Free Constable Around the Village by Nicholas Rhea Page A

to make the coffee.
     
    Although my professional duties involved all manner of farm animals, I did involve myself with canine matters more than any other. It is true that dogs are an essential and integral part of village life, but the same could be said of cows, horses, pigs and sheep. I had to inspect small groups of these animals from time to time, either to count heads for record purposes or to see if I thought they had some diseasethat necessitated a veterinary surgeon’s attention. I found it strange that a policeman’s opinion was sought on such matters but invariably the problem was solved by ringing a vet.
    It was one such problem that intrigued me at Cold Hill Farm, and it involved another dog. This was a cur, a common breed in these parts. They are used to guide sheep and are the hill farmer’s constant companion. They are black and white dogs, tough and intelligent little animals with a natural instinct for herding sheep.
    The resident cur at Cold Hill Farm was an elderly dog called Shep and he belonged to Mr and Mrs Ambrose Lowe. He had endured a long and hard life on this remotest of farms, spending his years herding moor sheep into their pens and rounding them up for their quarterly count. Year in, year out, poor old Shep had done those tasks and many more. Now he was twelve years old and I think he’d made his own decision to retire.
    The snag was that Ambrose wouldn’t let him retire. There was always a great deal of work to be done, always some pressing matter for attention. It was during a busy time that I called at the farm one Friday morning to check the latest intake of pigs for the stock register. As always, Mrs Lowe, whose Christian name I never knew, invited me in for a coffee and a sweet biscuit. As I settled at the rough kitchen table with the couple I noticed Shep asleep near the door which led into the back of the house. He ignored my presence.
    After the introductory small talk and a brief chat about the quality of his latest acquisition of pigs, Ambrose asked:
    “Does thoo reckon to know owt about dogs, Mr Rhea?”
    “Not a great deal,” I admitted.
    “Oh,” he said, without further comment.
    “Something wrong?” I recognised the countryman’s hesitation to lead into the problem. He wanted me to take the initiative, and turned his head to look down upon the sleeping dog.
    “Aye, mebbe. Ah’m not sure.”
    “Something to do with Shep?”
    “It could be his age,” he said.
    Mrs Lowe next spoke up. “He’s twelve, you see, and he’s had a hard life.”
    “Is he lame or something?” I ventured, thinking the dog might have a form of rheumatism.
    “Nay, lad, nowt like that,” and Ambrose paused to drink from his cup. “I reckon he’s gone deaf.”
    “Deaf?”
    “Aye, deaf. Dogs do go deaf, thoo knows, quite young sometimes. But awd Shep’s getting on in years….”
    “Has the vet seen him?”
    “No, he hasn’t, and Ah didn’t feel like calling him all this way if it was nowt.”
    “He would tell you one way or the other,” I said seriously . “And he might be able to treat the condition.”
    Mrs Lowe spoke again. “You see, Mr Rhea, we don’t think he’s really deaf. We think he’s pretending.”
    “Pretending?” I almost laughed aloud. “Dogs can’t pretend; they can’t tell lies or be devious, can they?”
    “Ah reckon thus ’un is, Mr Rhea,” said Ambrose, who now seemed relieved that his wife had opened up the conversation by mentioning their private worry.
    “You must have a good reason for thinking that,” I put to them both.
    “Aye, we ’ave, Mr Rhea,” said Ambrose. “It’s not a sudden idea, like. Me and our missus have been watching Shep of late, and Ah’m positive he’s up to summat.”
    “Tell me more.” I sipped from my cup.
    “It’s like this,” he began carefully, speaking slowly with emphasis on the key words. “Ah’ve noticed, over t’ past few weeks, that when Ah tell Shep it’s time to start work, he just lies near