A Collection of Dog Tails

By Otto Vernon

From Sherlock the Chihuahua to Noodle the labradoodle puppy, this collection of five novellas is full of dogs.

Dogs that get stolen, get lost, have to deal with neurotic owners, or are about to be rehomed - even put down - because their human has gone. Yes, these pages team with canine life in all its shapes and sizes, and are penned by the doggie author extraordinaire, Otto Vernon, with just a little help from his human. The novellas are a wonderful escape from everyday life - yes the dogs actually talk to each other - and are aimed at people of all ages who value their four legged friends. Otto should add that most of the humans in these stories are pretty nice, reflecting the fact that owning a dog makes you a good person!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Otto Vernon
• Release date: Dec 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916244078

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Jolly Canines

Published by Jolly Canines

Printed in the United Kingdom

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording without the permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, persons living or dead is coincidental or they are used fictitiously.

Paperback: 978-1-9162440-5-4

Cover design and layout by www.spiffingcovers.com

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Otto Vernon is an amazingly literate cross between a Cavalier and a Havanese. He comes across many canines in his home town of Brighton, visitors as well as natives, who tell him the stories he has asked his human to print out here. This collection of his first five dog tails is aimed at all age groups - to reflect the dog owning and dog loving population, the only rule being that you have to be dotty enough to read them. If you like this compendium, the proceeds from which are being donated to a dog shelter, for Otto really hates the idea of animals who are mistreated, please post a review. If you have any observations you can tweet to @ottovernon1, or add a message to his ottovernondoggieauthor Facebook or Instagram page.

‘A good escapist read, and not too long, for anyone who loves dogs.’

London review of Woofs

‘I was on the edge of my seat, definitely a case of the bite being as bad as the bark.’

Woofington Post

‘HOWL HOwl howl…WOOF WOof woof…. BARK BArk bark….

The Echo

‘You’ll find more grit rolling on the living room carpet than in this book. Ideal for tedious tube journeys into work, a snatched few minutes before going to sleep, or when on holiday.’

The Wagster

‘I didn’t want these stories to end. You’de be barking mad not to enjoy them.’

Canine Times

CONTENTS

Dog Tail 1

Sherlock the Dog Detective

Dog Tail 2

Ping Gets Nabbed

Dog Tail 3

Howard goes to Derbyshire

Dog Tail 4

Brighton Flash Mob

Dog Tail 5

Why Chasing Rabbits is a Bad Idea

ABOUT THIS STORY

Sherlock was a very small dog with a lot of attitude. For a Chihuahua that’s pretty normal. But he had a secret life which his owner, Holly, knew nothing about: the minute she went off to work, he used the cat flap belonging to Cyril, a particularly somnolent feline, and went off to join his friends in the park. When he meets Doctor Watson on one of his walks through the park, things start to go wrong. Doctor Watson has quite severe dementia and seems to be as addicted to wandering as his small canine companion. The pair of them end up travelling from Taunton, where they both live, to Reading. With nowhere to stay, they sleep rough in a derelict house with a homeless person called Damion and his Collie, Brian. What should Sherlock do, should he stay with Doctor Watson, or try to get back to his owner? There are limits to what dogs can do on their own, even Chihuahuas, so read on and find out what happened.

CONTENTS

1. Getting a name

2. Sherlock meets Doctor Watson

3. The wrong train

4. Holly is puzzled

5. Doctor Watson gets nowhere

6. Upset at the health centre

7. Damion loses the dogs

8. The end of Sherlock’s wanderings

Getting a name

Sherlock. The name made him sound like a detective. And that’s exactly what he was, well, in his mind at least. Being small in stature meant he was close to the ground, and this enabled him to sniff, suspiciously, like a bloodhound. The world was full of suspect people, suspect animals and suspect goings on, but in his mind only one small canine seemed to realise this. That was Sherlock the Chihuahua.

Holly thought her dog was wonderful, just like all loving owners do. She would pick him up and fondle him, holding his tiny frame close to her, feeling his heart beating against her fingers. Curiously though, few others shared her opinion, to many he was ‘that awful little dog’, or ‘that ghastly yapper’. When Holly heard the yapping, she would laugh adoringly and josh Sherlock behind his ear. She just didn’t seem to appreciate how annoying he was.

For example, she would shout out, ‘He’s a little overprotective,’ to the postman as she passed him on her bike, to try and explain away the bared teeth and growling as he sat in the shopping basket, like her own personal guard dog. The postman, who knew dogs well, would wave and return to his cart of letters, muttering ‘Little bastard,’ under his breath once she had flown by. The postman had been delivering letters around Taunton for years and many times had risked having his arm detached from the rest of his body by a set of frothing jaws.

Holly’s mother’s view of Sherlock was similar to the postman’s, although it had not always been so. When her daughter first announced that she was getting a dog, she’d been delighted. She had taken out her knitting needles and was ready to knit a little dog-coat to keep the new arrival warm, as well as showing it what a lovely, cuddly and spoily sort of granny she was. She would ring Holly at all hours, with helpful suggestions about which breed was most suitable and would approach walkers in the park to ask them how manageable their dog was. Imagine her disappointment when her daughter came from the re-homing centre with a tiny rat-like ‘thing’ which looked all bony and uncuddly. She looked at Sherlock’s enormous eyes and they looked back at her. The ‘thing’ then started to growl. Holly’s mother jumped, withdrawing an outstretched hand quickly.

‘He must have small dog syndrome. You should knock that out of him straight away,’ she sniffed.

‘Mum, he’s just a little possessive,’ Holly replied. After all, Sherlock, in her eyes, was totally adorable, her love for him had been instantaneous and mutual, and sealed the moment they’d set eyes on each other through the bars at the re-homing centre.

As time went by Holly did regret that her mother and her dog weren’t friends, in fact they were closer to being sworn enemies. After all, it would have been handy if, at times, she could have asked her to take care of him, when she was out late for example, or away on holiday or at weekends. Having a pet could be restricting when no back-up was available.

The one person who would not have found this arrangement satisfactory was Sherlock himself. Being left all day with Holly’s mother would have constituted a gross infringement of his liberty. This was because, when Holly was out at work, Sherlock had a secret life. His owner assumed, quite reasonably, that when she left her Chihuahua at home with Cyril, the somnolent and bloated feline who was part of the household, he spent his time sleeping until she returned from the health centre, where she worked. Imagine her shock had she known that Sherlock knew how to operate Cyril’s cat flap. Once he was out, he didn’t waste his time in the garden, he pursued his addiction, which was to go wandering.

His movements, now that he had worked out a daily routine, tended to follow a pattern. First, he would wait until he was sure Holly would not return. This, you must agree, showed a great amount of intelligence, perhaps even base cunning. For Sherlock had a reputation to protect, that of a miniature innocent who loved only one person, not an independent, outgoing character who had many responsibilities within the wider dog-world. Once he felt safely alone, apart from the company of Cyril, who spent most days curled up on the sofa, he would, as light as a feather, exit through the cat flap and make his way to a small hole in the garden fence. This was a hole that had been made by the scrabbling of tiny paws, but it was still small, insignificant and well hidden by a briar. For Holly’s garden was what one might describe as ecological rather than manicured. Once he had scrambled through the hole, young Sherlock would skirt along the edge of the back lane that ran along the side of the garden, constantly being alert to any neighbours who might see him. After that it was a dignified trot across the zebra crossing into the park.

Oh the park, how he loved it, full of familiar sniffing posts and regular friends, many of whom needed him, needed his sleuthing skills, and needed the reassurance that they were in the presence of a dog who was cleverer than them. Take Brandon for instance, a slightly bumbling, brown Labrador. He was always pleased to see Sherlock and would frequently need his help in finding a missing ball. Brandon was unable to exercise vigorously because he had bad joints, but he did enjoy lolloping after a grubby tennis ball. Unfortunately, it would often go astray because Brandon would miss its line of flight or his human, who was a pretty rubbish ball-thrower, would hurl the ball into the nearest set of bushes. Sherlock, when faced with Brandon’s hopelessness, would look all keen and alert, he’d get his nose to the ground and in a meandering motion sniff out the ball immediately, whether it was simply lying in the grass, had been carried off in the jaws of a passing dog or was still sitting in the sling used to throw it.

Ball-finding wasn’t the only skill that Sherlock possessed. He was very good at returning stray bodies back to the homes where they belonged. One such creature was old, blind Thelma, who looked like a Collie, but she had much smoother hair as she was a mix of several breeds. Before Sherlock’s time, Thelma was regularly delivered to the pound where the officials knew her and would ring Joe, her owner. But now, if Sherlock saw Thelma drifting aimlessly in the park, her muzzle grey and grizzled, and her eyes rheumy and covered with cataracts, he would shepherd her back across a dangerous road to the little cul-de-sac where Joe lived. Many a motorist had been astounded to see this ill matched pair standing patiently at the crossing, waiting for some kind driver to allow them to proceed.

‘There you are, old girl,’ Joe would shout (he was as deaf and blind as his animal), ‘thanks ever so much, me ol’ mate, sorry you’ve been troubled.’ Sherlock would bark, hoping that the sound would penetrate Joe’s poorly functioning ears, because his words often ended in a sort of music that went like this. ‘Now you’re here, fella, you might as well come in for a bit of cake and tea.’ Mmm, that always sounded like a very good offer and Sherlock would accept with alacrity.

Not all of the stray bodies were canine. Once, he had prevented a toddler coming out onto the road and had returned her to her mother. OK, so this wasn’t like solving a murder or a robbery, but he liked to think he had saved the little human from a dreadful fate. This was because he was essentially kind and clever, despite his aggressive behaviour when Holly was nearby, and despite the fact that he could get boastful when in the company of large dogs. The fact that their size made him exaggerate was perhaps another facet of ‘small dog syndrome’.

Take for example Northcote, the Newfoundland, he had heard the story about the toddler many times, as well as the embellishments designed to give Sherlock’s deeds a heroic slant.

‘She was about to cross the road, all on her own, no one had stopped the little creature, it was all wrong, I could tell.’ Sherlock would say in dog language, while Northcote, a gentleman, would pretend to listen spellbound.

‘So, what did you do?’ he would ask, looking down at Sherlock, whose legs were only a little higher than one of his hairy fetlocks.

‘I distracted her, as anyone would. I barked and leapt until she turned round and followed me saying Dog, dog. You know what little humans are like.’

‘Only too well,’ Northcote would sigh. ‘I have two at home.’

Then the story would proceed along a well-trodden path. About how Sherlock didn’t know where she’d come from, how he’d seen an open gate and decided to go through it. How the front door had been closed but he’d barked, how the mother had opened the door and screamed. By this point Northcote would be scratching his ears and looking bored.

‘I can just imagine the drama if one of mine went missing,’ he’d mutter. ‘Did you get a reward, a bone?’

‘No, I disappeared pronto. Waiting for thanks, you see, Northcote, just isn’t my style.’

‘You’re quite the sleuth,’ Northcote would concede.

Sherlock was familiar with all the streets round the park and Joe’s was not the only household where the resident human enjoyed a bit of canine company. There was the elderly Mrs Brown who lived a few streets down from the cul-de-sac, who would come out if he whined and greet him jovially as ‘my little friend’. Then there was Raj, who ran a corner shop, who allowed him to curl up in the window, which was a particularly warm spot. Raj had found that having a dog in the window helped him sell newspapers. Then there was toothless, legless old Bill, who’d be perched on a bench by the bus stop, his prosthetic legs looking too small for his body. He too welcomed the chance to chat to Sherlock.

Sherlock had a particular fondness for old people and just assumed that it was his job to keep them company. In other words, when left on his own, Sherlock was sociable. It was only in Holly’s company that he became a one-woman dog. To maintain his dual identity he was particularly careful to avoid using the cat flap when she was around. It was hard not to simply let himself out when he wanted to visit the garden but it would not have been in his best interests to let her know that he had a means of escape, one that he used nearly every day.

Sherlock meets Doctor Watson

‘Goodbye my darlings.’ Cyril got a kiss first, then Sherlock. Holly had her cycling helmet and leather gloves on, and then bent over to put on a pair of clips round the trouser legs of her nurse’s uniform. She looked as if she was about to enter space rather than make her way to the health centre. She grabbed her lunch, which was in a plastic bag, and began searching for keys. Sherlock tried not to look impatient but the sun was shining and he fancied a walk, it seemed like she would never go. At last Holly got herself together; there were more kisses then she wheeled her bike through the front door and shut it behind her. Sherlock waited a while before making a move because he had occasionally been caught out when his owner had unexpectedly come back because she’d forgotten something. Once, to hide the fact that he was just about to make an exit, he had to feign interest in cleaning up Cyril’s bowl which he found utterly revolting as he hated cat food. Today, Holly seemed to be safely on her way and after ten minutes the cat was fast asleep. Sherlock left