by H. Y. Hanna
She turned back to the door and threw herself at it again, but this time, instead of pawing the handle, she attacked the bottom corner with her teeth. She had heard of Great Danes chewing up entire walls and doors when left home alone. Well, maybe it was time she channelled a bit of Separation Anxiety. She dug and pawed and bit and chewed, wincing as she felt wooden splinters pierce her skin. Then she felt something give. She grabbed the edge of the door even harder with her teeth and pulled with all her might. There was a sudden crack and a splintering sound and then the door yanked open, crooked on its hinges.
“Honey! You did it!” Biscuit jumped up with delight.
They all staggered out, choking and gasping as black smoke billowed out of the door behind them. They collapsed on the floor a few feet away, panting harshly. Honey was suddenly aware of a throbbing pain in her right paw. She looked down—it had been badly burnt, the skin showing raw and tender, some parts bleeding. It must have been when she was walking through the flames and felt that sharp, hot bite of pain. She tried to lick it and winced.
Faintly in the distance, Honey could hear the sounds of humans shouting and dogs barking ... then a high wailing sound which echoed Biscuit and Suka’s earlier howling.
“Sirens,” said Suka. “Fire engines. They’re coming to put out the fire.”
Honey sighed and relaxed. Help was coming. But it’s OK, she thought, dropping her head down wearily and looking around at the others. They had all gotten out safely already.
Wait.
She looked around again, her heart suddenly jumping in her chest.
“Where’s Ruffster?” Honey sprang up.
“Ruffster? I thought he was with us ...” Suka looked around, her eyes starting to widen in alarm.
Dior sat up next to his sister, who was slumped over, her eyes glazed. He looked with concern back through the door. “Is he still inside?”
“Oh, mon Dieu—Ruffster is inside! He is still in the fire!” Colette whimpered, struggling to stand up.
“NO!” Honey cried, trying to run towards the door. Pain shot through her burnt paw and she gasped as she fell onto her side. She tried to stand up again, but she could barely put her weight on her right paw.
“The humans are coming,” said Biscuit weakly. “They’ll rescue him—”
“There’s no time to wait for the humans,” said Dior. “We have to get him out now.”
“Wait—” said Suka.
But he was gone. Without a backwards look, he charged through the doorway and was lost in the blaze.
“Dior!” screamed Tiffany, scrabbling to push herself upright.
Honey hobbled to the door, followed by the others. They peered anxiously into the fire, coughing as smoke rolled out through the doorway. They could see nothing except raging orange and yellow flames and columns of black smoke rising up and out through the gap in the ceiling.
Then Honey saw a movement to the left. It was Dior! He was sniffing something on the floor ... a slumped form half buried under a pile of rubble. Honey saw the one upright ear, the scruffy tufts of fur. Ruffster.
Dior reached down, grasped the mongrel mutt by his scruff, and tugged. Ruffster’s body heaved and rolled out from under the rubble. Dior paused to get a better grip with his teeth, then tugged again, pulling Ruffster’s body with him as he started making his way back towards the doorway.
“He’s got him!” Suka wagged her tail with delight.
Honey watched tensely as the big Afghan pulled her friend’s body slowly towards safety. A stack of cardboard boxes crumbled next to them and went up in flames. Two wooden chairs which had been stacked on top of one another suddenly toppled as fire engulfed them, falling perilously close to Dior in a shower of sparks which singed his silver coat. The big Afghan blinked, but didn’t pause as he continued hauling Ruffster towards the doorway.
As he neared them, Biscuit and Suka sprang forwards through the doorway and grabbed hold of Ruffster too, helping to pull his limp body through. Finally, they were all out and collapsed again on the floor.
Honey heard screams and shouts behind her and turned to see the arena door thrown open and humans running in. She felt hands reach for her, hug her, guide her gently out of the arena. All around her, there was shouting and men in yellow helmets and shiny yellow coats carrying long hoses. Then she smelled water. She turned to look back just before she was led out of the arena door. Huge jets of water were shooting out of the hoses and into the storeroom doorway, dousing the fire.
Outside, Honey took a deep breath of the fresh night air and gave herself a good shake. Olivia rushed over and smothered her in a hug, crying and sobbing. Honey closed her eyes and savoured the feeling of being hugged close. She opened her eyes and looked around to see that her friends were being reunited too. Biscuit was squirming happily in his Missus’s arms; Suka was up on her hind legs, her front paws on her Boy’s chest, licking his face ecstatically; Colette was being crushed by Marie in a tearful hug; and the Afghan Lady had both her arms around Tiffany and Dior.
Then she saw Ruffster’s Guy crouching next to a man with a yellow helmet, both of them bent over the limp form of her friend. They held a clear plastic cone, with a tube connected to a small cylinder, over Ruffster’s nose and mouth. Her heart clenched as she saw their grim expressions.
Oh no.
Then she saw Ruffster’s Guy begin to smile—and saw the mongrel mutt’s chest rise and fall. They’re helping him breathe, she realised. Gradually, her friend began to stir and open his eyes. They held the plastic cone to Ruffster’s face a few minutes longer, then slowly let him sit up. Ruffster’s Guy reached for him and held him close, burying his face in Ruffster’s scruffy fur.
Honey sighed and relaxed. This time they all really were safe.
When Olivia let her go, Honey hobbled slowly over to Ruffster, who was looking around in a daze.
“What happened, mate?” he demanded.
“Some of the stuff in the storeroom caught fire. Oh, it was horrible, Ruffster.” Honey gulped. “You got knocked out and we didn’t realise you were still in the fire. Then Dior went back in to rescue you and we thought—”
“Dior?” Ruffster turned his head and stared at the big Afghan who was standing a few feet away. “Dior rescued me?”
“Yes,” said Honey softly. “He risked his life to save you.”
Ruffster got slowly to his feet and wobbled over to Dior. He stared in dismay as he got close. The big Afghan’s coat was completely ruined—the silver hair had been burnt away in many places and blackened in others. Even the long hairs around his face had been singed, so that there was nothing left but a few ragged strands.
Ruffster shuffled his paws. “Thanks, mate, for saving my life.” He paused, then added, “Sorry about ... earlier ... you know, the stuff I said ... thinkin’ you were up to no good—”
“I should apologise too.” Dior inclined his head. “My behaviour hasn’t been commendable either. I ... I can be too arrogant at times.”
“Mate ...” Ruffster hesitated. “Your coat ...”
Dior shrugged. “It’ll grow back.”
“But the show ... what about the ‘Best in Show’ title tomorrow?” asked Ruffster. “You can’t win it now!” He stared at the big Afghan. “You gave up your chance ... for me?”
Dior looked at him evenly. “There will be other chances to win. But there is only one you.”
CHAPTER 26
The dogs circled the ring one last time and everyone held their breath. Which one would the judge choose as the “Best in Show”?
Honey lay next to Olivia’s chair, her bandaged paw tucked under her, watching the dogs sail past. Farther along the row, her friends sat beside their humans and watched eagerly as well. All around them, people waited tensely, their eyes riveted on the show ring. If you didn’t know better, you would never have guessed that another tragedy had almost happened last night, but Honey could see, far on the other side of the arena, the bright yellow tape cordoning off the blacken
ed area that was all that was left of the storeroom.
She turned her eyes back to the show ring. The judge walked slowly down the line of dogs, each perfectly posed, heads high, necks arched, legs extended—the model specimens of their breeds. His eyes darted thoughtfully from one dog to another as he fingered the rosettes he held in his hands.
Then, making a decision, he strode forwards: first to the man with the Bloodhound—Second Place ... and then to a woman standing next to a young Cocker Spaniel. He handed her the gold rosette. First Place. Ferrari had won “Best in Show”.
The crowd exploded into applause as the woman squealed and hugged Ferrari. Then she picked up his lead and took him for a victory lap around the show ring. The young Cocker Spaniel trotted around with a smug expression as everybody cheered.
“Well, he does deserve to win,” said Anja next to Honey. “But, oh liver ... he is going to be really unbearable now.” She rolled her eyes.
Honey grinned. “One day, someone will knock him down to size.”
“Just let him try to get too cocky,” muttered Ruffster beside them. “I’ll make sure everybody knows about his cute blankie habit!”
The judge motioned Ferrari and his human towards the podium and the silver trophy cup that was waiting for them there. Honey glanced over at Dior, who was lying next to the Afghan Lady a few feet away, his beautiful silver coat now shaved into a short fuzz around his body. She wondered how he felt, looking at the trophy that he was giving up. But if he felt any regrets, he didn’t show it—his long, aristocratic face was serene as he watched the ring.
Olivia picked up her camera and left her seat, heading for the podium. Ferrari swaggered over to the silver trophy cup and climbed up on the podium. Puffing his chest out, he posed, knowing that every eye was going to be on him. He looked around with smug satisfaction, waiting for the applause to start. But the clapping faltered and a hush fell over the arena as everybody suddenly looked beyond the podium to the main doors.
Coming slowly through the open doorway was an old dog. His coat was dirty and matted, his gait stiff, but he held his head high and his brown eyes, through the dreadlocks, were bright. He was a Hungarian Puli and he walked like a champion returning home.
There was a gasp from the crowd. A woman stood up, hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. She took a few hesitant steps forwards and said faintly, “Graf?”
The old dog wagged his tail.
The woman cried out and rushed across the hall, throwing her arms around him. The crowd broke into an uproar. Suddenly, everybody was talking and asking questions at once. More people rushed to the old dog and fussed over him. Graf’s owner wiped her eyes and smiled through her tears.
“Great Dog Star, is that really Graf?” asked Anja, craning her neck to see. “I can’t believe it! I thought he was dead!” She turned to Honey. “You don’t seem so surprised ... did you know?”
Honey started to explain about their trip to the big hill and how they found the old Puli, then she stopped herself. No, it was Graf’s story to tell.
But perhaps he wouldn’t need to.
Honey watched as Graf’s owner slowly straightened and began to talk, her voice carrying clearly across the arena, as she confessed to what had happened ten years ago. People’s faces showed shock, horror and disgust as she slowly recounted the whole story. She bowed her head at the end and, for a moment, there was silence. Then the angry voices started—the frowns, the indignant shouts, the shrill accusations of blame. The woman stood with her head bowed through the whole thing and Graf stood next to her, trembling. Honey’s heart went out to him. This was his worst nightmare come true.
Then the “Best in Show” judge took a step forwards and something in his face made the crowd fall silent. He reached out and touched Graf’s owner gently on the shoulder. It was a gesture of understanding. And forgiveness.
The crowd that filled the arena late that afternoon was as big as that for the “Best in Show” finale, but this time there was no cheering, no applause. Instead, everybody murmured excitedly amongst themselves as they waited. Finally a man appeared at the back of the arena and began walking towards the wall of winners’ portraits. It was the judge and he was carrying a large rectangular object in his hands. An expectant hush fell over the crowd as he arrived at the wall. He reached up and carefully removed the last picture in the line of champions—the one of Graf. Then he replaced it with a new portrait. This one showed a young Weimaraner standing proudly, his pale, grey coat gleaming on a lean, muscular body, his amber eyes smiling. Underneath the picture was etched the year, the pedigree name—and then simply, “Oskar”.
Honey looked through the crowd and met Graf’s eyes. The Puli had been cleaned up: his coat shaved, washed, and groomed, and now restored to its original white colour, with the one grey ear showing clearly. He looked like a different dog—not just because of his coat, but because of the light in his eyes. The judge walked over to him and patted him gently on the head. Graf looked at Honey and wagged his tail.
People began clapping. A different kind of clapping. And dogs began to bark. Honey saw Graf lift his head, his eyes shining, to look at Oskar’s portrait. And then suddenly, from the corners of the arena, came the howling. People gasped and looked around, their faces tense at first ... but then slowly they relaxed, their eyes dreamy. This was not the eerie, mournful howling of before. This was the howling of happiness, the howling of a dog saying goodbye.
Honey turned her head and saw something shimmer in the arena doorway. A pale, grey, ghostly dog. The Phantom Hound. He looked at her for the last time, his amber eyes soft and his tail wagging. Thank you. Then he turned and faded into the light. Honey knew that she would never see him again.
Olivia grunted as she shoved her camera bags into the back seat of her car, grumbling and muttering to herself as she tried to fit everything securely. Honey stood next to the boot and watched the other caravans and cars around them being packed up: crates being collapsed, towels being folded, grooming brushes collected into pouches ... and dogs sniffing bums and wagging tails, bidding each other goodbye.
“I think you could have been a great show dog if you’d wanted to.”
Honey turned to find Dior walking up to her. Even with his coat shaved, the big Afghan was still stunning, his every movement graceful and elegant. She gave him a teasing wag of her tail. “You mean I wasn’t bad for a pet dog wannabe.”
He gave a slightly sheepish smile. “Maybe it was just as well everything happened as it did. I think you could have been stiff competition for me in the ring.”
Honey laughed. “Yeah, right.” She shook her head and Dior ducked to avoid the glob of drool that flew from her jowls. Honey looked over at the Afghans’ car and then back at Dior. “Is Tiffany ...?”
“My human has decided to find her a nice pet home,” said Dior. “Our neighbour adores Tiffy and would love to adopt her. I think Tiffy would be much happier living with her. She would get loads of fuss and attention. She’s not a bad dog,” he said hesitantly. “It’s just ... some dogs aren’t cut out to be show dogs. They lose sight of what it’s really about. It’s not about the winning, you know.”
“What do you mean?” Honey stared at him in astonishment. “But I thought everybody wants to win?”
“Of course, we’d all like to win. But showing is a sport. And every sport is not just about winning or losing, but the challenge of doing your best.” He sighed. “I wish Tiffy could have understood that.”
“Maybe she does now,” said Honey gently.
“Hey, mate, you seen Suka and Biscuit?” asked Ruffster, coming up to join them.
“Suka’s left already,” said Honey. “Her Boy has to get up early for school tomorrow, so they left first. I think Biscuit is still around. But we’ll probably see them at the dog park later in the week anyway.” She paused, her eyes on a yellow car with a sloping roof nearby. A woman was busy loading bags into the boot and a beautiful French Poodle with a snow-white coat stood next to her.
“Oh, look, there’s Colette. She came up to me earlier to say goodbye and she was looking for you, Ruffster.”
Ruffster dropped his head and shuffled his paws.
Honey looked at him quizzically. “Don’t you want to say goodbye?”
“Don’t know what to say,” muttered Ruffster. “Don’t even look nice and groomed no more. Just back to a scruffy mongrel now.”
Honey heaved a sigh of exasperation. She started to say something but the sound of an engine humming made them look up. Marie had started the yellow car and was calling to Colette to hop in. The French Poodle looked around once more, wistfully, then her tail drooped and she climbed into the front passenger seat next to her human. The door slammed and they watched as the yellow car moved away. It turned in a wide circle around the parking area and joined the lane leading out to the main road. They saw Colette’s face appear at the front window, her eyes still hopeful.
Dior turned to Ruffster. “Are you just going to let her go like that?” he demanded. “Then you’re even less of a dog than I thought you were.”
Ruffster hunched miserably. “Don’t know what to say, mate.”
“Just tell her what’s in your heart.”
“I ... I can’t!” said Ruffster. “What if she doesn’t like me? What if she—” he gulped, “—laughs at me?”
“What if she doesn’t’?” said Dior. “You’ll never know if you don’t try. Do you want to know the real reason I’m a champion? Not because of my fancy looks or clever tricks or even cheating ... it’s because I’ve never been afraid to try.”
Ruffster stared at him for a moment, then looked towards the yellow car. It was gathering speed now. In a minute, it would be turning out onto the main road and then it would be gone. It was now or never.
Ruffster drew a deep breath and took off at a run. He shot across the parking area and began chasing the yellow car, his legs stretching out in front of him in a full gallop. Faster and faster he ran, his tongue lolling out, his one upright ear flapping in the wind. The other dogs turned to watch. Somebody barked, “Go, mongrel!”