Endal: How one extraordinary dog brought a family back from the brink

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Sandra (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Allen (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Sandra (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Allen (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Sandra (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Allen (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Sandra (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Allen (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Sandra (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY: Allen (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Sandra (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Allen (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Sandra (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Allen (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE: Sandra (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Plates (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Foreword (#ulink_32f5a733-e6ad-5e99-b986-ef4824d5b43c)

During the summer of 1999, a News of the World reporter in Havant, Hampshire, saw something he’d never seen before: a dog using a cashpoint machine. Right in front of him, a yellow Labrador inserted a card into the slot, waited while its owner, a sandy-haired man in a wheelchair, keyed in the PIN number, and then it carefully removed the card and the cash. The reporter blinked hard, wondering if he was hallucinating.

When he spoke to the man, a disabled ex-serviceman called Allen Parton, he found out that the dog’s name was Endal and that using a cashpoint machine was just one of his many amazing skills. The News of the World article that followed seemed to fire the readers’ imagination and soon many other newspapers, magazines, TV and radio shows were vying to find out about this exceptional dog.

They only learned a small part of the story, though. They thought they had found a performing dog, while in fact Endal was a one-off phenomenon, an unsung hero who had a profound talent for helping people in need. It would be a few more years before the full story emerged.

CHAPTER ONE Allen (#ulink_df596469-42b0-52b4-bf43-47ec5b86f095)

I opened my eyes. The room was fuzzy and the bright overhead lights were surrounded by blurred haloes. Something hard and uncomfortable was round my neck, digging into me.

‘Are you all right, Allen? Glad to see you’re with us again.’ The voice was cheerful. A woman. I could make out her dark shape by the bed.

‘Where am I?’ I tried to say, but my throat felt tight and the words came out like a harsh coughing sound.

‘You’re in Haslar Royal Naval Hospital in Gosport. You had an accident, remember? In the Gulf?’

The Gulf of what? Gulf of Mexico? Gulf of Bothnia? Persian Gulf? Didn’t this woman know how many gulfs there were in the world? And then I remembered. I’m in the Navy. I’m a Chief Petty Officer. I’ve been serving in the Gulf War.

‘You flew back from Dubai overnight and got here this morning. You must be tired after the journey.’

I struggled to sit up and the nurse took my arm to help. I grabbed at the plastic collar round my neck.

‘Better leave that for now until you’ve been checked over,’ she said.

I wanted to ask when I would be seeing a doctor, but my mind went blank on the word ‘doctor’. What were these people called again? The ones with stethoscopes, who told you what was wrong with you?

‘Medical …?’ I stuttered, then a compulsive twitch made my shoulders shudder.

She answered for me: ‘A doctor will be round to see you shortly. Do you want to have a wash first?’

I nodded yes, and swung my legs round to put my feet on the floor. Everything about the way I was moving was odd and unconnected. My body felt as though it belonged to someone else and I was struggling to control it. What was going on? I leant on the bedside cabinet to push myself up and noticed there was no sensation in my hand or arm, only a kind of pins and needles.

‘The toilet is this way,’ the nurse pointed. ‘I think I’d better come with you.’

‘No!’ I waved her away rudely and forced my left foot to take a step forwards, then followed with the right. I had to think consciously about each step, willing my feet to move. This was very strange.

In the bathroom, I pushed the door shut and leant against it, breathing heavily with the effort of crossing the room. There was a mirror opposite so I lurched across to peer into it.

I looked more or less the same: a bit tired maybe, but otherwise OK. There was a large bruise on my temple that felt tender when I pressed it. The neck collar was grubby, as though I’d been wearing it for some time.

I splashed water on my face, trying to remember what had happened and why I was there. I’d been in an accident in the Gulf, she said. What kind of accident? Nothing at all came back to me. I must have had a bump on the head. That would explain the bruise. Well, it would all come back later, I decided.

When I emerged, a doctor came over to watch me walking across the ward. ‘That looks like a bit of a struggle,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Strange,’ I slurred.

‘Can you remember your name?’

Of course I could. Whom did he think he was talking to? ‘Chief Petty Officer Parton,’ I barked out, the words sounding all mangled and muddled.

‘And the name of your ship?’

I opened my mouth to reply and realized I had no idea. It had gone. I shook my head blankly.

‘Do you know what age you are?’

I racked my brains. My mind raced back over countries I’d seen, ships I’d sailed on, weapons systems I’d helped to design, but I couldn’t think what age I was.

‘Missiles,’ I said, trying to communicate to him that that was my job.