Separated from My Dog

Would she find her way home?

One man and his dog (My own photo)

During the dark days of Thatcher, when unemployment was well into the millions, I was married with a small boy. I was out of work more than I was in, and desperation sometimes saw me drift into rather shadowy activities.

Nothing serious, you understand. On a cold night, I might pop across to the local railway sidings that were in operation back then, and climb onto a coal hopper to filch a small bag of coal. One day, I dug some foundations for a neighbour without notifying the benefits office. Little things that helped keep the fire on and bellies filled.

A Cornucopia of Crap

One day, I was out with a friend, name of Johnny, who had recently moved onto my estate. We walked to his former address, which was in a town some three miles from my home. My dog, Cindy, came along for the exercise.

On the way back, Johnny told me of a landfill site that was nearby. He said it closed at five, and that there were all manner of things dumped there. With a view to exploring this wasteland, we walked to the site, where we concealed ourselves in some bushes. We smoked and watched, as the last vehicle left, and an employee padlocked the gates.

Johnny led me to a hole in the wire mesh fencing, and we crawled through, followed by Cindy…