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The Crafty Dog Cymru Hallowe’en Story for 2018
Rubbish the Rabbit Hound and The Giant Bat
Or
Is It a Bird? Is it a Plane? Or is it…Nigel?
(Age range 5 – 95)
Bob the father rabbit shook his head. “It’s too bad. These Witches are becoming such a nuisance.”
Bluebell, his wife, agreed, “I know. They are frightening all the kits. They won’t even listen to Finn!”
She was talking about the local coven of witches who, as the weeks drew closer towards Hallowe’en were getting more and more rowdy – screeching and cackling, swooping low over the trees and scaring the baby rabbits, birds and other animals. Finn the deerhound had gone to pay these hags a visit, and he had politely asked them not to be quite so loud but they had just sent him off with a flea in his ear. It was a real flea too and he was not amused.
“I’m not amused,” he growled at Rubbish the rabbit hound. The young hound couldn’t help smiling even though it was not funny. Jeffrey the old marmalade cat grinned gummily as he stared over the top of his round spectacles at the two of them, “Frightful nuisance,” he harrumphed in agreement.
Finn was, after all, the Lord of the Glen and Warden of the Great Forest and so senior animal of the area. From the kitchen the Maid watched the three friends discussing the problem in the woods. She leaned towards the open window and called out, “Bacon roll anyone?”
Three animal heads swivelled as one, and nodded in unison. “That would be marvellous,” Finn replied.
Three chopped up bacon rolls arrived in three bowls. They had continued talking amongst themselves, and still did so even as they munched on their mid-morning snacks. The brindle greyhound could not understand why the witches would not listen to Finn. He shook his head and dropped a small piece of bacon onto the patio, from which it was quickly snapped up by a hungry blackbird that appeared to have just been passing by.
“Bless my soul! That was a bit of bad luck, young sir,” Jeffrey consoled the stunned Rubbish.
“I was just going to finish that,” the pup said.
Finn laughed out loud, “At last! Something that is faster than our speeding greyhound’s ravenous appetite!”
The blackbird had landed on the roof of the outhouse, scoffing his ill-gotten gains and appeared to be listening to the three animals talking.
As the bacon rolls were finally mopped up, there came a sound from the bottom of the garden as a little rabbit pushed through the gap in the garden door and scurried up the red brick path towards them. It was Scutter. He skidded to a halt, scattering chippings as he stopped. He was puffing heavily. “Mr Finn! It was terrible and frightening!” The rabbit’s eyes were wide with excitement as he spoke.
“Really? Take a breath young rabbit,” he patted the rabbit on the shoulder.
“And start at the beginning,” added the ancient cat.
Scutter took a deep breath and began his story. “It was late last night. The witches were dancing and singing in the clearing where they have their parties. You know what they’re like,” the rabbit made a drinking sign with his paw. “They had their brooms and everything, and then….” he paused for dramatic effect, “as the full moon shone over the trees, a huge black bat appeared and flew over them.”
The dogs looked at each other and Jeffrey pushed his glasses back up his nose.
Scutter continued, “They were terrified! They all packed up and went home sharpish. Most of them walked – they were too scared to fly.”
Jeffrey laughed out loud and rolled back onto his rather large bottom. Rubbish smiled too. Finn however, though he was amused by the thought of something disrupting the coven’s antics, was also concerned about what this flying thing could be. “Young Scutter – did anyone else see this?” he asked.
The rabbit nodded, Yes, the squirrel family saw it all. It was a giant bat that made a terrible screeching noise as it flew.”
Jeffrey gave the deerhound a nudge, “Let’s go and see then.”
Finn stretched. “Come on – I sense an adventure.”
Off the three friends went, following Scutter through the woods to the clearing where the squirrels lived, in a tree next to the witches’ party venue.
Finn and Rubbish looked around the clearing; in the centre were the remains of a huge bonfire, still smouldering slightly. There were a couple of abandoned broomsticks, broken glasses that had held witches potions (or more likely gin and tonic). There was even one witch’s shoe (like some sort of evil Cinderella!).
“Something definitely spooked them,” Rubbish said.
Finn had to agree, “And they left in rather a hurry.”
Jeffrey was questioning the two squirrels. He had his notebook and pencil (the ones he kept in a mysterious pocket somewhere in his fur, which so puzzled Rubbish) and was writing down what the squirrels said.
There were no obvious signs of any flying monsters. No signs of anything in the trees; all in all, very strange.
Back at the house over a bowl of kibble and smoked salmon, (Jeffrey just had the smoked salmon) they ran through what they had found.
“What is big enough to scare off a coven of hardened witches?” mused the deerhound.
“Can’t have been an owl or a nightjar as they see them all the time,” Rubbish answered.
Jeffrey stopped chewing to add, “And witches are a bit of an expert on bats.”
“True,” Finn confirmed. “It must have been one heck of a bat!”
Jeffrey suddenly sat up bolt upright and even dropped his bowl into his lap. “Aha! Hang on…” then he shot off, disappearing through the hole in the wall into his garden next door.
The dogs looked at each other. “Eh?”
Back in puffed the old moggie, carrying a huge book, “I know what it is!” The cat put the book on the garden table and opened it, flipping through the pages. It was “The Wonder Book of Dinosaurs.”
He pointed to a colour photo, “Look here! It’s a pterosaur – a flying lizard!”
Rubbish and Finn gazed at the illustration; an enormous bat-like flying lizard with a huge pointy beak.
“Blimey,” Finn said.
“Don’t know about the witches but it would scare the pants off me,” Rubbish gulped.
“Quite so,” Finn concurred.
Jeffrey was feeling quite pleased with himself and you could see his fur puffing up with pride.
“The only problem, my ginger pal, is that they have not been seen on this earth for over 100 million years.”
The cat frowned.
“That’s a really long time,” Rubbish had to admit.
The old cat frowned even more and his puffiness deflated a little. “But the description fits” he answered.
Finn and Rubbish had to agree with the cat; it sounded like this flying dinosaur, but where had it been hiding for the last 100 million years?
“Maybe it’s come through time through some sort of worm-hole in the space-time continuum?” Jeffrey suggested.
“Hmmmm,” said Finn. “Or it might be something less ancient and a bit more likely.”
“We have to see it for ourselves,” Rubbish told them.
“That, my young friend, is a good idea,” the deerhound smiled.
“Capital!” beamed Jeffrey. “I’ll start packing my night gear.”
It was agreed that the three of them would meet again at 5 o’clock – after tea, naturally – and they would go and wait near the Witches’ clearing to see what would transpire.
The moon was rising as the three friends slipped through the undergrowth at the edge of the trees to wait for the witches. There was a pronounced pong from the canvas backpack that the old cat was carrying.
“Cor – what a niff!” commented the greyhound.
Jeffrey hissed, “its garlic.”
“You don’t say?” chided Finn.
“In case it’s a giant vampire bat,” the cat explained. “I also have some stakes.”
Rubbish looked puzzled. “In case you get hungry?”
The cat tutted, “No – not that sort of steak! A wooden pointy one.”
Finn chuckled.
Jeffrey rummaged in the bag and came out with a large head-torch on a wide elastic headband. It was bright orange and matched his (albeit moth-eaten and ancient) fur. He slipped it on and adjusted the straps.
Now it was Finn’s turn to tut, and to shake his head.
A blast of very bright light in Rubbish’s face made him jump. “Oh, sorry. It’s a bit bright,” Jeffrey blushed under his ginger fur as he fumbled and turned the torch off. “I have boosted the light output a bit. Should help us see whatever it is.”
Finn put his head in his paws, sighed and muttered something under his breath. It was going to be a very long night!
As it grew darker, there was noise and movement – the witches arrived, mostly on foot as only a couple were brave enough to fly in. They lit the great bonfire and gathered around it and then started as did all meetings of the Witches Institute by singing the club anthem. As the singing died down the bottles of magic gin (mostly sloe, blackberry and pumpkin flavour) were opened and glasses filled and consumed. The crowd split into smaller groups who chatted and cackled amongst themselves. The atmosphere, Finn thought, was somewhat subdued – maybe they had taken on board his request for a quiet meeting.
However, they could see that each group had a member who was scanning the sky. It was very quiet up in the clouds as only one or two standard-sized bats fluttered past and one or two shooting stars dived through the darkening sky.
Suddenly, a couple of the “spotters” started to chatter excitedly and point upwards. The gathering changed as more and more of the hags looked up nervously towards the heavens. The moon by now was very bright.
Something was definitely coming. In the bushes the three adventurers prepared themselves for whatever was about to appear; Finn could just make out some movement in the clouds. A huge black shape was approaching, which definitely had wings – silent ones – and was coming down towards the clearing at a heck of a rate.
The witches started to worry, then panic! They started to leave, very hastily. As they ran around and scattered into the forest the giant bat came ever closer. It was definitely black, very large, and Finn could make out a head, body and..spindly legs?
It swooped lower. Any witches that were left were now shouting and screaming as they scampered about.
The monster had large ears and blood-red glowing eyes, and it was making a loud screeching a sound and giving off smoke.
As it flew over the bonfire it started to spiral upwards; like a buzzard it was using the warm air of the fire to give it lift and rise into the air. The witches were long gone by now, and there was only the group of stunned animals to witness the arrival of the bat. They stepped out into the clearing to see the monster more clearly. Jeffrey switched on his super-bright head torch and it shone on the flying beast like a searchlight. It picked out the black wings and the body underneath, the huge head with its red eyes and ears.
The monster screamed as the light hit its face. There was another cry as a tiny burning ember that was also rising on the thermals from the fire happened to catch the edge of one of the wings. There was a flash of flame – and the monster began another descent, this time at break-neck speed.
The beast flew across the animals’ heads but above the trees. It had gravity on its side as it sped earthwards. The animals tried to keep up but they lost it in the woods. Finn stopped them, “It’s no good – it’s too dark. Make a note of where it’s going and we’ll have a look in the light tomorrow.”
As they walked home they discussed what they had seen and what they thought the monster could be. Jeffrey was still convinced it was a flying dinosaur, maybe a new undiscovered species that had forgotten to become extinct. Finn suggested that it had not received the memo.. Rubbish was not sure what on Earth it was. Finn always put his faith in believing his own eyes. However, he was not convinced that what he saw was what this thing actually was. And what it was….that still remained to be seen.Howe
The next morning found Finn and his companions picking up their trail and making their way through the woods and out the other side onto the edge of a vast ploughed field of damp mud. The two dogs scented the air – there was no smell of monster, just the usual smell of mud and sheep. Jeffrey had brought along his ghost detector but it failed to emit one pop, crackle or beep. He was pretty disappointed by the lack of any result.
They began to step across the muddy patch. Half way over there was a patch of sheep prints but big ones that also looked like they had slid. Most peculiarly, they started in the middle of the field. Finn called Rubbish and Jeffrey to his side to examine them. As they chatted and pointed, Rubbish heard what he thought was a stifled laugh. A few yards away sat the very same blackbird that had snaffled his piece of bacon the day before.
“How d’you do?” the Blackbird asked.
“Fine, thank you,” Rubbish replied.
The blackbird eyed them curiously. “So what you looking for then?”
Finn answered, “These strange prints, and the flying beast?”
“Oh aye?” the blackbird cocked his head to one side.
“Do you have any ideas as to what these are?” asked Rubbish.
“Oh yes,” the blackbird smiled. “The name’s Morris, by the way. And thanks for the bacon yesterday, it was lovely.” He added.
The animals were stunned. “Well?” Finn looked at the bird.
“It’s Nige,” he replied.
“Nige?” the old moggie enquired.
“A flying monster called Nige?” Rubbish could not believe what he’d heard.
“No, Nigel the sheep,” Morris replied.
“What?” Finn, Rubbish and Jeffrey all asked in unison.
“Oh aye. Crash landed, he did,” the bird told them. “Wing malfunction.”
The dogs were now even more stunned. Jeffrey had to pick his jaw off the floor where it had metaphorically fallen. “A monstrous sheep with wings?”
Morris laughed, “Come with me.” He flew low over the field, the animals trotting close behind.
In the next field stood (and lay) a herd of sheep. Normal looking sheep, not at all monstrous, and not one with a pair of wings. Away from the herd towards the top end of the field one sheep lay on his own, evidently deep in thought. Morris landed next to him and coughed rather loudly (and Jeffrey thought, somewhat dramatically).
“I have some visitors who want a word with you,” he said. “I told you it would only be a matter of time before someone came to see you.”
The young sheep sat up and smiled rather sheepishly (which was very easy for a sheep to do) at the two dogs and the cat. He knew who Finn was (as did most animals in the area) and he bowed politely, “G-good morning, sir.”
Finn smiled back, “Good morning my young lad. I have heard from this little bird that you are the source of these tales of a flying monster?”
Nigel sighed, “Well….sort of.”
Finn sat on his haunches on the grass, and Rubbish and Jeffrey copied him. “You’d better start at the beginning.”
Nigel explained how with the help of Morris and Gilbert the owl he had built a set of wings and learnt to fly. He had had some initial issues with his non-aerodynamic shape and poor overall fitness but he had overcome these difficulties by applied engineering and mathematics and had been quite successful. He was surprised that no-one had seen him flying in daylight. He had become the world’s first flying sheep. Morris and Gilbert had worked hard to build the wings. The next challenge had been to master night flying (as he was less likely to get funny looks or complaints from the farmer or his family).
Gilbert had designed night-vision goggles, which were powered by a system of pulleys, pumps and valves by the sheep’s back legs. The visibility had been good but the valves and pumps made loud screeching noise. The owl had suggested some light engine oil might solve it but they had not had time to sort that out before their test flights. They flew anyway.
The evening before he had lost height and he was trying to get into a thermal of hot air to lift him upwards so he had headed towards the bonfire. It was going well until he was hit in the face by a blast of very bright light which had dazzled him, then a spark set light to his left wing. He had called out to Morris and had made an emergency landing in the ploughed field.
“Fortunately the only thing dented was his pride,” the blackbird grinned.
Finn and Rubbish were amazed (though it took more than a flying sheep to amaze Jeffrey) and they were very keen to see the flying suit. They took them over to the old sheep shelter across the filed. It had been abandoned when the farmer built a new one nearer the big oak tree. Nigel and Morris had fixed the leaky roof with the assistance of two hippie foxes who had helped them acquire the materials required for the flying suit (but that’s another story!). The shed had become ‘Mission Control’.
The suit consisted of two large flapping canvas wings and a tail – a bit like a hang-glider. There were a series of cables, pipes and springs too, which made the flying suit look most extraordinary. Jeffrey in particular (who loved his technology) was really impressed with the design and could not help making sketches and taking notes and measurements. Finn could see the old cat having a go at making his own version; the thought of the old moggie with wings didn’t fill him with confidence!
“I’m hoping to get the suit fixed and be flying again tomorrow night,” the sheep told them.
Morris added, “Aye – should be easily fixable. I’ve got a patch up kit and ‘Hat’ has got me some gaffer tape.” (Hat was one of the foxes).
“I need to do these night flights as I want to see how the goggles work,” the sheep told them.
“Gilbert reckons we could make our fortunes if we copyrighted the design,” Morris grinned.
Finn had an idea. “You know that you have terrified the local coven of witches, don’t you?”
Nigel was amazed. “You’re joking?”
The deerhound shook his head, “I have asked them politely to keep the noise down and stop scaring the animals but they have just ignored me. Hallowe’en is in two night’s time.”
Nigel and Morris looked at each other, and then looked at Finn. Morris could guess where this conversation was heading!
“It’ll be loud and scare the children again,” the great hound continued, “but with your help I think we can give those witches a taste of their own medicine.”
So Finn told them of the plan that he had devised.
As the sun was setting and the light grew warmer but dimmer, the witches began to gather in the clearing around the mound of timber that was growing into their party bonfire. Each witch brought a few branches which they added one by one to the pile. One witch (the one in the bright yellow and very reflective High-visibility hat) was carrying a torch with which she lit the fire. It first began to smoke, then burst into flame. They all cheered and the bottles of Witchy Gin came out. They were soon singing loudly (and out of tune).
There were a couple of spotters watching the sky. As nothing appeared to be happening up above the spotters lost interest and joined in the revelries around the fire.
Suddenly a terrified dog burst into the crowd of hags. He was shivering with fear, and shaking and eve foamed a little at his mouth. “It’s huge, it’s huge,” he babbled, “It has massive teeth…and big wings!”
Some of the witches stopped singing to turn towards the dog to hear what he was saying. A ripple of unease passed through the crowd of hags but they then continued their partying. The dog wandered back into the woods, muttering about the thing he had seen.
Not long after the dog had disappeared into the trees a very round cat staggered into the clearing. He too was shaking with terror, and his eyes were as wide as dinner plates. “It was terrifying!” he announced dramatically. “Vampiric in its beastly ferocity!” A few more witches stopped this time to look at the terrified old cat.
“And its coming THIS WAY!” he added at the top of his voice. A second ripple of unease ran through the crowd, larger than the first. Once again, the party restarted as soon as the cat disappeared back into the undergrowth. The party was a little more hesitant but then picked up.
From the dark of the woods there came a terrifying howl which shook the clearing; it was blood-curdling in its intensity. This time all the witches froze.
Into the light of the bonfire staggered an enormous hairy deerhound – clearly it was Finn, as everyone there knew the Lord of the Glen. He had blood all down his left side, and was dragging one of his back legs. He glared into the faces of the (by now) very worried witches. “I tried to stop it,” he told them. “It was too big and too powerful even for me. Its teeth are like daggers, and eyed like burning iron.” He saw the colour drain from the faces of a number of the witches and one even dropped their bottle of gin. He staggered forward and the sea of hags parted to let him through.
“Who did this?” the Hi-Visibility witch asked.
Finn shook his head, “It was a giant bat.” The hag caught her breath. “Its more vicious than anything I’ve ever seen,” he replied.
By now the witches were talking excitedly amongst themselves and were sounding very concerned.
Finn too staggered and limped towards the edge of the clearing. Just before he passed into the darkness he turned back to the quaking crowd and shouted, “It’s coming this way. And it says it eats witches!”
At this stage the witches were on the verge of hysterical panic. There was a lot of shouting and chattering amongst them and you could feel the tension in the air building itself to a fever pitch. Then “it” appeared.
It screamed out of the heavens though it looked like it had come from the very pit of Hell itself. It had blazing laser eyes, so bright that they lit up the quivering coven as it swooped low over them. Witches who were at fist rooted to the spot in sheer terror soon found their feet (and legs) and began sprinting into the trees. By the time Nigel came around for his third sweep there were only four witches left who were trying hard to kick-start their brooms. Almost as one they threw their brooms onto the bonfire and scrambled, practically on all fours, into the bushes.
The blackbird that sat on the black bat’s shoulder called into its left ear, “OK Nige. Time for a gentle landing on the far side of the clearing.”
“Wilco,” the flying bat-sheep replied.
“Full flaps,” called Morris.
“Full flaps,” Nigel adjusted his wings. The sheep descended slowly, lowered his landing gear (his back legs) and landed on the soft grass amongst the abandoned pointed hats, brooms, clogs and gin bottles.
Out of the trees emerged Rubbish, Jeffrey and Finn. The deerhound had a wet cloth and was wiping tomato ketchup from his side and his face, and then passed the cloth to Rubbish so he could wipe his face too. Jeffery was laughing so much that he thought he would make himself sick.
“Marvellous job!” Finn called.
“It really was,” Rubbish agreed.
“Haven’t had as much fun in ages,” the ancient moggie guffawed; he had tears running down his ginger cheeks and his ribs ached.
Nigel had taken his flying helmet off and said to Jeffrey, “That head-torch of yours was fantastic! It worked a treat!”
“I think it was the icing on the cake,” Morris nodded. “But more importantly, it was an excellent test flight. Night vision goggles worked to a tee!”
“I don’t think it was those witches will bother us for a while,” Finn said.
I know,” Rubbish laughed. “A quiet Hallowe’en tomorrow.”
“What do you think?” Jeffrey asked.
The animal turned to look at the old cat and laughed out loud. There stood the ancient marmalade cat, wearing a bright yellow high-visibility pointy hat. He grinned at them, “Elf and safety, anyone?”
This story and characters are copyright of Chris Dignam/Crafty Dog Cymru.Co.UK, except Finn who is copyright Sean & Kate Standing (World of Finn).
If you like this, search out The Largest Rabbit or The Winter Hare, available from the website www.Crafty-Dog-Cymru.Co.Uk/Books
People (who have not yet read The Largest Rabbit) ask me why our hero the young dog is called Rubbish and how did he become a Rabbit Hound? This extract from The Winter Hare explains about who Rubbish is and how he got his name;
Rubbish
“Finn chuckled. He thought back about how Rubbish had come to live here in the walled garden. It had all begun when an old cloth bag was thrown from a speeding car. The two rabbits that saw the bag roll down the bank had helped to open it and out popped a little bundle of stripy fur. The stranger was not sure what his name was, but thought it must have been Rubbish as that’s what the people had said he was. The rabbits all decided he must be a rabbit too, so they took him home to the burrow where, over the weeks he grew taller, longer and pointier than all the others. They said he was, “The largest rabbit they had ever seen.” He knew he looked and acted differently to the other rabbits but he loved them as his family and they loved him too. To them he was just a funny looking rabbit but one of the family.
It was after meeting the mighty Finn, who was after all a very well educated, cheerful old deerhound, that Rubbish realised he was not a rabbit but a dog like Finn. He was a greyhound, though Finn declared that he should be called a rabbit hound as he protected the rabbits. In the magic of the walled garden Rubbish met Finn’s owners the Maid and the Butler, and their neighbour Jeffrey, an ancient, balding and wise (or so he told them) marmalade cat. Together they had vanquished an evil fox and his henchmen (two weasels) who had tried to grab all the rabbits in the warren. Realising that he was getting too big to live with the rabbits, Rubbish was taken in by Finn and his family but every day Rubbish still visited the rabbits to ensure that they were safe and do what all good rabbit hounds do. They all still agreed though that he was the Largest Rabbit in all the world.”
From “The Winter Hare” by Chris Dignam/Crafty Dog Books Cymru, Sept 2018. Illustration courtesy of Allison Rees/Coppertop Crafts
The Winter Hare
3 rashers smoked back bacon – cut into lardons (small pieces)
1 tablespoon oil (olive or rapeseed) to fry in.
1 large white onion (finely chopped)
1 garlic clove (crushed and grated)
1 tablespoon of tomato puree
1/2 teaspoon of chilli powder (or add fresh chopped chillis if you wish)
1 sweet red pepper cut into chunky dice
½ teaspoon ground cumin
400g tin of chopped tomatoes
500 mls vegetable stock (we used vegetable Oxo)
400g can of mixed beans drained and rinsed
(or use a mix of whatever beans you prefer – edamame beans, chickpeas, sweetcorn, peas, haricot beans, flageolet – whatever you like)
1 stick of celery chopped into 1cm chunks
A good splash of Worcestershire sauce
Sea Salt
Ground Black Pepper or ground mixed pepper
Heat the oil in a large stock/soup pan or deep saucepan, add and fry the onions gently until softened. Add the garlic, then the bacon and fry until the bacon colours – a couple of minutes should be fine).
Add the stock and other ingredients.
Bring to the boil and then simmer for 45mins or so until the peppers are tender.
Season with the salt and pepper – add as much as you prefer.
For a vegetarian version, leave out the bacon and Worcestershire sauce.
You can adapt this recipe by changing the pulses, the amount or type of peppers, even the type of meat. I guess it would work with chopped sausage – chorizo would be fab).
Serve with a grating of hard cheese or finely sliced cheddar and a nice crusty bread.
Enjoy!!
Mrs Crafty Dog
Here is the new Halloween Story 2016 with characters from The Largest Rabbit book. Tom, the youngest but bravest rabbit in the warren, is walking through the deepest and darkest part of the forest. He knows he’s alone yet feels that someone is watching him. Why is he there? Who is cutting down trees? Who’s living in the pretty cottage in the middle of the forest? And what’s that overwhelming pong of pilchards and garlic?
As Tom wandered further and deeper into the ancient wood it seemed to get darker and darker. He stopped and turned, looking back along the path he had walked and it seemed to him that the brambles had started to grow across it. It was ok, he told himself, he was a brave rabbit. He couldn’t go back – he would have to go on. Forward he trotted, whistling a tune to keep his spirits up….perhaps spirits was the wrong word, considering he was in the old Wychwood and it was All Hallows Eve. But, he told himself firmly, he was not afraid.
There was a scream which made the little rabbit’s blood freeze and stopped him in his tracks – it sounded like a Barn Owl! They love to eat rabbits. He held his breath – nothing happened. He whistled a little bit quieter when he started again. The path weaved between the trees, their creaking, scratching aged branches meeting overhead like brown bony arms. He swore that he could almost make out faces in the bark of some of the older, gnarlier trunks.
The autumn storm that had blown through the woods a few days before must have blasted most of the leaves off, which left twiggy sticks that looked like talons – they reminded him of the owl. Tom halted again and listened. It was odd – there was not a sound, as if he was the only thing alive in the forest. The air despite the seasonal cold was heavy and oppressive, like being smothered in a thick woollen blanket.
Something moved. He was sure of it – away to his left. He peered into the woody gloom. No, it was nothing. He told himself again that he was not afraid…..but he was a little bit wary. Tom walked faster; the path must come out somewhere. He tried to whistle again but his lips had gone dry.
There it was again! Something was definitely over there to his left. “Hello?” he called. There was no reply. He drew his torch out and shone it towards where he had seen the movement. There was nothing apart from trees, brambles and a green hat. What? The hat was gone. OK, the rabbit thought, I can either run away….or see what it is. Is it safe to step off the path? Tom drew himself to his full height (still only as big as a tiny rabbit on tip-toes) and strode firmly into the bushes. He pushed through to where he thought he’d seen the hat. When he got there he looked down – Tom was sure that he could make out footprints. They were people prints but smaller. He grinned to himself – there was someone here. “OK, I know you’re here,” he announced, “You can show yourself.”
It remained still and silent for a while, then a clear voice said, “Good day young Master Rabbit.” It came from behind him. Tom turned slowly and there in front of him was a man but he was the size of a small human – a child he thought they were called. He wore a green jacket, trousers and floppy hat, all trimmed with what looked like oak leaves. His belt had an acorn on its buckle – even his long boots were the colour of autumn acorns. His face was dark, and wrinkled, like it had seen many summers and winters, almost like the bark of a tree. He smiled a kindly smile, as he bowed and took of his hat. “My name is Derwen,” he said.
Tom blushed (as he did not know how to bow) and he mumbled a “How do you do” adding, “My name’s Tom.”
“What are you doing here in the middle of the Wychwood on All Hallow’s Eve?” Derwen asked.
“I was following a butterfly along a path but the butterfly disappeared and there was no path behind me, only in front of me. I’ kept walking as I think all paths that go into a wood have to come out somewhere.”
Derwen grinned, “A very logical thought, young sir.”
Tom couldn’t help it, “If you don’t mind me asking, Mr Derwen – what are you?”
“I am one of the woodland folk, what you would call a Jack in the Green. It is our responsibility to look after all things that grow, especially in the forests and hedgerows. I am here because I am concerned about something going on in the middle of the forest. Someone has been chopping down trees or parts of trees.”
“That’s terrible,” the little rabbit replied.
“I am going there to put a stop to it – or at least find out what is going on,” he looked at Tom, “You’re a very brave rabbit – would you help?”
“Certainly,” he answered, unsure as to how much help he could be, but determined to do what he could.
“Come on then,” the Green Man said and they strode off down the path into the trees. He was also whistling and though Tom didn’t know the tune, he found himself joining in. Derwen drew a little silver flute from his pocket and played the tune that he had been whistling and as he did, the branches that had seemed to be leaning low over them in a rather threatening way lifted by a few metres, and let more light in – where they walked, the oppressive feeling of the forest seemed to change.
They continued for a while (Tom thought it was all really happy and exciting) until suddenly Derwen stopped playing, raised his finger to his lips for Tom to be quiet, and popping the flute in his pocket, slowly crept into the undergrowth. Tom followed him, keeping close. The jolly atmosphere had changed as they had reached the edge of a clearing in the trees. From where they stood they could see that some trees had been hacked at and their lower branches ripped away. There were piles of twigs and leaves scattered along the edge of the clearing. In front of them were at least six large tree stumps, and the remains of what had once been oak, elm and ash trees, now just leaves, twigs, wood chips and sawdust. Beyond that was a cottage. A strange cottage of pink, blue black and green with a brown roof – Tom could swear that it looked like it was made of…sweets? (He remembered Bob bringing some into the warren once – he had found a bag of them dropped by a human child, which he shared round the young rabbits.)
“Careful, wee rabbit. This could be dangerous,” Derwen whispered.
As he spoke, the door to the cottage opened, and a human came out. It was a grey-haired old lady in a cloak, so stooped over that she looked like a hoop. She appeared ever so sweet and gentle. Tom could feel himself smiling, and he even felt his feet lifting and starting to take him towards the lady. Derwen held him by the shoulder, “Careful!” he hissed. Tom stopped – what had made him move? The Old woman stared across the clearing, over the fallen trees, into the gloomy undergrowth straight to where they were hiding.
“Is there anyone out there?” she called in a frail, crackling voice. “I won’t hurt you. Come into my lovely warm kitchen.” She peered towards the rabbit and the Jack in the Green. Could she see them?
She turned on her heel – very quickly, Tom thought, for someone so elderly, “No-one there.” The voice did not sound so crackly or frail either. She unwound her stoop, standing straighter and taller as she stomped towards the doorway which closed behind her.
Derwen breathed out, as did Tom. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“I thought as much. We truly are in a dangerous spot. That’s not a dear old lady, but one of the dark spirits from the caves to the north. She is one of the winter witches. It’s she that’s been cutting down the trees for firewood, probably for her cauldron. They always have cauldrons,” he grinned at the rabbit.
“Why?” asked Tom, unsure as to what a cauldron was.
“To make up foul smelling potions – or else to cook their lunch in.”
Tom felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as he asked, “What do they eat?”
“Anything with meat in, usually but I believe they like rabbits best of all.”
Tom had the sudden urge to run away though he managed to resist it.
Derwen nudged the rabbit and grinned again, “Come on, I’m sure you’re up for an adventure!” He stepped out of the bushes and keeping as low and as quiet as he could, he crept towards the cottage. When he got to the building he looked for Tom; the rabbit was right behind him, also pressed tight against the wall. Above them was the kitchen window – too high for either of them to see through. “Climb on my shoulders and have a look,” Derwen told him so the rabbit scrambled up. He peered through the Glass. What he saw made him gasp.
In the middle of the kitchen was a huge fireplace, on which there stood a large black and greasy-looking cooking pot which he assumed was the cauldron Derwen had mentioned. It was enormous – large enough for fifty rabbits! Under it there were twigs, sticks and coal – obviously the makings of a fire to heat it up. The witch was filling the cauldron with buckets of water which she carried from a large hand-pump on the far side of the kitchen. In the centre of the floor was an equally enormous wooden table and it was this that had made him gasp; lying across the table, on his side, was a great hairy dog, fast asleep. It was Finn! He just lay there sleeping as around him the witch was heating water. From a drawer she took out some boxes, from which she tipped some plants which she mixed, appeared to talk to, then throw into the cooking pot. Magic herbs maybe? She collected a bundle of carrots from a shelf and threw them into the pot too. All the while she was singing and chanting (Tom couldn’t hear what). The rabbit scanned around the rest of the room before he climbed down to tell the Jack in the Green.
Derwen shook his head slowly and asked the rabbit some further questions; “Did you see anyone else? Any signs of other witches? Was there a cat?”
Tom thought.” I couldn’t see anyone but the far side of the room was hidden by a large chair. There wasn’t any sign of another witch.”
“We’ll need a diversion,” the Green Man mused. “How much noise can you make?” He looked the rabbit up and….well, not up very far as he was a very short rabbit.
“More than you think,” Tom answered.
“OK, then here’s my plan,” he whispered his ideas. As they conferred there was a rustle in the bushes. Tom felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and Derwen reached for the small wooden club that he carried in his jacket. From the undergrowth there was mumbling and some rude words and …the overpowering smell of fish – and garlic. “It’s ok – I know who that is!” Tom beamed. Out of the bushes fell a short fat ginger shape. “Jeffrey!” Tom whispered. The old marmalade cat stood up and waved. “Keep quiet! There’s a witch!”
Jeffrey performed a silent “Aha!” and slinked (as slinky as a round cat could do) over to the low wall behind which the rabbit and the Jack in the Green were hiding. Derwen looked at the strange figure that was shaking his hand enthusiastically though quietly. Here stood a round ginger tom cat with an incredibly toothy smile, practically as broad as he was tall, wearing an old leather flying helmet goggles resting on his round head. On his back he had a rucksack with various odd things poking out. What Tom could not get over was the incredible smell of garlic that surrounded the old moggie almost like a cloud. “How did you find us?” Tom asked.
The cat shook his head, “I wasn’t looking for you chaps – I’m looking for Finn. It’s been a very strange day.”
Jeffrey outlined to the others what had happened that morning. Finn had been a bit twitchy since breakfast and actually left some (unheard of). He was really restless. He said he had had some strange dreams in the night about an old lady in trouble. After breakfast they had gone for a walk on the edge of the great wood and when they were walking they saw an old lady gathering kindling. Finn had run over, and Jeffrey and Rubbish the greyhound had gone too. The lady was ever so friendly and had offered the three friends a lovely breakfast in her cottage in the woods, if only they would help her carry the sticks that she was gathering for her fire. Jeffrey was not built to carry, and Rubbish was too slight but Finn being Finn had offered to help. They had walked into the woods together but as they walked the path got narrower and narrower so that they ended up walking single file. At one point the undergrowth overhung the path. The lady led Finn through this almost tunnel, and when Rubbish and Jeffrey went through – there was no-one on the other side. Finn and the old woman had vanished! The greyhound and the cat searched briefly but of Finn or the lady there was no sign. Rubbish and Jeffrey had rushed home and told the Butler who told them that his father had spoken to him when he was a boy about an old lady in the woods who stole young animals that were never seen again. She was a witch who visited the forest around Halloween every few years. The Butler had thought it was a fairy story but realised now that it must have been true! He had taken out the old Landrover and with Rubbish, Flower and some of the other animals they were searching the woods. However, Jeffrey knew that he was facing something magical and evil so he had come prepared. Creaking as he turned around, he untied the rucksack and showed the Green Man and the rabbit what he had brought with him,
“Have to be prepared, you know, never know what sort of evil you might encounter!” Out of the rucksack came some sharpened bits of wood “Stakes in case of vampires,” he muttered, then a large crucifix “Ditto” he said. From the pockets in his fur (they always amazed everyone) he pulled out handfuls of garlic bulbs “Ditto again”. There was also a small slingshot and a pair of silver earrings, “In case of werewolves”, he explained. “I’ve also got a small bottle of Holy Water. That’s pretty good against most things.”
“Anything specifically for witches?” Derwen asked.
“Hmmm,” came the reply from Jeffrey, rummaging through the rucksack. “A Bible?”
“Should work,” confirmed the Green Man.
“Righto! So, what do we do – a frontal assault? Like El Alamein?” Jeffrey enquired enthusiastically.
“I did have a plan, but I think I now have a better one. But it depends on how brave Tom can be,” Derwen and Jeffrey turned towards the little rabbit.
The Witch tested the water in the great cauldron; Yes, coming to the right temperature. The carrots and the herbs (thyme, sage and parsley) were smelling nicely – really rustic. All she needed now was some nice doggy meat to cook slowly in the stew. She looked down at the enormous deerhound who lay snoring across the wooden table. She couldn’t believe how gullible he’d been; she’d cast a spell in the night to find a likely dinner date and in her seeing-bowl she had found Finn. He was so noble and kind – so easy to snare! The witch gave him a poke in his thigh – oh, he was very meaty but also very soft and tender. Lovely! Now she would only need to cut him into chunks to drop into the pot.
Walking over towards the sink, she slid a large meat knife out of the knife-block. It was heavy, and had obviously seen a lot of action over the years. She slipped her calloused thumb along its 12 inches of cold metal. Blast! It was blunt! She went in the drawer to take out a sharpening steel. She began to draw the edge of the blade over the sharpener, and could see it getting sharper and sharper, keener and keener with every drag. She raised it over the slumbering hound. No, she told herself, don’t spoil the ship for a happor’th of tar…take time and make sure the knife is properly sharp. Finn stirred slightly – the witch lifted the knife – but he slept on. She whistled to herself and continued sharpening. She stood to her full height now – she had looked like a bent over old woman outside but here in reality she was tall, strong, with thick silver grey hair that hung down her back. She did have the usual witchly hooked nose with warts, and deep black eyes, as cold as the darkest night. The water in the cooking pot popped – it was just coming to the boil. Excellent! And just in time – the knife was now sharp enough too.
Then there was a knock on the door. She growled, put the knife down and stooped down as she went to the door. Turning the brass door handle, it creaked open and she peered out. There was no-one there. She was about to close the door when a voice below her made her look down, “Hello” said a little rabbit. “Have you seen a big hairy dog called Finn?” Tom smiled back up at her.
The Witch returned the smile to the lovely little, tender, sweet chunk of rabbit meat. “Hello, little one, and what is your name?”
“My name’s Tom. Please lady, have you seen Finn?”
“Why yes, he’s inside waiting for you. He is my guest for dinner – maybe you would like to join him?”
“Yes please,” beamed the little rabbit. All Tom could think was – blimey, isn’t she tall – and what an enormous warty nose!
“Please Miss, my friends are here too,” he said. “Can we wait for them?”
The Witch scowled. More rabbits – ah well, they’d pack out the stew, “Where are they, my dear?”
“Outside – over there in the woods. They’re a bit shy. Would you come over and say hello?”
The Witch was now growing to like the idea of rabbit as a starter so she allowed herself to follow him out across the grass. As she walked she uncurled and got taller and taller until she got to the wall, where she stood and rose to her full height. She glowered down at the little rabbit.
“I do hope that you’ve not been wasting my time, young Coney!”
As Tom had led the witch across the lawn, Derwen was creeping through the open doorway into the kitchen. He found the sleeping Finn and climbed up onto the table where he stood over him and began to speak a spell to act against the Witch’s evil enchantment. The Green Man is a woodland spirit, and has deep and ancient magic of his own. He tried the first spell, but it didn’t raise Finn. A second spell made the hound’s eyes quiver, so Derwen knew he was on the right track. As he chanted the third spell, and crumbled a handful of oak leaves over Finn’s head two things happened. He heard a scream from outside, and Finn opened his eyes wide. “Hello,” the Lord of the Glen said. “And to whom do I owe this honour?”
As the Witch grew to her height a ginger figure leapt upon the wall and faced her. “Not so fast!” shouted the marmalade mousketeer. The Witch took a step backwards in shock as she stared at Jeffrey. She was astonished and was for the first time in her life, totally, speechless. There in front of her stood a round ginger cat in a flying helmet, who peered back at her through goggles. “Whatever are you?” she asked.
“I am your nemesis!” he replied.
“Fine words for a fat cat! “ she cackled. “Well be quick – that smell of garlic is making my eyes water!”
“I have everything to defeat your evil ways!” Jeffrey announced as he reached into the rucksack that he’d placed by his feet. Out came a crucifix which he waved in the Witch’s face.
“Sorry, that does nothing,” she replied.
“Ah, OK,” he rummaged in the bag again and brought out a stake and a mallet.
“I’d have to stand very still and even then, I don’t think that’d work – do you?” She shook her head,
“Fair enough,” back in the rucksack he went. “Bible?” he offered. The Witch shook her head again. “Silver earrings?”
“I usually wear gold, thank you,” she replied.
“Aha! Holy Water!” Jeffrey declared.
The Witch stepped back. “What?” She looked worried.
Jeffrey was jubilant. He pulled the glass bottle from the sack and waved it in front of her. “Holy…” he stopped for a moment.
Tom was tapping him on the leg. “It’s not Holy Water,” he whispered.
Jeffrey looked. “Oh dear…” the cat read the bottle, “Wart Remover!”
The Witch screamed loudly with laughter and leaned forward with her long clawed fingers scrabbling to grab the Professor. Jeffrey said to himself, “Ah well, here goes nothing,” and flung the bottle of wart remover into the Witch’s face. She screamed and stopped for a second, then screeched with glee as the warts on her nose disappeared.
The Witch shrieked with laughter. “Thank you, cat, I had been wanting to something about those! Now cat – how would you prefer to die?” She moved towards Jeffrey whose eyes closed inside his goggles. He tensed for a moment.
The Witch screamed a scream of someone in indescribable pain. Jeffrey opened an eyelid and was amazed at what he saw; the Witch was starting to smoke as the chemical in the wart remover got into her bloodstream. She stood stock still, her arms dropped to her side and then she started shaking. As Finn and Derwen ran out of the cottage towards them the Witch suddenly went “BANG!” – And vanished! She was gone.
“Well bless my soul!” he said.
“Jeffrey to the rescue again, old friend!” Finn smiled as he got to Jeffrey. The Lord of the Glen bowed to the cat, as did the Green Man.
Jeffrey beamed back, “Of course, had it all worked out!”
“What got her?” asked Derwen. “Bible?”
Jeffrey blushed deep under his ginger fur, “I thought it was Holy Water – but I’d picked up the wrong bottle. It was Wart Remover!”
Finn and the Green man laughed. “As the Witch was made up of so much warty matter, it must have gone into her bloodstream and dissolved all of her. Amazing!”
Tom clambered over the wall. “But we owe it all to the hero – step forward, Tom!” Derwen cried. The rabbit smiled a huge smile which stretched from ear to ear. He felt so proud. “Young sir, I owe you my life,” Finn told him. Tom blushed even more.
“Right! “Jeffrey smiled, “Theres a cauldron in that kitchen with herbs in. I wonder if anyone fancies some garlic stew?”
Tom held up a sharpened wooden spike, “What goes well with stake?”
Characters and story copyright Chris Dignam/Crafty Dog Cymru 2016.
A Marmalade Cat?
This is a chapter from a book released a few years back called “Greyt Expectations – From Rescued Greyhounds to Marmalade Cats” and is a collection of the blog posts from here and the South Wales Evening Post pages, along with some other pieces about writing, music – and a marmalade cat called Jeffrey. I hope that you enjoy it and feel free to tweet, reblog or share.
What a Crafty Dog does on her day off.
If reading to children is the best fun you can have, making them laugh, making them gasp or even hide behind their hands in fear of the wicked fox or nasty hunter with his gun, the next best thing is sitting with a pen and paper, or a computer keyboard and dreaming up the characters themselves. Ideas for stories seem to come at the strangest times, usually when lying in bed at night, or out walking the dog when you have the space and time to empty your mind and let it ramble. Someone has said there are only three or four stories; everything else is just a variation on that. That might be true, but there is a heck of a lot of scope for that variation.
One evening driving home from work at local authority council offices I was stuck in a jam queuing on the slip road off the M4. As I listened to music I began to run some ideas around in my head. I wanted to write a book about a recued greyhound that would appeal to children but it needed a twist. The idea then changed to an abandoned puppy being left and brought up by other animals – I guess from the Tarzan idea, or even the Ugly Duckling by Hans Christian Andersen. Rabbits – who had never seen a puppy, and a puppy who had never seen rabbits seemed to work. I started roughing up some ideas that evening, and from the first lines about the speeding car and the flying sack I was away.
Within a day or so I had the first rabbit characters and that of the little hound but I did not have a name. It was a few days into the book when the little character told the rabbits that the humans said he was rubbish and that’s where his name came from – the little puppy named himself! So Rubbish the rabbit hound was born.
I was sketching ideas for a plot, something simple with a villain – a fox fitted naturally into this – and also a hero. Someone needed to be able to tell the little confused rabbit into the great secret, that he was not a rabbit at all but a dog, but it had to be done by a special character that everyone in the book could look up to, but especially the little Rubbish. A noble beast, a great hound was obviously the person we needed and just as the character was forming in the story, the idea of it being The Mighty Finn popped into my head.
How could they meet? Where? I remember reading The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett and also seeing Tom’s Midnight Garden when I was a kid on children’s TV. Looking back now, I guess there was also The Herbs, an animated children’s programme which used to be on Watch with Mother, where there was a wall, and a door which opened into a mysterious garden. The red brick wall and green wooden door were here.
I had a hero, mentor, villain – even weasel henchmen for the villain – but no comic character. This was going to be interesting. Who would be a heroic but comic figure? This was a challenge and I mulled this over for a few days. I was sitting in the office, looking round the room and there, sitting on the exercise bike was an old cuddly toy I had bought for Armelle years ago when I had been in university – a dusty old Garfield. That was it – a dusty old ginger-marmalade cat sprang to life. A well-bred and distinguished moggie, I christened him Jeffrey. He was going to be heroic but flawed – courageous and devil-may-care, he was also very vain and self opinionated, His age meant that he would be a bit creaky – arthritic with a dodgy back, few teeth and bad breath. I now realise that Jeffrey had a lot in common with Tiger, a ginger moggie that Armelle had when I first met her. She too had few teeth, some bald patches, hayfever and was a very good age. I think there was more Tiger than Garfield in our Jeffrey.
The Mighty Finn and Jeffrey the ancient marmalade cat
Of all the characters, I love writing for Jeffrey. He is wonderful and things just happen to him; he is the reason that cat-slide roofs exist, was made for flying goggles and a woolly scarf and is crying out for a book of his own. When it came to the Hallowe’en story, Jeffrey was now known as “The Professor” and it was his genius that helped turn the tables on the ghosts. When I do book readings, the kids all love to hear about Jeffrey, and when I gave him his voice, those wonderful rounded vowels of this cat, owned by a retired Colonel who lives next door, it was very easy for him to take over.
The story wrote itself once I had the cast. I just followed where Rubbish, Finn and Jeffrey led, to be ambushed by the Fox but through the bravery of a little rabbit the tables are turned and the good guys win (as they always should in a children’s book).
The next book, The Winter Hare, was going to be a bit darker. Not intentionally, it just wrote itself that way. The influence of the Green Man, the Celtic Hare and the powers of nature were going to be the main elements here. The hunters chasing the hare hark back I guess to the hunters of Peter and the Wolf, but far, far darker. There they are trying to catch the hare – but why? In the dark shed we find out – a shelf full of animal bits, wood shavings and glass domes – taxidermy!
The darker the villains, the brighter the heroes have to become. Finn is probably his most noble in this story, and Rubbish is…just himself, but even more humorous, curious and wide-eyed.
Other cast members are the hunters dogs; two equally evil and terrible lurcher dogs with huge teeth and vicious appetites and tempers to match, and the third hound, a reluctant hunter called Flower. Her role – well, you’ll have to read the book to find out what transpires.
The final set of characters are the army of black and white that is marching towards climax of the book – the great showdown. They are an army of badgers. They might hark back to my days working for the National Trust in the 1980’s at Dinefwr Parc in South Wales. There were a number of badger setts in the deer park and I was lucky enough on a number of occasions to have sat and watched them playing outside in the warm red dusk of a summer’s evening. I was roped into taking part in the local village quiz tournament in the National Trust team. We eventually won the contest and the trophy still sits on our mantelpiece after all these years. The quiz-master for the series was Aeron Clement, a self-confessed Badger-nut who loved the black and white beasts – so much that he wrote a book about them, called “The Cold Moons”. It came out a few years afterwards and became a best seller. There may be a passing nod to Aeron in my characters. He was a lovely chap but unfortunately he did not enjoy his success for long as he passed away soon after it came out. He had written a sequel which was finished by his wife and daughter and it was also successful.
The Largest Rabbit is available digitally, as is the Christmas short story. The Hallowe’en story “The Haunted Castle or Rubbish and the Hound of the Basquet de Villes” is also available on the blog pages here, and will be out again ready for this Hallowe’en.
Hi Fidelity?
As those of you that read my occasional Friday night music posting will know, music is very important to me. Whilst contemplating what I will be listening to this evening I began to think about my music collection generally. There has been such a revival in Vinyl that I have been re-evaluating the wonders of vinyl versus digital. I can remember as a teenager going by bus into town and visiting the record stores to see what they had; this divided into a number of categories, so that if it was a new release off to HMV or WH Smiths, or if a general pot-luck search, in which case it would be Derricks. There was something magical about thumbing through the racks of plastic and cardboard, then pulling out the large square package with its inevitably well-crafted sleeve artwork, whether single or (hopefully) gatefold sleeve, and even better with loads of photos and the lyrics too. That moment when you pulled the LP out of the outer sleeve and held the crinkly paper sleeve to read the circular label in the centre. There was even a particular smell to the LP when you took it out for the first time. When I got home I would rush upstairs, switch on my Sharp turntable, push the buttons on my Sony amplifier and listen to the thump of the Wharfedale speakers kicking in. I’d lift the turntable lid, put the disc on, close the lid and press the button and as the red strobe wheel glittered, watch the arm lazily glide up and over the (usually) black vinyl to drop into the lead-in groove.
However, this was often when the frustration began. You would listen to the first few tracks and, more often than not, your heart would stop at the sound of the first click, crackle or worse still, skip. The whole vinyl experience could be ruined by poor production, a poor mix or even worse poor handling at the factory so you would end up with a scratched piece of virgin plastic. I can feel that bitter disappointment and annoyance even now after all these years. The quality of the record itself varied too, from nice thick heavy flat vinyl with a great mix (Head On by BTO, a Canadian import) to mass produced UK or European albums that were so thin that they were warped even before they started.
I was really pleased when I heard my fist compact disc; cool clear sound – and no scratches! I was an instant convert, I must admit. There has been a lot of snobbery about “analogue” vs “digital” and some of the points are true; I do miss the fabulous artwork, the physicality of opening the record. I don’t miss the tinny sound and scratches. I can now download music and albums I had only read about before – even the deleted ones long out of print. Admittedly, the quality of cd’s can vary but this is often due to the bit sample rate and the mix. Some are crystal clear – Deep Purple’s Made in Japan is so good a mix that you can even hear the hum of the amplifiers. Others are not so good. A lot depends on your listening device – I have a new pair of Pioneer headphones which are leaps ahead of my old Akai ones, and I had thought they were amazing in their time. I could never listen to clicks and hissing LPs through headphones!
My Record memories? Like getting off the bus in Ynystawe with my copy of Deep Purple’s Fireball clutched under my arm and colliding with a friend on his bike so that the record in its bag leapt nine feet in the air and landed on its corner. Despite its creased sleeve it still played perfectly! Lifting up a turntable with Caroline Morris’s copy of Seconds Out on it and wincing as the arm bounced across the record. Still can’t remember why I did that. Ooops. My first real album – Who’s Next by the Who, still one of my favourites. Or listening to Neil Young for the first time in the Sixth Form area in school.
I have been gradually rebuilding my collection in CD format and many of these have now been remastered and remixed to achieve sound definition not previously thought possible – Made in Japan is a case in point. Anyway, whether you love analogue – warts and all – or digital (soulless though it could be) the important thing is the music and that you enjoy it. And my choice for tonight? Hmmm, still working on that one.
We all read about how people should treat their dogs, what they should eat, how they should be kept, and where they should sleep. Before we had our hounds I had very firm ideas where dogs should or should not be, and most definitely not on the furniture. I read so much about people who put their dog’s beds in their bedrooms or even shared their beds with them, and that was definitely a no-go for me. However, Penny has taught us how important it is to adapt your living style around your hound, and that they should have a degree of say in how they live. After all, it’s their home too.
Sally – our first greyhound.
When we had our Sally, the first greyhound we had ever taken home, we soon found that we were on a steep learning curve. The family dog when I was a kid was a Shetland sheepdog who ate tinned dogfood, slept in a plastic basket in the kitchen, rarely went upstairs and never on the furniture. Before Sally arrived we had spoken to Greyhound Rescue Wales colleagues who had greyhounds, and to the people who had done our home check. Their greyhound had liked Weetabix for breakfast, and dried food at tea-time, so this is what we followed. Sally was pretty relaxed and this suited her. Over the years we tweaked things as she got bored of Weetabix, so would ring the changes with cut cornflakes, or frosties, or porridge, and add plain yoghurt. Sal would have s light snack dinnertime (crusts or leftovers if we were home) and then a main meal at 5 o’clock – and woe betide if we were late, as Sally’s stomach was more accurate than the atomic clock at Harwell! She would raise the roof with barking to remind us. Dried food was supplemented with scraps, and eventually became a mix of dried food and our food. She thrived on it. When Sammy arrived, she went on the same diet, two meals and light scraps/food if we were there lunchtime.
Just like my first dog, Sally was not allowed on the chairs or settee in the house. On the first evening she climbed up on a chair and I tipped her (gently I might add!) onto the floor. She never climbed on the chairs again. When she conquered the stairs (very quickly, I might add!) she was allowed up on our bed, but only when there was a cover on and we were there. Sally used to get bored lying upstairs on her own and always wanted to be where I was. I can remember working on the pc in the back bedroom (grandly called “The Office”!) with her lying right under the chair, terrifying me in case I rolled the castors over her ears. Sammy loved to sneak upstairs and would love to lie in the sunshine on our bed and would sleep there all day given the chance. After lunch she would cry by the living room door for Armelle to let her go upstairs, where she would stay until she either;
a) Demanded a walk
b) I got home from work
Sally loved her bed in the kitchen. From her first evening, she would go out to that bed in the evening usually before we went up to our own bed. Shew slept through the night until I got up the next morning when she would go out the garden for a toilet stop whilst I prepared her breakfast. Sammy, on the other hand, liked to come up to bed with us for a short cwtch, and then would come downstairs when I called her for a piece of cheese or a treat, when she would then go to the garden and then to her kitchen bed for the night.
Sammy having a doze
In some respects we were quite strict about this. Even after Sammy had shared the bed in the motorhome with Armelle and I on her holidays she would still want her own kitchen bed when we were in the house. When we had our fosters we changed a bit; Queenie was badly abused by her owner and within days of being with us she tried to tear the kitchen door down at night. We let her sleep in the living room as she was more comfortable there. With her toileting issues too, she would only mess at night on a carpet and not on a hard floor – a legacy of her being locked in a concrete-floored shed. Rhys also decided that the kitchen was not for him so we had to patch up the kitchen door again! He liked to sleep on the settee in the living room, so for the first few weeks we assessed him that’s where he slept, until he discovered the upstairs bed, and for his last fortnight with us he slept on his blanket in between us.
Lizzie never left the kitchen for the first three weeks we fostered her and always saw the kitchen bed as her safe place. She was the very least adventurous of all her dogs, so quiet and scared of the world, and rarely went into the living room and never ever upstairs. And then there was The Penster.
We had learned over the years with experience that some things are more important than others. The rules we had strictly enforced with the other dogs were somewhat relaxed by Penny.
Firstly, we discovered that Penny really loved her food. And then some. Breakfast was fine but a light snack soon became insufficient and she would come and stare at you, or even bark for a bit more. Within a few months Penny had initiated a cereal breakfast with yoghurt, a light lunch – Armelle’s scraps but with kibble or later with a pack of pate dog food, and then a dinner just about 5 o’clock. She started to try it on a bit, and began demanding lunch earlier than 1 o’clock (sometimes as early as 11.15!), and the same for tea time (4 o’clock seemed right for her). Tea time she does now (mostly) wait for me to come home from work. She loves a mix of dried kibble with human food, usually 50/50 or even 30/70. Her favourite lunch is a deconstructed sardine sandwich (very Heston Blumenthal!), which consists of broken up bread (preferably wholemeal), and sardines (again, preferably with tomato sauce).
Penny is also not a walkies dog. Sally and Sam would nag if they did not have a walk. Penny, on the other hand, is happy to go out the garden and very reluctantly go for a walk round the block. She has never been keen to go out in the rain, or in the dark, and if she decides she does not want to walk, she splays her legs open and you won’t shift her. Even with bribery of her favourite treats. She has learnt to ask to go to the toilet so if she wants to go out, she asks. If we go out in the car then she will take a walk (preferably with another dog for company) and sometimes this is the only way we can get her to toilet if the garden is too wet and muddy.
The first evening Penny was with us she wandered into the living room and sat on the grey bed that had originally belonged to Sammy. This was on the floor next to my chair. For a few weeks this was sufficient. Then one evening Penny came in after scouring her food bowl and slipped onto the settee next to Armelle, on a fleece blanket we had initially put on for Rhys. This has become a regular and she will often walk up to me and either nudge me or walk past a couple of times until I go and sit on the settee too and she will lie on the cushion next to me, head in my lap.
She has also developed a love of the area behind my chair which has two walls and a cabinet on three sides and is quite sheltered. This is her cwtch where she goes when she feels insecure or just for some quiet. She has her second living room bed in there.
For the first few weeks Penny was happy to sleep in the kitchen but then she started banging the kitchen door and even started to chew it. So, we left the door into the living room open. This proved satisfactory and Penny would sleep there on her grey bed. Once the settee had been claimed she decided that this would be her night-time bed and so she slept there instead. She was a good dog, obedient, non-destructive, so we decided to cut her some slack and let her sleep where she was comfortable and quiet. However, when we went to Belgium in the motorhome with Penny she got to enjoy sleeping on the double bed with us. She would get really excited at 9 o’clock when it was time to put the bed out – Armelle would have to hold her back with all her strength whilst I put the bed together, and then Penny would be the first one on it. When we came home from Belgium the settee was no longer good enough and so we broke the last taboo of all and she began to come up and share the bed with us. Fortunately it’s a king-size but she does have a habit of trying to push Armelle out of bed if she gets the right angle and leverage.
Penny the Crafty Dog in her finery.
This has actually become quite relaxing, having the whole pack together. It’s no coincidence that since Penny started coming up with us we have all slept better. She has started to vary her habits by sometimes sleeping downstairs and sometimes with us, which is again fine. Penny has taught us a lot, but we have also learned from the fosters with their issues.
I guess that’s what this article is all about; greyhounds need ground rules, a routine, so they know what the basics of the household are. With time, they might push the envelope a bit, and in return for them being well-behaved, I think it is fair to give them a bit of leeway. Penny is a real star; at the end of the day, she is a healthy, well-balanced and relaxed hound in the house who loves her home. Love your greyhound – and give them a break!
(for more on our rescued hounds, look up the book “A Hound in the House” available on this website here.
Greyt Expectations – What’s After the Rainbow Bridge?
Have you ever had that feeling when you are alone that you feel there is someone watching you? Sometimes you may even hear or think you hear something. Zoologists would explain it as those primeval nerves and peripheral senses that once protected early humans when they first came down from the trees. These can in part explain the supernatural and superstitions many of us believe in. However, sometimes we see things that are not so easy to explain.
Our pets are our companions and they invest so much emotion in us as we do in them. They can be our constant companions, and they miss us when we are gone, and get so excited and happy when we return. It is not surprising that when they pass on they can leave ripples in the atmosphere, emotional recording so to speak.
Sally was our first greyhound and she was a wonderful character, so popular, and was loved by many people. She was particularly close to my Mum. Sal had arrived only a month after my Mum’s best friend had passed away and in many ways she filled that need for friendship that had been created. The routine of dog-sitting on a Tuesday and Thursday became important in helping my Mum through the grieving process and getting her back in the swing. Sally was so very affectionate and she and I became inseparable; wherever I went, so did Sally. She would wait patiently for me to come home from work or, on a Thursday, for 2 o’clock when my Mum would arrive with a milky way and let her out the garden. If I worked upstairs on the pc, Sal would lie at my feet, often so close to the chair that I had to watch that I did not roll over her ears with the castors. When my appendix burst, I spent 2 months off at home with her and we had some real quality time together. Then, two years later when I broke my leg whilst walking her, I had three months at home with her. At this time Armelle still worked 4 days a week so Sally and I were literally on our own from morning to tea-time. It was great being with her, and on days when I was depressed or worried, she was there to sit and listen to me, not complaining or offering any reproach. When Sally headed towards 13, Armelle was off work for a while, and I also as I had had the metal plates taken out of my leg, so we again had some quality time together. Fate had given the three of us a month together, and it was only a few days after we both returned to work that on a Tuesday evening she was taken ill and in the early morning passed away. I was in the room with her at the time.
Sally our first hound in the house
It was a year or so before we had Sammy, our next greyhound. She was very sensitive soul herself, and within a few weeks had also grown very close to my mum. We had only had her a few months when she started a very strange habit; she would sit or lie down and look into space, about 18 inches up, as if listening intently. She would not just stare blindly but she was really watching something (or someone). You could read her facial expressions as she would (usually) lie there looking and listening. Jokingly I said she was listening to orders from The White Dog – our Sally. This went on all the time we had Sammy.
Sammy grew close to our next door neighbour Betty. Sammy began to stop by her garden gate to go and see her. We found out that Betty had become very ill with cancer, and Sammy seemed to realise this and became more and more insistent that Armelle should call. She would go in and sit at Betty’s feet and watch over her, and she would wait patiently as Betty fussed her. In the September we were going on holiday and the day before we left, Sam as had become usual, insisted on seeing Betty. They sat with each other, and as Armelle made to leave, Betty spoke to Sam, telling her that they would probably not meet again. Sam had to be practically dragged out of the house – she even sat down in the hallway and refused to go. True enough, Betty passed away when we were on holidays, they never did see each other again. When we came home, Sam would walk past the gate, but never stopped to call in; she knew Betty had gone.
We did not have Sammy two years when she was attacked by another dog and, despite an emergency operation, she died at the vets. It was a horrible death, and she was so young – it was the week of her fifth birthday – and it seemed to me that she had never had a chance to live a full and proper life. She had been cheated.
I’ve never believed in ghoulies or ghosties, or things that go bump in the night, nor am I particularly superstitious. However, I have had to change my opinion over the last few years. It must have been about six months after Sammy died that I was in the kitchen and as I turned towards the fridge freezer I saw a black shape pass from the kitchen into the utility room; I thought it was a black greyhound. I went out into the utility room – but there was no-one there. I put it all down to my imagination. A few months later I was in the downstairs cloakroom early in the morning as I was getting ready for work. The door was slightly ajar and as I turned to stand up I saw a small black greyhound trot past the door. I opened the door wide – again there was no-one there. I began to believe that for some reason Sam was still about, and keeping an eye on us, as Sally had kept an eye on her. We had no dog at that time as we were in between hounds, but even since Penny has arrived I have still occasionally seen Sam. It is usually in the kitchen or utility room, never upstairs, and always just a fleeting glance not a good view, and always unexpected. It has never felt frightening or spooky, just unusual. I have sometimes even felt her brush against me.
Since mentioning this, a number of other pet owners have talked of seeing their pets after they have passed on; they have seen them, heard them and even smelt them. Why does it happen to some and not to others? I would suggest that in Sam’s case, she was so young that she still wants to share some time with us and is not ready to go yet. She has only once seemed to talk to Penny. Armelle has never seen her (or not admitted it!). Sal was so very close to me yet I have never seen her – why has she not made an appearance? I guess we’ll never know.
At the end of the day, I find it quite comforting to think that Sam is looking over us, and even that it seems to reaffirm the idea of life after death. As Hamlet said, there are more things in heaven and earth….
Sammy in the bluebell wood
Here is the Hallowe’en story from 2016 – a spooky adventure for Rubbish the Rabbithound, the Mighty Finn and Jeffrey the ancient marmalade cat. Its not too scary – honest!
The Haunted Castle or Or Rubbish and the Hound of the Basquet-Villes
In the blood-red glow of the fireplace the rabbits sat in a huddle, all waiting on Bob’s every word. It was a dark and cold autumn evening and they were gathered round listening for the story to continue. “And in the glow of the brightest moon there stood a massive hound, with enormous teeth as sharp as knives, that dripped blood.”
“Ooooh,” the little rabbits went.
“And his eyes glowed like the coals in this fire,” Bob pointed to the hearth.
“Awwww,” the kits replied, their eyes as wide as the ghostly hound’s jaws.
“And do you know what the Hound said?” Bob asked. He leaned towards them. Their little heads all shook a “No”. He beckoned them to come closer. And closer.
They all shuffled forward.
Bob whispered, “The evil hound said…..” They leant closer.
“WOOOFF!” Bob shouted.
A whole row of little rabbits jumped three feet (all four feet) into the air. Everyone laughed, Bob loudest of all.
“You know Bob, they all love your stories,” Bluebell, his wife and the mother of the warren, told him. She chuckled too as she watched all the little rabbits smiling and giggling and teasing each other. All of them, except Tom. Tom was not quite the youngest of the rabbits in the warren but he was the smallest, and he was also the most adventurous and the bravest. Tom slowly raised his hand.
“Yes, young Tom,” Bob asked.
“Dad, it’s about the ghostly hound of Hell,” he answered quietly.
“What about it,” the father rabbit smiled.
“I’ve seen it,” he replied. The laughter in the room suddenly turned to silence.
“What do you mean?”
Tom looked at his mum and dad and the others as he spoke. “I have seen the hound and heard him.”
The room suddenly, despite the coal fire, went very cold as a chill fell over the rabbits. “It’s only a story, like all Bob’s stories,” Bluebell chided him.
Tom was adamant. “I saw the hound.”
All the eyes in the burrow were now on the little brown rabbit. Bob waved his paw for Tom to continue. “I was playing in the far woods near the river. Across the river is the old castle.”
“It’s haunted,” one of the other rabbits whispered to the room.
Tom shook his head. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Or at least, I didn’t. One afternoon I was there when it started to get dark, and I could see lights in the broken windows. I walked over the old bridge through the gateway to see where they were coming from.”
All the little rabbits’ eyes were open even wider than they had been when Bob was speaking.
“In the courtyard I heard voices. Someone was shouting. I sneaked inside to look. There were two humans arguing. They looked like they were wearing pale grey clothes. As they waved their arms around and screamed I noticed something odd. I could see the walls of the castle straight through them. Then they walked away through a doorway and vanished. I was really glad they went as I began to think they must be ghosts. Just when I stood up, I could feel that someone was watching me.”
“Ooooh,” went one of the girls.
“I could also feel a cold draft on my neck. I turned around very slowly,” Tom’s voice was faltering a bit now as he remembered what had happened. “And there in front of me stood an enormous dog. He was huge, with a huge mouth and a gigantic tongue and freezing cold breath. His eyes were red and glowing.”
“What did you do?” even Bob was hooked.
Tom swallowed. “I said ‘Hello’.”
The room went even more silent if that was possible, apart from the crackle of the fire in the hearth.
“What did the hound say?” asked Bluebell.
“Woof?” asked Bob.
Tom shook his head. “He yelped, jumped backwards and ran away into the castle.”
There was a hush for a second, and then someone said, “Oh, what a swizz.”
Everyone laughed again and the atmosphere broke. They all thought Tom had been telling a story and within a minute everyone was going about their ordinary business. Everyone, that is, except Scutter, who was the biggest of Tom’s brothers. He put his arm around Tom and took him to the quiet part of the room. “Is that all true?” he asked the little rabbit. Tom nodded truthfully.
“That’s odd. Ghosts and a frightening hound that’s scared of a rabbit.” Scutter bit his lip thoughtfully. “Sounds like a job for the Mighty Finn and our Rubbish.”
Tom smiled, “Oh yes, they’d love that!”
Scutter gave his brother a squeeze. “We’ll go over tomorrow morning and tell them all about it. Finn will have a plan.”
“Or Jeffrey,” the little one added.
Scutter frowned, “Oh yes, Jeffrey will definitely have a plan!”
The next morning the two rabbits slipped through the gap in the tall green doorway that led into the walled garden which was home to Cath and Sean (alias the Maid and the Butler), Finn the wise old Scottish deerhound and Rubbish, the young brindle greyhound who lived with them. Walking up the path the rabbits looked up to the top of the red brick wall to where Jaffrey the ancient and creaky marmalade cat usually sat. He was not there today. Further towards the house there was an old shaggy grey rug that looked like it had been thrown over a chaise longue. On the chair alongside they could see the young greyhound, lying on his back with his paws in the air. As they drew closer Rubbish saw them and called out a “Hello!” The shaggy rug moved and drew itself up to its full height, becoming the Mighty Finn, the lord of the Glen and master of the woods. He shook noisily, throwing of wisps of grey hair into the autumn sunshine. The rabbits looked up into the pair of deep brown kindly eyes that sparkled back at them. “What ho, my little friends!” he smiled.
“Morning Rubbish and Mr Finn,” Scutter replied. Tom despite his braveness was always in awe of the great deerhound and just blushed and waved awkwardly before sidling closer to his brother.
“How can we help you?” Rubbish lay on his haunches to look at the rabbits better. Finn winked at Tom, “I sense an adventure, young Rubbish” he announced.
Scutter grinned, “I think so Mr Finn. Tom has seen something very strange in the ruined castle.”
“Oh yes?” Finn answered.
Tom nodded and stepped forward, “Yes sir. I think its ghosts.”
As he spoke the sun went behind a cloud and it became sharply cold.
“Finn doesn’t believe in ghosts, do you?” Rubbish looked to the deerhound.
There was no reply. Finn leaned down and quietly asked Tom to tell him what he had seen. He listened carefully and then considered what the rabbit had said.
Rubbish looked at the deerhound that was clearly deep in thought. “Is this a two biscuit problem?” he asked. Finn nodded. Rubbish passed him two dog-choc biscuits that Finn chewed slowly and deliberately.
“I am not a believer in ghosts but I have to accept what young Tom has seen.” He crunched his second biscuit and the rabbits and greyhound awaited his further ideas.
Finn straightened himself and smiled, “I have a plan.”
“Hooray!” cheered the rabbits.
“Rubbish, you and I must go to the Old Castle and see what’s going on. Let’s go and meet the ghost.”
The rabbits jaws dropped.
“Oh,” said Rubbish. “I’ve never met a ghost.”
Finn’s eyes twinkled, “My dear Rubbish, neither have I. It will be a first for both of us!” He laughed out loud and the others joined in.
Little Tom said to himself, “Well, ghosties, you’d better be careful! The Mighty Finn is on your case!”
“We’ll need some help,” Finn added.
“The Professor?” Rubbish inquired.
“Yep. The very same,” Finn said.
Scutter and Tom were puzzled. “Who’s the Professor?” they asked.
Suddenly they heard the sound of claws slipping on slates, a loud scream and some very rude words. And the thud of podgy fur on grass. The smell of liniment and pilchards told them that Jeffrey had arrived.
“What ho, gents!” the rounded vowels of the very well educated ancient marmalade moggy came across the lawn. They could see where he had landed as he nonchalantly dusted himself down, straightened up his hat and sauntered over the lawn towards them.
“That Professor,” Rubbish replied to Scutter.
“First class dismount,” Finn told him.
“ Ok – I just missed my footing,” the moggy grumbled. As he walked you could hear various joints clicking and creaking. Rubbish could see that he had his best teeth in today – the ones that almost fitted – as well as the leather flying helmet and goggles that were becoming his trademark. Ever since the Father Christmas escapade, Jeffrey had taken to wearing them. He often wore the scarf as well but today he had given that a miss. “So what’s up? Oh, hello my little bunny friends!” He beamed a very shiny white smile at the rabbits who smiled back.
“Hi Jeffrey”, they said. “Tom’s seen a ghost.”
“What? Ghost?” Jeffrey sounded shocked.
“Apparently so,” the deerhound said. “At the old castle in the woods. I think we should make a visit and see what’s what.”
“Absolutely! Capital idea!” the cat enthused.
Rubbish, on the other hand was not quite so keen. He was not entirely sure what a ghost was (despite hearing loads of Bob’s stories) but what he had heard had not made him very enthusiastic about meeting one. “Is it safe?” he asked.
Jeffrey laughed his best “Devil-may-care” laugh. “Good gosh, I shouldn’t think so. Ghosts can be rather nasty don’t you know.” He looked down at the rabbit. “So what sort of spectral manifestation do we have? Nasty screaming poltergeist, bloodthirsty headless horseman, evil phantom with an axe?”
Rubbish now felt even less like seeing a ghost.
“It’s a big hound,” Tom answered.
“Ah, yes, a flaming eyed savage howling hound from the depths of hell itself,” the cat smiled. “Terrific fun!” He had produced a notebook from a pocket somewhere in his fur (that always amazed Rubbish) and was frantically scratching notes with a stub of a pencil from the same hidden pocket.
Tom shook his head, “Well not really….it’s a big ghostly hound alright but he’s frightened of rabbits.”
“Eh?” The scribbling stopped.
Rubbish looked at Finn who grinned back at him.
“Frightened of giant ghostly rabbits?” asked Jeffrey.
Tom shook his head again. “He was frightened of me….”
Jeffrey almost dropped his notepad. He looked down at the little rabbit who barely came up to his waist. “So you screamed at him?” he raised an eyebrow.
“I said Hello,” Tom mumbled back.
Jeffrey tutted. “That will not do. That’s not normal.”
“Do you mean not ‘Paranormal’?” Finn chuckled.
Jeffrey harrumphed. “No matter, let’s go and see the phantoms.”
Jeffrey climbed onto Finn’s shoulders, the two rabbits sat up on Rubbish and they rode through the woods until they came to the edge of the river where they stopped to look across at the castle. It was a huge grim, grey stone building, with a tower at each corner. The bridge (also grey stone) led over the river towards a gateway. At some time the castle’s owners had decided to make it more “homely” by putting in large windows facing the bridge. They had failed; the now empty windows and the large open gateway made the castle look like a gigantic stone skull whose bridge of a tongue led in through its wide open mouth.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” said Rubbish. They all agreed that it definitely wasn’t.
“Come on,” Tom led the others over the bridge and in through the arch. It was mid-day when they had started across the bridge, and it was a lovely sunny day. As they came through the gateway the sunlight faded and instead over their heads was a dark and cloudy sky. There was no sound, apart from the occasional “caw” of a crow in the stone work somewhere. Just crossing into the courtyard made them feel much, much colder. Rubbish shivered. “It’s a bit spooky,” he told Finn who had to agree. The change in atmosphere had even made the hair under Jeffrey’s flying helmet stand up, which in turn made his goggles slip forward.
“So where did you see these apparitions?” he asked Tom, struggling to see him through his goggles.
Tom pointed across the courtyard. As they looked over, there was a noise up on the battlements. Five sets of eyes (one in goggles) swivelled upwards. On top of the wall stood a human dressed in faded grey who looked back down at them. As Tom had said earlier, they could see the black clouds straight through him. He faded away.
“Ooh,” Scutter spoke, breaking the silence.
“Definitely a ghost.” Jeffrey was scribbling in his notebook.
“Yup, definitely a ghost,” a deep voice behind Jeffrey said, “Spell it G-O-S-T – ghost.”
The five animals froze. None of them had said that. Who was behind them? Slowly they all turned around. Very slowly. Even Finn, brave as he was, could feel the hair on his neck and his hackles rising as he looked at the person who had spoken. In front of them – between them and the way out to safety- stood a gigantic hound, three times as large as Finn and with a huge mouth full of teeth, and large red, baleful eyes.
“Bless my soul,” whispered Jeffrey as he popped his goggles back on his head.
“Oh flip,” said Rubbish.
Scutter was lost for words, as was Finn. The five animals stood staring at the phantom hound, as he stared back. It took the little rabbit to break the silence.
“Hello. I’m Tom, this is Finn, Rubbish and Jeffrey and my brother Scutter.”
The hound glowered down at them, menacingly.
“Hello,” he replied. His face lit up with an enormous smile. “I’m Francis Julian Montmorency Cholmondeley Basquet de Ville.”
The animals stared at him, mouths wide open.
“You can call me Frank,” he grinned. “So pleased to meet you.”
“Are you a…..”
“Yes, yes, I’m a ghost.” Frank replied. “Been one for…ooooh…three hundred years.” He looked at them and his face became very sad. “It’s very lonely being a ghostly hound.”
“Aw, don’t cry,” little Tom said.
“Buck up, old chap,” added Finn.
“”Indeed, don’t be so glum, chum,” added Jeffrey. He always felt rather posh but compared to this hound with his aristocratic name he was feeling rather common.
“We’ll be your friends,” Rubbish found himself saying. Almost immediately Franks face ignited again with another huge smile. “Splendid!” he cried. His enormous phantom tail swept the air silently.
“Frank, my good fellow, are you the only ghost here?” inquired Finn.
The phantom hound scowled, “No. There are two other nasty ones. Sir Hector and Lord Dougal. They were here when I was a pup. They died in a sword fight and have been quarrelling and fighting ever since. They are not very nice ghosts. I’d keep out of their way, if I were you.”
“Are they dangerous?” asked Scutter.
Frank nodded. “They play pranks on people.”
“Nothing wrong with a good jape,” Jeffrey laughed.
“But their tricks usually mean that someone else also becomes a ghost. They locked me in the cellar under the great hall once and I was there for a hundred years until they let me out by accident.”
The animals’ smiles all vanished. “That’s not nice. But can’t you walk through walls?” Finn asked.
“The cellar walls are made of ironstone which spirits can’t go through. I was stuck there. They used to come down every day and tease me. You can’t imagine how boring it was being stuck in a dark damp room for a hundred years.”
The animals all told Frank how horrible they thought the other ghosts were.
He shook his huge hairy coat and grinned. “I’m out now! Let me show you round,” he led them across the courtyard and inside the ruined castle. As he took them into the different rooms he told them about the family that had lived (and died) here. There were all the famous Lords and Ladies of the Basquet family, including the mad Lord Rupert “Snoozer” Basquet who invented the flying machine and was the first person to die in a flying accident (fell off the high tower in his aero machine and landed in the moat), Lady Cecily Basquet-de Ville who was a bit eccentric and thought she was a duck (she was quackers), and Sir Nigel Stavely-Basquet who was the first man to invent the electric socket (and the first electric shock); you would think he had learned from Lord Rupert. They were all rather colourful characters.
“So what about the other two?” asked Rubbish.
“You mean Hector and Dougal?”
Finn and the others nodded.
“There was a big battle over there where the trees are now – it was just a meadow in those days, on which there camped a huge army. They tried and tried to cross the river and attack the castle but never managed to get in. In the end Lord Dougal rode out and challenged the Lord of the castle to have a man to man fight, and the winner would take the castle. Sir Hector came out and they fought with sword and shield, from dawn to dusk, neither of them getting the better of the other. They started with swords, then maces, then massive broadswords. The story goes that they got so exhausted by the end, and they hated each other so much that their hearts just exploded and they both died. They were buried in the castle chapel, the army went away and a peace treaty was signed.”
“Well that wasn’t too bad,” said Scutter.
“That’s what you think,” a voice as cold as ice rang out from the balcony above. There stood a ghostly figure with long hair and a particularly scary face.
“He cheated me out of this castle – it was mine!” another voice shouted back from the stairway opposite. Here stood another spectral shape, with an equally ghastly face, a thick black beard and wearing a suit of armour.
The animals huddled together, even Frank, as they looked back and forth at the two ancient enemies screaming across the Great Hall at each other. “I think we’d better get out of here,” Finn whispered. Their ghostly screeches echoing around the Hall, the animals quietly slipped out back into the courtyard.
“That was a lucky escape,” Frank told them, “Fortunately they were too busy squabbling to do anything to you.”
“Why don’t you find somewhere quieter to haunt?” asked Jeffrey.
Frank sighed, “I can’t leave here. Those two hid my favourite toy when I was dying so I am doomed to stay here until I find it again.”
“That’s so sad,” Tom commented.
The phantom hound sniffed, and a spectral tear ran along his long nose and dripped off to disappear before it hit the ground. “I’d love to leave.”
The sound of screaming and swords clashing could be heard now in the Hall. Hector and Dougal were at it again. The crashing of swords ceased and the sounds of shouting grew louder – the ghosts were coming towards the doorway into the courtyard.
“You’d better get away whilst you can,” Frank told them. “It was very nice meeting you.”
He waved to the animals as they made their way to the bridge. “And sorry I was so scared when I met you,” he called to Tom, “But I haven’t seen a rabbit in a couple of centuries.” Tom waved back.
“Where are they?” screamed Sir Hector, brandishing his sword. Beside him Lord Dougal stood swinging his axe. They glared across the courtyard towards the hound who shook his head, “I don’t know. I think I scared them off.”
“Pity,” Sir Hector answered. “I have not hunted rabbits in a long time. If we made them a ghost, then we could hunt them around the castle forever.”
“Aye,” Lord Dougal agreed. “And I like chasing cats. That would be fun too.”
“What about the dogs?” Frank asked, fearing the worst.
“We don’t have to make them ghosts. We could just leave them dead.” Dougal retorted.
Hector laughed, and for the first time in centuries Dougal laughed with him. From the far side of the bridge as Finn and the gang made their way into the forest they could hear the shrieking laughter and wails of the ghosts drifting towards them. The dogs trotted faster, hoping that it was only the sound that was following them and not the ghosts themselves.
From the battlements Hector and Dougal watched the animals disappear into the trees. “They won’t be back,” Dougal grumbled.
“Pity,” Hector said. “I love the taste of rabbit.”
Dougal laughed. “Have you ever eaten dog?”
Hector shook his head in reply, “But I’d love to try.”
From one of the empty windows Frank looked out toward the forest and sighed. He had really liked having some friends. Never mind – perhaps someone would come along again – hopefully before another 300 years had passed.
Once Finn was sure that there were no ghosts following and that they were safe, they slowed down and talked about everything they had seen. Tom and Scutter were tired and slept on Finn’s shoulders as Finn, Rubbish and Jeffrey hatched a plan. They all felt really sorry for Frank, and wanted to make his life – oops, death – easier. How could they sort out the two horrible ghosts that tormented him so much? They really needed to be taught a lesson.
“What can we do?” asked Rubbish, “They are ghosts, and can walk through walls and everything.”
“Not all walls,” Jeffrey replied. “Did you hear what Frank said about the ironstone?”
Finn agreed, “Yes, I had also thought about that and I have an idea of how we can use that. But first, we need to know what we can do to control ghosts.”
“We can’t grab them or hurt them, or even frighten them. And they are clever as they have hundreds of years of being ghosts.”
“True, my little greyhound friend,” Finn frowned.
Jeffrey pulled his goggles up, “I might be able to help you there. I have something in my shed that could help.”
By then they were coming to the warren, where they dropped off the two rabbits who waved them off. It was not long before the three mouseketeers came to the walled garden. Jeffrey hopped off Rubbish’s back and called over his shoulder, “Give me ten minutes, I’ll see you two later!”
His portly ginger shape scrambled over the red brick wall into his garden.
“What is he up to?” Finn asked.
“No idea,” Rubbish replied.
“It’s always a worry when he has that look on his face,” Finn smiled.
On the patio the Maid had laid out two bowls of dog food and one of cat nibbles. She was very thoughtful. There was no sign of her or the Butler, but after all, it was Thursday which was the evening they went ballroom dancing.
Rubbish and Finn munched their way through their food, both of them thinking hard on the problem of the ghosts. As they were finishing they heard the thud, ouch and creak as the Professor returned. He was dragging a large box with writing on it. It said something like “ectoplasmoscope” (this way up, handle with care, does not contain batteries).
“Righto gentlemen, let’s see what we can do. What’s your plan Finn? Ooh, food,” at this point Jeffrey’s face disappeared into his cat nibbles.
“We have two problems. Firstly, we have to find Frank’s toy so he can get away from that castle. Second, we need to get those two ghosts wrapped up and unable to cause any more trouble. I have had an idea about that.” Finn explained.
Jeffrey had finished his food and was rummaging in the box. Out of it came a square shiny rucksack with wires sticking out of it, a pointy aerial, which he fixed to his flying helmet, and what looked like a garden hand-fork (which it once was) and a large wrist watch. They were connected by a wire to the rucksack. Jeffrey muttered something under his breath and gave the rucksack a shake and it began to hum and from the top there was a strange orange glow.
“Knew this would come in handy one day. This – he announced. “- is the latest technology for spectral research. Bought it on Cat-Bay some years ago but never had a chance to use it. It’s a ghost detector! “
Finn looked at Rubbish and Rubbish looked back at him. Finn shrugged. “What does it do?”
“I think it detects ghosts?” Rubbish whispered.
“Reeaallly? I guessed that much,” said Finn.
Jeffrey looked out from under his helmet, “Ah, it does more than that, my good fellows. If I reverse the electro feed it can emit an ectoplasmic discharge.”
“Emit a what?” the two dogs asked.
“It’s like a ghost being punched,” the cat enthused. “Let’s just say we can find them, and give them a dose of their own medicine!”
Finn and Rubbish both grinned.
“So when should we go back to the castle?” the little brindle greyhound asked.
“When they least expect it,” Finn answered. “When are ghosts most active and people more likely to keep away?”
“At night?”
“Just so, young pup,” Finn said.
“Spot on! There’s no time like the present!” called Jeffrey over the loud hum of the ectoplasmic thingy.
So, as soon as dinner had settled, the three mouseketeers were back on the path through the woods, heading towards the castle. Rubbish thought to himself, “Ghosties, you’d better watch out!”
At the castle Sir Hector and Lord Dougal had been giving Frank absolute Hell. They had jumped out from walls at him, chased him around the battlements and screamed at him as he tried to take a nap. Frank had at last managed to outwit them and was sitting on what had once been a window seat at the end of the Long Gallery that looked out towards the river. He could hear the other two shrieking and squabbling far across the castle. Frank sighed. In 300 years he had never felt so sad and lonely. Just then, he saw a flash of light through the trees. Something glowing faintly orange was coming towards the castle. “Oh no…..it’s either a Corpse Candle or one of the Flaming Ghouls.” The corpse candle was a haunted light that visited now and again to torment Frank, as well as to wind up Hector and Dougal. But a flaming ghoul – they were particularly horrible noisy screaming phantoms that flickered with flames. They allegedly ate the bodies of dead people from graves. They got on well with Hector and Dougal and also enjoyed frightening Frank. He felt even more depressed.
However, the glow was moving too slowly for a corpse candle and was too dim for a ghoul. As Frank puzzled over what it was, he saw the three friends emerge from the trees. It was Jeffrey the cat that was glowing – he was wearing a large box on his back that shone a dim orange. “Eh?” Frank asked no-one in particular. He slipped silently off his seat and crept down to the gatehouse to meet his new friends to ask them what they doing.
From the trees Finn and Rubbish could see movement at the gatehouse. The red glow – what was that? It was Frank. They waved to him as they came to the end of the bridge. He held his enormous paw to his lips to signal for them to keep quiet. They walked over to him where Finn outlined his plan to the phantom hound who smiled broadly. “Great idea,” he whispered.
Jeffrey was fiddling with some dials on the large watch on his wrist. “Spectral anemometer controls,” he explained. The three dogs looked at the cat totally blank, “It’s very technical,” he frowned at them.
“You do know how to use that thing?” asked Rubbish.
Jeffrey the Professor looked most offended, “Why of course. What sort of idiot do you think I am?”
Finn coughed quietly, “Let’s get on, gentlemen.”
Frank led them across into the great hall and to the kitchens at the far end. It was here that Hector and Dougal had taken to having shrieking contests as the acoustics were better. The din of the two screaming ghosts was excruciatingly loud and indeed, the stonework made for some incredible echoing and reverberation.
“Ready?” Frank whispered.
Rubbish gave him a greyhound thumbs-up, and Finn nodded.
Frank jumped through the doorway into the kitchen, and called out “Hey, you two! Come quick! Those animals are back!”
The evil spirits appeared by his side. “Where!” screeched Dougal.
“Rabbits and Cat for dinner,” Hector hissed.
Frank pointed to the hall. The ghosts floated out and as they moved seemed to get brighter and more ghastly looking. You could clearly see the large bloody scar across Dougal’s face and the split in Hector’s head where an axe had made its mark. They also seemed to grow taller. Rubbish the little brindle greyhound stood in the middle of the hall.
“Hello ghosties,” he called over cheerfully.
The spirits hissed and screamed and slithered swiftly across the hall towards him. Ghosts are fast – but a greyhound is faster! As they drew closer Rubbish sped off across the Great Hall. He ran into the far corridor and squeezed himself into a small opening where he hid. It was not only ghosts that could vanish! As he disappeared, there was a series of loud barks in the Hall; it was Finn. “Call yourself ghosts, why I’ve seen more frightening pusscats.”
“What?” shouted Hector. “You despicable hound. How dare you!” Dougal sounded even angrier than Hector. They forgot about Rubbish as they flew across the Hall towards Finn. Deerhounds are also swift and cunning and Finn led them another merry dance around the corridors. He too slipped into a corner leaving the ghosts to slide past him.
Out popped Rubbish again, “Come on, you two! I thought you two were the scariest ghosts in the land. You’re not even the scariest in this castle!”
Hector and Dougal spun around to chase after Rubbish again. This went on for another couple of times as first Rubbish and then Finn drove the two ghosts into a total frenetic fury. No matter how they tried they could not catch the two hounds.
Sitting in the middle of the Great Hall watching all this entertainment and enjoying it greatly was Frank. He had waited centuries to see the two spectres get what they had given him. It was now time for the final part of Finn’s plan.
What the ghosts had not realised was that they were being led up the Great Hall to the top of the steps that led down to the dungeon. Rubbish was at the foot of the stairway with Jeffrey. It was Finn’s turn to wind the ghosts up now.
“Well ladies,” he called over to them. “Shall we dance some more!”
If Hector and Dougal had been alive, they would have died with sheer anger and frustration. They flashed across the hall, cursing, swearing and clawing the air as they headed towards the deerhound. Finn poked his tongue out and leapt down the steps. The ghosts took the bait and shrieked after him.
“OK,” said Rubbish.
Jeffrey started twiddling his dials and the electro-thingy lit up. It started to hum louder and the lights got brighter. The fork began to crackle. “Super!”
Finn got to the foot of the steps and headed full pelt down the corridor. The ghosts chased after him, screaming in true phantasmal fashion. Frank lollopped down the stairs behind them and Rubbish and Jeffrey followed from the foot of the steps. Finn stopped before the door to the cell. The ghosts slowed. Perhaps they sensed something?
“Not so clever now, are you, dog?” Dougal spat, growing taller and more menacing as he faced the mighty Finn. Finn was not scared, but neither was he entirely comfortable with two terrible figures bearing down on him. Their faces seemed to change colour to a blood-curdling green. Hector drew his sword and it glinted in the light of the torches set along the walls. Finn stepped back.
Behind the ghosts Jeffrey moved to the front and Frank and Rubbish behind him.
“OK you two. I think the game is up!” Jeffrey called to the ghosts. They spun around to face the cat.
Hector looked at the motheaten old moggy in his flying helmet waving a garden hand-fork at him. “Oh yes? Do you think I’m some sort of weed?”
“This is not what it appears,” The Professor replied. “It’s an ectoplasmic probe. With one step I will throw you back across the room.”
Dougal issued a hollow laugh, “I think not.”
Finn stepped to one side, away from the opening of the cell.
“Alright – I did warn you!” Jeffrey tapped his watch. The box on his back was humming and vibrating and the orange glow had nearly changed to red. The fork crackled in his hand as…….the lights went out and the box fell silent. “Oops…that shouldn’t have happened… Where’s the handbook….?””
The ghosts came closer to the old cat and Hector raised his sword. Rubbish, right behind Jeffrey, remembered an old trick he had seen the Butler do. He leaned over and gave the ectoplasmic thing a bang with his paw.
It burst back into life, it erupted with noise and the crackle on the fork became a small spark, then a flash of lightning which hit the two ghosts and lifted them off their ghostly feet and threw them bodily down the corridor and way past Finn. They landed together in a heap in the cell.
“Quick! The door!” called Frank. Finn stepped across and closed the door of the cell and threw the bolt across.
Hector got up and made to pass through the door – but he bounced back. “What?”
“Let me try you fool,” Dougal muscled up past him and stormed at the door – and slammed against it.
Frank walked up to the door and looked in through the grill. “Don’t you remember? Ironstone walls and an iron door. Ghosts can’t cross iron.” He did not gloat or tease them; it was all in a matter of fact tone.
“Let us out! Let us out! We’ll tear you limb from limb into little strips!”
Finn looked at the ghosts through the grill too. “That’s not really going to encourage anyone to let you out, is it? Frank – what should we do?”
Frank thought for a second. “Maybe a century shut up together might make them mellow a bit.”
“What? With him? That’s inhuman!” screamed Hector.
Jeffrey grinned. “My dear sirs, but none of us are human.”
Finn laughed, “No, we are better than that!”
The hounds and the cat made their way back up the corridor. Frank was even singing. At the top of the steps in the Great Hall Frank stopped to thank Finn, Rubbish and Jeffrey for all their help. “At last I can wander about my castle in peace – sleep when I like and even have visitors when I like. You will come and visit?”
“Of course, old chap,” Finn answered for them all. “It would be an honour and a privilege!”
“Oh – hang on” Jeffrey had taken off the electro thingy and was fumbling in his pocket. “I found this in the corridor in the dust.” He held up an old leather ball, very dried up, but the stitching still held it together.
Frank’s jaw dropped open and tears filled his eyes, “That’s it! That’s my toy!”
The animals were surprised, amazed even, and so pleased for Frank.
“Now I have that, I can leave here. I don’t need to stay in this castle as a ghost anymore!”
“You can leave?” asked Rubbish.
“I can. “ Frank looked sad for a second, “But I don’t want to. I have not had friends for so long that I don’t want to leave yet.”
Jeffrey straightened his hat, “You don’t have to go. You can remain a ghost but can leave the castle. You can see the world.”
“You can come and meet the Maid and the Butler!” Rubbish grinned.
“I think we’d better warn them that a six foot tall ghostly phantom hound is coming for dinner,” Finn laughed.
Frank looked worried. “Will I have to wear a tie?”
So when you come to the old castle in the deep dark forest, and you listen, you might hear the screams and shrieks of Hector and Dougal, still locked in their cell. They have another 95 years to go before Frank decides whether they have become good ghosts. And if you see a six-foot ghostly hound with huge jaws, a silly grin and a big waggy tail chasing an old leather ball don’t be afraid; its only Frank, the Hound of the Basquet-Villes.
For more adventures of Rubbish, Finn and Jeffrey – go www.crafty-dog-cymru.co.uk and look for the books. There’s also the free download of the Christmas adventure – How Rubbish the Rabbithound Saved Christmas!
Characters copyright Chris Dignam/Crafty Dog Books Cymru, all rights reserved.
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