by Anne Fine
PUFFIN BOOKS
Notso Hotso
Anne Fine was born and educated in the Midlands, and now lives in County Durham. She has written numerous highly acclaimed and prize-winning books for children and adults.
Her novel The Tulip Touch won the Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year Award; Goggle-Eyes won the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award and the Carnegie Medal, and was adapted for television by the BBC; Flour Babies won the Carnegie Medal and the Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year Award; Bill’s New Frock won a Smarties Prize, and Madame Doubtfire has become a major feature film.
Anne Fine was named Children’s Laureate in 2001.
Other books by Anne Fine
Picture books
Poor Monty
Ruggles
Books for younger readers
Care of Henry
Countdown
Design-a-Pra m
The Diary of a Killer Cat
The Haunting of Pip Parker
Jennifer’s Diary
Loudmouth Louis
Only a Show
Press Play
Roll Over Roly
The Same Old Story Every Year
Scare dy-Cat
Stranger Danger?
The Worst Child I Ever Had
Books for middle-range readers
The Angel of Nitshill Road
Anneli the Art Hater
Bill’s New Frock
The Chicken Gave it to Me
The Country Pancake
Crummy Mummy and Me
How to Write Really Badly
A Pack of Liars
A Sudden Glow of Gold
A Sudden Puff of Glittering Smoke
A Sudden Swirl of Icy Wind
ANNE FINE
Notso Hotso
Illustrated by Tony Ross
PUFFIN BOOKS
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
www.penguin.com
First published by Hamish Hamilton Ltd 2001
Published in Puffin Books 2002
15
Text copyright © Anne Fine, 2001
Illustrations copyright © Tony Ross, 2001
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-14-193958-2
Contents
1: How the Horror Began
2: Getting Worse and Worse
3: Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall
4: Talk About Tough
5: Cat Test
6: Fun-Time
1: How the Horror Began
SO SUDDENLY ONE morning I’m like, Scratch-scratch! Scratch-scratch! and can’t stop. It’s disgusting.
Everyone else thinks so too.
‘Anthony, stop doing that.’
‘Would someone please put that pest-ridden dog out?’
‘Knock it off, Anthony!’
Hey! Notso hotso!
Especially for someone like me. I’m not fussy, exactly. (Personally, I’d call it ‘fastidious’, though I know one or two have rather harshly used the word ‘prissy’.) But I’m not one of those
mucky ‘I’m-a-mutt-and-I’ll-scratch-if-I-like’ pups. I suppose I just think the world’s a nicer place for all of us if everyone tries to keep their smells and messes and nasty little personal habits quietly to themselves.
Call me a fuss-budget if you will, but I just like to help to keep things nice.
And skin problems aren’t nice. As fellow sufferers will know, skin problems aren’t something you can forget for the morning. They drive you mad, especially the itchy ones. First you think, if you just scratch this tiny bit here…
Then you think, if you just have a little go at that itsy-bitsy patch there…
And then you think, now you’ve started anyway, you might as well scratch sideways on to this bit here…
And before you know where you are, every single bit of you is aflame.
I’m not exaggerating. I mean, AFLAME.
And no one sympathizes. They just think you’re being annoying.
‘Anthony, if you don’t stop that dreadful scratching, I’ll put you outside again, even though it’s raining.’
‘Anthony! Stop that! Now!’
Talk about a dog’s life. If it hadn’t been for Moira next door, I might have scratched myself to pieces.
‘What’s wrong with your dog?’
As if that Joshua would take his eyes off his game for a moment to glance at his own pet. ‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, there is, Joshua. He’s dropping weird flakes all over your carpet.’
I’m not even going to tell you about the next bit. It’s just too horrible. Suffice it to say that it involved an argument about whether or not that stuff all over the rug was actually bits of dead dog skin. And then we had to wait while Moira went home to borrow her granny’s magnifier reading glass. And then I had to put up with the two of them endlessly prodding and patting me.
‘Ugh! Yuk! That is some sick stuff floating off his back!’
‘Gruesome! You ought to tell your mum.’
‘Mum? She’d throw up if she saw this!’
Nice, eh? I expect he’s forgotten some of his own rather disgusting habits. And as for Moira, well, I’ve seen her often enough, sitting with her back to the house, doing things to her nose she wouldn’t do in front of anyone except me, and possibly Belinda, her pet hamster.
At least the two of them did something useful when my Humiliation Hour was up. They told Her Ladyship.
‘Mu-um! There’s something wrong with Anthony.’
‘Yes, Mrs Tanner. Come and look at this. It’s horible!’
So Mrs Neglectful finally ambles to the doorway, carelessly dropping cheese from the grater she’s holding. (One small bright spot in the day for me.)
‘What sort of wrong?’
‘His skin’s all coming off.’
‘Coming off?’
‘Yes. In horrible, yukky, revolting little flakes.’
(Well, thank you, Joshua. And don’t
expect any company or sympathy next time you get chicken-pox.)
‘Yes, Mrs Tanner!’ chimes in Moira. ‘He’s all poxy red underneath. And bits of him have gone gooey.’
(Fine, Moira. Just don’t sit waiting for me to waste any more of my time fetching sticks to amuse you, next time you’re stuck at home with the measles.)
The Kitchen Queen strolls over. I’m hoping she at least has the sense to put the grater down before she touches me. And wash her hands thoroughly after. After all, as I s
aid, I wouldn’t call myself fussy. But I do like the leftovers that get scraped into my bowl to be reasonably wholesome.
Touching me, nothing! Mrs What?-In-My-House? draws back. ‘Ugh! That is horrible. That is repellent.’
Well, thank you very much. Is there anyone out there, reading this, who’s been wanting a crowd of insensitive people?
Because I’ve got a load here.
A whole set.
2: Getting Worse and Worse
PERSONALLY, I’D HAVE thought it was an emergency. But not her. Not Lady Laid-Back.
‘Is it an emergency?’ the vet’s assistant asks, down the phone.
‘No,’ she says. (Just that: ‘No.’)
And she settles for an afternoon appointment on Thursday.
However, get this. Later that day, when Mr Whoops-Sorry-Forgot-to-Pick-Up-the-Dogfood-Again strolls in from work, she orders him straight back out to buy a pack of hoover bags. ‘No, you can’t leave it till later,’
she tells him when he starts grumbling. ‘Not with flakes of dog skin all over. This is an emergency.’
Not the most sensitive bunch. And don’t think I’m making it up when I tell you I haven’t been shooed out of the house quite so forcefully or so often since that toddler with the allergies was visiting last Easter.
I made the most of it – even turned
into a bit of a sun demon on the quiet, after I’d walked past Lady Vain’s fortress of beauty mags on the landing and seen an article that claimed that – sensibly handled – ultraviolet light can work wonders with what they tactfully call ‘iffy’ skin.
Though that great snoring slug-coloured heap on next door’s wall did turn a bit brutal when I stretched out
to offer my poor itching flanks to the Great Eye of Heaven’s healing powers.
‘Looking a bit “bare rug”, aren’t you, Anthony? Have the family been feeding you Hair-Fall-Out pills?’
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Coming from a cat that’s as big as a barrel.’
‘Go gnaw a doorknob, Ant!’
I hate it when she calls me ‘Ant’. So I snuck back inside. And got shooed out again. And thought, ‘Right, then. It’s their fault if I go a-wandering.’
And I went down the park.
I’m not the gang type, on the whole. It’s not my scene. I think smell tours are juvenile. When Buster and Hamish and Bella over-excite themselves, their tongues get a bit piggy. And I don’t care for the way that, when they’re playing Dingoes v. Jackals, they leave a trail of mashed bushes behind them.
From time to time, I say a word on the subject.
‘Could you take a little more care?’ I plead. ‘Some of us have to walk in this park every morning. Please try to leave the place as pleasant as you found it.’
They jeer, of course.
‘Well, if it isn’t Oily Anthony, the Park-keeper’s Pal.’
‘I’m really, really worried!’
‘Oh, bite me! Bite me!’
Most days, our Buster’s in his I’m-the-Leader-of-the-Pack mood. I pad up. He turns, gives me the ultra-unfriendly Lost, are you? stare, and says, ‘Fell out of your basket, Ant?’
I roll my eyes. I mean, that sort of sarcasm is so ten minutes ago. (Or even earlier.) ‘Well, don’t you absolutely reek of cool!’ I scoff, and
wait for his hackles to rise and that stupid little growl that’s supposed to mean, ‘Watch it, Mr Nothing from Nowhere-on-Sea,’ before he invites me to join them for a bit of a muck–about.
But today, things are different. He’s taking an interest, almost.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
Hamish joins in. ‘Yeah. You look weird. Like a bare rug with feet.’
(Just what that nasty cat said. Now I’m listening.) ‘What do you mean?’
So Bella explains. ‘You’re missing great patches of fur at the back.’
Hamish agrees. ‘You look terrible.’
Trust Buster to be a whole lot more unpleasant than he need. ‘You told us you were sheepdog-retriever cross,’ he crows. ‘You never admitted you were one hundred per cent Moulter.’
I’m getting worried now – shimmying round to try and get a look at the bits I’ve been scratching. ‘It can’t be that bad, surely.’
‘In your dreams!’
‘In Never-Ever land!’
‘Well, somebody’s been putting something in your mystery cutlets.’
Up puffs Old Nigel, who’s spent the last ten minutes wheezing and staggering over the park towards us at the speed of winter turning to spring.
‘My word!’ he quavers. He can’t take his rheumy eyes off me. ‘You look even worse than I feel. I reckon you won’t last any longer than I will.’
Talk about panic. I just turned and fled.
3: Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall
SO NOW I’M serious about getting a proper look at my back and sides. Of course, since the flaking began, My Lady Houseproud has kept me right out of her flouncy-wouncy bedroom with the floor-to-ceiling mirror. But it’s in there I creep when she’s not looking. (I have to be careful. Last time she caught me hanging round the door, she said, ‘You so much as step in here while you’re shedding that stuff on the carpets, Anthony, and I will roast you on a spit!’ And I believed her.)
So slinky was the word. I made it safely to under the bed. Then out the other side to the mirror.
Oh, horror! Oh, the horror! Imagine sleek and glossy me, twisting my rear end round to take a peek at what was once the perfect hide, and finding…
Mange!
In places, my bum was raw. If I had been a carpet, you would have tossed me out without a thought. I was appalled. I take my cod liver oil. I get enough fresh air. I exercise. (In fact, of all the dogs round here, I’m probably the most particular about looking after my health and keeping regular habits.)
It wasn’t fair. I looked shocking. And if I hadn’t been exactly where I was most particularly not supposed to be,
I would have raised my head and howled.
As it was, I just whimpered.
That’s when she walked in. I didn’t wait for the rocket I knew was coming. (Something along the lines of, ‘Anthony! Didn’t I warn you that, if you came in here… bleh-bleh-di-bleh –’) Tucking my tail between my legs, I slunk
towards the door. Lord knows, I’m no slave to glamour. Ours is a mongrel world, and cross-breeds like myself know only too well that judging by appearances can all too easily lead to –
Hang on a bit! What was this?
Miss Sneak-in-My-Room-and-I’ll-Roast-You had thrown herself on to
her knees at my side. She had her arms around my neck, and she was practically in tears herself.
‘Oh, Anthony! You poor lamb! You’re in misery, aren’t you? You’re actually whimpering. Oh, you poor darling.’
And suddenly she’s on the phone. ‘No!’ she’s telling the vet’s assistant. ‘Thursday won’t do. The poor creature’s in agony. I don’t care how many people you have waiting. This is an emergency, and I’m bringing him now.’
Next thing I know, I’m standing trembling on the examination table, and Delia Massingpole B.VSc., M.R.C.VS., is peering at me through a little lens.
‘Yes, very nasty. It must itch a lot.’
After five years in vet school? This, I could tell her for free! But I just stood there, shedding quietly, while she looks some more.
Then out it comes. I couldn’t bring myself to listen to the details, so, to this day, I’m not quite sure whether she said it was scabies masquerading as mange with a little touch of eczema, or mangy eczema with a faint veneer of scabies, or all three at once. All I know is, I tried to keep my head high and ponder inner beauty.
Suddenly Ms Massingpole’s handing over a giant tub of gloopy-looking yellow cream. ‘This should do the trick.’
Lady Lavender-Room-Haze unscrews the lid and sniffs. ‘It doesn’t smell very nice.’
Hell-oo! I’m thinking. The stuff’s not supposed to go in your bath. Or on your face. It’s supp
osed to go on my bottom. And just so long as it does the trick, like Vet Massingpole thinks, things are peachy by me.
Miss Shed-on-My-Rugs-and-I’ll-Kill-You is still looking dubious. ‘How am I supposed to rub it on him?’
I’ll sit still, I am promising silently. I will sit still.
But that’s not what she’s worrying about. ‘This stuff’s so tacky, I’ll never get it out from under my fingernails.’
Oh, deary me! I hope you know I’m practically falling off the table here, from sheer anxiety and grief on her behalf. Good heavens! Maybe she’d better take me home straight away, and let me scratch myself bald, rather than risk getting even a dab of icky, nasty-smelling yellow stuff under one of her perfect Sugar Frost talons.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said First-in-Command Massingpole. ‘We’ll shave him.’
Well, whose side’s she on?
I stare.
And so does Mrs T. ‘Shave him?’
‘Yes. It’s a much better idea.’ (I’m frozen with horror. She’s plugging in the razor.) ‘We’ll shave the fur that’s
left. That way, the cream will rub in better. The problem will go away faster. And all his fur will grow back soon enough.’
Oh, sure! A primrose plan!
For her.
I turn my head to the lady who first
picked me out from behind bars; who first decided I would be an asset to her family; who bought me my first ever real dog bed and my bright red plastic bowl; who came down fifteen times on my first night, to comfort and reassure me.
She loves me. I know it.
But guess what the weaselly traitress said to Butcher Massingpole?
‘Brilliant. Let’s do it!’
4: Talk About Tough
THEY WERE PITILESS, those ladies. I don’t think I’ve ever put up such a struggle, and I can’t remember ever losing a fight so fast.