The Incredible Journey

All too soon it was obvious that he was fast losing ground, and the effects of his inadequate diet were beginning to show in his endurance. He was on his back with the collie on top, ready to give the final slash, when the old dog took over. Up to now he had merely been an interested spectator, taking a keen interest from a professional point of view, for a good fight is meat and drink to a bull terrier. Now a look of pure, unholy joy appeared in the blackcurrant eyes, and he tensed his stocky, close-knit body, timing his spring with a mastery born of long practice. A white, compact bundle of fighting art shot like a steel projectile to the collie’s throat. The impact knocked the black dog over as though he were a feather; the ecstatic bull terrier tightened his grip on the sinewy throat under him and began to shake his head; out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the Labrador was on his feet again. But the terrier’s teeth were blunt nowadays, and with a tremendous effort the collie threw him off. The old dog’s feet had barely touched the ground before he sprang again for that terrible throat grip, springing as if the years had dropped away and he were back in his fighting prime. Once more he brought the collie down, this time taking a firmer grip on the throat, shaking his powerful head until the dog below him was choking and strangling. The collie made a desperate, convulsive effort and rolled over, the silent white leech still hanging from his throat. He struggled to his feet: the terrier released his hold and walked away, his back turned arrogantly but his eyes slewed slyly in his flat head so that he looked almost reptilian. The collie stood shakily, blood dripping from his throat, awaiting the protection of his master. Normally he was a courageous dog, but he had never before encountered anything like these vicious, silent onslaughts.

The Labrador would have called it a day and left now, but the terrier was enjoying himself and still eyed the collie speculatively. Then his peculiar blend of bull terrier humor got the better of him, and he used an old fighting trick of his breed, which normally he kept, so to speak, up his sleeve, for those occasions when he intended not a killing, but merely punishment. He started to circle, faster and faster, almost as though he were chasing his own tail, and then, like a whirling dervish, he approached the bewildered collie and spun against him, knocking him several feet with the force of the impact, and following up his advantage with another crash at the end of each turn. Terrified at this unprecedented method of attack, bruised, bitter and aching, the enemy dog seized a split second between turns and fled, his tail tucked well between his legs, towards his master—who received him with a cuff on his already reeling head.

The farmer stared incredulously at the two culprits, who were now making off across the field to the cover of the bush, the young dog with a torn and bloodied ear, and several deep bites on his forelegs, but the happy old warrior jaunty and unscathed. When he saw the mass of feathers he flung his stick in sudden rage at the retreating white form, but so many sticks had been thrown after so many fights in the course of his long life that the bull terrier dodged it instinctively without even turning his head and continued at a leisurely trot, swinging his rounded stern with gay insolence as he went.

This battle did much to restore the morale of the old dog. That evening he even caught a field mouse for his supper, tossing it in the air with a professional flip which would have done credit to his ancestor who had killed sixty rats in as many minutes a hundred years ago.

Despite the stiffness and soreness from his wounds the young dog seemed happier too; perhaps because the west wind that blew that night brought a hint of remembered things, and stirred some deep awareness that every day, every hour brought them nearer to their destination; perhaps it was that the country they were crossing now was less rugged, less remote, and becoming more like the country in which he had been raised; perhaps it was just because his companion was so infectiously pleased with himself; but whatever it was, he seemed more at ease and less strained than he had been since the outset of the journey.

They slept that night in a dry shallow cave amongst the outcroppings of an abandoned molybdenum mine on the crest of a hill. Outside the cave was a large, sloping slab of exposed rock littered with discarded garter-snake skins, so light and dry yet supple that all night long they swayed and whispered to every small breath of wind as though repossessed.