Jet

It was a cold, overcast November afternoon. The sky merged with the grey corrugated steel of the stand bordering the track on the home straight. Football goals stood bare of nets in the grassed middle of a white railed oval of sand where the greyhounds would run. A raw East wind scoured the scene, forcing people deeper into their coats. Most milled about on the terraces near the finishing post, weathered faces nodding acknowledgements and spitting opinions in flat Yorkshire tones. Some looked down the home straight towards six heavily coated dogs waiting with their handlers behind the traps; hutch-like boxes with grilled fronts from which the dogs would spring. Other punters congregated by a trio of bookmakers bellowing last minute odds from table stalls. Fatty smells wafted on the wind from a shed serving Styrofoam coffee and stringy bacon rolls to those seeking warm comfort on a drab day.

Small scale, low rent, the greyhound racing equivalent of non-league football, where ‘has beens’ encountered the ‘never was’. This was the world of the flapping track, unregulated dog racing with no vet in attendance or doping control.

Phantom Jet stood behind trap six in his black and white bib, a racing muzzle covering his snout. He was a big dog of thirty-seven kilos and completely black aside from white toes on each foot and a lightning blaze on his chest. His top- coat had been removed and he shivered with a mixture of nervous anticipation and the cold. Then his rear legs were lifted off the floor, and he was walked into the trap on his front legs like a canine wheelbarrow. The door closed on his temporary cell, and as he looked through the bars, he heard the familiar barking and baying of the other five dogs to his left.

The muffled PA system announced the start of the race and years of experience told Jet he was soon to be released. As the cacophony grew, he tuned in to the whine of the electrified lure before pawing impatiently at the trap door. Then he saw it, a white flash to his right as the doors sprang up and he leapt forward instinctively. There was an explosion of energy as twenty-four limbs pawed the ground, speeding the dogs down the first straight in a spray of sand.

As they approached the first bend, they were a knot of moving colours and thrashing limbs, before one dog broke free of the group. A white dog in a red vest, forging quickly ahead, leaving the chasing pack. Jet ran as hard as he could. The pain in his left shoulder from years of racing round corners increased as he traversed the tight bend and he instinctively slowed a fraction, just enough to be spat out the rear of the pack. Mouth open, he pulled in the air as he ran, yet fell further, then further behind. Amid the dying cheers, he reached the finish line last, trailing the fifth placed dog by five metres.

 Doyle swore loudly to no one in particular as he threw down his betting slip.

   ‘Bastard! It’s supposed to’ve been a bloody open racer!’

   Mid-twenties, with a bulldog build and shaved head, Doyle looked what he was, hard in mind and body. What seemed lost on him was the word ‘been’. Jet had been an ‘open racer’ an elite greyhound capable of competing on any track in the land. But he was now six years old and eighteen months past his prime, hence Doyle paying only £500 for him. He had been seduced by his record and ignored his age. What he also chose to overlook was how Jet dipped his head when he walked, a tell-tale sign of long-term damage. Doyle’s plan was that if he could get six good races out of Jet on the flapping circuit, he’d pay for himself in winnings through the bookies. Three races in he’d finished third, fourth and now sixth. Doyle did the maths in his head. He was £160 down in bets, never mind what the useless bugger cost to buy and feed. As a racer, Jet was a liability and Doyle now truly knew it, so Jet would soon know it too.

Doyle took Jet’s lead from the track handler without a word and pulled him roughly to his van. He was the third dog he’d been persuaded to buy, and they’d all turned out, in his politest term, to be ‘crap’. He needed to cut his losses quickly as he had with the other two duds and he knew who to call.

An older man approached with a leathery smile for Doyle and a pat on the head for Jet.

‘Phantom Jet! Used to be a great dog’ he said, rubbing Jet’s neck who inclined his head towards him as he stood proudly in his light blue coat.

‘Aye, used to be,’ replied Doyle bitterly.

‘Yeah, over the top now by the look, but by ‘eck what a finisher a few year back. I won a small fortune on ‘im at Sheffield once.’

‘Don’t fancy buying ‘im do yer? I’ll tek 200.’

‘Sorry mate. I’ve two already an’ lovely as e’ is, ‘e looks done to me,’ he replied with an apologetic look before moving on after giving Jet a final stroke.

‘Too bloody right,’ said Doyle.

It was as much to Jet as anyone else and the big greyhound, sensing Doyle’s anger, lay his ears flat and held his head low as his heartless owner punched a number into his phone.

‘Is that Crewe?’ Doyle asked.

‘Aye.’

‘Now then. It’s Lee Doyle, Freddie’s lad. You did a dog for me a couple of months back and I need another off me ‘ands.’

‘OK, when?’ Crew asked.

‘About six today if you can.’

‘Yeah, that’ll suit. It’s still forty quid, Lee.’

‘Right then, see you at six,’ said Doyle.

He then pulled Jet towards the white transit van, opened the back door and shouted ‘In!’. Jet hesitated out of fear and Doyle exploded. He kicked Jet’s rear, causing him to yelp in pain before jumping into the van as another lazily aimed boot arced through the air just behind him. Doyle grabbed at him roughly to remove his lead, slammed the van door, then stomped back towards the finishing post, counting his money.

Still £200 there. A good job welding paid well, otherwise that chocolate fireguard of a dog would have made me skint. Still, no point dwelling on it. Five races to go and a chance to recoup the losses, then down to the pub for a couple before giving Crewe a short visit.

Meanwhile, Jet lay down, tired from the race, sore from the kick and anxious.

When Doyle returned to the van he was in a better mood. Two winners had left him fifty pounds up overall, but as he looked into the back of his vehicle, he thought bitterly that he’d be even better off the sooner this three-legged donkey was off his hands. He gunned the engine and moved sharply out of the field, lurching the van and making Jet topple painfully against the metal side with a clang. After a five minute journey, all went quiet again for Jet as Doyle strode into the pub. In the two hours he spent there, the light faded and it grew colder. Jet curled in as tight a ball as he could make, yet still he shivered both from the cold and from fear. Doyle’s return to the driver’s seat was accompanied with a loud, beery belch as he tried to remember the journey to Crewe’s place in Arlby in his head. It was not a place to visit without reason. A ramshackle farmhouse where, for a small fee, Crewe disposed of greyhounds with a bolt gun to the head. Doyle assumed he used the digger behind the old barns to bury them somewhere on his land.

‘Right fella, one last trip eh,’ said Doyle with a grim smile.

Then he released the handbrake and swung quickly out of the car park, spraying gravel. He was soon deep into a landscape of dark lanes and silhouetted hedgerows where he squinted at the passing sign-posts.

‘Shit!’ shouted Doyle as he missed the turn for Arlby.

Without thinking, he braked, oblivious to the car close behind him, until he heard the bang and crunch of metal that shunted the van forward. Jet was thrown violently into a bag of carpet underlay Doyle had fortuitously stored in the van.

‘I don’t believe this!’ spat Doyle.

He thumped the steering wheel as the realisation he had been crashed into fully registered. Then an elderly woman’s worried face appeared at his window.

‘I’m terribly sorry. I tried to stop, but you just seemed to suddenly brake.’

‘Aye well,’ said Doyle reprovingly.

He climbed from the van to inspect the damage with the woman. It wasn’t too bad, just the bumper stoved in. Then they heard a yelping bark from within.

‘Best see if you’re dog’s alright.’

He’ll be fine I’m sure,’ said Doyle.

‘But he’s yelped. He could be hurt. Probably best to check,’ she implored.

Doyle wanted to be away as soon as he could rather than talking to this old biddy, so he stifled his impatience and went along with it, opening the rear door slightly. But before either of them could react, Jet sprang through the gap as if leaving a trap and leapt through a gateway into the enfolding darkness. Jet heard Doyle’s angry shouts receding behind him as he ran blindly across a field. He had sensed the danger and reacted as any sight hound would, using his main attribute, speed. Adrenaline numbed the pain in his leg as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, suddenly lessened by a glowing full moon emerging from behind shadowy clouds.

He aimed for a copse of trees ahead, slowing to a trot as he approached the dense coppice of Ash before slipping between the trunks into safe invisibility. Not that Doyle had given chase. Jet’s disappearance was fine by him and saved him fifty quid, though he made a brief pretense of looking for him for the woman’s sake, before saying he’d ring the Police and return to look for him in the morning.

Jet sniffed the ground and scented other animals, deer and rabbit. He couldn’t know what these new smells meant, but something imprinted deep in his DNA told him this was food and he followed a trail deep into the trees at walking pace until the moonlight was lost. With no sense of pursuit, he lay down panting, recovered his breath, then moved back towards the light, through the shaded tree trunks and to a low building near their edge.

Red brick, one-storey, with a collapsed pantile roof for half its length, what had once been a stable for perhaps three horses, it now offered some shelter on a winter’s night for Jet. He nosed his way cautiously through an open entrance into the roofed end. As he moved further into the darkness to escape the cold wind, his front toes suddenly crackled on something and he stopped. It was thick plastic sheeting from a baling machine, piled in a corner. Jet nosed it, before exploring the rest of the building, ears half-cocked in alert anticipation before returning to the plastic pile which offered the greatest protection from the elements. He sniffed the plastic, then circled on it before settling down and tucking his legs under his coat to make himself as small and warm as possible.

Jet was shivering when he woke at dawn. He was also hungry, having not eaten the day before and the instinct to eat drove him out of the stable and into the growing light of the day. His breath rose like train steam in the cold air, but it had been relatively mild overnight and the ground was soft as Jet looked around him and appraised the scene. There was an old, rusty trough next to the stable containing rain catchment and Jet lapped vigorously at it. He hadn’t drunk since after the race.

Johnny Crewe walked along the hedgerow with a rifle in one hand and a dog lead in the other. A few paces behind him, a fat, English Bull Terrier trotted obediently, all lolling tongue and waddling gait. Given Crewe’s stocky frame, it looked like the dog was mimicking him as he moved and, with its wide grin, was laughing at a joke he couldn’t see.

Crewe liked this time of day best of all. As a countryman, he had always been an early riser from the time he worked on a dairy farm, but now his early starts weren’t just an old habit, they had a purpose. He shot game for the table, his own and anyone who would pay for it, though today’s early walk had a dual purpose. The field edge Crewe walked along was two miles from his smallholding, but the owner allowed him access because he kept the rabbit population down that damaged his crops.

Jet looked about the large green field near the stable with keen eyes and then froze, ears half up as he saw three small shapes, occasionally moving, a hundred metres or so ahead. He began a purposeful trot, then opened his long stride, accelerating to a sprint, with the coat slightly flapping as he quickly covered the ground towards the rabbits ahead. He focused on one that was motionless, apart from nibbling at the vegetation with its back towards the big hound as he rapidly closed the distance between them.

Crewe heard Jet before he saw him. The rustle of his coat carried on the breeze and Crewe turned in the direction of the sound to see the flash of bright blue as Jet tore towards the rabbits in the next field. He smiled to himself as he looked across towards Jet. It had to be Doyle’s dog; blue coat, black dog he’d said. Keep an eye out he’d said. And if you do see it, get rid, but keep the collar to claim your forty quid.

As two of the rabbits heard Jet’s approach and darted towards the safety of the hedgerow, the third that Jet had focused on also moved out of sheer instinct. The rabbit sensed and fleetingly saw movement to its left near the field’s edge, so ran deeper into the field. It was a fatal mistake as Jet swerved left to follow and then gather it up with one lunge. He instinctively shook the rabbit, then dropped the limp grey body momentarily as he recovered his breath, before starting to devour it.

Crewe’s cruel smile split his face again as he knelt next to the gatepost out of Jet’s sight line. Jet was in the next field, roughly sixty metres away, standing over his prey. This was well within range thought Crewe, at least to put the dog over, if not kill it. He usually hunted with Ella his spaniel but had brought Olly instead to bring Jet down if he tried to scarper. If he was injured, Olly would catch him, surely. Crewe levelled the rifle, tucked it into his shoulder, looked down the barrel and held his breath as Jet’s stationary form filled the rifle’s site. His finger closed slowly on the trigger, applying gentle, practiced pressure as he began to slowly exhale and whisper instructions to himself.

‘Nice and easy Crewe…’, then, ‘Whaaat the?’

Jet swallowed the last of the rabbit before looking up quickly as he heard the chattering of a pheasant and the almost simultaneous crack of a rifle. He then spotted movement in the gateway opposite. Sensing danger, instinct compelled him to sprint towards the coppice of trees he’d hidden in the night before.

Crewe lay on his side, cursing in the wet grass, as his terrier jumped on him with strong muddy paws thinking it was a game. Olly had flushed the cock pheasant from the hedgerow right next to Crewe and it had sprung out, all flapping, clucking alarm, just as Crewe was easing back the trigger. His reflexed jolt led him to fire wide and fall sideways before his stocky terrier leapt at him in play.

Jet loped into the coppice and was soon swallowed by the trees. He sought cover deep in the wood and found a depression like a shallow bomb crater where stone had been quarried in the distant past. It was in-filled with a deep bed of dried leaves and afforded a comfortable hiding place. He circled amid the rustling leaves, then lay down, though with ears cocked, listening for movement.

Crewe strode towards the coppice of trees, determined to end this story of an escaping greyhound here and now. He grinned to himself again, anticipating telling Doyle later how a townie might have let his dog get away from the van, but being a countryman, Crewe had tracked it down and made no mistakes. He called Olly on and sent him forward with the dubious command of ‘Find him lad’. Olly ran towards the trees with plenty of enthusiasm but no understanding.

When Crewe finally reached the wood, scanning through the trees for the tell-tale blue of Jet’s coat, he urged Olly forward again. Olly simply ran round in aimless response to the urgency in his master’s voice, tail wagging. Jet heard Crewe and the terrier’s blundering run in the wood’s edge above the birdsong, but instinctively stayed still, though ready to move. His ears twitched round as he followed the sound of undergrowth being disturbed, the panting, rustling dog and the heavy human tread that sounded close, closer, yet closer still. Then the noise began to recede and was soon gone.

‘Disappeared into bloody thin air,’ cursed Crewe, as he exited the wood.

They had walked within thirty metres of Jet, but just as they were close, Olly the Terrier had seen a deer in the opposite direction and chased it. Crewe had followed, assuming Olly had picked up Jet’s scent or seen him. He scanned the wood one final time, ruefully shaking his head at his failure.

Jet rested in his hollowed haven for almost an hour, though remained constantly alert. He heard nothing other than the sounds of nature, the birds and the occasional rustle in the nearby undergrowth and gradually his fear subsided. Yet he was thirsty and needed to find water again. So, he rose, scanned all around him watchfully, stretched and left his hiding place. He moved through the trees at a loping pace, then into the open fields once again, but in the opposite direction to where he had entered. Pure instinct drove him that way in his crucial search of water.

After half an hour and three miles covered, he found it. A large land drain cutting a deep trench separating two fields was a third full and Jet picked his way carefully down the steep side to drink. As he did so, spots appeared on the surface. A few at first, until it was dotted with falling rain drops. Jet felt their increasing intensity on his ears and he sprang back up the side of the drain, searching for shelter. He didn’t have far to look.

There was a solid barn close by, and the rain drove him in without hesitation. Once inside and in the dry, he stopped to carefully regard what was there. The stable was empty save for three oblong bales of straw at the far end. As he approached them and sniffed at the nearest, he heard scuttling and could smell, if not see, the rats swiftly vacating the side of one of the bales they’d nested in. Jet climbed on to the bale that offered the most protection from the weather, circled and curled up, tucking his legs under his coat once again. The rain became heavy, creating a tell-tale drumming on the roof. It kept Jet in the barn all day, only stopping as darkness fell, leaving him to shiver through a long, lonely night.

When dawn broke, he could sense the warmth of his breath on the cold morning air after a milky shaft of light had woken him. He was thirsty and hungry. Both urges compelled him to climb from the bale and leave the small vestige of warmth it provided. Thankfully, there wasn’t any frost and the biting wind of recent days was gone, making way for a relatively mild start.

Jet stood, surveying the scene; a small wood on the right and a flat expanse of green fields bisected by a track that led away to a farm. Sheep grazed in an adjoining field but the one with the stable was empty, apart from some dotted forms moving in the grass near the land drain bordering the field. Jet stared intently at the movement and, after yesterday’s successful hunt, he knew what they were and began trot with intent. As the forms became the defined shapes of rabbits, Jet started to sprint, ears back, eyes fixed, opening his giant stride. A view of four rabbits became a singular target as he focused on the one furthest from the edge of the field and at close to forty miles an hour, Jet galloped towards it.

The large buck heard Jet’s stride before he saw him and started to run, but it was too late. Jet gathered him up, tossing him in the air before he had moved more than a few urgent hops. It lolled in his jaws as he carried it back to the stable, consuming it all ravenously before thirst drove him back to the land drain.

Jet returned to the stable and curled up again on his bale of straw, temporarily sated. He dozed for a time then cocked his head at the approaching sound of a quad bike.

Ben Adams killed the engine thirty metres shy of where Jet lay. He was eleven; a squat, solid, ginger-haired lad whose father owned the nearby farm and the land on which Jet’s derelict stable stood. Ben had seen a flash of blue near it as he rode in the adjacent field. He thought it had been a dog in a coat and had ridden to investigate, bringing Ella’s lead with him just in case.

Ben walked slowly to the doorway as Jet simultaneously watched the opening warily on hearing his measured tread. Then Ben looked in and his eyes widened at what he saw. A big black greyhound in a dirty blue coat lay on a bale of straw looking intently at him.

‘Now then lad’, he said soothingly.

Ben knew dogs. His family had always owned Border Collies, and he could sense the big greyhound’s apprehension, so he remained in the doorway for a long time, not wishing to spook Jet who kept his eyes on Ben’s face, searching for his intentions from his expression. Ben’s big, freckled face creased into a smile and he continued his soothing tone.

‘What’s brought you ‘ere, eh lad? This is no place for a dog is it now?’

Ben took a step into the stable. Jet stiffened momentarily as if he was about to spring off the bale, then stayed still, though alert. The soothing words continued and after a few minutes, Ben took another pace forward. Jet remained motionless. He did not sense any danger, though continued to watch Ben closely, poised to run if need be. Ben took another step, then carefully squatted down, suddenly realising he was vulnerable if this big dog turned nasty. It was a passing thought though. Ben couldn’t see any aggression in this beautiful animal, who regarded him with doleful amber eyes. He fished into his coat pocket where he kept biscuits for Ella and held one forward.

‘Come on lad…. ‘ave a biscuit…. come on.’

Jet climbed slowly from the bail, eyeing the biscuit and nosing slowly forward as Ben coaxed him on with his gentle tone. Jet twizzled his nose as greyhounds sometimes do as he sniffed the biscuit, leaned forward so his neck was at its greatest length, then gently took it from Ben’s fingers, eating with watchful eyes as Ben produced another and held it up for him. There was no hesitating this time and Jet moved forward a pace and snaffled it in a spray of crumbs. Ben slowly put his empty hand forward and Jet sniffed it before Ben moved his fingers to the white blaze on his throat to give it a rub. Jet sensed a friend and he moved to lean against Ben who stayed crouched at eye level next to the big greyhound, petting and talking to him for several minutes.

Eventually, Ben stood, produced the lead from his pocket and clipped it on to Jet’s collar ring. There was no hesitation now and they walked into the daylight together and down the track towards the farm, Jet trotting biddably as if this was their usual walk. What would Mum and Dad make of this? Mused Ben. A greyhound living in our old stable.

As they approached the farmhouse, a small shaggy Border Collie bounded towards them barking loudly. At ten paces it dropped silently to the ground, ears pricked and eyes locked on Ben, awaiting a command. Jet focused on the collie but remained impassive. Ben could see Jet did not fear her and called Ella on.

‘Come Lass,’ said Ben quietly.

Ella crept forward towards them with a low, stalking posture typical of collies. She had never been aggressive with other dogs and her lowered tail showed Jet she was no threat. The small collie stood when it finally reached them, and the two dogs were soon nose to nose. Ben watched intently, gripping Jet’s lead tightly on a short leash to enable him to pull the big dog away if need be. Compared to Ella he may have been a giant, but he was a gentle one. Ella then circled round, inspecting him from every angle before returning to face him with a wagging tail and Jet reciprocated whipping Ben’s leg in the process.

‘That’s it lass. ‘es no bother is ‘e?’

With the introductions over, Ben strode on towards the house. If he could get Jet settled inside, he knew his mother was a soft touch where dogs were concerned and Jack his brother would also prove a useful ally in keeping Jet. It was less than an hour since he’d first seen him, but Ben knew he wanted to him to stay.

The kitchen was warm, and Ben unclipped the lead and removed Jet’s dirty coat. Jet wandered the room where Ben quickly managed to snatch a cake from the kitchen table before Jet closed his mouth on it, given that it was at his eye level. Ella had gone to her basket in the corner when they came in and she gave a low growl as Jet approached her. He soon moved away, realising the basket was her territory, circled for a spell, then lay down on the rug in front of the warming Aga.

Jet placed his head on his paws, ears half-cocked and eyes watchful, though he sensed no danger in the unfamiliar surroundings, even as Ella eyed him intently from her basket. Ben eased into a chair and watched Jet. He was a beauty he thought, a real black beauty, as the door opened and his brother Jack walked in. Jack’s mouth dropped open as he spotted Jet, who raised his head to view this new person. At ten years old, Jack was like a miniature Ben, but louder.

‘Bloody ‘eck Ben! where’s that big dog come from?’

‘I found ‘im in the old stable up yonder track,’ replied Ben.

 ‘Is it a grey’ound?’

‘Aye. Could be a racer turned loose. I’ve ‘eard it ‘appen when they keep losing.’

Jack didn’t hold back. He was straight on the floor, crawling steadily towards Jet with his hand out for Jet to sniff as his Mum had taught him and once Jet seemed to accept it, Jack gently stroked his neck. Jet liked it, inclining his head to one side to fully absorb the stroking and tickling with half-closed eyes.

‘Has Dad seen ‘im?’ asked Jack.

They both knew their father would be the main obstacle to Jet staying.

‘No. T’dog’s only been in’t house a few minutes since. Ella’s not bothered though, they just ‘ad a sniff at each other and that were that.’

Ella’s ears pricked momentarily at her name before she settled back in her bed just as they heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. The clunk of a car door followed and a few moments later their mother walked in. Karen Magson was a small, slim woman with a mop of dark curly, hair and a ready smile. But there was no smile this time as she was confronted with both her son’s crouched almost protectively to either side of Jet while Ella skirted her legs with a happy, flapping tail. Karen’s open mouth at the scene mirrored that of Jack’s earlier, before she exclaimed.

‘What on earth is that dog doing in the house?’

Words from both boys tumbled out in unison.

‘found in the barn…Ella likes ’im…friendly…soft’

After a pause as their mother looked sternly on, arms folded, Jack blurted out what he hoped his brother would say.

‘Can we keep ‘im?’

‘Please,’ added Ben in a beseeching tone.

Jet looked up at her too with searching amber eyes.

‘He’s not our dog so we’ll need to contact the Police,’ shrugged Karen apologetically. ‘Does he have a disc on his collar?’

Both boys shook their heads in downcast fashion.

‘For now, you take him outside and give him some of Ella’s food. We don’t know when he last ate. And keep him on a lead so he doesn’t run off, while I call the Police.’

After watching Jet bolt down some food, Ben and Jack walked him round the farm. While the surroundings were strange, Jet enjoyed their attention and with Ella herding them all, he walked dutifully on the lead with the two boys.

They returned to the house just before lunch when their father would return after a morning in the fields. Karen Magson regarded them with folded arms and a half-smile as they stepped quietly in with Jet while Ella made for her basket. She knew her sons were desperate to keep the dog; she would have been equally keen at their age. Jet gently nosed her leg and looked up as if anticipating a stroke which she duly gave, and he leaned his warm weight against her. It seemed a lovely dog, thought Karen, if a little on the big side, though she knew Joe wouldn’t be keen.

Ben and Jack looked at her quizzically for any news on Jet.

‘Have you rung the Police?’ asked Ben.

‘Yes, and there’s no record of him missing. I’ve also tried the dog rescue centre in Selby. They don’t know of any local greyhounds missing but want us to take him in so they can check if he’s chipped or if he has a tattoo in his ear.’

Ben folded Jet’s ears back and saw in the right hand one, the tell-tale bluey-green markings.

‘That means he’s a racer, or was,’ said Karen.

‘If no one wants him, can we keep ‘im?’ asked Jack hopefully, as he joined in the stroking.

‘We’ll see,’ she replied, and the boys smiled, knowing they’d made a breakthrough.

‘Now stop fussing round him and let him settle while you set the table. Your Dad’ll be back anytime and he’ll have a thing or two to say about him as you well know.’

Ben and Jack sprang up and set about preparing the table for lunch, seeking any small means of currying favour.

Then they heard the tractor approaching, rumbling across the chippings on the driveway. To Karen Magson, a predictable scene played out; Joe Magson expressing surprise and immediate opposition on seeing Jet in the house and a warning he’d have to go, to a wail of anguished protest from Ben and Jack. The burly farmer, a larger version of the boys, had then eaten and closely watched the big black hound lying quietly on the hearth rug. He could see there was no harm in it, but the simple truth was it wasn’t theirs and he insisted the dog had to be identified. It was clearly in good nick and could be a runaway racer as Karen suggested, but there’d be no further discussion until they knew where the dog belonged. Karen promised to try and find out that afternoon.

After lunch, Jet was duly placed in the back of the Land Rover, much to his distress. Despite the best efforts of the boys to keep him settled, he stood and panted his way to the rescue centre in nearby Selby. Lauren the Manager greeted them warmly in the white, spartan reception area and immediately made a fuss of Jet, easing his anxiety. She was a stout, smiley young woman with a pile of red curls who quickly found his micro-chip and read his ear tattoo.

It revealed his identity as ‘Phantom Jet’. His registered owner was Dennis Smythers of Sheffield who, when telephoned by Lauren, said he had sold the dog on six months ago to a man called Lee from ‘York way,’ as he had put it and no, he didn’t have his phone number anymore.

‘How convenient!’ snorted Lauren after she ended the call, ‘but we have a kennel name for him. Smythers called him Jet.’

She then tapped at the keyboard of her PC on the counter.

‘Let’s find out a little more. All registered greyhounds have their history on-line.’

Lauren then read aloud.

‘Sire, Blue Phantom and Bitch, Apple Wine. Wow! 172 races and he won 64,

Lauren frowned in concentration as she studied the page further.

‘Looks like he’s been a top racer, then the last 30 or so races he’s dropped down to A6, that’s lower levels as he was slowing up with age, then losing more by the look of it. Our friend Dennis has had his money’s worth, then moved him on. Same old story,’ said Lauren, shaking her head in sad resignation.

‘Where would he be moved on to?’ asked Karen.

‘It’s more what than where. This Lee probably bought Jet to go flapping, unlicensed racing, so he’ll be hard to trace. I might get a lead through a few contacts I’ve got, but they don’t often give much away. We’ll advertise him as lost on-line but have to be careful we don’t get someone coming in to pick him up who wants a free hunting dog. If Dennis Smythers doesn’t back up their story, they’re not having him, full stop!’

Karen nodded, reassured that Lauren would do her best for Jet. She also knew she could not take him home as Jet must have an owner who needed to be traced. She asked what would happen next and was told that if he wasn’t claimed in a week and they wanted him, he could be theirs. The boys looked hopeful, but Karen knew there were two major obstacles; Jet might well be claimed and Joe seemed dead-set against homing him anyway.

In leaving Jet at the rescue centre, Karen realised she’d been melted by the big greyhound as well as her boys. As she looked down at him standing so quiet and trusting, she realized she too wanted him, but for now, they’d just have to wait and see. With both boys in tears, Karen finally prised them away from Jet who was taken away by Lauren to a kennel in the rear of the building. As the young manager opened the door from the reception and stepped through with Jet, the Magsons heard the suddenly amplified yelps and barks of those dogs already caged, all with an equally uncertain future.

A funereal atmosphere settled on the family at the dinner table that night. All had eaten in virtual silence. Joe was clearly aware of his son’s resentment at not keeping Jet. How could he not be with them moping like this?

‘Lads, I know you’re upset. That greyhound seems a grand ‘un, but we can’t just keep someone else’s dog!’, said Joe.

A single tear ran a mournful course down Ben’s cheek as he stifled a sob, while Jack looked blankly down at the table. Joe sighed. He knew the lads were disappointed and he hated seeing them upset. He sensed some quiet resentment from Karen too. Joe also knew he could muster few arguments that stopped him from just being seen as the ‘bad guy’. To be fair, they had the money and the room to keep it and the lads were always good with animals, so Joe softened and offered some placatory conditions.

‘Look, if he’s not claimed this week, we’ll take ‘im on a trial basis. A trial mind and if there’s any problems with Ella or the yard cats, he can’t stop ‘cos they were here first.’

Ben and Jack’s faces creased into hopeful grins and Karen smiled at her husband too.

A fortnight later, Jet swerved past Ben and jinked playfully inside Jack as Ella chased him in the garden. It was a big space, the size of two tennis courts and Jet used every inch as he tore happily round it, throwing up turf as he cornered. After a torturous seven days in which, for all the Magson’s knew, Jet would be claimed, Karen Magson nervously telephoned the rescue centre. No one had called.

Jet had come to stay and three weeks on, it was as if he’d always been there. He cantered to a stop after another happy sprint, tongue lolling and tail whirling as a brake before snuggling into Ben’s arms. After a brief cuddle stop, he spied Jack running towards him and set off at speed again, powerful limbs raking the ground at dizzying speed. For Jet though, his real travels were over. This was home.

EPILOGUE

Ben went into the garden for a final look. He was to leave for university to study land management that day. It was strange. He felt excited to be going, but also sad to be leaving, and nervous of a new life. The farm was all he’d known for all his eighteen years. Ben walked over to the corner where the willow tree stooped over the fence, its branches shading the garden and he smiled sadly at the marker stones that marked their place. Ella and Jet were carved in capital letters on each stone. The big lad had gone first that previous winter, struck down suddenly with bone cancer and old Ella had seemed to pine herself away three months later. They’d all cried when Jet was buried, including dad; a big man tearfully cradling a big dog, then laying him carefully in the earth. Joe Magson had grown to love the gentle hound, and he chose the spot to bury him, where Jet lay so often in the shade of the willow, on his side, legs stretched full length, Ella close by, just as they would now always be.

Jet is a work of fiction and bears no resemblance to any person’s living or dead.

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