Oh, hes licking himself again! Oliver, do something with him, will you!
Emma scowled at Freddie, who was bouncing around her feet like a confused pogo stick. Honestly, how did they end up with such a daft dog? They had taken their sweet time choosing the breed poured over books, consulted trainers, weighed the options. Theyd understood the seriousness of it all. In the end, they decided on a German Shepherd: loyal companion, watch dog, bodyguard a bit like getting shampoo, three-for-one. Except this bodyguard needed rescuing from the local cats most days
Hes only a pup, you know, Oliver said. Just wait till he grows up. Youll see.
Oh, Im waiting all right. Counting the hours until this great horse turns into a real monster. And have you noticed he eats more than both of us put together? How are we supposed to keep him fed?
Dont stomp around like that, you oaf! Youll wake the baby! Emma grumbled, collecting the shoes Freddie had kindly distributed across the flat.
They lived on Queensway, ground floor of one of those grand, old postwar blocks with windows barely peeking above the pavement. Lovely location, save for one small flaw: their windows opened onto a dead-end corner of the courtyard the sort of nook where dodgy shadows flickered every evening, local geezers held court, and an occasional scrap broke out.
Emma was home almost all day with newborn Sophie, while Oliver vanished to his Art History job at the Tate every morning, spending his free time hunting for treasures at Portobello and second-hand book shops. He had an eagle-eye when it came to digging up art, rare novels, or peculiar vintage nick-knacks. He was, by anyones standards, a rather obsessive collector. Over time, quite a stash had quietly gathered: paintings, 1960s Staffordshire china on display in the sideboard, socialist-realist figurines, Edwardian silverware
Emma grew anxious, alone in the flat with their little trove and baby especially as burglaries happened more often than the post.
Emma, when do you reckon is best for me and Freddie to take our walk now, or after lunch?
Doesnt matter, does it? Not my dog, not my problem.
At the all-important word walkies, Freddie shot to the hallway so fast he skidded round the corner, grabbed his lead, and catapulted back, jumping so high he nearly left a Freddie-shaped dent in the ceiling. Not so much a dog as a small, joyous moose. Loved everyone, greeted everyone with wiggling hugs, presented all with tennis balls, except for the guests (who, mercifully, he blocked at the door). He was an open book, a real lad but theyd gone for protection, not a bouncy life coach! Even the local cats completely ignored him. Hed pelt after them with his ball, convinced theyd play, and in return, hed get a swipe across the nose. Those cats were proper streetwise maybe they shouldve adopted one of them as security instead
Tomorrow, Oliver was off to Henley for some Turner Festival, leaving Emma guarding the porcelain and walking floppy-eared hopeless here. Just what she needed as if she didnt have enough on her plate already.
At dawn, Oliver tried to creep out, but Emma, of course, heard the kettle hiss, the clink of the lead, the whispered threats to Freddie to stop whining and clattering about. Somewhere between these peaceful household sounds, she drifted off again, and when Sophie woke her hours later, Oliver was long gone.
The day rolled on, utterly ordinary; a quiet, domestic day, which sometimes felt like the purest kind of happiness. Her friends would gasp: Oh Emma, married so young, torn in two by husband and baby, always chained to the kitchen, drowned in housework But there is a certain beauty to routine, isnt there? Life didnt turn out just as shed dreamed the flat was small, money tight, and Olivers burning passion for collecting had consumed rather a lot of their savings. Now, hed brought home a floppy-eared friend, with all the maintenance left to her. But deep down she knew: you have to love those you love, quirks and all. Who ever promised you perfection?
She fed the baby in the nursery, watching Sophie doze off mid-feed, meaning she had to sit there until Sophie stirred and latched on again. The doorbell rang; Emma ignored it. No one rings her without warning, and no one would cross London for a random cuppa. She treasured these precious morning hours of quiet: the grandfather clock ticking, the far-off hum of buses, the whoosh of passing cars, broom scraping the path outside, kids shouting down the street.
Where was that daft mutt? He hadnt wandered in for ages. Odd, actually. Not that Freddie was literally floppy-eared his ears stood to attention just in personality, a real fluff-brain. Now here she was stuck caring for him with not a trace of the protection he was supposed to provide. She almost wished theyd opted for a lapdog.
Emma gazed adoringly at her daughter, who released a sleepy sigh as she fell off the breast. What a cracking little girl they had! My duckling, Emma whispered, tucking Sophie in. Just grow up happy what else matters?
Suddenly, from the sitting room, came a peculiar noise. Crackle, then a squeak. Emma froze, slipping off her slippers and gliding silently toward the hubbub.
The first thing she noticed was Freddies odd behaviour. He was half-hidden behind the curtain dividing the hallway and living room, hunched and tense, tongue lolling as he stared into the room. Following his gaze, Emmas blood ran cold: halfway in through the window, wedged into the little vent at the top, was half a man.
A classic, bald-headed thug, arms and shoulders squirming indoors as he grunted and forced himself through the gap.
It simply couldnt be happening. What to do? Scream? The thief was nearly inside already! In a second
She jumped at the sound of a shout. A black blur darted toward the window; it took Emma a moment to realise it was Freddie, launching himself at the burglars neck!
Aaaargh! bellowed the man, bulging his eyes so wide she thought they might pop.
Emma dashed onto the landing, hollered for neighbours, and relief help arrived. People flooded in, police were called. Their presence was help enough, even if they didnt actually do anything. What would she have done alone?
Swallowing her panic, Emma edged closer worried Freddie might do real harm. Last thing she needed was a mauling on the carpet! Luckily, genius Freddie had grabbed the man by his collar and was holding him securely but gently. Not a drop of blood spilled! If the burglar squirmed, Freddies grip tightened; the moment he stopped fighting, Freddie loosened.
How did floppy old Freddie know all this? Rather than barking, hed laid in ambush behind the curtain, letting the thief wedge halfway through before swooping in to pin him, perfectly placed not to hurt, just to hold. Practically a canine professional: our job to apprehend judicial system will take it from here.
Even the most seasoned coppers couldnt recall a burglar so delighted to surrender. Terrified by Freddies unwavering jaws, the man was happy as Larry to be handed to the law, while Freddie strutted proudly, basking in the glory until the police dog handler arrived. At a barked order, Freddie calmly released the man, then sat by the window, awaiting further instruction. If only hed saluted!
Youre lucky with this one, the officer told Emma, giving Freddie a hearty rub at the shoulders. We could do with his sort on the force
Oliver arrived home late that evening, hesitated on the threshold in disbelief. He had every reason to. Number one: Freddie was sprawled extravagantly on the sofa, which was strictly off-limits and had never once been allowed. Two: he lay upside-down, legs akimbo, and Emma was scratching his belly, cooing nonsense, and only just stopping short of planting kisses on his snout.
My absolute star, you little pudding, my darling foal may you grow big and strong! Your mums been so unfair to you, forgive me, pet
This tale was recounted to me at a Turner Festival by the very art historian involved. Freddie, of course, wouldve told the story with even more flair: how he stalked, how he apprehended, how he delivered the baddie to the long arm of the law. It happened long ago, but it still tugs at memory sometimes, if I listen closely, I can almost hear Freddies paws asking to be written down, so here, Ive finally obliged.
Not Again! Max, Get Him Away! Anna Glared at Toby, Their Dim-Witted Puppy—After All That Careful Planning for the Perfect German Shepherd Guard Dog, He’s More Trouble Than Protection. Living on Churchill Avenue in a Classic Ground-Floor Flat—With Priceless Antiques, a Baby at Home, and Burglaries on the Rise, Anna is Alone All Day While Max Works at the Tate and Hunts Antiques. Toby Eats Like a Horse, Frolics With Stray Cats, and Refuses to Bark—Until One Unforgettable Morning, When a Would-Be Burglar Climbs Through the Window and Toby’s Supposed Uselessness Suddenly Saves the Day! A Heart-Warming Tale of Family, Doubt, and a Floppy-Eared Hero.
