A CANINE CRIME

Swiftly, though with agitated fingers, old Mrs Gilmour slid back the rusty bolt and pushed open the door leading to the cellar. Almost immediately a whining noise erupted from its murky depths, some yards below, followed by the scampering of paws and the rattle of a light chain. "Alright, Scotty, it's only me," the old woman murmured, as she switched on the electric light and, closing the door behind her, began slowly and carefully to descend the stone steps, as much from fear of dropping the plate of meat she carried in her right hand as because of her age, which was past seventy. "It's only me, dearie," she repeated. For there was now much more excitement coming-up from the cellar than at first, though this was usually the case. Scotty was always anxious to see her, especially at meal times.

At last Mrs Gilmour reached the bottom of the steps, bearing the meat safely to its goal. "Shush! Not so much fuss," she protested, stretching out her free hand to pat Scotty on the nose. "Ah, how you strain at the leash, hungry one!" she added, before setting the plate down on the stone floor in front of the highly-excited spaniel who, having licked her fingers, straightaway proceeded to gobble up the meat, as though he hadn't been fed in days. "There! There! Take you time," the old woman chided him, wagging a reproachful finger at the greedy dog. "You'll get tummy trouble!"

She straightened up and looked around the cellar to check that everything was in order. Yes, there was still plenty of water in Scotty's drinking bowl and that was just as well, since too many trips up and down the stone steps were out of the question. Over in the far right-hand corner a little pile of droppings could be discerned, but that, too, was as it should be. "No worms, I trust?" Mrs Gilmour muttered, as she shuffled across to inspect the dung. "No, nothing to worry about, Scotty."

There was a small coal shovel and a heap of old newspapers lying nearby and, spreading out one of them on the floor in her usual patient fashion, Mrs Gilmour proceeded to shovel the dung onto the paper, making sure it was centrally positioned. Then she wrapped it up into a neat little parcel and carried it back with her towards the opposite corner from 'the toilet' (as the old lady regarded the crapping area), where 'the bedroom', or dog's basket, was neatly made up, requiring only the slightest of adjustments to the soft cushions on which Scotty generally reposed. It was from here, through a bracket in the stone wall, that the slender chain holding him captive issued, though, being a long chain, his captivity wasn't confined to a few feet but embraced virtually the whole of the quite large cellar, so that he could move around fairly freely from corner to corner and even up to within a yard or two of the stone steps, as he had done today in his impatience to greet his benefactress. Occasionally, however, he would get himself caught-up in the chain and so find life rather more constricting than formerly. But, as a rule, he was intelligent enough to avoid this inconvenience, even when he dragged the chain across his bed and ended-up more or less sleeping on it. Somehow, he had learnt to live with his chain, just as he had learnt to live with his solitary confinement, broken only by occasional visits from the old woman. There was nothing he could do to get rid of it, since it was too strong to bite in half.

But old Mrs Gilmour couldn't have risked letting him off it, especially with the likelihood that, in his eagerness to greet her, he might bound up the steps and cause an accident either to herself or to the meat while she was painstakingly descending them. An accident could be fatal ... to both dog and owner alike. And then he might get out of the cellar altogether, run around the house or out into the street, barking at the top of his lungs. That would be terrible - even worse, if anything, than an accident on the steps! Obviously Scotty had to be chained up, as much for his own good as hers.

Satisfied that his 'bedroom' was in order, Mrs Gilmour shuffled back towards the meat-gobbling spaniel who, by this time, had consumed most of his dinner. She almost slipped en route on a small puddle of urine which, in his excitement, he must have recently made. Usually he confined himself to 'the toilet' where things like that were concerned, but not invariably, as the old lady was once again finding out, and this time with some annoyance.

"Really, Scotty, you are becoming careless!" she scolded him. "Why couldn't you have done it against the wall over there in the corner?"

But the little dog seemed relatively unconcerned by this slight departure from custom and continued to voraciously chew his meat, oblivious of the puddle behind him. It was all right for him anyway; he didn't have to clean it up. Such an unenviable task was always done by his owner, who descended the steps once every two or three days with a bucket of hot soapy water and a swab in her hands, expressly for that purpose. Today, however, she wasn't scheduled to do so, having put swab to wall and floor the day before. Yet really, what with a mess like that in the middle of the cellar, it was almost worth making an extra trip, if only to freshen-up the atmosphere a little.

"You'll have to go, Scotty!" warned Mrs Gilmour, wagging a playfully reproachful finger at the dog, who had now turned round to face her. "Go, do you hear? Like all the others...." But a feeling of compassion towards him overcame her with the utterance of this thought, and she bent down to stroke his silky back. Go? How could she ever let him go? He was the only living creature she had! No, she wouldn't give in, despite the hardships he unwittingly inflicted upon her. He was a companion to her, after all - more of a companion, in certain respects, than her late-husband had been in his last years, what with his laconic senility. She would hold on to the droopy-eared creature no matter how messy he became. And now he was wagging his tail and licking her free hand, the one not holding the parcel. Yes, he was glad to see her and be made a fuss of, she could tell that easily enough. But he oughtn't to bark, all the same.... "No, Scotty, not like that!" she cautioned him, giving him a gentle slap on the nose. "Keep your voice down, for heaven's sake!"

Obediently the dog quietened down again and, taking her leave of him, old Mrs Gilmour slowly began to ascend the stone steps, content that she had done her duty. Perhaps, on the other hand, she would fetch a bucket and swab to clean-up the mess below. She thought it might be a good idea, especially since Scotty had started to whine with her departure, and that always saddened her. He would be pleased to see her again. So she left the bolt drawn back when she got to the cellar door, as though to inform him that her departure was only temporary. His sharp ears were accustomed to hearing it slide to-and-fro.

Yet today was going to be different from previous days in more than one respect, more different than even Mrs Gilmour could have anticipated. For no sooner had she disposed of the parcel of dung in her private incinerator than she heard a loud banging on the front door, which quite startled her. She wasn't expecting any visitors - none, at any rate, who banged on the door in such a violent fashion, seemingly oblivious of the bell. Although her granddaughter sometimes visited her these days, that young lady was a lot quieter in her approach, preferring the bell to physical force. Perplexed, she hesitated a moment, undecided what to do next. But a repeat banging, coupled to a sustained ringing, prompted her to take action. So, curiosity aroused, she shuffled through the kitchen and down along the hall corridor towards the front door. In her bewilderment, she had quite forgotten about the dog!

Nervously she jerked open the slightly-warped front door and confronted her callers with a distinctly puzzled expression on her wizened face. For there were in fact two of them, and they were garbed in the dark-green uniform of the S12s - the special police. Only after a number of seconds had elapsed did this fact dawn on her, and with its realization a fearful anxiety entered her soul.

"Mrs Gilmour?" the taller of the two officers volunteered in the meantime.

"Er, yes," she at length admitted.

"We have a warrant to search your property in response to certain rumours which have been reaching us through various of your neighbours, who've heard what they took to be dog noises issuing from this residence," he informed her.

The shorter and younger of the two men said: "You do know that the ownership of dogs is illegal, don't you?"

"Why, of course!" Mrs Gilmour replied, endeavouring to sound as matter-of-fact as possible; though she felt anything but relaxed in the circumstances. "I don't own a dog, I can assure you."

The two officers briefly exchanged sceptical glances. "Nevertheless we'd like to investigate your property for ourselves, if you don't mind," the taller one affirmed, brandishing his search warrant.

"Well, if you really must...." The old woman stepped aside to allow the men ingress, and then gently closed the door behind them. Only now, however, did she recall that she had left the cellar door slightly ajar, a recollection which caused her considerable trepidation, though she did her best to conceal the fact.

"I think we'd better split up, Sean," the first officer said, turning to his colleague. "I'll take the ground floor, you do upstairs."

"Right," the latter agreed, and he immediately headed along the corridor in the general direction of the stairs, which were conspicuous enough from the hallway.

Meanwhile the other officer had turned into the first room on the right, which happened to be the living room, and was rummaging around in search of incriminating evidence.

"I can assure you that you're wasting your time," Mrs Gilmour protested, as she stood watching him from the door. "The neighbours must have been imagining things."

The officer paid her no attention, however, but continued with his search, opening and investigating, by turns, the living-room's two cupboards.

'As if I'd keep Scotty in there!' Mrs Gilmour thought in a huff.

Satisfied that his potential quarry wasn't to be found in the living room, the officer next turned his attention to the dining room, where he once again began to open cupboards, looking ever more suspicious and threatening as he proceeded. Not surprisingly, Mrs Gilmour made a second verbal protest, but that, too, was duly ignored, the man being too engrossed in his search to have much time or inclination for her comments. But he noted, all the same, that her hands were trembling as he made his way past her and into the kitchen at the rear of the house. She had ample reasons to be apprehensive now, especially as his eyes had fallen on its half-open cellar door.

"What d'you keep down there?" he asked, pointing to it.

The old woman could barely answer; for a large nervous lump had suddenly welled-up in her throat, making it difficult for her to breathe. She thought she was on the verge of fainting. "Only some old b-belongings," she managed to stutter, as the officer's glance embraced her trembling hands again. But it was now that her worst fears were about to be realized. For no sooner had the man pushed the cellar door wide open than an apprehensive whining emerged from its nether depths, accompanied by the sound of a chain being rattled. There could be no doubt, from his point of view, that some creature was down there, and, as he slowly descended the stone steps, the whining from his prey grew more intense, reaching a veritable crescendo with his eventual appearance in front of it. Poor Mrs Gilmour became paralysed with horror at the sound of this noise, and could only lean pitifully against the cellar door. A large tear detached itself from each of her grief-stricken eyes and went rolling heavily down her cheeks. She knew that Scotty was breathing his last conscious seconds, that any moment now the officer, disdaining ceremony, would train his stunner on the dog, shooting it unconscious on the spot before it could turn on him. For a moment the whining continued as before, and then, suddenly, a couple of piercing thuds impacted on Scotty's head, followed by a chill silence which confirmed her worst expectations.

She turned away from the cellar door and collapsed onto the nearest chair, stricken with grief and remorse. For three years, three long difficult years, she had held out against the authorities, defying their decree on dogs. And now, unexpectedly, it was all over. Her criminality had been exposed and she would be obliged to face the consequences. Liquidation for Scotty was one of them - the worst one. A heavy fine or up to a year's internment was another. Public disgrace would inevitably constitute a third, and so on. There could be no escaping them. She had known the risks she was taking by defying the law.

Meanwhile the second officer had come down from upstairs and, seeing the agonized and pitiful figure of old Mrs Gilmour in the kitchen, halted in front of her, just three or four yards from the open cellar door. He was on the point of offering her some sympathy when the sound of his senior colleague ascending the cellar steps precluded him from doing so and obliged him, instead, to hasten to his aid, principally by procuring the latter the means whereby the limp animal could be freed from its chain. The old woman was in no state of mind to fetch the key herself, so neither of the men bothered to ask her. Only when they had re-emerged from the cellar with their task accomplished did they bother to take any notice of her again, and this time it was the younger man who spoke.

"You really shouldn't have kept the dog chained up all this time," he remarked, turning to face her. "It was a cruel thing to do."

"Yes, and cruel to confine him to the cellar too," the taller man averred in a reproachful tone.

Mrs Gilmour could barely see them through the dense veil of her tears, but she could hear what they said clearly enough, even if she couldn't agree with it.

"You saw the anti-canine film, I take it?" the senior officer continued after a moment's pause, during which he readjusted his grip on the limp spaniel's hind legs.

"I did," she admitted weakly.

"Then there's no excuse, is there?" he said.

"No," came her feeble response. For the old lady had indeed seen the film in question at the time of its release, some three years ago, both on television and at the local video centre. There had been no way to avoid seeing it, since it was televised on a number of occasions on all the major channels, as well as screened at all the principal video centres. She could still remember the negative impression it had created on her, as though the event had taken place only yesterday instead of in 2029. She could still hear the narrator's voice saying: "In a post-humanist and transcendentalist society such as ours, where man prides himself on spiritual purity, commerce with animals must be discouraged as much as possible, since constituting a harmful impediment to moral progress."

Yes, she could still hear the opening salvo in the war against dogs. Could also hear fragments of the commentary that followed, in which dogs were condemned for the barbarous noise they made - the loud and often continuous barking which caused untold suffering to millions of human beings; for the mess they left on pavements and roads, making it both hazardous and disgusting for people to walk about; for their subconscious stupor, which resulted in their spending so much time dozing or sleeping; for being a bad influence on man's spiritual aspirations, since too readily given to carnal pursuits; for their aggression and suspiciousness, and so on ... through a long list of similar condemnations.

Yes, she could remember these fragments of the film commentary quite lucidly, especially now that her reactionary crime had been exposed. And not only was it the commentary that returned to her memory but, even more lucidly, snippets of the film itself - a clip of a dog fouling the pavement; another clip, this time of a bulldog, lifting one of its hind legs to urinate against a fence; then a clip of a very large dog, a Pyrenees mountain dog, she thought it might be, barking ferociously from its confined space overlooking an alleyway at some passers-by who were doing neither it nor its master's property any harm; then another similar clip, but this time of an intellectual or artist who was suffering from the incessant barking of a nearby Alsatian and, unable to continue with his writing, felt obliged to put hands to ears in a gesture of agonized despair; next a clip of a Labrador dozing with head on front paws and, juxtaposed with this, a man engaged in the intense alertness of Transcendental Meditation; finally, and most poignantly, a clip of a young child whose face had been savaged by a Rottweiler and was now a mass of scars.

Old Mrs Gilmour saw all these clips from the film run through her mind's eye in quick succession, as the two officers carried her last companion out to their van at the front of the house, before setting off for their next assignment in another part of town. They hadn't bothered to arrest her, since her age precluded any immediate haste on their part. She would receive the date of her trial in due time. They knew she wouldn't be able to escape them in the meantime. She was dependent on the State for her pension, after all. Her guilt was already recorded. It was simply a formality to disclose her sentence in due course, to have the presiding magistrate record the inevitable verdict of 'Guilty of dog ownership' and thus, by implication, of 'open-society reaction'.

Yes, she knew what lay in store for her and knew, too, that the person who had informed on her would soon be in receipt of a £5,000 reward for his/her social vigilance against 'beast-mongering enemies of transcendental progress'. Who could it have been? she wondered, as she drew a tissue from her trouser pocket in order to wipe the remaining tears from her eyes. She very rarely saw the neighbours and had no way of telling which one of them might have been seduced by the prospect of a substantial reward. She couldn't believe anybody would want to avail of the reward at her expense. And yet, someone must have betrayed her to the police for them to know, and that someone could even have been her granddaughter, who knew all about the dog and could well have spoken to one of the neighbours about it one day. It was a terrible thought, though not one that Mrs Gilmour could completely rule out.

"No, I can't believe that Sadie would have done such a thing," she muttered to herself as, with a bucket of hot soapy water and a swab in her still-trembling hands, she staggered over to the cellar door and began her painful descent of the stone steps with the intention of cleaning-up the mess down on the cellar floor, which doubtless now included, besides urine, some of Scotty's saliva. "It can only have been one or other of the next-door neighbours," she added, as tears came welling-up in her eyes once more. "Someone who begrudged me what little pleasure I had left in life!"

A few days later a State-registered letter arrived at Mrs Gilmour's residence, summoning her to attend court on the Wednesday of the following week. The day in question came and went, however, but Mrs Gilmour had made no appearance in court. Surprised, the police authorities sent the two offices previously involved in the case along to her house, in order to find out why she hadn't attended. There was no answer to the door when they knocked, so they forced a front window and let themselves in. But she wasn't to be found in any of the rooms of the house, neither upstairs nor down. Only when they descended the cellar steps, however, did they find what they were after, though hardly what they had expected! For the old woman was there all right, but she was lying on her back at the bottom of the steps, stone dead. Nearby her a bucket lay on its side, empty except for the presence, half-in-and-half-out, of a dry swab. There wasn't a trace of liquid.

"She must have had an accident on the steps, Sean," the senior of the two officers concluded, as he bent over the lifeless face of the old woman.

"Indeed!" confirmed the other, who noticed traces of dried blood there. "Slipped on something, by the look of it."