When a dog cries

I'm jabbering into my phone, listening, but not seeing.

"Paper One was a disaster," shouts Mash, his voice raised over the din of what's probably Waterloo Station. It was a farce, I agree. I'd like to meet the shit who set it, preferably in a dark alley.

I cut through a square. I am in a small park.

There's a young lad almost in the middle of it, and he's screaming. I keep talking, seeing properly now, but not quite focussing. The people around me seem frozen. I'm just imagining it; they can't all stop walking, and playing, and talking at the same time. This is London. We don't stop for young lads screaming their heads off. Not at six in the evening, when we're all going home. But no, we have. The football game's broken up, they're staring at the lad. A crisp, linen suited brunette breaks away from the frozen bystanders and cuts across the grass, approaching him.

'Listen, I've got to hang up,' I tell Mash, cutting him off abruptly, as I head to the edge of the circle of onlookers.

I circle, not quite sure whether to intervene. I focus; the boy's hugging a huge brown Labrador. And there's a hell of a lot of blood. Everywhere. On the grass, on the dog, on the lad...question is, whose blood is it?

The woman reaches the young man, kneels, pats the dog and is now speaking to him. He's still yelling, the tears streaming down his face. He's screaming at someone. The woman turns, her eyes scanning the crowd behind her. As she finds what she's looking for, so do I.

A casually dressed man stands almost at the edge of the grass, his face set in grim defiance. He's almost at the edge of the circle of onlookers, but they have parted and are moving away from him, for some reason. He's white, older, clean shaven, probably in his mid-fifties, has grey hair cut neatly back to his scalp and is wearing casual, but expensive, clothes. His left arm, which is extended straight outward, has a leash at the end of it. Straining at the leash is a nasty looking Bull Terrier. I don't like Bull Terriers, they remind me of Pit Bulls. His other hand is in his pocket, and there's a dark stain seeping out through his trousers.

I have a feeling that his dog's been up to no good, and I don't want to tangle with a mad Bull Terrier. I pause ambling, mid-stride, and concentrate on what the boy's yelling.

"E wanted to kill it, the bastard, 'e was goin' fer 'is 'ead, 'e was..!!"

And then, as the woman reached out and touched him on the shoulder, '"Wo wud stab a dog..? Wo wud?", in a sudden flood of tears.

Stab a dog? Surely he means bite a dog?

But the lad's shouting again, " Where d' you think you're goin, hey, heyyyyy, yu bastard, wait fer the police!"

The man shouts something back, pulls his dog, looking even more defiant now, and walks away, staring grimly at the people watching him with barely restrained hostility. The crowd behind him melts.

I break from the crowd and cut across the grass towards the small knot of people around the stricken boy. The brunette's been joined by an older, grey haired woman who looks rather academic. As they turn, I announce, " I'm a doctor. Who's bleeding?"

"It's me dog," sobs the lad, "E's stabbed him in the neck. 'E's goin to die. And 'e's ne'er even 'urt a fly, ever...."

I cut him off, "Well, let's have a look. You aren't hurt, are you?"

"No, I'm not, but 'e is.."

The dog, a gentle looking Brown Lab, had a deep stab wound in its neck, which, mercifully, wasn't bleeding all that much anymore. Which was lucky, because whatever had caused it had missed a hell of a lot of major blood vessels. I asked around for cloth or pads or sanitary napkins; anything to put pressure on the wound. Since no one had any, the boy took off his T-shirt and I fashioned a tourniquet. The dog whimpered, and snuggled into my lap as I tied it. And then, I could have sworn the dog cried, burrowing it's head deeper into my lap. In long, slow, whimpering sobs and what I was convinced, at that moment, were tears (It turns out dogs can't have tears, but it sure looked like them to me).

Anyway, it turned out that the dog and the Bull Terrier were playing, then wrestling, on the grass. The lad said it got a bit serious, when the owner of the terrier (the oldish chap) came over and tried to seperate them. When this didn't work, the lad said he'd hold the Lab and maybe, the other guy could prise his terrier away. Not too keen on this idea, the man then calmly proceeded to take out a four inch knife and stick it into the Lab's neck.


It also turned out the boy had been bitten. So, I ended up calling 999, to talk to the cops as well as LAS. Two police cars came in five minutes and an ambulance pulled up soon after. The boy's older brother arrived, threatening violence upon all grey haired men, followed by their mother. The older brother threatened one act of violence too many, which promptly elicited a tight slap from his mum. Which shut him up.


By which time an Asian woman who works at the nearby Waitrose had returned with a basin of antiseptic and pads. And a couple of students had volunteered to give statements.


As I withdrew and walked home, I started to think.

I can understand an older man living alone in Inner London carrying a knife (to a certain extent).

But what kind of a shit would stab a dog?