Rascal could see four people – two women and two men, all in their early twenties – sitting outside their badly pitched tents, which flapped precariously in the wind. One of the men was prodding a long stick into the campfire. Several objects wrapped in tinfoil sat in the fire.
‘Don’t think these potatoes are done yet,’ said the man.
No one seemed to mind. They were all finishing off hamburgers which had also been cooked on this fire (judging from the charred smell).
‘Shouldn’t we just have had something cold to eat?’ said the woman with short red hair. ‘I mean, it’s hot enough already without having to light a fire.’
The man with the stick grinned. ‘Listen, Debs. It isn’t proper camping if you don’t build a fire, is it?’
The other man, who had a scrubby beard, took a drink from a silver can and laughed. ‘We never knew you were such a Boy Scout, Rick.’
The man called Rick did a silly salute with his free hand. ‘Didn’t you see me start this fire by rubbing two sticks together?’
‘Course we did,’ laughed the other woman, whose fair hair was pulled back into a ponytail. ‘But I bet those matches in your pocket came in handy too!’
Rascal listened to them talking and joking for a few minutes more. He was waiting for clues, anything that might tell him if these people were the sort who would be kind to a stray dog like himself. His long, hard journey had taught Rascal this about the behaviour of humans – some of them were wonderful and some of them were terrible, and many times you couldn’t tell which was which until it was too late.
But his thirst wouldn’t let him delay any longer. Rascal stood and pushed his way through the undergrowth towards the four people.
‘Hey, look!’ said the woman called Debs. ‘It’s a dog!’
‘He could probably smell those burgers,’ said the man with the beard. ‘He must like his food burnt to a crisp as well!’
‘He does look hungry,’ said the second woman. ‘Shall we give him something to eat?’
‘No chance!’ exclaimed Rick. ‘If he wants a burger, he can go and buy his own, can’t he?’ He was holding the end of his stick in the heart of the campfire. After a few seconds he pulled it out, a flame now burning at the end. He waved it in Rascal’s direction as if it were a sword. ‘Clear off, wild beast!’ he shouted, making his voice boom.
Rascal was tensed to run, but he could tell that the man was not really threatening him so much as trying to make his friends laugh.
‘I don’t think he reckons much to your flaming torch, Rick,’ said Debs. She was opening the top of a big plastic bottle of water. She poured a splash out to wash her hands.
Rascal couldn’t help himself. When he saw that water he let out a little yap.
‘Hold on, I don’t think it is burgers he’s after,’ commented the woman with the ponytail. ‘Look at him eyeing up that water. He wants a drink.’
‘Can’t blame him, in this heat,’ said Debs. She poured some of the water into a plastic bowl and handed it to the man with the beard. ‘Poor thing . . . Go on, give this to him.’
‘Me? What if he’s got rabies or something?’ complained the man. But he took the bowl and stood up.
Rascal watched his every step as he came closer.
The man took a drag on his cigarette and looked back at his friends. ‘Tell you what,’ he smirked. ‘I’ll give him a drink, but first he’s got to do a few tricks. Fair enough?’
He turned back to the dog and held out a hand. ‘Shake paws,’ he said.
Rascal watched that hand as if it were a cat in a tree, but he didn’t lift a paw.
‘Don’t be so mean!’ yelled the ponytailed woman. ‘He hasn’t got a clue what you’re on about.’
But this wasn’t true. Back in the old days when he was with his master, Joel, Rascal had seen other dogs in the local park do little tricks like this. Their masters would give some order or other and then the dog would shake paws or sit up and beg, or something like that. He even remembered one dog, a wire-haired terrier, that would ‘dance’ on command, jumping up and letting its master hold its front paws while it hopped around on the back two. On a different command, the dog would whirl round and round, breathlessly chasing its tail.
A lot of people in the park had laughed, but not Rascal’s master. When he’d seen the terrier, Joel had ruffled his own dog’s ears and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, boy, I won’t ever make you do stupid tricks like that!’
But now, in the afternoon heat of the forest, many miles from everyone he knew and everything he loved, Rascal watched this bearded man commanding him to do one of those same stupid tricks.
The dog sat as still as stone.
The man glanced back quickly at his friends. ‘OK then, we’ll try something else.’ He flicked his cigarette butt away. Then he bent down and patted the dusty earth with the flat of his hand. ‘Roll over and die!’ he commanded. ‘Come on! Roll over and die!’
Rascal wasn’t sure what this meant, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to perform tricks for the entertainment of these people.
He threw a glance at the water in the bowl. It looked wonderful, but he knew in his heart that he wouldn’t get a drop of it. He ducked his head down and edged forwards, just to make sure. The man jerked the bowl back – ‘Not yet! Wait for it!’ – and sloshed water on to the dry ground.
Rascal didn’t need to see any more. He gave a single bark of defiance and began to trot away.
‘Hey,’ the man was saying. ‘Don’t you want a drink then?’
But Rascal didn’t even look back, and soon the laughing voices of the four people were lost in the howl of the wind.
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