Flyball

Norbert

Chapter 36

Flyball

GT comes up to me at work the next day and places a friendly arm round my shoulder.

‘Norbie, my favourite drone. I want you to swap my Saturday on-call for next week, is that okay? You see, Butch, my Staffy, is competing in the Macarbrough Flyball Championships. He’s captain of the Deputy Dawgs and moi just has to be there to run him. What a team!’

‘Is this the thing at the Leisure Centre?’

‘It surely is.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to be there, too. I promised my uncle I would go and watch Weggie compete. He’s in the Huckleberry Hounds.’

He guffaws out loud. ‘The Huckleberry Hounds won’t get through the quarter finals. Apart from that Jack Russell, which in my opinion should be tested for illegal stimulants, they’re a bunch of useless mongrels.’

‘They’ve got Weggie now.’

‘Flyball is a game for pocket rockets like my Butchy, dogs with a low centre of gravity and powerloads of power. It ain’t for ungainly canine psychopaths like that poxy Alsatian of yours.’

‘You’ll have to find someone else.’

‘No can do. Everyone in this department comes along to see moi strut his stuff.’

‘What about the fast-paced action and the excitement of seeing the dogs run?’

‘Incidental, dear boy. Purely incidental.’

‘Well, tough, I’m going.’

He clenches his fists and turns red with the effort to stay calm, but fails. ‘Fifty quid says we win and your poxy mongrels go out in the first round.’

‘I don’t gamble. It’s immoral, like playing cricket.’

‘Go on, you chickenshit minionshit,’ says Ruben. ‘Grow some balls.’

Everyone in the lab gangs up on me and starts to jeer, even Velcro and Healer Dai.

To stop myself bursting into tears, I shout: ‘All right. On one condition.’

‘Name it,’ says GT.

‘If Weggie’s team wins, Isabel has to give me a proper kiss, smack on the lips.’

‘Done.’

‘Hold on a minute,’ says an outraged Isabel. ‘I’d rather lick puss off a slimy toad with leprosy than kiss that scrofulous little oik.’

I leave the lab in tears.

*

There must be four hundred people crammed into the Leisure Centre. The tiered seats on both sides are packed. Tinky Gnostrell-Hare is a small, slim and fit-looking pensioner who does indeed have blue-rinsed hair. She shakes my hand, leads me to the seats reserved for competitors and introduces me to their group. I ask the man beside me to explain the rules a little more clearly than Nunky had.

‘What my bitch lacks in speed, she more than makes up for in her release and snatch,’ he concludes. ‘What about Weggie? What’s his speciality?’

‘Destroying hats and fetching oars.’

The atmosphere builds and the tension rises as the four quarter finals get under way. The Deputy Dawgs win the first heat with considerable ease, Butch crossing the line a good two seconds ahead of the other final dog. GT punches the air and gestures to the lab supporters in the crowd, whipping them into a frenzy. I notice Dora Mae Blimp is the only one missing. Somehow GT has persuaded her to swap, probably with a fridge full of food.

The Huckleberry Hounds are in the third heat with Weggie on the last leg. Apart from Weggie and the Jack Russell, the team consists of a Border collie bitch belonging to the man beside me, and a wiry mongrel with a large dash of whippet in his genes. They lose by about a yard and I see myself in the lab on Monday morning emptying my wallet and soaking up the jibes.

‘Oh well,’ I say to the man. ‘Never mind. They didn’t disgrace themselves.’

‘Hang on,’ he says. ‘Tinky is talking to the judges and there is a red flag.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You see the judges sitting level with the start and finish line?’ I nod. ‘If the outgoing dog crosses the line before the incoming dog, it’s automatic disqualification. That’s why it is vital to have an experienced handler holding the dogs. They have to let go at precisely the right moment. A split second too late and you’ve lost a yard, a split second too early and you’re out.’

‘So that’s why Tinky handles Weggie and not Nunky?’

‘She’s got years of experience. She’s one of the best.’

‘Why hasn’t she got a dog of her own?’

‘He’s eight now, so he’s moved into the senior class, and her new dog isn’t quite ready. Weggie came along at the right time.’

An announcement comes over the tannoy that the Raiders of the Lost Bark have indeed been disqualified for jumping the gun on the third leg. There is a mixture of cheers and boos. The Huckleberry Hounds are into the semi finals by default.

During the break, the man beside me leans close. ‘What you said earlier, about Weggie fetching whores? Do you think he could get me one?’

‘Did you lose one in the park?’

‘It’s closed after dark. I usually have them in the back of my car.’

‘Sticking out the back with the tailgate raised?’

‘No, bent over the backseat.’

‘I didn’t realise they were collapsible.’

‘When I’ve finished with them they are.’

‘Well, you’re in luck, and you don’t need Weggie. They’ve got a sale on at the moment. They’re overstocked because of the fire. But you need to be quick. It’s one hell of an oar deal.’

The tannoy announces the draw for the semi finals. The Deputy Dawgs are first up against the Sons of Bitches followed by the Huckleberry Hounds versus Dog Eat Dog, the team you would expect Weggie most qualified to represent.

The Deputy Dawgs stroll into the final, with Butch again bringing them home in style. Women are now throwing their underwear at GT, such is his swagger and charisma, and red roses rein down from where the cricket team is sitting.

Our team leads off with the collie. She hands over to the mongrel a yard and a half down. The little whippet cross makes up a foot and our star, the Jack Russell, flies over the hurdles in a blur, releases the ball and hurtles across the line a yard in front. Tinky executes a perfect crossover and Weggie is away in a flash, eating up the yards in huge bounds. The box shakes as he crashes into it and turns with the ball. They are neck and neck over the first hurdle. Above the infernal din I hear Nunky yelling: ‘Come on Weggie, run like the wind.’ Landing over the final hurdle, he hurls himself in one mighty leap through the finish and the judge on his side raises a white flag a fraction of a second before the other judge. We have won by a whisker.

Tinky has to be helped up after doing the splits to celebrate.

*

There is an extended break before the final for the dogs to rest and for the audience to quench their thirsts in the bar.

I walk up to GT. ‘Getting worried?’

‘No way, José. It might have looked impressive to your untutored eye, but your last run was a second slower than ours, which translates to two long yards. Butch will crucify Weggie. It’s no contest, drone.’

‘How did you persuade Dora Mae Blimp to do your on-call?’

He hesitates and looks away with an extremely sour expression on his face.

‘I bet it cost you fifty quid in food?’

Ruben looms over my shoulder. ‘It didn’t cost him anything other than his dignity,’ he says, with a smirk. ‘He had to lick her into submission.’

‘With his fists?’

‘With his tongue and where the sun don’t shine.’

‘Urghhh.’

‘Remind me, GT, how long did it take for her to orgasm?’ Rube says with a doubly evil smirk.

‘Four cheeseburgers and a strawberry pavlova. I’ve still got traces of meringue in my hair.’

I get back to my seat seconds before the final is due to start. Nunky taps me on the shoulder. ‘Ask them to hang on, mi babby, I’m so excited I need to go for another wee.’

‘I’ll ask them to announce it over the tannoy.’

‘You’re such a kind babby.’

‘I’m joking. Go if you must. You have time. They’re only just starting the parade.’

The handlers walk round the arena whilst the dogs are introduced over the tannoy. The teams circle in opposite directions, crossing in front of where we are sitting. Weggie lunges at Butch as they pass, forcing him to cower and whine. Tinky yanks Weggie sharply to heel.

The posture of the handlers and buzz of the crowd most definitely transmits to the dogs. They know this is the final, the race that matters. They are skittish and on edge, but alert and raring to go; eyes bright and focused, muscles twitching in excitement and expectation.

The teams line up in order, one behind the other, the dogs off leash and held between the legs of their handler. All except for Weggie. If tiny Tinky Gnostrell-Hare was astride Weggie she would technically be a jockey. Weggie is calmly staring across at Butch with that same hungry look. GT becomes aware and the slight turn of his body forces Butch to look across. His ears go down. Tinky grabs Weggie’s muzzle and points him in the right direction.

The whistle blows and they are off. Our collie secures a perfect release of the ball and they cross the line neck and neck. Our whippet loses a yard, which our star Jack Russell makes up. Weggie catapults out of Tinky’s grasp, but Butch reaches the box first. It is barely visible to the naked eye at normal speed, but he seems to fumble the release and snatch and stumbles momentarily as his eye catches Weggie on the turn.

Weggie is half a yard clear over the first hurdle. The volume rises at this unexpected twist and most of the crowd are screaming for Butch. Inch by inch, millisecond by millisecond, he claws his way back, but Weggie wins by a tattered nose. The huge gasp of disappointment turns to cheers and a standing ovation for a great race. I leap to my feet and see the whole of the Haematology department jumping up and down, cheering and waving and shouting his name. I catch Isabel’s eye and blow her a kiss. She slumps into her seat and puts her face in her hands.

Tiny Tinky Gnostrell-Hare stands in the centre of the arena, legs apart, arms bent up at the elbows, fists clenched in triumph, head thrown back in a roar of ecstasy. It is the first time she has won the trophy. Weggie drops the ball, runs to her, rears up and places his paws over her shoulders. Thank God she isn’t wearing a hat. The announcer booms over the tannoy. ‘And the winners of this year’s Macarbrough Flyball Championship, sponsored by Guide Dogs for the Intoxicated, are the Huckleberry Hounds.’

Weggie licks Tinky’s face from chin to forehead and looks over her shoulder. When he finds Nunky in the crowd I swear to you, I absolutely swear to you, the big ugly thieving mongrel winks.