MIKE BROWN
D’Arcy, a spirited Motueka terrier, tells her side of a storm story, with all the drama, mischief and dogged charm you’d expect from a local legend on four legs.
I can feel it rolling down the Riwaka hills, and I don’t like it. Fair dinkum, I’ve felt it before - it’s coming our way, and this time it’s gonna be a doozy. I can smell it - I’m outta here.
The first thunderclap — here it comes! Bugger staying here terrified, tail between my legs, breathing fast, tongue hanging out like I’ve got rabies, shaking myself to bits while he sits there flicking the top off another Speight’s, tapping away on his computer like there’s nothing to worry about.
I’m at my wits’ end, doing my head in, and he doesn’t give a tinker’s toss about me - his best mate, the only female in his life that doesn’t argue with him. That’s what he tells everyone, anyway. Not at all worried about my wandering habits when things get wild.
At least I can sneak out through D’Arcy’s Doggie Flap to ease my nerves. I’m hitting the road pronto - ’cos I can smell it coming. Yikes - there’s one now! Ears back, tail tucked, head down - going for broke, off and away through dark Thorp Bush.
I skid out the other end into daylight, sprinting flat out. Another crack of lightning puts the fear of God into this little girl. It was so close, my biggest keep-away growl morphed into a snivelling whimper.
Dad might’ve been a tough as, Aussie terrier, but Mum was just a fat little Jack Russell.
I’ll head for the rec centre, disappear into the estuary bullrushes, tuck myself up snug till it’s all over.
I dig in harder, double the effort, tear past the gym junkies, dodging bouncing raindrops. No time to glance.
Across the road, into my hideaway sanctuary till the storm blows through.
It’s all over, red rover.
Time to go home. But not that way - not ever, not in the dark. I’ll go down Trewavas Street, see if my old mate Gerry’s home.
He’s a good bloke - looks after me when my so-called master skives off on another of his far-flung holidays.
Gerry lets me sit on his knobbly knees by the fire and watch European footy for hours, getting my ears scratched and soothed by his deep baritone voice. Ahhh. He’s got a cat flap - I mean, a dog flap - I can use to come and go and do poops under his trees.
But the bugger’s not home, by the look of it. I’ll sneak in and wait. The spare bed’s too far from the escape flap, the one in the other room too soft.
I like the smell of the big bed in the main room - the one where they sleep when they’re home. That’ll do for now.
What’s that I smell? Something tasty wafting from the laundry - a bin full of plastic bags.
Might be beef bones or lamb shanks. Can’t help myself - I spread it all out, like I do at home when ‘his nibs’ Brownie goes biking for hours and leaves me to fend for myself.
Still, I wonder when Gerry’s coming home. I’ve had two beaut nights sleeping over already, but I’m thirsty.
The buggers didn’t leave a bowl out. I’d better sneak home before dark and chalk it up as another D’Arcy Dog adventure. I’ll lie low for a few days. No one’ll be any the wiser.
“Hi Brownie. We’ve just got home from a week in Christchurch, and we’re a bit upset.”
“What’s the matter, Gerry?”
“We’re okay - we’ve phoned the police and they’re on their way. While we were gone, the place was ransacked by fly-by-night B&B people we think. There’s a mess everywhere, beds all slept in - but the strange thing is, there’s dog fur on our bed.
“We just wanted to check if dear D’Arcy had gone missing over the weekend?”
“Well… funny you mention that, Gerry…”
