Paws and Whiskers

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Think that’s funny, do ya?’ I say and she keeps pretending like she’s not smiling but she is. She turns away and picks up her bag.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, taking charge of things again. ‘We slept way too long. We gotta go.’

  BECAUSE OF WINN-DIXIE

  by Kate DiCamillo

  This is a lovely book, very moving and delicately moral. Opal and her dog Winn-Dixie make friends with all sorts of extraordinary and interesting characters, but my favourite is Miss Franny Block, who’s in charge of the Herman W. Block Memorial Library. When she was a little girl her father, who was very rich, said she could have anything she wanted for her birthday. Anything at all.

  What would you ask for? Miss Franny loves to read so she asks for a small library. She says, ‘I wanted a little house full of nothing but books and I wanted to share them, too. And I got my wish. My father built me this house, the very one we are sitting in now. And at a very young age I became a librarian.’

  I think that’s what I’d have wished for too. Miss Franny is ‘a very small, very old woman with short grey hair’ – and so am I now. And I have my own library of around fifteen thousand books, lovingly collected over many years.

  BECAUSE OF WINN-DIXIE

  My name is India Opal Buloni, and last summer my daddy, the preacher, sent me to the store for a box of macaroni-and-cheese, some white rice and two tomatoes, and I came back with a dog.

  This is what happened: I walked into the produce section of the Winn-Dixie grocery store to pick out my two tomatoes and I almost bumped right into the store manager. He was standing there all red-faced, screaming and waving his arms around.

  ‘Who let a dog in here?’ he kept on shouting. ‘Who let a dirty dog in here?’

  At first, I didn’t see a dog. There were just a lot of vegetables rolling around on the floor, tomatoes and onions and green peppers. And there was what seemed like a whole army of Winn-Dixie employees running around waving their arms just the same way the store manager was waving his.

  And then the dog came running around the corner. He was a big dog. And ugly. And he looked like he was having a real good time. His tongue was hanging out and he was wagging his tail. He skidded to a stop and smiled right at me. I had never before in my life seen a dog smile, but that is what he did. He pulled back his lips and showed me all his teeth. Then he wagged his tail so hard that he knocked some oranges off a display and they went rolling everywhere, mixing in with the tomatoes and onions and green peppers.

  The manager screamed, ‘Somebody grab that dog!’

  The dog went running over to the manager, wagging his tail and smiling. He stood up on his hind legs. You could tell that all he wanted to do was get face to face with the manager and thank him for the good time he was having in the produce department, but somehow he ended up knocking the manager over. And the manager must have been having a bad day because, lying there on the floor, right in front of everybody, he started to cry. The dog leaned over him, real concerned, and licked his face.

  ‘Please,’ said the manager, ‘somebody call the pound.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ I hollered. ‘That’s my dog. Don’t call the pound.’

  All the Winn-Dixie employees turned around and looked at me, and I knew I had done something big. And maybe stupid, too. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t let that dog go to the pound.

  ‘Here, boy,’ I said.

  The dog stopped licking the manager’s face and put his ears up in the air and looked at me, like he was trying to remember where he knew me from.

  ‘Here, boy,’ I said again. And then I figured that the dog was probably just like everybody else in the world, that he would want to get called by a name, only I didn’t know what his name was, so I just said the first thing that came into my head. I said, ‘Here, Winn-Dixie.’

  And that dog came trotting over to me just like he had been doing it his whole life.

  The manager sat up and gave me a hard stare, like maybe I was making fun of him.

  ‘It’s his name,’ I said. ‘Honest.’

  The manager said, ‘Don’t you know not to bring a dog into a grocery store?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I told him. ‘He got in by mistake. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Come on, Winn-Dixie,’ I said to the dog.

  I started walking and he followed along behind me as I went out of the produce department and down the cereal aisle and past all the cashiers and out the door.

  Once we were safe outside, I checked him over real careful and he didn’t look that good. He was big, but skinny; you could see his ribs. And there were bald patches all over him, places where he didn’t have any fur at all. Mostly, he looked like a big piece of old brown carpet that had been left out in the rain.

  ‘You’re a mess,’ I told him. ‘I bet you don’t belong to anybody.’

  He smiled at me. He did that thing again, where he pulled back his lips and showed me his teeth. He smiled so big that it made him sneeze. It was like he was saying, ‘I know I’m a mess. Isn’t it funny?’

  It’s hard not to immediately fall in love with a dog who has a good sense of humour.

  ‘Come on,’ I told him. ‘Let’s see what the preacher has to say about you.’

  And the two of us, me and Winn-Dixie, started walking home.

  THE WEREPUPPY

  by Jacqueline Wilson

  I wrote The Werepuppy over twenty years ago – one of my few books where the main character is a boy. Micky isn’t a very boyish boy. He’s very quiet and gentle, and loves drawing and colouring and making up his own Magic Land. He’s very wary of three things: his annoying sisters, horror films about werewolves, and dogs. He’s become so scared of dogs that his mum decides to get him a puppy. Micky is appalled at the idea – but he’s in for a surprise!

  I decided to have fun when I described the dogs at the dog shelter, basing them on real animals. I mentioned a Scottie called Jeannie – she belonged to a teacher friend of mine called Holly. I also wrote very fondly about a cream Labrador called Tumble. She belonged to my dear friend Peter. (She’d had a sister called Rough, though she’d always lived with someone else.)

  Peter and Tumble were inseparable. Tumble lolloped into the back of Peter’s car and went with him to work. She trotted along to the pub with Peter every evening and was allowed her own packet of crisps for supper. She could bite them open and wolf the contents down in less than a minute. It’s probably not the most sensible thing to feed your dog, but Tumble lived until she was an ancient old lady, serene and good natured till the end.

  Peter himself died three years ago, and I like to think that in some other world they are both still ambling down to the pub for whatever the afterlife sees fit to serve – a pint of nectar and a packet of ambrosia-flavoured crisps?

  THE WEREPUPPY

  ‘Please, Mum,’ Micky begged. ‘I can’t go in there!’

  Mum wouldn’t listen. She made Micky get out of the car.

  She knocked on the front door of the dogs’ home. The howling increased, and then there was a lot of barking too. Micky clung to Mum’s arm, and even Marigold took a step backwards. The door opened and a young freckled woman in jeans stood there smiling, surrounded by two barking Labradors, the colour of clotted cream, and a small black Scottie who kept diving through the Labradors’ legs.

  ‘Quiet, you silly dogs,’ the woman shouted. She saw Micky shrinking away and said quickly, ‘It’s OK, they’re all very friendly. They won’t bite. There’s no need to be frightened of them.’

  ‘I’m not frightened,’ said Marigold, squatting down to pet the Scottie, while the two Labradors sniffed and nuzzled. ‘Aren’t they lovely? What are their names? Shall we have the little Scottie dog, Mum? Although I like the big creamy dogs too. Oh look, this one’s smiling at me.’

  ‘That’s Tumble. And that’s her brother Rough.’

  ‘Oh great. We’re a sister and brother and we can have a sister dog and brother dog.’

  ‘No,
I’m afraid Rough and Tumble are my dogs. And wee Jeannie here. But there are plenty of other lovely dogs to choose from out the back. I’ve got lots of strays at the moment. Come through to the kennels.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ Micky hissed, trying to dodge Rough and Tumble’s big wet licks.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Micky,’ said Mum. ‘This is going to be your dog. You’ve got to choose.’

  ‘I’ll choose for him,’ said Marigold, still playing with Jeannie. She rolled over and let Marigold tickle her tummy. ‘There, look! She loves being tickled, doesn’t she? It’s my magic trick of taming all dogs. Maybe I’ll be a dog trainer in a circus as well as a bare-back rider.’

  ‘I think it’s a trick that only works with little friendly dogs like Jeannie,’ said Miss Webb. ‘You shouldn’t even touch some of the big dogs I’ve got out the back, just in case.’

  ‘I’m not scared of any dogs, even really big ones,’ Marigold boasted. ‘Not like my brother. He’s older than me too, and yet he’s ever so scared.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ Micky said hoarsely, but at that moment Jeannie nudged against his leg and he gave a little yelp of terror.

  ‘See that!’ said Marigold triumphantly. ‘He’s even scared of a little Scottie. He’s hopeless, isn’t he? I don’t know why Mum wants to get him a dog, it’s just daft, isn’t it? She ought to get me a dog, seeing as I’m the one that likes them. And dogs don’t need a special stable, do they? Just a little kennel.’

  ‘Or even an old cardboard box,’ said Miss Webb. ‘I’ve got special big kennels at the back of my house because I always have so many stray dogs on my hands.’ She turned back to Micky. ‘But it’s OK, they’re all in separate pens and they can’t get out.’

  ‘He’ll still be scared,’ said Marigold. ‘He’s even scared of me.’ She suddenly darted at Micky, going woof-woof-woof and poor Micky was so strung up and startled by this time that he jumped and very nearly burst into tears.

  ‘Marigold!’ said Mum, but she gave Micky a shake too, obviously embarrassed.

  Marigold just laughed and Miss Webb was trying hard to keep a straight face. Micky blinked desperately, and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. His face was scarlet, his whole body burning.

  ‘We’ve got some puppies out the back,’ said Miss Webb. ‘They’re really sweet and cuddly. I’d have a puppy if I were you.’

  Micky’s throat ached so much he could barely speak.

  ‘I don’t really want any dog. Not even a puppy, thank you,’ he croaked.

  ‘Just take a look, Micky,’ said Mum, giving him a little push.

  So Micky had to go with them to the kennels at the back of the house. The howling got louder. It had a strange eerie edge to it. Marigold put her hands over her ears.

  ‘Which one’s making that horrid noise?’ she complained.

  ‘Yes, sorry. That’s a stray we picked up last night. He’s been making that row ever since, though we’ve done our best to comfort him. He’s only a puppy, but he’s a vicious little thing all the same. I certainly wouldn’t recommend him for a family pet, especially as the little boy’s so nervous.’

  ‘I bet I could tame him,’ Marigold boasted. She approached the pen in the corner, where a big grey puppy stood tensely, head back, howling horribly.

  ‘Nice doggie,’ said Marigold, and the puppy quivered and then stopped in mid-howl.

  ‘See that!’ said Marigold excitedly. ‘There, I’ve stopped him. He’s coming over to see me. Here, boy. You like me, don’t you? Do you want to be my doggie, eh? You can’t be Micky’s dog because he’s such a silly little wet wimp.’

  Micky couldn’t stand the word wimp. It sounded so horrible and feeble and ugly and pimply.

  ‘Don’t call Micky silly names,’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, it’s true. He really is a wimp. Even Dad says so,’ said Marigold, reaching through the bars to pat the strange grey puppy. ‘Dad says I should have been his boy because I’ve got all the spark, while Micky’s just a wimp.’

  Micky burned all over. He shut his eyes, his whole skin prickling, itching unbearably. He could still hear the howling but now it seemed to be right inside his own head. He ground his teeth . . . and then suddenly Marigold screamed.

  Micky opened his eyes. He stared at his shrieking sister. The grey puppy had a fierce grip of her finger and was biting hard with his little razor teeth.

  ‘Get it off me! Help, help! Oh, Mum, help, it hurts!’ Marigold yelled.

  A very naughty little grin bared Micky’s teeth – almost as if he was biting too. Then he shook his head and Marigold managed to snatch her finger away from the savage little pup.

  ‘Bad boy,’ said Miss Webb to the excited puppy. ‘I’m so sorry he went for you, dear. Mind you, I did try to warn you. You mustn’t ever take silly risks with stray dogs. Let’s have a look at that finger and see what damage has been done.’

  ‘It’s bleeding!’ Marigold screamed.

  ‘Come on now, lovey, it’s only a little scratch,’ said Mum, giving her a cuddle.

  ‘Still, it’s better not to take any risks. We’ll give it a dab of disinfectant and find you a bandage,’ said Miss Webb.

  She led the wailing Marigold back into the house. Mum followed, looking a little agitated.

  Micky didn’t follow. He stayed where he was, out by the dog pens. He took no notice of all the ordinary dogs, obedient in their pens. He didn’t even give the cute Labrador puppies snuggled in their basket a second glance. He only had eyes for the strange grey puppy that had bitten Marigold.

  It ran towards Micky. Micky didn’t back away. He didn’t feel so scared. And the puppy seemed to have perked up too. He didn’t howl any more. He made little friendly snuffling sounds.

  ‘You just bit my sister,’ Micky whispered.

  The puppy coughed several times. It sounded almost as if he was chuckling. Micky started giggling too.

  ‘That was bad,’ Micky spluttered, his hand over his mouth so they wouldn’t hear back in the house. ‘But we don’t care, do we?’

  The puppy shook his head. He came right up against the bars of his pen, sticking out his soft pointed snout. His amber eyes were wide and trusting now.

  ‘Are you trying to make friends?’ Micky asked.

  The puppy snuffled.

  ‘Hello, puppy,’ Micky said, and he reached through the bars to pat the puppy’s head, though Marigold had just demonstrated that this was a very dangerous thing to do.

  ‘But you’re not going to bite me, are you?’ said Micky.

  The puppy twitched his nose and blinked his eyes. Micky very gently touched the coarse grey fur. His hand was trembling. The puppy quivered too, but stayed still. Micky held his breath and started stroking very softly. The puppy pressed up even closer, in spite of the hard bars. His pink tongue came out and he licked Micky’s bare knee.

  ‘We’re pals, right?’ Micky whispered.

  The puppy licked several times.

  ‘Hey, I’m not a lollipop,’ Micky giggled, wiping at his slobbery knee.

  The puppy licked harder, sharing the joke. He managed to get one paw through the bars. He held it out to Micky. Micky shook the hard little pad solemnly.

  ‘How do you do,’ said Micky. ‘I’m Micky. And that silly girl you bit was my sister Marigold.’

  The puppy grinned wolfishly.

  ‘You didn’t half go for her, didn’t you,’ said Micky, and they had another giggle together, the puppy giving little barks of glee.

  ‘Micky! Get away from that dog!’ Mum suddenly cried, rushing out of the back of the house. ‘How can you be so stupid? Look what he just did to Marigold.’

  ‘He won’t bite me,’ said Micky calmly.

  ‘Do as your mum says,’ said Miss Webb, returning with Marigold. Marigold was still blotched with tears and she held her bandaged finger high in the air to show it off. ‘That puppy is much too unpredictable. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.’

  ‘I’ll take him as my pet,’ said Mi
cky, and the puppy stiffened and then licked him rapturously.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Micky,’ said Mum, trying to pull him away.

  ‘I’m not being silly, Mum. I want this dog,’ said Micky.

  ‘No!’ Marigold protested. ‘We’re not having that horrible mangy nasty thing. It bites. My finger hurts and hurts. I shall maybe have to go to the hospital to get it all stitched up.’

  ‘Marigold, I told you, it’s only a scratch,’ said Mum. ‘Now, Micky, leave that bad puppy alone and come and look at some of the other dogs.’

  ‘No, Mum. I want this one. Please. I must have this puppy.’

  ‘What about these other puppies over here? They’re half Labradors and they’re very gentle and docile. Look at the little black one with the big eyes. He’d make a much better pet. See, he’s much prettier than that puppy there,’ said Miss Webb.

  ‘I don’t mind him not being pretty. I like the way he looks,’ said Micky, and he had both arms through the bars now, holding the puppy tight.

  ‘Micky, will you leave go of him?’ said Mum. ‘You’re really the weirdest little boy. One minute you’re scared stiff of all dogs and then the next you make friends with the most vicious little creature. What is it, anyway? Alsatian?’

  ‘It’s certainly mostly German shepherd but it’s got something else mixed up with it. Something very odd,’ said Miss Webb.

  ‘I know,’ said Micky, nodding solemnly. ‘And I want him so. Oh, Mum, please, please, please.’

  ‘No, he’s not to have him, Mum! He’ll bite me again,’ Marigold protested furiously.

  Mum dithered between the two of them, looking helpless. Micky looked up at her, his big brown eyes glinting amber in the sunlight.

  ‘You said it was going to be my pet. I had to choose him. And I’ve chosen,’ said Micky.

  Mum sighed. ‘All right, then. You can have that one if you really must. Only I still think it’s a very silly choice.’

  Micky knew it was the only possible choice. He had the most magical pet in the whole world. His very own werewolf. Well, not quite a werewolf yet. A werepuppy.