The Flock of Luka

They’re very cute, the dogs, but very, very different from one another. They’re all very energetic, and they seem to have the ability to run for hours.

Firstly there’s Bob, and Darren suspects that he’s sort of the leader of the troop, even though he’s not all that dominant, really. And he’s ginger. A Rhodesian Ridgeback, Darren’s grandfather used to tell him. Definitely the group’s pranker, Darren quickly concludes.

Then there’s the female. Greta, her name is. A Cocker Spaniel, her fur a sort of beige-yellowish shade. Sweet, angelic of sorts, but seems to enjoy Bob’s tricks a lot. Quite strange, a dog not eating meat. But she doesn’t.

Lastly, there’s Chris. The Black and Tan Coonhound, apparently part Italian and Ukrainian, or Belgian or what it now was Darren was told, despite the origin of his breed. He’s the one that makes sure the flock is gathered, the boy notices pretty soon, like a sheep dog.

The first two days pass quite horrifically, according to Darren. He thinks that they probably don’t trust him, or maybe that they’re just testing him a bit.

He’s walking towards one of the garths with two heavy buckets of fresh water to the horses when Bob runs up right in front of him, directly by his feet. He stumbles, not wanting to step on the dog, and looses his balance, falling, but not without pouring all of the water over himself in the making.

He sits up, glaring at the ginger animal, which just wags its tail sneakily. Chris barks, standing on his back legs happily, Greta just looks at Darren, and something makes him believe that she’s smirking at him.

He shrugs it off and stands, jaw tense. Walking towards the hose again, he sees his brother’s stand by the paddock, laughing at the whole event.

Darren frustratingly shakes his soaked hair from his eyes as he refills the buckets.

“They messing with you?” His oldest brother, Lewis, calls, but Darren chooses to ignore it, looking down at his feet, watching closely on where he’s putting them now.

“Oh, Darren!” his mother exclaims as he walks through the kitchen door only minutes later. “What ever happened to you?” she asks, looking pointedly at the wet t-shirt, clinging to his body.

He waves it off with an incoherent comment and sprints up the stairs to change, Chris close at his heel, still wagging his tail.

The second day, Bob manages to push Darren into the dunghill behind the stables, bringing out an aggravated scream and a long string of curse words out of the boy. Again, the dogs manage to laugh at him, taunt him just the way his brothers do when they see him.

He sighs and washes as much as possible off himself in the house and peels off his t-shirt. He wrenches the water out of it and takes off his shoes and socks before into the kitchen where his mother’s preparing the lunch.

She laughs, despite his sour look. “Oh, honey, go have a quick shower, then go get your father and Albert they’re fixing the fences by the furthest fields.”

Darren thinks that it’s going to be a long day, glancing down at Chris, standing politely next to him, with an irritated expression.