her head came above my hip, and I’m over six feet in height.
The black trousers of my suit were smeared with slobber and my previously pristine white shirt had a dirty, great big paw print in the chest area.
She calmed down a little, which is more than could be said for our German Shepherd and Labrador on the other side of the fence, who were going bananas with pure jealousy.
I placed my hand on the huge dome of her head, and her tongue hung out of her mouth waggishly.
Getting back into the house was a quest which was obviously well beyond me.
It would have been churlish to shout for help. And of course, she wasn’t prepared to allow the only prospect of a playmate to escape! I threw a ball for her. She didn’t budge an inch, looking into my face adoringly. I pointed to the distant yonder, pretending there were incoming hordes of airborne intruders ready to invade her territory. She stood her ground, tolerantly wagging her tail, not fooled for an instant by my utterly pathetic attempt at deception.
Finally, her attention was momentarily distracted by the aggravating tones of a colleague across the small valley, barking its heart out, and in desperation, I struck out for the fence, half-scaling it before she realised my craven desertion. She briefly howled her disapproving dismay at my perceived betrayal, in a wolf-like baritone. But she had forgiven me some time later, when I returned with a morsel and a pat.
This time, it seemed they were packing for a prolonged trip, cramming suitcases into the boot. Boxes of toys - some for children - were cluttering the windows of their road warrior, which had been shampooed, polished, and buffed to a glossy gleam.
Freda was slumped disconsolately in the backyard, staring listlessly towards a far horizon.
But treats for her lay ahead. I had impetuously volunteered to be her mentor, skivvy, and guardian in their absence. An offer which was snapped up with alacrity.
I’d convinced myself that the food-drop, poop-scoop, and getaway through the slamming garden gate could be deftly and daily achieved. And often as not, her ravenous hunger overcame her vigilance. I was usually in and out in a jiffy.
But taking her for a walk was simply out of the question. When he tied her to the front fence whilst he hosed down his motorbike with a high-powered jet, she barked herself hoarse, snarling and straining every sinew to get at passers-by, intent on tearing them limb from limb. They scurried past like scalded cats as she strained, baring her teeth. There was only a stout and taut piece of leather holding her back.
One day, I was running late. It was a Saturday, I was on my way to the gym, and the afternoon was drawing to a close. If I didn’t hurry up, the basking steam of the showers would be reduced to a tepid trickle, the sauna controls would register a room-temperature zero, and tired staff would be harrying patrons because they were determined to wend their way home.
I was dressed in a pair of shiny Manchester United shorts and a non-descript, off-white, thin singlet.
It had been almost a week since they had left. I was now augmenting the dwindling food-supply they’d left with our own, and she was enjoying its higher quality and variety.
With nothing else to look forward to apart from my daily visits, which were now the highlight of her day, it was getting considerably harder to dodge her and escape back home.
Over-eager to rush through the routine, which she was becoming wise to, I was just too animated. So, she, in her turn, entered into the spirit of urgency by matching it with boundless enthusiasm.
As she jumped up and lunged, I instinctively turned my back, remembering those untended claws, which then painfully raked my back.
I dropped the plastic bag of food, which scattered, and she turned her attention to its contents, leaving my escape route clear. The poops could wait until later.
As I drove like a demon incarnate to the club, I felt my back stinging. I could feel hot welts surfing along my skin.
I rushed through my program of exercises in a vain and foolish attempt to catch up, although I was never going to reel in lost time.
Several ancient, big-bellied patrons lolled around the changing-room like basking sharks as I peeled off my sweaty clothes and tripped along to the showers, steam-bath, and sauna.
The sauna was the obvious option, as they often forgot to switch it off long after they cut the steam in the vapour, so I opened the door with a jerk. A pale, shapeless, middle-aged man was sprawled over the slats like a rare joint of undercooked, Argentinian beef.
His pallid rolls of fat glistened with beads of sweat and his face was flushed crimson. I inwardly rejoiced, thinking that he couldn’t possibly stand much more of the brickbat slap of heat which greeted me as I’d walked in. But I’d underestimated his powers of heat-endurance and lonesome thirst for conversation.
As I turned my back to climb onto a higher shelf, he let out a gleeful whoop and a low whistle of admiration.
“Which wildcat did that to you?”
The vulgar welter of his laughter nettled me considerably, and even more so the physical discomfort I was currently suffering. My mistake, and it was a considerable one, was descending to his vulgar level by entering into the poor spirit of a banter-exchange.
I did try to measure my response in cool, casual, measured terms, but I think it came out a trifle terse and prissy:
“Which wildcat lady did that to you, sonny?” he repeated.
I sarcastically replied: “A gentleman never talks about that sort of thing… but I would suggest she behaved like a real animal!”
It was now too late, because I’d been drawn into a witty, wink wink, nudge nudge routine. But the vanity of smug one-upmanship had made it irresistible.
“Does the Missus know about all this?” he chortled. “I’m presuming YOUR missus is not capable of this sort of passion!”
The anger rising in me was checked by the fact that he was at least a head taller than me, and a good, paunchy thirty pounds heavier - the possessor of brutish strength when manhandling weights. I’d seen it with my own eyes. So, I parried:
“Oh yes, and she doesn’t mind a bit! Doesn’t see her as real competition.”
My off-the-cuff rebuff was rewarded with another churning and insensitive guffaw. But then he alarmed me by sidling up in a most conspiratorial way. He was so close, I could smell his body odour and unbrushed teeth.
“What’s she look like?” he sneered.
I thought carefully before replying, “Well, she’s large and tall and well-built.”
He smacked his lips succulently, and his eyes grew acquisitively wider.
“What nationality is she? Is she foreign?”
“I believe that she’s Spanish in origin, but her colouring is blonde.”
“They’re a passionate lot, and no doubting it. Where does she live?”
I was beginning to enjoy myself, and in doing so, I let my big, stupid mouth run away with me.
“Oh, she lives with our next-door neighbours.”
“What’s her name?”
“Freda!”
By now, the heat was beginning to get to me, and I wanted to draw things to a close.
“Look, I really don’t think she’d be your cup of tea at all. She’s not all that hygienic and she tends to bite and scratch an awful lot.”
Even though the effect of the joke was one-dimensional and one-way, I was still deliciously savouring it.
He leered.
“Well, I might just get spruced up, one of these fine days, and come and introduce myself to your fine, young lady! I’ve got quite a lot of time on my hands lately, since my divorce went through.”
I just couldn’t resist it, and departed, grinningly suggesting, “Be my guest!”
The next day, the neighbours were still not back, and I fed Freda early. The poo was smeared all over the place, so I cleaned the patio with soap and bucket-loads of fresh water.
I’d taken a brush to comb the burrs out of her coat, so she could look her best for their return (whenever that might be…)
She licked my hand affectionately as I pulled matted tufts of dead hair out of the brush’s spokes. How could I blame her for her clumsy show of affection, which had left me with no need of a backscratcher for the rest of my life?
My wife and I bundled the children into the car. We were going to see her parents and wouldn’t be back until dark. But my chores were over, and I was looking forward to a pile of sandwiches, some civilised conversation, and perhaps a game of football with the kids in their spacious back garden before we headed home.
All was right with the world. My stomach was full, my wife was glowing in the company of her parents, the kids were happy playing video games, and the sun was still shining outside.
Admittedly, their elderly Jack Russell could be a bit tetchy. But at the moment, it was comfortably curled up in its basket in an alcove, well out of sight and mind.
We arrived home considerably later than I’d hoped. My wife had lingered chatting to her mother, and I’d resisted the impulse to ruin a lovely day out with obtuse, ill-placed impatience.
As we drew up to the house, flashing lights blinked insistently, harshly punctuating the velvet darkness. Two police cars and an ambulance were splayed outside our neighbours’ house. The doors of the ambulance were ajar, and I thought I could make out the bulky shape of a familiar body underneath a heavily bloodstained sheet.
A hand on my shoulder made me almost jump out of my skin.
The policeman’s face was ashen white and drawn.
“It’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen! He was literally ripped apart - the poor, drunken sod.”
My heart was thudding ten to the dozen. My mouth was open and so dry, I couldn’t find any words.
He paused for breath and wiped his glistening forehead before conspiratorially continuing:
“You’ll never believe it! He climbed the fence and was trying to get into the house when the dog got him. People even heard him calling her name!!!” He performed a credible imitation, which might have made me smile or even laugh in different, less tragic circumstances:
“'Freda darling… I’m here!’ Can you bloody believe it?”
“What’s happened to the dog?” I heard myself whispering.
The policeman met my eyes with a sharp, rebuking stare and incredulity, as if he could hardly believe his ears, and with spirit, he retorted: “We had to shoot it, of course! No alternative. It was stark, raving mad! We couldn’t get close to the body, which it was standing over. It would have savaged the lot of us as well! Oh, and by the way, while I’m thinking of it, someone was saying HE was a friend of yours?”
My heart missed a beat! I was frozen in horror and the realisation of the havoc that just a few foolish, jokey, casual words had caused.
He pointed to the back of the ambulance, shuddered, and slowly shook his head.
“Un-bloody-believable! It never ceases to amaze me what some people will do when they’ve had a few! Eh?”