Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 52: Most patient of dogs

By Alexander McCall Smith

Published 15th Apr 2025, 07:00 BST

They knew that their parents did not like to be woken until at least six-thirty, but on this particular morning they were unable to curb their enthusiasm. In the warmth of the kitchen, installed in what had once been a fruit crate, the newly-adopted Ralph had spent a night of dreamless, contented sleep. Now, having crept along the corridor from their room, the boys tiptoed into the kitchen to be reunited with the dog that had so unexpectedly and miraculously come into their lives. They had plans for Ralph’s day that including lessons in retrieving sticks, a run through the woods, where there was a good chance he might encounter a rabbit, and a lesson – at Tobermory’s insistence – in the climbing of trees. Rognvald was adamant that dogs could not be taught to climb trees, no matter how intelligent they otherwise were, but Tobermory could not be persuaded to abandon the project and continued to try to push Rufus up onto the lower branches of a sycamore tree in which the boys had erected a make-do treehouse.

Matthew and Elspeth had watched from their bedroom window, laughing at the seriousness of the boys’ efforts. But they had marvelled, too, at the dog’s tolerance. While Ralph clearly lacked the fundamental ability to climb trees, he nonetheless tolerated the indignity of being half-lifted, half-pushed onto a low overhanging branch.

“He is the most patient of dogs,” Matthew observed. “Look at him – most dogs wouldn’t stand for that sort of thing. He’s letting them get away with it.”

“Yes,” agreed Elspeth. “And that’s not the only ordeal he’s had to put up with. I saw Rognvald trying to ride on his back. He just stood there, accepting everything.”

“He’s saintly,” said Matthew. He looked thoughtful. “Do you think that an animal might be a saint – in the sense of having a particularly morally good nature?”

Elspeth gave this some thought. She agreed that Ralph seemed particularly friendly. “He’s a very gentle, friendly dog.”

“But are these moral qualities?” asked Matthew. “Is friendliness in a dog something for which the dog deserves moral credit?”

It seemed to Elspeth that the answer was obvious. “Yes, of course. Dogs can express goodness, just as they can show hostility. They can show love. They have a moral universe.” She paused. “And what’s the most common compliment paid to a dog? Good dog. That’s what we say.” She looked at Matthew. “Why do we say that if we don’t recognise goodness in dogs?”

Matthew hesitated. “I never agreed with Descartes on this. He said that dogs are just machines.”

“Well, Descartes was wrong. If dogs are just machines, then so are we.”

Matthew grinned. “Aren’t we?” His grin faded. “I don’t mean that, of course.”

The arrival of Ralph had been a big thing for the boys, as was Matthew’s yielding to their imprecations that the dog should be allowed to stay. But this decision, reached out of sympathy for the dog’s evident desire to leave his owners, and also because the boys were so keen to keep him, gave rise to certain practical problems. The first of these was the concealment that would be necessary. The neighbours had yet to come in search of Ralph, but it was only a matter of time before they did so. After all, the first place anybody would look for a missing pet must surely be next door.

Matthew was not sure what he would do if Robert and Maureen were to knock on the door and ask him whether he had seen their dog. He had never found it easy to lie; in fact, he found it almost impossible. Inevitably, he blushed, and would begin to stutter if he deviated at all from the strict truth. It seemed that he was constitutionally unable to dissemble, which would make him a very bad candidate for any profession where anything but the strict telling of the truth was excluded. I would not be a very good spy, he said to himself. Nor a good party politician, either.

He could, of course, simply say nothing if any question were to be asked about Ralph. He might say “Ralph? Of course, him …” and leave it there.. That was an ancient response to an unpopular or awkward question – simply to avoid the issue. Sometimes it worked, although sometimes it simply made an interrogator dig in. If rats were to be smelled, then somebody would eventually do just that and he would be left in the impossible position of having to explain why they had given Ralph sanctuary.

It would be possible, of course, to brazen it out – to say that it was clear that the dog was happier where he was, and that this was the end of the matter. That was the best interests test, and it worked in custody disputes over children. But dogs were different: people owned dogs in a way in which they did not own children. The proponents of animal rights, of course, disputed that: they took the view that we were carers, rather than owners, of domestic animals – a theoretical position for which there was some justification and that was, to an extent, recognised by the law. If you mistreated an animal, the state could take it away from you: there was nothing radical in that. And yet that principle did not recognise any preferences in the animal itself: the wishes of the dog were neither here nor there in such a context – only objectively discernible mistreatment would suffice to overturn the claims of ownership.

Now, as the boys brought that morning a bounding and enthusiastic Ralph into their parents’ bedroom, Matthew made up his mind as to what he would do next. He would have to sit the boys down and stress to them that if they wanted to keep Ralph, they would have to be very careful indeed. They could play with him outside, but only on the far side of the house, away from neighbourly eyes, or in the trees, where there was shelter enough for security.

“Whatever happens, boys,” he would have to say, “the people next door must not see him. If they do, I’m afraid that will be the end of Ralph.”

“Will they kill him, Daddy?” asked Tobermory.

“Of course not,” said Matthew. “But they will take him away – and Ralph himself does not want that.”

“So, he’s going to be a secret dog?” asked Fergus.

“That’s a good way of putting it,” said Matthew. And thought: a secret dog – yes, that made sense. And the pleasure one might get from having a secret anything was sometimes greater that the pleasure we derive from the overt.