The Dog Who Saved the World. Ross Welford
First, though, I need to explain about St Woof’s.
The old parish church of St Wulfran and All Saints – known to everyone as St Woof’s – is a smallish church not far from the seafront, and old, with a short, fat steeple. Except it’s not a church any more – at least not one with a congregation, and a choir, and weddings and stuff. Now it’s just a building in the shape of a church. It’s got heavy wooden doors and, together with the thick sandstone walls, they do a good job of holding in the noise made by twenty-five dogs.
It is also my most favourite place in the whole world.
I first took Ramzy to St Woof’s at the start of last term. I wanted him to know what I’d been talking about (or, as he put it, ‘boring everyone senseless with’ – thanks, Ramz).
The first thing a newcomer notices about St Woof’s is the noise: the howling, the barking, the yapping and the snuffling. I love the noise almost as much as I love the second thing you notice – the smell. I was horrified to see that Ramzy had clapped a hand over his nose.
‘Oh, by goodness,’ he said through his pinched nose. ‘It stigs!’
‘You get used to it.’ I hardly even notice it any more, to be honest. Dogs do smell a bit, but they usually smell nice: sort of warm and woody. And – fun fact – their paws smell of popcorn. Honestly!
(I know their breath can be a bit fishy and I’m happy to admit that their poo really is foul, but then – sorry to say this – whose isn’t?)
Anyway, it was a Saturday morning, just before we start the weekly clean, when I turned up with Ramzy and that’s when St Woof’s smells the strongest.
‘Good morning, Georgie!’ said the vicar. I like the vicar: he’s quite old, probably seventy. He’s sort of lean with shaggy grey hair like an Irish wolfhound. That day he was wearing a huge, hand-knitted jumper and fingerless gloves. He sat at the long table just inside the door. ‘And who do we have here, perchance?’ he said when he saw Ramzy. He talks like that. You get used to it.
Without waiting for me to answer, Ramzy clicked his heels together and saluted. ‘Ramzy Rahman, at your service, sah!’
The vicar was a little taken aback, but then lots of people are when they first meet Ramzy. After a few seconds, though, he returned the salute and smiled.
‘Welcome aboard, Private Rahman! I suppose you’ve come to help, ah … Sergeant Santos?’ He removed his glasses and reached under his baggy sweater to extract an untucked shirt tail to polish them on. Ramzy nodded, enthusiastically.
‘Top-notch! Tickety-boo! Many hands make light work, eh?’ He replaced his glasses and peered at a worksheet on his desk. ‘You are on your usual station, Georgie. Clean first, brush afterwards, and remember …’ He held up a finger, his eyes looking humorous for a moment. We said it together:
‘Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord!’
‘Jolly good, Georgie. Off you go!’
Ramzy’s face was contorted in puzzlement as we walked away. ‘What the heck was that?’ he said, easily loud enough for the vicar to hear.
‘Shhh! No idea. It’s old Bible stuff. The vicar likes it. It’s kinda fun, and he …’
‘Wait. He’s a vicar?’
‘Used to be. He doesn’t wear the gear. Grab that bucket there. This was his church. Then I guess no one came any more so they turned it into St Woof’s and allowed him to stay on.’
Most of the old wooden church seats have gone. Instead, in the centre of the church is an indoor exercise pen covered in sawdust. Around the sides are all of the kennels. It’s pretty awesome.
My station, the vicar had said. I love that. It’s like the four dogs in the adjacent pens on the first level actually belong to me. My name goes on the board like this:
Station 4
Saturday volunteer: Georgina Santos
and I feel a little surge of pride even though it’s just handwritten on a whiteboard.
The dogs on Station 4 are some of the longest residents at St Woof’s, who have a promise that they will never, ever ‘put a dog to sleep’.
That’s what some other dog shelters do. If they can’t rehome a dog, or find its original owner, then after a few months the vet comes and …
Do you know what? Even thinking about it upsets me. That’s why I love St Woof’s. They will try to rehome dogs but, if they can’t, well … they become long-term residents.
With Ramzy following me, I gave him a tour and I just couldn’t help sounding a little important as I pointed out the cages, and the care sheets hanging outside each one. It’s quite old-fashioned: things are written down by hand on the sheets, like fresh-water top-up (tick, with a pencil on a string); daily brushing (tick); stool check (tick) … and so on.
And as for the dogs themselves …
1. Ben. Jack Russell crossed with something else, possibly spaniel. Black, white and brown. Age – about six. Quite snarly with new people, which is why he hasn’t found a home yet.
Ben bared his teeth at Ramzy, who backed off.
‘It’s OK,’ I reassured him. ‘His bark really is worse than his bite.’
‘He bites as well?’
‘No! Not usually. He gave me a little nip once, but I think he was playing.’
Ramzy didn’t seem reassured, and kept his distance while I topped up Ben’s water, picked up a poo with a poo-picker and put it in the bucket that Ramzy was holding at arm’s length.
2. Sally-Ann. Sally-Ann’s a ‘paying guest’ because her owner, Mrs Abercrombie, is very old and is often in a care home. She’s brown and white, very hairy and always has a haughty look on her flat face. (The dog, that is, not Mrs Abercrombie, although come to think of it they are quite alike.) Sally-Ann is a pure-bred Lhasa apso.
3. Dudley. A brown Staffie/bulldog cross who looks terrifying because half of one ear is missing, plus some teeth, one eye and a patch of hair on his side. We think he was in a fight and he’s now very timid.
He shrank away from Ramzy, trembling. He’s OK with me, though, and I felt a little smug when he let me pat him.
And finally my favourite:
4. Mr Mash. You’ve already met him, but that day he was especially friendly, wagging his tail and rolling on to his back for a tummy rub. I think Ramzy fell for him too.
The other people at St Woof’s are also nice. They’re all older than me, but they don’t treat me like a kid. Well, apart from Saskia Hennessey who is older than me – by a whole eight months – and treats me like I’m about five, even though she only walks the dogs and certainly doesn’t have her own station.
I happen to know (from Ellie McDonald at school) that Sass’s mum pays her to be a volunteer dog-walker, which if you ask me is totally weird. It’s not volunteering if you get paid for it. On top of that, I don’t even think Sass likes dogs all that much.
That day she was standing by the poop chute in the old vestry when Ramzy and I came in with the bucket and I felt my good mood deflate just a little.
The poop chute is a wide, square tunnel that leads to a big pit outside, where all the dog poo goes. You lift off the lid of the hatch and tip the poo down it, and then add a cupful of activator, which breaks down the poo into compost, which the vicar then spreads on his allotment. (I’ve only just found this out. We’ve been eating his home-grown stuff for years. Eww.)
You can imagine: twenty-five dogs produce a lot of poo, and doing the poop chute is the only bit of St Woof’s