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by Mary S. Moffat. Copyright Mary S. Moffat 1984
NOTE
I wrote this story about fifteen years ago. At that time, as well as learning how to write, I was travelling the country with my little Dusty competing in Working Trials. This story was first published in "Dog Training Weekly."
Although this story is complete fiction, I got the idea from certain
stories of Papillons in history.
The Papillon is a very old breed. Papillons were very often the
lapdogs of the ladies of the aristocracy. Queen Marie Antoinette
had Papillons. When she was imprisoned, she was allowed to have
one with her in her cell. She had it in her arms when she went
to the guillotine. Just before she was executed someone took it
from her. The house where it later lived can still be seen in
Paris. It is known as "Papillon House."
There have been stories of ghosts seen in the grounds of the Palace
of Versailles. I would like to think that if any Papillon Club
members were ever visiting Versailles, they would be far more
likely to see the ghosts of the dogs than the ghosts of poor Marie
Antoinette and her ladies.
Similarly, Mary Queen of Scots is said to have had a Cavalier
King Charles spaniel with her when she was executed.
I have taken the liberty of modelling the real dog in the story
on my own dear Dusty - Glenscot Midnight Cowboy C.D.Ex. Strictly
speaking the dog in the story should have been a Phalene - a Papillon
with drop ears - like those of a miniature spaniel. But here I
decided to cheat a little and I have given it Dusty's ears.
I know the North West railway line so well - Crewe, Preston, Lancaster,
Oxenholme. Travelling home from Trials, whenever I reach Preston
I always experience the same feeling of excitement as Rosemary
in the story.
As the train drew into
Preston, Rosemary experienced her usual feeling of excitement.
After the long journey from London through flat agricultural fields,
she would soon be seeing the hills of the North she loved so much.
The Blackpool brigade got off leaving the train half empty. Rosemary
curled up in a corner and looked out of the window thoughtfully.
She had not really enjoyed her cousin's wedding very much. But
that was something she could not admit to anyone. After all, one
was supposed to enjoy weddings, but quite honestly she preferred
dog-walking.
The train pulled into Lancaster. Despite the heating the train
was quite cold. Rosemary pulled her coat around her like a cloak
and continued to look out of the window. The canal. The brownish,
murky waters of Morecambe Bay. And then at last the Cumbrian Fells.
Soon she would be in the family's holiday cottage, and her parents
and young sister - and dog - would be coming down from Glasgow
later in the day to join her for a long weekend.
Rosemary started to gather together her possessions. Automatically
she reached out for the travelling dog basket. It was not there.
Momentarily Rosemary panicked. She couldn't have. She just couldn't
have left Dusty on the platform at Euston. Or had someone stolen
him? Then she relaxed. Of course. How silly. Dusty was safely
at home in Glasgow. But Rosemary was just not used to travelling
dogless.
A few moments later she was standing on the platform at Oxenholme.
There was a bitterly cold wind blowing from the east. Rosemary
tugged her duffle coat around her and looked up at the grey sky.
"Snow" she thought. She went and phoned for a taxi.
As she waited for it a snow flurry swept around her. The snow
started properly as the taxi took her to the cottage in the fells.
First a few flakes. Then a steady light snowfall. By the time
she reached the cottage, the road was already covered with a thin
layer of snow.
Rosemary let herself into the cottage. There were two large cartons
of groceries on the kitchen table. Ever reliable Mrs Brownrigg
had remembered they were coming.
Rosemary was not domesticated but she opened a tin of soup and
a tin of baked beans. The cottage felt empty, silent, lonely.
The rest of her family were catching the 5.20 train from Glasgow
and would not arrive until about 8.00. Normally Rosemary would
not have minded being alone for an afternoon, well not quite alone.
Normally she would have had her little dog with her.
She could not settle to anything. She switched on the television
but the programmes were boring so she switched it off again. She
picked up a book but could not concentrate. She sat and thought
about her little dog - her little Papillon Dusty. A tiny little
black and white dog with the spirit and courage of a lion. Clever
too. He even had C.D. Ex. after his name. C.D.Ex. - Companion
Dog Excellent. The first qualification of the Kennel Club Working
Trials. Not many small dogs have achieved that. Why many people
do not even know that small dogs can even compete in Trials as
the jumps are lowered for them in the first two stakes. No wonder
Rosemary was proud of Dusty.
Now if Dusty had only been with her. She would have had plenty
to do then. Play retrieves. A fun search in the front room looking
for articles hidden behind cushions on the sofa. She could even
have jumped him over cardboard boxes. In any case Dusty's very
presence would have relaxed her.
She looked out of the window. The snow seemed to have slackened.
Then something caught her eye. A little dog was sitting on the
wall. It was a Papillon. Rosemary stared at it. Surely it couldn't
be - Dusty?
The same prick ears with the long fringes. The same black face
with the white noseband. The same white chest. And the same unique
marking on the front paws. One paw completely white, the other
half black, half white. Also it was sitting the way Dusty often
did when agitated - with one paw raised. (A feature of the breed).
Rosemary rushed to the door but when she got into the garden the
dog had gone.
She ran to the telephone. Her mother answered. Quickly she told
her mother what she had seen. Her mother just said, "Listen."
Rosemary heard the sound of furious barking in the background
and then her mother's voice saying firmly, "That's Dusty."
Rosemary went back to the window. It was snowing heavily again.
She thought about the little dog. A papillon should not be out
in such weather. She went back to the telephone and dialled the
number of the local police.
"We've had no reports of a lost dog of that description,"
the desk officer told her. "And we can't do anything about
it today. The snow is really bad and some roads are blocked already,
but give me the particulars, and I'll take a note of them."
Rosemary gave a description of the dog and then gave her address.
"Can you repeat that," said the police officer. Rosemary
did so and added, "Do you know it?"
"Oh yes I know it all right," was the reply.
Was it Rosemary's imagination or was there something strange about
the police officer's voice?
She moped about for the rest of the afternoon. She boiled eggs
and made coffee at five o'clock and then settled down to watch
the news on TV. Pictures of the blizzard and abandoned cars. Rosemary
suddenly realised that she would not be seeing her family that
night after all.
She continued to watch television. Suddenly the phone rang. She
picked up the receiver and her father's voice answered.
"Listen Rosemary, we're at Oxenholme, but we won't get out
to you tonight. The road's blocked. We've found a bed and breakfast
place and we'll get to you as soon as possible."
Rosemary answered calmly, "I expected that. I'll be all right.
After all it won't be for long. They'll soon get the snow ploughs
and gritters out."
"Right," said her father. "Now if you see that
dog again, do not go after it. Do NOT go looking for it. We don't
want you getting lost in the fells."
"All right, all right," said Rosemary impatiently. "I've
some sense you know."
Then she heard her mother's voice. "Will you be all right?
Have you enough food?"
"Oh Mum," she replied. "Of course I'll be all right.
After all I'm nineteen and Mrs Brownrigg has left loads of food."
Then she heard her father's voice again. He gave her their Oxenholme
telephone number and rang off.
Rosemary went to the door and looked out. It had stopped snowing.
"Better clear a path from the door to the gate," she
thought.
She got a shovel and worked busily for half an hour. Then she
stopped and looked up. She found herself looking at the little
dog again.
But this time there was something very far wrong with it. Its
ears were back. Even worse, its tail was down - a sure sign that
a Papillon is really distressed. Rosemary held out her hand and
called to it softly but it turned and ran away.
She went back into the house. There was no point in going to bed
early. She knew she would not sleep. She went over to the old
bookcase and looked for something to read. She picked up a book
on local history. She had read part of it before.
Just up the fell from the cottage was the ruins of a pele tower,
or fortified house. It dated from Tudor times. It had been built
to protect its inhabitants from raiding Scots or "Border
Reivers." At one time one of the owners had tried, rather
unsucessfully, to lay out a garden in front of the tower. The
cottage in which Rosemary was had originally been the gardener's
cottage. There was a rather sad little story about a lady who
had once lived in the tower. The full details of the story were
not known. The lady's name was given only as "Lady Isabella."
At one time she had been a lady-in-waiting to Mary Queen of Scots.
After the execution of her mistress she had been imprisoned in
the pele tower. She was closely guarded but not ill-treated. She
was allowed to walk about in the garden. She was even allowed
to have her little dog with her. Then one day in winter, after
a heavy snowstorm, she died, like her late mistress, under the
executioner's axe. No one quite knew why. She was only twenty
two.
Rosemary found a picture of Lady Isabella. She looked sad and
rather frightened. But Rosemary was more interested in the picture
of her little dog. It was a Papillon - and the splitting image
of Dusty. Rosemary looked at the picture for some time and then
put the book down and went up to bed.
Next morning she stayed in bed until nine o'clock. Then she got
up and made and ate a leisurely breakfast. Afterwards she opened
the door and looked out. It was a bright sunny morning. There
had been a hard frost during the night and the snow lay clean
and crisp.
A snow plough passed the gate. "Good," thought Rosemary.
"They'll soon have the road clear."
Then she saw the little dog again. But this time it looked quite
different. It was scampering joyfully over the snow. Its ears
were up and its tail was curled tightly over its back. Suddenly
it stopped - in the typical position of a Papillon at play - front
legs flat on the ground, but bottom and tail up in the air. It
seemed to be playing with a ball.
At the same time Rosemary saw a little girl of about seven standing
at the gate. The little girl must have been going to a party.
She was wearing a long dress. Rosemary called to her but she ran
away. The little dog ran after her happily.
Rosemary rushed to the gate, but there was no sign of girl or
dog.
She walked back to the house slowly. She stopped and looked at
the snow where the dog had been playing. Strange. The snow was
quite undisturbed. There was not even a single paw mark on it.
"Of course," thought Rosemary, "Papillons are very
light dogs and the frost has made the snow quite firm." Even
so she did not think that the snow was as firm as all that.
Her family and dog arrived in a taxi in the late afternoon. The
taxi driver looked at Rosemary curiously. "You must be brave,"
he said. He pointed to the cottage. "I wouldn't spend a night
in there alone. Give me the creeps it would. There's too many
has seen her Ladyship's ghost."
They all looked at him and he explained more fully. A number of
people who had stayed in the cottage had seen the ghost of Lady
Isabella. It was always someone staying alone in the cottage -
and always after a heavy snowstorm. "There's one or two has
seen her little dog too," he added, "and a poor, frightened
creature it was."
"No wonder," said Rosemary's father.
"Does anyone know what happened to the little dog?"
Rosemary's sister Jenny asked solemnly.
The taxi driver shook his head. All at once Rosemary realised
what she had actually seen.
"I know," she said quietly, "the gardener's little
girl took it and looked after it. It lived very happily with her."
So saying Rosemary bent down and opened Dusty's travelling basket.
She took him out and carried him into the garden. Behind her it
was Jenny who broke the silence.
"Of course," she said, "Rosemary would be far more
likely to see the ghost of the dog than the ghost of Lady Isabella."
In the garden Rosemary put Dusty down on the path. He stood stock
still, his ears pricked. He gave a strange little "Wuff"
and then he bounded forward. For a moment Rosemary saw two dogs
- Dusty and the ghost dog - leaping, darting and tumbling about
happily. Then the ghost dog vanished and Dusty came quietly back
to Rosemary.
"The last part of the story ended happily," she thought.
"At least the dog was happy."
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