Best Friends
by Martin Westlake
part 1
When Archie would sit stock-still and gaze away into the middle distance, I called him ‘the philosopher.’ But I could never see what he was looking at. I wondered if it was more a sound he was listening to, though I never saw his ears twitch. Or perhaps a scent, and it’s true that the very tips of his nostrils were sometimes flared. His behaviour was so unlike any other dog I had ever owned or known that I wrote to the breeder and asked her if that was normal behaviour. She replied to reassure me that it was. ‘He’s just taking in the world,’ she said. ‘They all do that.’
Archie was a handsome flat-coated retriever. I knew the breed could be a handful, remaining puppyish for a long time — the so-called ‘Peter Pan’ of the dog world — but I knew also that they adored company and were very affectionate; and company and affection were what I was looking for.
As a puppy, Archie was great fun. Flat-coats are intelligent and mischievous dogs and their half-innocent, half-cheeky expressiveness can be very amusing. Despite the breed’s inbuilt anarchy, I soon had Archie responding to basic commands and, usually, a few loving words were reward enough for him.
What I hadn’t bargained for was his sheer size and energy. I’d only seen the breeding bitches at the kennels. The lady had warned me that the male dogs were a bit bigger. But Archie weighed in at just under forty kilos, and it took a lot of exercise to wear him out.
Obliging me to get regular exercise was another reason why I had bought Archie but, being already in my sixties, I couldn’t play with him in the way I knew he would have liked me to. Instead, I took him to the local park. There was a large compound, a scrubby, bare-earth, fenced-in space where dogs could be off the lead, and he got rid of a lot of energy that way.
At the weekends, though, I took him out into the countryside. I discovered several long circular walks where I could set him free, and we both enjoyed those outings a lot. I always parked the car in the same place, and then we’d set off, alternating routes. That part of the countryside was a mixture of potato, sugar beet, wheat and corn fields, rotated annually, interspersed with small coppices and woods where the hunters reared pheasant and partridge chicks.
Archie was at his happiest surfing through the young wheat or playing hide-and-seek amid the corn stalks. If we set off early enough, we met nobody else and had the world to ourselves. One of the walks took us right off the beaten track, through a field that for some reason was always left fallow and became a riot of grasses in the spring and summer. That field soon became our favourite, at least for a while.
It was during that particular circuit that Archie ‘philosophized’ the most. He would stop and sit and stare for minutes on end. At first, I used to humour him. What was it he could see or smell or hear? I followed his gaze or drew a virtual line from his nose, but I was never able to see or smell or hear anything other than spatters of hawthorn blossom, the local muck spreaders or the occasional mew of a buzzard soaring overhead. Finally, he would come to his senses, and we could move on.
Now and then, it got creepy. Once, when we were out much later than usual, the shadows were lengthening as we walked down the rough, muddy lane leading from the field, and Archie kept looking behind as though something were following us. But there was never anything there. The skin crawled in the hollow of my back, but I gave myself a shake, and we kept going. It was just my imagination, I told myself. I quickened my pace, all the same.
At times, I got a little impatient, but it was very difficult to get Archie to move on. Tugging almost forty kilos was ineffective, especially when he’d lie down and spread out his forelegs in a ‘U’ shape. Over time, I developed a technique of standing in front of him to block his view and then offering a tasty treat to distract him. That mostly worked, especially when accompanied by a few words of encouragement. All the same, I started to get exasperated by the long waits whilst he drank in the world.
Finally, I decided to drop that particular route to see if I couldn’t get him to forget about its enigmas for a while. But Archie would have none of it. He would always tug in the direction of the lane that led eventually to the fallow field. I found myself giving in for the quiet life.
I am, myself, a creature of habit and I had to admit that, philosophizing aside, we had a lot of fun on that walk. We’d plunge through the long grasses, occasionally setting off a hare, and then I’d have to chase after Archie as he raced after his unattainable prey. Perhaps it was the scent of the hares that enticed him.
Back home, after our long walks, Archie would wrap himself around the back of my office chair and sleep happily for most of the rest of the day. I’d take him out for a short walk in the late afternoon and again before I went to bed, and that was that. Since my job was online and desk-bound, the rhythm suited me well.
Whenever I grew tired of my work, I’d spin my chair around and give Archie a good tickle on the tummy or I’d scratch his ears. No matter how long I’d been staring at the screen, neglecting him, he was always ready to bring me his toy and give me as many affectionate licks as I’d let him. We made a great team, I thought to myself. He was just what I needed. A man’s best friend.
It was as the winter of our second year together drew on that things began to get a little out of hand. When we went on our country walks, a strange pattern started to develop. We’d go on our favourite circuit, and we’d get to the fallow field and that was that; Archie would block for ages. It was impossible to get him to move. He would always stare at the same place; an old hedgerow that ran across the bottom of the field.
None of the techniques I had developed would work. Nothing could distract him. I tried manhandling him, but he would flail about with his front paws and cleverly lever them against my legs, making it impossible for me to do anything. I tried spoiling him with slices of sausage, usually an irresistible draw, but he just wasn’t interested; all he wanted to do was sit and stare at the hedge.
Out of curiosity, I walked down to the hedge, leaving Archie at the top of the field; he simply wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The hedge was a straggling mess, and there were gaps in it. I peered through one of the gaps. All I could see was a riot of weeds and saplings. When I got back to Archie, he went through a ‘philosophizing’ phase for several minutes before consenting to move on.
These long halts might have been fine in the summer, but it was starting to get wet and cold. If it rained, I’d stand beneath dripping ash trees at the edge of the field, stamping my feet to keep the blood moving. Sometimes I’d get my phone out and catch up on some emails, but then my fingers would get cold.
And then, early one crisp, frosty Saturday, after I had let him off the lead, Archie suddenly sprang into action and ran down the field, his tail wagging. He stopped just short of the hedge and started to fawn about as though somebody or something were there. It was very strange. I watched as he dipped his shoulders and waggled his whole body. He gave a short joyful bark. Then he sat and lifted a paw, seemingly as I’d taught him, to shake hands. I stepped forward, squinting into the greenery. There was nothing there, absolutely nothing. He rolled onto his back — and this is what made me shiver — he cycled his back leg like he always did when I scratched his belly in the right spot. I got my phone out and filmed him.
After a while, he barked and sat and looked, as though the somebody or something was leaving, and then he ran back to me. I could see from his eyes and his lolling tongue and his general expression that he was happy. I, on the other hand, had mixed emotions. When a dog looks up at you joyfully, it is difficult not to be buoyed up. But what was it that was making him quite so joyful?
This Saturday mystery went on every weekend for over a month. Perhaps the grasses were giving off some kind of dog hallucinogen, I wondered. Or, more worryingly, could it be neurological? I spent some time on the internet, trawling for explanations. Something had to be creating the conditions for Archie’s fixation, or whatever it was. One Saturday, there was a change.
Copyright © 2023 by Martin Westlake
