Blargy The Dog

There were good dogs and bad dogs, and Blargy was a good dog, Emma decided, as she secretly fed the hound underneath the table with the remains of her cold cheese on toast.

Blargy swallowed the greasy toast and wagged her tail. She was eight, entering respectable old age for a dog, and had a mellow disposition which nonetheless could be roused by anything suspicious. She was slightly over-fed like many family pets, used to being indulged whenever the plates were too full. Blargy often considered her good fortune, especially when she compared herself to children in the developing world whose daily calorific intake she far exceeded. In south-east asia, she mused, wagging her tail and moving out from under the table towards the open back door, she'd probably have been fed to the family by now.

Out in the back garden, she walked comfortably up the path towards the shed where the most interesting smells were. There was the trace of a fox up there, not marking scent, just passing through. She briefly squatted to re-assert her territory, then moved towards the small hole through which interlopers might pass. She rather enjoyed this connection with her wild ancestry, it provoked a raw response in her large, half-collie, half-labrador frame which brought her more alive.

Her delicate nose twitching, she smelled rats, mice, voles, squirrels, moths, woodlice, creosote, and something else dank and rotten in the air which she wanted to know more about. But that was the other side of the wooden fence, a place she had never been, but which her nose told her existed, the tunnel of leaves, old clothing and discarded plumbing which ran between the back-to-back gardens.