Paws and Whiskers (28 page)

My yellow dog

followed me everywhere

every which way I turned

he was there

wagging his tail

and slobber

coming out

of his mouth

when he was smiling

at me

all the time

as if he was

saying

thank you thank you

for choosing me

and jumping up on me

his shaggy straggly paws

on my chest

like he was trying

to hug the insides

right out of me.

And when us kids

were playing outside

kicking the ball

he’d chase after it

and push it with his nose

push push push

and getting slobber

all over the ball

but no one cared

because he was such

a funny dog

that dog Sky

that straggly furry

smiling

dog

Sky.

And I’d call him

every morning

every evening

Hey there, Sky!

You can’t get a more gloriously doggy book than
The Hundred and One Dalmatians.
I expect you’ve seen a DVD of the Walt Disney film. I think the book is even better. Dodie Smith wrote it quickly – in seven weeks (my books take me seven
months
and I’m considered a very prolific author). She didn’t need to do any research whatsoever about Dalmatians – she’d adored them for years. Her first Dalmatian was called Pongo, and two others, Buzz and Folly, had a litter of fifteen puppies – in the book Pongo and his Missis have fifteen children too.

The wondrously evil Cruella de Vil is clearly made up, but apparently Dodie Smith had an actress friend
who took one look at Pongo when he was a puppy and said, ‘He would make a nice fur coat.’

If you’re a fan of
The Hundred and One Dalmatians,
do go on to read Dodie Smith’s
I Capture the Castle.
It’s a book ideally read in your teens, very different in tone, with no dogs at all – but it’s one of my all-time favourite reads.

THE HUNDRED AND ONE DALMATIANS

Whilst the dogs searched and the Nannies cried on each other’s shoulder, Mrs Dearly telephoned Mr Dearly. He came home at once, bringing with him one of the Top Men from Scotland Yard. The Top Man found a bit of sacking on the area railings and said the puppies must have been dropped into sacks and driven away in the black van. He promised to Comb the Underworld, but warned the Dearlys that stolen dogs were seldom recovered unless a reward was offered. A reward seemed an unreasonable thing to offer a thief, but Mr Dearly was willing to offer it.

He rushed to Fleet Street and had large advertisements put on the front pages of the evening papers (this was rather expensive) and arranged for even larger advertisements to be on the front pages of the next day’s morning papers (this was even more expensive). Beyond this, there seemed nothing he or Mrs Dearly could do except try to comfort each other and comfort the Nannies and the dogs. Soon the Nannies stopped crying and joined in the comforting, and prepared beautiful meals which nobody felt like eating. And at last, night fell on the stricken household.

Worn out, the three dogs lay in their baskets in front of the kitchen fire.

‘Think of my baby Cadpig in a sack,’ said Missis, with a sob.

‘Her big brother, Patch, will take care of her,’ said Pongo, soothingly – though he felt most unsoothed himself.

‘Lucky is so brave, he will bite the thieves,’ wailed Perdita. ‘And then they will kill him.’

‘No, they won’t,’ said Pongo. ‘The pups were stolen because they are valuable. No one will kill them. They are only valuable while they are alive.’

But even as he said this, a terrible suspicion was forming in his mind. And it grew and grew as the night wore on. Long after Missis and Perdita, utterly
exhausted, had fallen asleep, he lay awake staring at the fire, chewing the wicker of his basket as a man might have smoked a pipe.

Anyone who did not know Pongo well would have thought him handsome, amusing and charming, but not particularly clever. Even the Dearlys did not quite realise the depths of his mind. He was often still so puppyish. He would run after balls and sticks, climb into laps far too small to hold him, roll over on his back to have his stomach scratched. How was anyone to guess that this playful creature owned one of the keenest brains in Dogdom?

It was at work now. All through the long December night he put two and two together and made four. Once or twice he almost made five.

He had no intention of alarming Missis or Perdita with his suspicions. Poor Pongo! He not only suffered on his own account, as a father; he also suffered on the account of two mothers. (For he had come to feel the puppies had two mothers, though he never felt he had two wives – he looked on Perdita as a much-loved young sister.) He would say nothing about his worst fears until he was quite sure. Meanwhile, there was an important task ahead of him. He was still planning it when the Nannies came down to start another day.

As a rule, this was a splendid time – with the fire freshly made, plenty of food around and the puppies at their most playful. This morning – well, as Nanny Butler said, it just didn’t bear thinking about. But she thought about it, and so did everybody else in that pup-less house.

No good news came during the day, but the Dearlys were surprised and relieved to find that the dogs ate well. (Pongo had been firm: ‘You girls have got to keep your strength up.’) And there was an even greater surprise in the afternoon. Pongo and Missis showed very plainly that they wanted to take the Dearlys for a walk. Perdita did not. She was determined to stay at home in case any pup returned and was in need of a wash.

Cold weather had come at last – Christmas was only a week away.

‘Missis must wear her coat,’ said Mrs Dearly.

It was a beautiful blue coat with a white binding; Missis was very proud of it. Coats had been bought for Pongo and Perdita, too. But Pongo had made it clear he disliked wearing his.

So the coat was put on Missis, and both dogs were dressed in their handsome chain collars. And then they put the Dearlys on their leashes and led them into the park.

From the first, it was clear the dogs knew just where they wanted to go. Very firmly, they led the way right across the park, across the road, and to the open space which is called Primrose Hill. This did not surprise the Dearlys as it had always been a favourite walk. What did surprise them was the way Pongo and Missis behaved when they got to the top of the hill. They stood side by side and they barked.

They barked to the north, they barked to the south, they barked to the east and west. And each time they changed their positions, they began the barking with three very strange, short, sharp barks.

‘Anyone would think they were signalling,’ said Mr Dearly.

But he did not really mean it. And they
were
signalling.

Many people must have noticed how dogs like to bark in the early evening. Indeed, twilight has sometimes been called ‘Dogs’ Barking Time’. Busy town dogs bark less than country dogs, but all dogs know all about the Twilight Barking. It is their way of keeping in touch with distant friends, passing on important news, enjoying a good gossip. But none of the dogs who answered Pongo and Missis expected to enjoy a gossip, for the three short, sharp barks meant: ‘Help! Help! Help!’

No dog sends that signal unless the need is desperate. And no dog who hears it ever fails to respond.

Within a few minutes, the news of the stolen puppies was travelling across England, and every dog who heard at once turned detective. Dogs living in London’s Underworld (hard-bitten characters; also hard-biting) set out to explore sinister alleys where dog thieves lurk. Dogs in Pet Shops hastened to make quite sure all puppies offered for sale were not Dalmatians in disguise. And dogs who could do nothing else swiftly handed on the news, spreading it through London and on through the suburbs, and on, on to the open country: ‘Help! Help! Help! Fifteen Dalmatian puppies stolen. Send news to Pongo and Missis Pongo, of Regent’s Park, London. End of Message.’

Pongo and Missis hoped all this would be happening. But all they really knew was that they had made contact with the dogs near enough to answer them, and that these dogs would be standing by, at twilight the next evening, to relay any news that had come along.

One Great Dane, over towards Hampstead, was particularly encouraging.

‘I have a chain of friends all over England,’ he said, in his great, booming bark. ‘And I will be on duty
day and night. Courage, courage, O Dogs of Regent’s Park!’

It was almost dark now. And the Dearlys were suggesting – very gently – that they should be taken home. So after a few last words, ‘What about coming home, boy?’ For the first time in his life, Pongo jerked his head from Mr Dearly’s hand, then went on standing stock still. And at last the Great Dane spoke again, booming triumphantly through the gathering dusk.

‘Calling Pongo and Missis Pongo. News! News at last! Stand by to receive details.’