Hero the greyhound (Simon's Hero)

Hero the Greyhound (Chapter 11)

"I think he must have swallowed a lot of water" Or eaten something awful which has disagreed with him, or both. He's in a right old state isn't he? Poor thing."

Hero was lying by the side of the river, wrapped in a thick blanket. He had been very sick. The rich, gamey pheasant meat combined with the water he'd swallowed whilst being whooshed down the river, had made him feel quite ill. He couldn't see or hear properly; his ears were filled with dirty water and his eyes felt gritty and sore but somehow, he could hear the kindly voice coming from up above.

"That's my boy, well done. Come on, we'll have you right in no time flat", said the voice, gently. Hero could feel the rough towel rubbing against his soaking wet fur; someone was trying to dry him off and warm him up after his ordeal and although he was nervous and his heart was still pounding, he simply couldn't move so just had to lie still and hope the person was as kindly as they sounded. He had met a few nasty humans in his time; ones who would clip you across the head as soon as look at you. Men who saw him and the other greyhounds as a commodity; racing machines with no emotions who didn't need affection, just the odd meal, a bowl of water and a kennel cage which was freezing in the winter and boiling hot in the summer. They'd treated him well enough when he was a champion racer but as soon as the money stopped coming in, nobody gave two hoots about him, his injuries or the searing pain he suffered as a result of his broken leg.

The gentle voice belonged to Des; a keen fisherman who spent many hours sitting on the banks of the Throng, attempting to catch the odd fish and munching the corned beef and pickle sandwiches his wife, Maureen, had packed for him. He wasn't a very good fisherman (mainly because he spent most of the time chatting to everyone who passed by) and often didn't catch a thing. He usually called into the fishmonger's on the High Street and bought a fish to take home to Maureen, just so she would think he'd caught something. Maureen was no slouch and was smart enough to know the fish was shop bought but also sensible enough not to let on that she knew a freshly caught fish would still have a head, not to mention little dead, beady eyes. She duly served up the fried, battered fish with chunky chips and a few garden peas and Des was none the wiser. He used his weekly fishing trip as a kind of therapy, to get some peace and quiet. It got him out from under Maureen's feet so she could get on with the housework and then, when she'd finished dusting and polishing their tiny little house, she'd settle down with a nice cup of coffee to watch 'Neighbours' on the telly. Oh yes, her husband's fishing trips were hugely therapeutic although she would pretend to complain whenever he collected his rod, net and bag from behind the front door. "You off fishing again?" she'd moan but he'd give her a wink, knowing she loved the peace and quiet, not to mention the drama of Neighbours. It made her humdrum life a little more exciting and it gave him the chance to sit and ponder and to talk to anyone who passed by his portable canvas chair, with its integral coffee cup holder, on the banks of the Throng.

"Where on earth do you think he's come from then?" Des asked the ambulance man who'd helped him fish Hero out of the river. Once the police had been informed about the unfortunate dog being washed downstream towards Dorman's Weir, they had decided the best course of action would be to send an ambulance to the scene. At least they would have First Aid training and would probably have some kind of oxygen cylinder on board. The ambulance arrived and Donal, the driver hurled himself from the front seat onto the river bank, leaving the keys in the ignition and the yellow hazard lights blinking.

He ran to the water's edge, peering up river to see if he could spot anything. There he was! A huge, black creature, legs frantically paddling against the current. Hero's body vanished beneath the rushing water but not before Donal had witnessed the expression of sheer panic in his eyes. Without hesitation, he grabbed Des's fishing rod and net and, motioning to Des to hold his feet, he lay on his stomach and leaned as far forwards as he could, hoping he was positioned well enough to hook the dog's collar with the rod as he was swept by. Donal lifted his arm and threw the line so it landed towards the middle of the river and as Hero whizzed by, the tiny hook caught his collar. "Right, we're in with a chance" he shouted to Des and as he started to reel the dog towards the safety of the riverbank, he muttered under his breath "Please don't snap, please don't snap." If the line snapped, the dog wouldn't stand a chance and would be over the weir within seconds, so fast was the underlying current. Des was also praying; praying Donal's wet shoes wouldn't completely slide off his feet. He wriggled further forwards and grabbed the material of Donal's trousers, hoping he'd done his belt up tightly before going into work.