Polo

A short dark story, set in Thailand

‘THERE’S A HANDSOME BOY.’

Wendy bent and stroked the knotted hair on the “street dog’s” neck. He panted as Thailand’s weather baked him.

‘Have you got nowhere to go? Poor boy.’

Three filthy dogs barked and chased him off.

Wendy stood and looked around. She had lived in this sleepy beachside town for two years but had never noticed the mansion hidden behind the trees.

‘Beautiful house.’ Then the barking started.

‘Oy, what do you want?’

A stocky man with more artwork on his body than the Tate has masterpieces.

‘Nothing, I was admiring your house. Sorry if I upset the dogs,’ said Wendy.

‘Clear off, go and disturb the bloody street dogs.’

She mumbled as she moved towards the market. ‘All the Thais I meet are friendly, even if we don’t speak the same language. Then I meet a Londoner, and we dislike each other instantly. I wonder what sort of dogs he has in there? Big and ugly, like the owner, that’s for sure.’ Wendy grinned to herself.

Few people walk in Thailand, but Wendy preferred a stroll, rather than risking her neck on a one-hundred-and-fifty cc deathtrap taxi. Now gently perspiring, she made her way to her favourite stalls.

‘Hello, darling, what have you got that’s fresh today?’

The middle-aged woman didn’t understand the words, but she knew her customer. She proudly presented pineapples, watermelons and local green lemons.

As Wendy made her choices, a cold, wet nose touched her calf.

‘Oh, it’s you again,’ she looked up, ‘Is this your dog?’

A shake of greying black hair answered.

The next stall offered sweet baked pork. Wendy knew she couldn’t give it to the dog in front of stallholders, so she hid around the corner and slipped her new friend a slice or two.

‘Who does he belong to, I wonder? Now, what is your name?’ She asked.

The pair continued their upward climb until they reached a pet shop.

‘Can I post a note on your shop window?’

“Found - a black and brown friendly dog, not unlike an Alsatian.”

The shop owner was good enough to translate into Thai and gave the shop’s number as well as Wendy’s.

‘I will call him Polo. If an owner turns up, he will have to change his name again,’ Wendy smiled. The shop owner shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, there is no chance.’

Then, with armfuls of doggy treats, a lead, a collar, and water and food bowls, they strolled home.

After baths and showers, haircuts, and trimmed nails, Polo could face the world.

Wendy contacted her son in the UK, ‘Sure, he has no pedigree, but if you can imagine a medium-sized Alsatian with short hair, that’s Polo.’

‘But, Mum, you haven’t got room for him at your house.’

‘The garden is small, but no problem, I’ll walk him twice a day.’

‘I don’t remember seeing Thai people walking their dogs.’

‘Maybe not, it doesn’t mean Polo, and I can’t go walking with a lead.’

‘Okay, Mum, as long as you are both happy.’

Stifling hot or pouring monsoon rain, Wendy and Polo could be seen twice a day, wending their way to the beach or shopping for goodies that they shared. But they avoided the street in which the tattooed man’s house stood proud and imposing.

‘Oh, no, what has happened to her?’

A street dog with an agonising limp, blood dripped, she yelped as Wendy approached, the bitch tried to escape any attention from a human.

‘Come here, girl, let me look.’

Wendy and Polo followed the injured, sad little creature to a small Soi. The lane led to the front of the hated house.

‘Come on, Polo, we must help her.’

Barking started from behind the metal grill, and the American Pit Bulls jumped and clawed at the gates. Wendy rushed to the trail of blood.

‘Stop you silly thing.’

The gates flew open, and a cloud of dust partially covered the scampering hounds. But couldn’t stop the horror as the Pit Bulls ripped the injured dog to bits. Wendy, in two minds, knew she couldn’t halt the attack, so she decided to grab Polo and run.

Teeth clamped her calf muscles; she lost balance and tried to throw Polo away as far as possible; both owner and pet suffered agonising torture. The dog’s owner crashed a sturdy stick into his pet's skull until they ran for home. The man moved his car into the street, closed his gates and shouted for his maid, then drove off.

The maid didn’t come. But a teenager passing on a motor scooter stopped, snatched his mobile and called an ambulance. He waited to explain what had happened. Wendy was whisked away to the hospital.

‘Polo, where is Polo?’ she mumbled as she came around after numerous operations.

The nurses panicked as they didn’t understand Wendy’s question, and a Doctor was summoned.

‘You are okay, but it will take some time for full recovery,’ he said.

‘But, where is Polo? How is he?’

‘Was someone else involved in the attack?’

‘Not someone, Polo is my dog. What happened to him? Please find out.’

Wendy’s tears tangled with her facial stitches. The Doctor rushed off.

There was a tap at the door, and a lady’s head peered in.

‘Excuse me, may I come in?’

Wendy looked up with hope in her heart.

‘Yes, yes, do you know where Polo is?’

‘He is at my veterinary surgery. I’m Khun Peg, the vet. A young man brought him in and told me what happened.’

‘Is he alright?’

‘He will survive. I’m not sure who had the most stitches, you or him.’

Both women smiled.

As Wendy recovered and was eventually free to return home, she rushed to the vet’s hospital before setting foot in her home.

A brown-black tail wagged as if trying to fly at the sound of her voice.

Wendy was handed a small sack of medicine to match her small chemist shop full of pills.

‘Don’t forget to have his staples removed,’ the vet said. ‘You are more likely to forget your own, I know.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Of course, anything.’

‘How do I report that man and his dogs?’

The vet lost all colour in her face. ‘Don’t. The police will do nothing. You will have more trouble.’

‘Are you saying…’ The vet put her finger to Wendy’s lips.

Wendy paid her bill and carried Polo home.

Days turned to weeks, both patients improved, both limped and the scars showed more on Wendy, Polo’s were cloaked with hair. Both hated the tattooed man - and his dogs.

‘Mum, what are you talking about? No, I will not arrange for you to own a gun. Sure, people own weapons legally, but not foreigners, and yes, there are many weapons on the streets in Thailand, but if you have never fired a pistol, it would be more dangerous for you than anybody else. Do I need to come over there?’

Instead, Google was busy. ‘What is poisonous for dogs? My God, there are many deadly plants and fruits. Jesus, even apples. Okay, not the fruit, but everything else.’

‘You stay there, I won’t be long.’ Wendy patted Polo’s nose and crept out of the front door with her plastic supermarket bag. Inside were balls of raw meat rolled with dark chocolate, some artificial sweetener, and coffee powder. Barking started but soon quietened as balls of food were lobbed over the fence.

‘There you go, boys, I hope you like your snacks.’

Wendy stood and watched as the food was gobbled in seconds. She waited, but nothing.

‘I must buy more expensive, higher-quality coffee for more caffeine. Darker chocolate, more Xylitol, and give them more and more each day.’

It became a habit, each day, as soon as it was dark, Wendy crept up to part of the fence out of sight of the house. The dogs no longer barked at her; they looked forward to their tidbits.

Wendy noticed the drag of one rear leg and the snappy temper of each dog as the other fed first.

‘It’s working!’ She cheered.

One day, early evening, but later than usual, she called the dogs to the front gate. She teased them with their daily balls of poison. She juggled two balls, and the dogs barked louder and jumped at the gate.

‘Oy, what’s going on? What do you want?’

‘Remember me?’

‘I don’t remember every old tart who comes round 'ere.’

The dogs were becoming frantic as they watched their meatballs go up and down.

‘What the hell. Quit teasing my mutts, or I’ll let them out.’

‘Come on then, big man who hides behind his dogs.’

The front door slammed behind him as he stormed down the drive. The dog's eyes were torn between snacks and their master. As Mr Tattoo passed his truck, Wendy guessed she could throw the meat that far. She whistled and shook her missiles in the dog's faces. Then she lobbed them at the tattooed muscles one at a time.

‘Catch.’

Both dogs leapt at the meat as their master went for the catch.

Three creatures rolled and snapped on the driveway. Teeth dug deep in the inky pictures, blood spurted, canine teeth chewed, and tongues lapped.

Wendy turned and went before the growling stopped for good.

‘Hello, Polo, I’m home. Next time we can go together.’

The END

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