Paws and Whiskers

by Jacqueline Wilson

Still looking at the dog, Chiquitito, he recalled his recent conversation. He could not have the smallest dog of the smallest breed in the world. Not even a dog so small that – if you could imagine such a thing – you could only see it with your eyes shut. No dog.

  The feeling of his birthday morning – an absolute misery of disappointed longing – swept over him again. He put the little picture down on the seat behind him, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, overwhelmed.

  He had been staring at the woolwork dog, and now, with his eyes shut, he still saw it, as if it were standing on the carriage-seat opposite. Such visions often appear against shut eyelids, when the open-eyed vision has been particularly intent. Such visions quickly fade; but this did not. The image of the dog remained, exactly as in the picture: a pinky-fawn dog with pointed ears, and pop-eyed.

  Only – only the pinky-fawn was not done in wool, and the eye was not a jet bead. This dog was real. First of all, it just stood. Then it stretched itself – first, its forelegs together; then, each hind leg with a separate stretch and shake. Then the dog turned its head to look at Ben, so that Ben saw its other eye and the whole of the other side of its face, which the picture had never shown. But this was not the picture of a dog; it was a real dog – a particular dog.

  ‘Chiquitito,’ Ben said; and the dog cocked its head.

  THE ACCIDENTAL TOURIST

  by Anne Tyler

  Children often ask me if I’ve got a favourite author. I generally reply listing the book I liked the most when I was nine or ten – but the author I most enjoy reading now is Anne Tyler. She writes gentle, quirky family stories about people who are a little odd or obsessive. The Accidental Tourist is probably my favourite out of all her novels. It’s got some very funny moments, but it’s essentially a sad story – the main character, Macon, has lost his son, and is separated from his wife. He’s been left caring for his son’s dog, Edward, who’s become difficult to handle.

  Edward is a wonderful character – and so is Muriel, the woman who manages to tame him.

  THE ACCIDENTAL TOURIST

  The dog was going with him only as far as the vet’s. If he’d known that, he never would have jumped into the car. He sat next to Macon, panting enthusiastically, his keg-shaped body alert with expectation. Macon talked to him in what he hoped was an unalarming tone. ‘Hot, isn’t it, Edward. You want the air conditioner on?’ He adjusted the controls. ‘There now. Feeling better?’ He heard something unctuous in his voice. Maybe Edward did, too, for he stopped panting and gave Macon a sudden suspicious look. Macon decided to say no more.

  They rolled through the neighborhood, down streets roofed over with trees. They turned into a sunnier section full of stores and service stations. As they neared Murray Avenue, Edward started whimpering. In the parking lot of the Murray Avenue Veterinary Hospital, he somehow became a much smaller animal.

  Macon got out of the car and walked around to open the door. When he took hold of Edward’s collar, Edward dug his toenails into the upholstery. He had to be dragged all the way to the building, scratching across the hot concrete.

  The waiting room was empty. A goldfish tank bubbled in one corner, with a full-colour poster above it illustrating the life cycle of the heartworm. There was a girl on a stool behind the counter, a waifish little person in a halter top.

  ‘I’ve brought my dog for boarding,’ Macon said. He had to raise his voice to be heard above Edward’s moans.

  Chewing her gum steadily, the girl handed him a printed form and a pencil. ‘Ever been here before?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, often.’

  ‘What’s the last name?’

  ‘Leary.’

  ‘Leary. Leary,’ she said, riffling through a box of index cards. Macon started filling out the form. Edward was standing upright now and clinging to Macon’s knees, like a toddler scared of nursery school.

  ‘Whoa,’ the girl said.

  She frowned at the card she’d pulled.

  ‘Edward?’ she said. ‘On Rayford Road?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We can’t accept him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Says here he bit an attendant. Says, “Bit Barry in the ankle, do not readmit.”’

  ‘Nobody told me that.’

  ‘Well, they should have.’

  ‘Nobody said a word! I left him in June when we went to the beach; I came back and they handed him over.’

  The girl blinked at him, expressionless.

  ‘Look,’ Macon said. ‘I’m on my way to the airport, right this minute. I’ve got a plane to catch.’

  ‘I’m only following orders,’ the girl said.

  ‘And what set him off, anyhow?’ Macon asked. ‘Did anyone think to wonder? Maybe Edward had good reason!’

  The girl blinked again. Edward had dropped to all fours by now and was gazing upward with interest, as if following the conversation.

  ‘Ah, the hell with it,’ Macon said. ‘Come on, Edward.’

  He didn’t have to take hold of Edward’s collar when they left. Edward galloped ahead of him all the way across the parking lot.

  In that short time, the car had turned into an oven. Macon opened his window and sat there with the motor idling. What now? He considered going to his sister’s, but she probably wouldn’t want Edward either. To tell the truth, this wasn’t the first time there had been complaints. Last week, for instance, Macon’s brother Charles had stopped by to borrow a router, and Edward had darted in a complete circle around his feet, taking furious little nibbles out of his trouser cuffs. Charles was so astonished that he just turned his head slowly, gaping down. ‘What’s got into him?’ he asked. ‘He never used to do this.’ Then when Macon grabbed his collar, Edward had snarled. He’d curled his upper lip and snarled. Could a dog have a nervous breakdown?

  Macon wasn’t very familiar with dogs. He preferred cats. He liked the way cats kept their own counsel. It was only lately that he’d given Edward any thought at all. Now that he was alone so much he had taken to talking out loud to him, or sometimes he just sat studying him. He admired Edward’s intelligent brown eyes and his foxy little face. He appreciated the honey-colored whorls that radiated so symmetrically from the bridge of his nose. And his walk! Ethan used to say that Edward walked as if he had sand in his bathing suit. His rear end waddled busily; his stubby legs seemed hinged by some more primitive mechanism than the legs of taller dogs.

  Macon was driving toward home now, for lack of any better idea. He wondered what would happen if he left Edward in the house the way he left the cat, with plenty of food and water. No. Or could Sarah come to see him, two or three times a day? He recoiled from that; it meant asking her. It meant dialing that number he’d never used and asking her for a favor.

  MEOW-BOW ANIMAL HOSPITAL, a sign across the street read. Macon braked and Edward lurched forward. ‘Sorry,’ Macon told him. He made a turn into the parking lot.

  The waiting room at the Meow-Bow smelled strongly of disinfectant. Behind the counter stood a thin young woman in a ruffled peasant blouse. She had aggressively frizzy black hair that burgeoned to her shoulders like an Arab headdress. ‘Hi, there,’ she said to Macon.

  Macon said, ‘Do you board dogs?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’d like to board Edward, here.’

  She leaned over the counter to look at Edward. Edward panted up at her cheerfully. It was clear he hadn’t yet realized what kind of place this was.

  ‘You have a reservation?’ the woman asked Macon.

  ‘Reservation! No.’

  ‘Most people reserve.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Especially in the summer.’

  ‘Couldn’t you make an exception?’

  She thought it over, frowning down at Edward. Her eyes were very small, like caraway seeds, and her face was sharp and colorless.

  ‘Please,’ Macon said. ‘I’m about to catch a plane. I’m leaving for a week, and I don’t have a soul to loo
k after him. I’m desperate, I tell you.’

  From the glance she shot at him, he sensed he had surprised her in some way. ‘Can’t you leave him home with your wife?’ she asked.

  He wondered how on earth her mind worked.

  ‘If I could do that,’ he said, ‘why would I be standing here?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You’re not married?’

  ‘Well, I am, but she’s . . . living elsewhere. They don’t allow pets.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She came out from behind the counter. She was wearing very short red shorts; her legs were like sticks. ‘I’m a divorsy myself,’ she said. ‘I know what you’re going through.’

  ‘And see,’ Macon said, ‘there’s this place I usually board him but they suddenly claim he bites. Claim he bit an attendant and they can’t admit him any more.’

  ‘Edward? Do you bite?’ the woman said.

  Macon realized he should not have mentioned that, but she seemed to take it in stride. ‘How could you do such a thing?’ she asked Edward. Edward grinned up at her and folded his ears back, inviting a pat. She bent and stroked his head.

  ‘So will you keep him?’ Macon said.

  ‘Oh, I guess,’ she said, straightening. ‘If you’re desperate.’ She stressed the word – fixing Macon with those small brown eyes – as if giving it more weight than he had intended. ‘Fill this out,’ she told him, and she handed him a form from a stack on the counter. ‘Your name and address and when you’ll be back. Don’t forget to put when you’ll be back.’

  Macon nodded, uncapping his fountain pen.

  ‘I’ll most likely see you again when you come to pick him up,’ she said. ‘I mean if you put the time of day to expect you. My name’s Muriel.’

  ‘Is this place open evenings?’ Macon asked.

  ‘Every evening but Sundays. Till eight.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘Muriel Pritchett,’ she said.

  Macon filled out the form while the woman knelt to unbuckle Edward’s collar. Edward licked her cheekbone; he must have thought she was just being friendly. So when Macon had finished, he didn’t say goodbye. He left the form on the counter and walked out very quickly, keeping a hand in his pocket to silence his keys.

  LOVE THAT DOG

  by Sharon Creech

  Love That Dog is a hard book to describe. It’s a story but it’s written as a diary in poetry form. It’s a quick, easy read – maybe fifteen minutes? – but it’s likely to stay in your mind for a very long time. It’s the story of Jack and his beloved rescue dog Sky, and it’s a very sad story, but there are funny parts too. I find the reasons why Jack might have to wait ages for the poet Walter Dean Myers to reply to him particularly amusing. They are exactly the same reasons why I can’t always reply to every single one of you.

  LOVE THAT DOG

  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!

  THE HUNDRED AND ONE DALMATIANS

  by Dodie Smith

  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 planni
ng 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!’