The World According to Bertie Read Online Free Page B

which her mother had taken in from a cousin. The terrier had disappeared down a rabbit hole in the Pentlands when they had been taking it for a walk, and had never reappeared. A farmer had helped with the search and had dug away the top part of the burrow, but all that this had revealed was a complex set of tunnels leading in every direction. They had called and called, but to no avail, and as dusk descended they had gone home, feeling every bit as bad as mountaineers leaving behind an injured fellow climber. They had returned the next day, but there had been no sign of the terrier, and it was presumed lost. The dog had not been replaced.
    â€œI know how you must feel,” said Domenica, as she went into Angus Lordie’s kitchen. “I lost a dog as a child. I felt bereft, quite bereft.”
    Angus stared at her. “Cyril is still with us,” he said.
    â€œOf course,” said Domenica quickly. “And I’m sure that it will all work out perfectly well in the end.”
    Angus sighed. “I wish I thought the same,” he said. “The problem is that once a dog is deemed to be dangerous, then they have the power to order…” He did not complete his sentence, but left it hanging there. He had been told by the police that there was a possibility that Cyril would be destroyed if it were established that he was responsible for the rash of bitings that had been reported in the area.
    â€œBut it won’t come to that,” said Domenica briskly. “They need evidence before they can order a dog to be put down. They can’t do that unless they’re certain that Cyril is dangerous. He’s your property, for heaven’s sake! They can’t destroy your property on the basis of rumour, or wild allegations.” She paused, ladling spoons of coffee into the cafetière. “You’d better start at the beginning, Angus. How did this all start?”
    Angus sat down at the scrubbed pine table which dominated his kitchen. “Maybe you hadn’t heard about it,” he said, “but there have been a number of incidents in this part of town over the last few weeks. A child was bitten by a dog on the way to school about ten days ago–nothing serious, just a nip, but enough to break the skin. The child gave a rather vague account of what happened, apparently. You know how children are–they don’t make very good witnesses. But he did say that the dog came bounding out of a lower basement in Dundonald Street, gave him a nip on the ankles, and then ran off into the Drummond Square Gardens.”
    Domenica switched on the kettle. She glanced at the kitchen surfaces around her and sniffed. Angus Lordie’s kitchen was cleaner than many bachelor kitchens, but only just. It could do with a good scrub, she thought, but this was not the time.
    â€œAnd then?” she said.
    â€œThen,” Angus went on, “then there was another incident. A few days later, a man reported that he had been getting out of his car in Northumberland Street and he was given quite a nip on his ankle by a dog that then ran away in the direction of Nelson Street. The dog ripped the leg of his suit, apparently, and he reported the matter to the police so that he could claim insurance.”
    â€œThe culture of complaint,” muttered Domenica.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    She turned to Angus. “I said: the culture of complaint. We live in a culture of complaint because everyone is always looking for things to complain about. It’s all tied in with the desire to blame others for misfortunes and to get some form of compensation into the bargain. I speak as an anthropologist, of course–just an observation.”
    â€œBut I would have thought that it’s entirely reasonable to complain about being bitten,” said Angus. “As long as you complained about the right dog.”
    â€œOh, it’s reasonable enough,” said Domenica. “It’s