#fridayflash – Truffles

I didn’t believe it when Mum said she had a dog. When my brother and I were small, we pleaded for a pet of some sort. We had images of a faithful playful Labrador, a constant companion in our adventures, but hell, even a guinea pig would have done.

Mum wouldn’t even discuss it with us. So when she left that voicemail telling me all about the latest parish council meeting, and, ‘Oh, by the way, I’ve got a dog,’ I didn’t know what to think. I texted my sister, who confirmed the story. Many questions back and forth elicited the information that it was brown, small, thin, female, had all its limbs, and was a rescue dog named Truffles.

I called Mum later in the week. ‘So is this dog going to help you with the sheep?’ She has a flock of sheep and a field. Apparently sheep don’t count as pets.

‘No, it’s not that sort of dog.’

‘When are you going to find time to take it for walks?’

‘It doesn’t need much exercise, just sits around by the fire.’

‘Are you going senile?’

She put the phone down. Fair enough, I guess.

A few months later she sent me a photo of Truffles. Her body is a squashed conical tube, her legs and tail are long and thin and they bend in strange places, she has a springy neck, droopy jowls, pop-out eyes, and ears like huge leaves sticking out to the sides of her long flat head. Oh, and she’s made of metal. Not a real dog.

Ha ha. Big joke.

* * *

This summer, like every summer, the kids and I have come to stay with Mum for a week. We love being here, in the country, away from noise and pollution and crowds. Mum’s written her usual list of jobs to be done – sawing logs, cutting hedges, pulling up thistles, fixing the field gate, collecting flints to fill a ditch. It’s a matter of honour that we cross everything off before we go home.

One job that’s always on the list is feeding the lambs. By this time of year they’re independent of their mothers, but they need supplements so they bulk up in time for the winter slaughter. The boys are a bit squeamish about the whole thing, but they’ll happily tuck into the delicious roast dinners that are the end product.

Part of the tradition is that we count the lambs every time we go up to feed them. This is mostly to keep the kids entertained. It’s quite difficult to keep track of twenty-three hyperactive bundles of wool. This year though, lambs are vanishing. The first evening we were here, we counted twenty-two. Mum was sure we’d missed one, but after several recounts she admitted we were right. We searched the field, but there was no sign of the missing lamb, alive or dead.

The third evening, there were twenty-one, and yesterday we only counted twenty. By this time we were all getting quite upset. Back at the cottage, the boys made lemon drizzle cake while Mum and I discussed the fate of the lambs. It’s unlikely to be human thieves. They wouldn’t steal one lamb at a time. Foxes, Mum reckons. Apparently they’ve become a real problem since the hunting ban. It could be badgers, but they’re untidy eaters and would leave a mess. A fox will pick the lamb up and take it elsewhere. One of her friends called, she thinks it’s farm dogs that have got a taste for warm flesh, but Mum doesn’t believe that.

* * *

This morning I woke early and came downstairs to find the back door slightly open. Burglars, was my first thought, but nothing seemed to be missing. Oh well. Maybe my eldest son sneaked out for a smoke last night and forgot to shut the door. I took my breakfast into the living room.

The boys had left the room in a mess. Cushions scattered on the floor, the TV on mute, half-empty glasses of milk on the floor. Why they can’t pick up after themselves is beyond me. It doesn’t take long. So I switched the TV off, put the cushions back on the sofa and took the dirty glasses out to the kitchen. When I returned, I noticed Truffles, the rusty iron pseudo-dog, was lying on its side.

As I was replacing it on its feet, I saw a tuft of white lambswool caught in the spring of its neck. And a dribble of dried blood down the side of its jaw.