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Book: The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog by Robert Warr
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Authors: Robert Warr
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unsophisticated child.
‘My uncle mentioned a gang of salmon poachers last time I was here,’ I replied. ‘I would like to hear about them.’
‘Certainly,’ said Snuffles and, lifting his muzzle so that he could look straight into my eyes, he began.
-----
You remember a few years ago that we had a particularly good May. My master had just finished solving a extremely difficult case involving a certain prominent poisoning. He decided to take a week’s holiday far away from the city and the evil that we had discovered. After some thought he sent a telegram to the Red Lion at Lower Swineford and arranged to spend the week fishing. As you would expect, this met with my full agreement. What could be nicer than a whole week spent by the side of a river? With any luck, there would even be a few ducks to chase.
The following Saturday we duly set off. The train journey took most of the day, but I found it quite exhilarating. There is something very satisfying about travelling through England while watching her beautiful countryside unroll.
We arrived at Martelton in the late afternoon and took a dogcart to Lower Swineford and the Red Lion. This is one of those charming village inns that make travelling in this country so pleasurable. When you find yourself investigating as many out of town murders as I have, it is comforting to know that there will normally be a hot fire and a full food bowl in a good inn.
Your uncle had been given a very comfortable room at the front of the inn. The innkeeper had even placed a good blanket on the floor by the fire for my use. We unpacked and then set out for a much-needed walk. My master apparently wanted to find the best fishing places. This is one of those jobs that you humans can apparently do while just strolling along, smoking a pipe.
I was struck by the total tranquillity of the place. The light was starting to fade as we walked by the river, the only sounds being the birds, an occasional lowing of cattle and the rippling sounds of the water. The only thing to break the peace of this idyllic evening was the outraged quacking of the ducks when I chased them into the river. We returned to the inn in a state of quiet contentment.
That first evening in the inn was almost perfect. I had some very good food with a saucer of beer, and gently dried out in front of the fireplace while locals vied with each other to give your uncle advice about the local fishing.
My master told me that we would be up before dawn. In accordance to his wishes, as soon as the first predawn light could be seen, I jumped on to his bed to wake him up. I always feel that waking one’s master is one of the great parts of a dog’s life. There are dogs who believe in landing on their people and others who prefer to lick sleeping faces. There is one Labrador I know who pins her people down by standing on their shoulders and then washes their ears. I, however, am a gentledog. I place my muzzle an inch away from my master’s ear, take a deep breath and howl. It gets him on his feet every time.
That first morning at the inn, it worked perfectly. My master jumped out of bed and went over to the washstand. This of course left a pile of warm sheets on the bed, into which I settled for a good nap. I awakened to the sound of my master calling me and we ventured out into the predawn light.
We walked down to the river along still-dark paths, the only real noise being the bird song. It was so different from London’s the rattle of wheels, jingle of harness and clanking of milk churns. I felt really invigorated: the grass was covered with dew and there were fresh scents everywhere. It was such a tonic after all our previous hard work.
When we arrived at the river, I was content just to lie by my master’s side and watch the mist on the water. It did not take your uncle long to get ready and soon he was fishing. He stood contentedly with his pipe clasped between his teeth. Dawn was just breaking when he
‘My uncle mentioned a gang of salmon poachers last time I was here,’ I replied. ‘I would like to hear about them.’
‘Certainly,’ said Snuffles and, lifting his muzzle so that he could look straight into my eyes, he began.
-----
You remember a few years ago that we had a particularly good May. My master had just finished solving a extremely difficult case involving a certain prominent poisoning. He decided to take a week’s holiday far away from the city and the evil that we had discovered. After some thought he sent a telegram to the Red Lion at Lower Swineford and arranged to spend the week fishing. As you would expect, this met with my full agreement. What could be nicer than a whole week spent by the side of a river? With any luck, there would even be a few ducks to chase.
The following Saturday we duly set off. The train journey took most of the day, but I found it quite exhilarating. There is something very satisfying about travelling through England while watching her beautiful countryside unroll.
We arrived at Martelton in the late afternoon and took a dogcart to Lower Swineford and the Red Lion. This is one of those charming village inns that make travelling in this country so pleasurable. When you find yourself investigating as many out of town murders as I have, it is comforting to know that there will normally be a hot fire and a full food bowl in a good inn.
Your uncle had been given a very comfortable room at the front of the inn. The innkeeper had even placed a good blanket on the floor by the fire for my use. We unpacked and then set out for a much-needed walk. My master apparently wanted to find the best fishing places. This is one of those jobs that you humans can apparently do while just strolling along, smoking a pipe.
I was struck by the total tranquillity of the place. The light was starting to fade as we walked by the river, the only sounds being the birds, an occasional lowing of cattle and the rippling sounds of the water. The only thing to break the peace of this idyllic evening was the outraged quacking of the ducks when I chased them into the river. We returned to the inn in a state of quiet contentment.
That first evening in the inn was almost perfect. I had some very good food with a saucer of beer, and gently dried out in front of the fireplace while locals vied with each other to give your uncle advice about the local fishing.
My master told me that we would be up before dawn. In accordance to his wishes, as soon as the first predawn light could be seen, I jumped on to his bed to wake him up. I always feel that waking one’s master is one of the great parts of a dog’s life. There are dogs who believe in landing on their people and others who prefer to lick sleeping faces. There is one Labrador I know who pins her people down by standing on their shoulders and then washes their ears. I, however, am a gentledog. I place my muzzle an inch away from my master’s ear, take a deep breath and howl. It gets him on his feet every time.
That first morning at the inn, it worked perfectly. My master jumped out of bed and went over to the washstand. This of course left a pile of warm sheets on the bed, into which I settled for a good nap. I awakened to the sound of my master calling me and we ventured out into the predawn light.
We walked down to the river along still-dark paths, the only real noise being the bird song. It was so different from London’s the rattle of wheels, jingle of harness and clanking of milk churns. I felt really invigorated: the grass was covered with dew and there were fresh scents everywhere. It was such a tonic after all our previous hard work.
When we arrived at the river, I was content just to lie by my master’s side and watch the mist on the water. It did not take your uncle long to get ready and soon he was fishing. He stood contentedly with his pipe clasped between his teeth. Dawn was just breaking when he
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