She Loves Me

SHE LOVES ME

I bought the dog at a pub in the Camden Road. An old man with a cloth cap and a fag in the corner of his mouth sat down beside me with a pint of beer.

He said “You look like a good judge, what you think of this animal?”

The mutt sat down beside the bench and looked up at the old man with a quizzical look as if she didn’t believe what she was hearing.

“I can see you’ve got taste Sir” the old rogue went on, “and a dog like this could save you a lot of money.”

“Oh yes? How come?”

“Well, you see, she is trained to hunt truffles and she’s worth ever so much in the trade.”

I have an idea that there isn’t much truffle hunting in Camden, or Islington come to that. So, I said,

“Then sell her to some French bloke where the truffles live.”

“No, you don’t understand. This dog was owned by Mr Locatelli who keeps a café down the Essex Road. He went all over London testin’ the truffles in posh restaurants. Saved them a mint I’m told.”

He leaned closer to me and the smell of beer and dog added flavour to his next remark.

“I can’t let her go for less than a fifty, but you look like a sensible type and if I may say, needin’ a good companion. So make me on offer.”

I said nowt and just took another pull at my beer,hoping the old chancer would move on to some other mug, but he gave me a wink to show we were chums and pulled the dog up on his lap.

It was a small terrier type dog with a brown and white coat. The special feature of this valuable animal was that it had only one eye and its tail was like a half-chewed rope end. Still, there was a brisk look about her and she sat as quiet as a nun while the scruffy old man supped his beer and dragged on his fag. I told him that I was a busker in Leicester Square by night and did guitar lessons by day but before I could say another word he cut in:

“There you are then; she loves a tune and can dance a treat.”

Just as he said that the little dog got down and began to jig on its hindlegs in time to the juke box playing in the corner. First, it tiptoed on its hind legs as dainty as a dancer, then it pirouetted in time with the music as it twirled across the floor,skirting the stools and tables as neat as Pavlova on top form.

Suddenly it crossed my mind that the mutt might improve my spot in the Square. Trade was cut-throat at my pitch and anything unusual would help. Before I really knew it, two twenties had changed hands and I was walking out with a string in my hand and a dog on the other end trotting behind me.

That night I went down as usual to my pitch by the big Odeon in the Square and set up the speaker. It was a Saturday evening so the place was crowded. I was into my third number when I realized that the punters were gathering around me instead of dodging my cap. Behind me the mutt was swaying to the rhythm and the crowd loved it. The women patted him and gave him treats; the old men tipped a drop of beer into a saucer for him and he supped up every drop. it was quite a job to get him away from his audience.

My take tripled and when I got home, I was as chuffed as Christmas. I bought steak and we ate better than the Savoy. This pattern went on right through the month and I didn’t need to give music lessons anymore.

I got a plug on London TV and thought of changing my digs. The little dog was good as gold never an off day and cost nothing to feed.It seemed that all the media was crying out for something new,and we could provide it.

"Here chum" A fat faced man with a cigar and a bowler hat, caught my arm. " I can get you a spot on 'New Faces' and it won't cost you a farthin', if you just sign 'ere."

The pup looked up at him and showed his teeth and growled. That was the end of it and he sloped away. I patted the mutt and gave him another biscuit,to show my approval.

That was fine and dandy until the day before Christmas. I was down the pitch in the early afternoon, hoping to catch the shoppers in a good mood when she shot off like a rocket down Wardour Street. My kit was all set up and the crowds were all around me, so I had to get on with the set or lose a day’s pay.

That evening, I searched all over for the wretched thing- Down Seven Dials and up as far as Tottenham Court Road—not a sign of her. Christmas day, I traced the route from my place to the Square but still no joy. As a last resort I wandered down the Eagle, that pub in the Camden Road.

There sitting on a stool next to that greasy old soak was the dog. She looked up at me with a nonchalant gaze and never gave me a second glance. I took the old man by the collar of his lumpy old coat and swore blue murder at him.

“Give me back my dog” I shouted.

“I can’t do that”.

“Why not?” I bellowed.

“She loves me” he cooed with a greasy smile.

At that, I aimed a fist at him, but the blessed dog bit my ankle and the bouncer at the door lifted me out of the pub and dumped me on the pavement. There was no way back in.

I never found out if she could smell truffles.