My wife had to take the dog to the vet, and she was already beginning to suspect shed made a colossal mistake. Now, instead of one hapless creature in our home, we had two
It all became glaringly obvious the day the kitten turned up. Well, turned up is putting it kindly we found him in a skip behind the local corner shop. Someone had just dumped the tiny thing there.
My wife popped out to put the rubbish out, only to carry back a new addition to the family. We named him Dodger from dodge, seeing as bad luck seemed to follow him like a shadow.
From the very start, he was a walking disaster. First, crouching on the kitchen table, he managed to plant his two front paws into a piping-hot bowl of tomato soup. While my wife tried to grab the wailing kitten, his back feet ended up planted right in a dish of clotted cream. And that was just the beginning
Dodger made a habit of getting himself into all sorts of scrapes. He sprained all four legs simply by hopping off the bed. Whenever he knocked a mug, a plate, or a vase from the table or sideboard, the thing would inevitably land square on his own head only because hed leapt straight into their path when jumping down.
If there was a salt cellar on the table, anyone sitting nearby would swiftly cover it with their palm, because they knew a Dodger-leap was imminent, and hed land right in the stuff.
He got zapped by the telly cord three times. Most cats dont survive that sort of luck, but some unseen guardian must have been watching over him, and the vet revived him each time.
Not once, but several times, he tried to drown himself in a mop bucket. Every time, my wife would fish him out, and after that, we never left a bucket unattended.
Even his jumps were unique: not once did he ever land where he was aiming. Corners, mirrors, the arm of the settee all targets for his endless tumbles.
You see where this is going.
My wife took him to a string of old ladies in the neighbourhood who claimed to rid unlucky pets of curses the lot of them laughed, took her money, and tried waving eggs over the poor cats head. But after Dodger smashed a tea set at each of their homes, he gained such a reputation that every wizard or wise woman flatly refused to see him.
After running out of ideas, my wife turned to a friend, who said she should get Dodger a mate or at least a little dog for company.
The suggestion thrilled my wife. So, for a fair sum of pounds, we brought home a peculiar-looking creature a chihuahua. To the delight of my wife and daughter, we called him Monty.
Why peculiar? Well, have you ever seen one of those things up close? Theyre a vague hint at what a dogs meant to be. And as for their bark if youd heard Monty youd understand: it was halfway between a cough and a yelp.
The truth of the situation dawned almost at once. You see, we lived in an old house, and we had a problem with mice. Not that Dodger was afraid far from it. He loved nothing better than watching mice, sometimes even giving chase in a half-hearted game. Hence the mousetraps.
One day, Monty the so-called dog ended up with his snout stuck in a trap.
Wife bundled up our whimpering dog, off to the vet again, and on the way was certain shed made a calamitous error. Now, instead of one unlucky pet, we had two.
Dodger promptly assumed a protective role over his new companion. The pair of them were inseparable, and, frankly, needed watching every second.
They ran foul of ants, wasps, and the bees from next door’s hive. The geese would nip at them, and the chickens would peck if given half a chance. In short, our lives became even more complicated.
But then, everything changed.
Each morning, Id nip out to the driveway mug of tea in hand and set off for work, the car parked right there by the front gate. There was always just enough space, and my routine was set: shut the gate, pop the keys in my pocket, and off I went.
Except one morning, after Dodger, as ever, toppled my tea and sent my toast skidding across the hallway floor, he did something odd. Instead of scuttling under the table, he dashed to the front door and parked himself firmly in my path.
I tried to nudge him aside, only for him to raise his back, swipe my hand with a claw, and glare at me.
You little rascal! I yelled. Not content with knocking over my tea and breakfast, now youre getting stroppy? Shift!
I gave him a gentle push with my foot, but then
Out from under the sofa flew Monty barking in his signature cough-like rasp and threw himself between me and Dodger, his skinny legs splayed and tiny teeth bared. Every inch of him screamed, Dont you dare touch my friend! Youll have to get through me first!
Things were getting ridiculous.
Come off it, you two! I protested. Im running late for work!
So I bounded upstairs to grab my wife. I need to leave but those two lunatics wont let me out the door!
What? Who?! she mumbled, still half asleep.
We headed down together, approaching our two miniature sentinels by the front door. Suddenly, from outside, there was a deafening crash.
We rushed out to find a milk lorry, brakes failed, had careened off the road and ploughed straight into our parked car, crushing it beyond recognition.
The mug fell from my hand. The lorry driver was whisked away in an ambulance, stricken by a heart attack such things just happen sometimes
*****
From that day on, Dodger and Monty would let me through, but Id always pause at the door and ask:
All clear out there, chaps? Anything I should know about?
Monty would bare his teeth and nod solemnly.
Do you think their lucks changed? Not in the slightest! Theyre still magnets for disaster, constantly embroiled in new misadventures. But now, no one looks to the sky bemoaning fate or counts the cost of broken crockery or ruined carpets.
Now, theyre carried about the house and smothered with kisses, wiped clean of soup and cream with the patience of saints. Monty has a smart new collar, and Dodger boasts scratching posts in every corner and a plush bed of his own.
Not that hell use it, mind you. He still much prefers to sleep at our feet on the bed, tumbling off with a thud in the night, yowling loud enough to wake the dead
Monty, ensconced in the pet bed, comes running at every nocturnal commotion, rasping out his odd cough of a bark and ready to defend his feline friend to the end.
Within half an hour, order is restored. Monty and Dodger are lifted onto the bed between us, safe and warm until dawn.
If youre wondering what the point of all this is, feel free to skip ahead. But it all boils down to love. Believe me, Monty and Dodger arent loved for their luck, for their neatness, or because they make life easier but simply because theyre themselves.
And that, Ive realised, is all the luck anyone could ever ask for.
