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Written on April 19, 2007, and categorized as Secret and Invisible.
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Dogs have a perfectly good sense of pitch, observed Emma, it is a canine blues scale they howl. She could hear Blargy out in the back garden making some fairly urgent, excited noises which resembled a blocked hoover on steroids, sniffs and yelps, occasionally erupting into a full-fledged cri-de-coeur which echoed across from the rear wall of the semi-detached suburban house opposite.

What was the old bitch on about? she wondered as she finished the washing up from the evening meal.

Blargy was up at the end of the garden, trying to fit her snout as far through the fence as it would possibly go, her eyes slightly crazed as the furry skin on her wide face was stretched by the effort. Bright stars punctured the moonless sky, shining through electric light pollution leeching into the gardens from nearby orange streetlamps, and the early summer evening still had a spring chill in it’s bones. Blargy panted with excitement. She was smelling something new, warm and unusual. She could sense a large animal presence inches away from her examining snout; and she new, in her protective, big hearted way, that whatever / whoever it was she could smell, was in some need of assistance. A hint of blood and bruising, and some man-made chemical smell which she didn’t like combined to mean something was Definitely Up.

Dogs also have a good sense of rhythm. She began to bark, short, sharp, regular woofs, timed to alert the house. It wasn’t long before the door opened.

“Blargy! Keep quiet!” called Emma, mock-cross, wiping her hands on her washing-up damp sweater, emerging into the pool of light spilled by the house, squinting up into the darkness. “What’s all the fuss?”

Emma began to walk slowly up past the washing line, towards the shed, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and Blargy stopped barking and began an insistent whine. This tone meant something serious was possibly up, thought Emma, wondering if on this relatively dark night, she should go back and get a torch. No, her eyes were picking out details now, the the swing, old pram, and at in the far distance, a big bushy tail waving energetically back and forth.

Emma approached the fence next to the shed, carefully picking her way through clutter, laid her hand upon Blargy’s back and said softly, “What’s all the fuss then, Blargy?”

The night air was cool after the warm dampness of the kitchen, and she paused, feeling the thudding of the excited dog’s heart. She felt calm, but wondered what on earth it was that could be upsetting the pooch so much.

“Come on, old girl, back in,” she cajoled, giving a hefty pat, but Blargy insistently and unusually disregarded this command, nose still pushed as far through the hole as it would go, and demanded further inspection.

Emma paused, and thought once more about the torch.

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