The Dotty Dalmatian

by Anna Wilson

  But Marble had stepped even closer towards the poor little old lady. ‘Hot tea,’ she insisted. ‘With lots of sugar.’

  ‘Of course, Marble dear,’ said Mrs Fudge, forcing herself to attend to the matter in hand. ‘I’ve made some blueberry muffins too. That’ll warm your cockles,’ she added.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said the difficult customer, crinkling her mouth dubiously. ‘I’m not sure I’m in the right mood for a muffin.’

  The barking, yapping, yelping, tail-wagging, gossiping and attention-seeking of both dogs and people had reached an unbearable pitch by now. Pippa saw that Mrs Fudge was stuck with Marble. She glanced at Dash, and Dash glanced at Pippa, and they exchanged a look which clearly said ‘We’ll have to take control of this!’

  The little dachshund took a deep breath and, leaping up on to the counter by the cash register, he addressed the dogs by barking as loud as he had ever barked in his life: ‘Everyone, please be quiet and listen to Pippa!’

  Pippa also climbed up on to the counter (not a very safe thing to do, but on occasions such as this, necessity comes before safety) and raised her voice for the benefit of the human customers. ‘Mrs Fudge will see all of you in turn, but you must come out of the salon to give us space to work. Don’t worry, I will find somewhere for you all to wait.’

  She raised her eyebrows at Dash, who straight away took on the role of rounding up the dogs, taking the livelier ones out into the garden and the older ones into the kitchen, where there were spare dog beds. Meanwhile, Pippa settled as many as she could on the pooch-parlour tables, ready to be groomed, and led some customers out to the kitchen to find refreshments.

  But Marble was refusing to cooperate. ‘Snooks needs his coat clipped,’ she said rudely. ‘And he needs it doing now. I cannot wait.’

  ‘Be nice if you said “please” just this once,’ muttered Pippa, who had returned looking hot and bothered.

  ‘What?’ snapped Marble.

  Pippa glared at the old trout, her turquoise eyes glittering, and fixing a sour smile on to her lips she said, ‘I asked if I should check him for fleas just this once?’

  Marble snorted. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’

  ‘No flea would dare come near you, Marble,’ said Dash, coming back from the kitchen.

  Pippa stifled a giggle.

  But Marble was oblivious to the cheeky comment: her broad behind was already perched on one of Mrs Fudge’s twirly-whirly chairs and she was bullying Mrs Fudge into giving her the exact hairstyle she wanted.

  Mrs Fudge listened patiently, and began the mammoth task of cutting and reshaping Marble’s bird’s nest of a barnet, while the pesky customer moaned about the weather and the price of milk.

  And Pippa zipped to and fro between the kitchen and salon, plying the customers with tea and cake in between her pooch-pampering duties. She started work on Snooks, who certainly did need a good old trim. But this was a job she loved, so she didn’t mind. (She had always been desperate to get her hands on the hair salon’s scissors but had never been allowed. Mrs Fudge had taught her how to use the clippers, as they were safer, and Pippa felt they were the next best thing.)

  I do like a bit of snipsnip-snippety snipping!

  Even so, it was hard to concentrate, what with the pandemonium around her. There were still far too many people and dogs in the salon having their hair done, their fur clipped and preened and their claws trimmed. (And if you think that’s a confusing sentence, it’s meant to be: it was a confusing scene.) All that could be seen of Pippa and Dash was a whirling dervish of red fur, red plaits, a feathery tail and skinny arms and legs, all muddled up together in a blur of frenzied action.

  Muffles, very sensibly, steered clear of everything, her little grey-and-white face appearing only occasionally around the door with a look of utter disgust on it. Cats do not appreciate any sort of hustle and bustle, and they certainly do not appreciate chaos.

  And unfortunately for Mrs Fudge, the morning went from hustly-and-bustly to chaotic to downright catastrophic in a very short space of time.

  ‘Dash, dear, could you pass the clippers for me?’

  ‘What are you doing, Mrs Fudge?’ chortled Marble. ‘You do realize you’re talking to your dog!’

  Mrs Fudge blushed. ‘S-sorry. I’m a little overstretched today, Marble,’ she stammered. ‘As you can see . . .’

  ‘Here you are, Mrs Fudge,’ Pippa called, zooming over to hand the old lady what she had asked for.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing!’ cried Mrs Peach, just in time to prevent Mrs Fudge from using the dog clippers to cut her hair.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ muttered poor Mrs Fudge, as she dropped the clippers in her confusion and hit someone’s puppy on the nose.

  The little dog went berserk, racing through people’s legs and in and out of the furniture, knocking into the other dogs and banging into discarded handbags. Dash did not help the situation by chasing after the poor pup and yelling at it to ‘Stop! Stop! You’re going to hurt someone!’

  Pippa meanwhile had slathered half a bottle of Mrs Fudge’s most expensive chamomile shampoo all over the coat of an Afghan hound, and had rubbed at it so vigorously that all that could be seen of the animal was a pair of sad eyes peering out of a mountain of frothy foam.

  By this time Dash had just caught a pack of mischievous mutts in the kitchen wolfing down a fresh batch of Mrs Fudge’s best apricot flapjacks and was roundly telling them off (which only added to the ear-splitting racket, of course). Then Raphael reappeared.

  ‘Hello, my darlin’s!’ he shouted above the noise.

  The sound of his booming voice was the last straw. All the dogs that had been in the garden came running at the sound of their favourite postie. They charged into the salon, barking, jumping up and whizzing about, setting the twirly-whirly chairs spinning and tying people up in knots with the flexes of hairdryers and tongs.

  Raphael was on his rollerblades as usual, so he too was sent spinning by the mad flurry of dogs and ended up tripping and landing on his bottom in the middle of the salon, with dogs of all shapes, sizes and colours piling on top of him in a bedraggled, overexcited heap.

  ‘Oh my goodness and heavens to mercy me!’ he cried. (Although it was more of a muffled shout than a cry, as his face was covered in dogs.) ‘What an al-might-y pa-la-ver!’

  Pippa at once set to pulling dogs off the poor postie, and Dash barked orders at the perplexed pups to ‘Get in line and behave yourselves!’ The dogs seemed as dazed as poor Raphael when he at last emerged from the pile of pooches, and so they did as they were told and meekly went to form a queue in the hall.

  ‘Mrs Fudge!’ exclaimed Raphael, once he had picked himself up and dusted himself free of dog hair. ‘What in the name o’ blazes is you doin’, sweetness? You has half de town in here today, by the looks of it. And no one to help you but little Pippa here. I know you said you were busy, but this is crazy, man!’

  There was a loud murmuring of agreement from all sides.

  Pippa put her hands on her hips and nodded, a thin-lipped expression of disapproval on her pale freckled face. ‘You are telling me it’s crazy!’ she said. ‘I only wish you could get Mrs Fudge to admit it. She won’t turn anyone away!’

  ‘Dears, please don’t talk about me as if I was in another room,’ said Mrs Fudge wearily. ‘I know I’ve been a bit of an old fool . . .’

  Dash rushed to her side. ‘You may have been overconfident in thinking you could fit everyone in,’ he said gently. ‘But you are not an old fool, and I won’t hear anyone tell you any different.’

  Pippa sighed and let her hands fall to her sides. ‘Of course you’re not an old fool,’ she said. ‘But look at this mess, Raphael. You have to agree that Mrs Fudge has bitten off more than she can chew.’

  The postie looked around him, nodding sagely. ‘I am with you there, Pippa darlin’,’ he said. ‘I tink all you good folk should be goin’ home and leavin’ poor Mrs Fudge to rest awhile. Pippa and I will be in touch
to sort tings out, won’t we, girl?’

  Pippa agreed. ‘Yes, I’ll call every one of you back to rebook, don’t worry,’ she assured the Crumblies.

  And between them, Dash, Raphael and Pippa rounded up the customers and their dogs and ushered everyone out of the door.

  3

  Raphael’s Solution

  ‘You’re right of course – all of you,’ Mrs Fudge admitted once Chop ’n’ Chat was quiet once more. ‘I can’t cope with another day like that. My bunions are throbbing, and my head is spinning.’

  Pippa was slumped at the kitchen table, her head resting on her skinny arms. Her long red hair was frizzled and frazzled, and her body felt like one of the wrung-out dishcloths hanging over the taps in the kitchen sink. Even a ten-and-a-half-year-old cannot keep up for long the level of rushing around that Pippa had done that day.

  ‘I feel as though I have done ten sports days in a row!’ she moaned, moving her neck in circles, then letting her head fall back down on to her arms. ‘I haven’t even got the energy to go home!’ came her muffled voice.

  ‘I have to admit that I am a little weary myself,’ yawned Dash, curling up in his basket by the stove. He tucked his feathery tail around his pointy face and was soon fast asleep – and letting out snores that were a sight louder than you would think a dog his size was capable of producing.

  Raphael sighed. ‘Well, I is not in a hurry to be goin’ home. I has been chased all over town by that spotty dog today! I is tellin’ you, that is one crazy animal. I don’t like it at all.’

  Pippa groaned. ‘Well, it had better not come anywhere near us,’ she said. ‘We’ve got enough dogs to look after as it is.’

  ‘And you still don’t know who it belongs to?’ asked Mrs Fudge.

  ‘No,’ said Raphael. ‘All I knows is, I is safer in than out at the moment, cos the spotty dog don’t like the postie! Or maybe it like me tooooo much.’ He shuddered. ‘Anyway, while I is here, I may as well be useful.’

  And he set to sweeping and tidying and clearing away the mess the day’s work had caused. He certainly seemed to make light work of it, whizzing to and fro on his rollerblades.

  Mrs Fudge watched him and said to Pippa with a yawn, ‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous to have Raphael help us out every day?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ said Pippa sleepily.

  ‘But that’s it, my darlin’s!’ said Raphael suddenly, slapping the table and making everyone jump.

  ‘That is the solution, right there, starin’ us all in de face.’

  ‘What’s that, dear?’ said Mrs Fudge shakily.

  ‘You is needin’ more than one pair of hands around here on a full-time basis, right?’ said Raphael.

  ‘Mrs Fudge has got me on a full-time basis!’ exclaimed Dash, looking up and putting his head on one side (which did make him look phenomenally cute, it has to be said).

  Thank you.

  You’re most welcome.

  Mrs Fudge couldn’t help smiling at the cheeky charmer. ‘I thought you were asleep!’ she teased. ‘But you’re right, I have got you, Dash, and you’re a dear.’

  ‘And what about me?’ said Pippa, mustering up enough energy to be indignant.

  ‘You’re a dear, too,’ agreed Mrs Fudge. ‘In fact, you are absolute gold dust—’

  ‘When she here!’ interrupted Raphael. ‘But, Pippa darlin’, you has to go to school. And do all de other tings ten-and-a-half-year-olds have to do. You don’t have enough free time.’

  ‘So – what are you saying?’ Pippa asked, an anxious feeling starting in the tips of her toes and creeping up her back and into her hair, making the ends of her long red pigtails crackle nervously.

  Muffles reacted to the tension in the room with a plaintive ‘Miaow?’

  ‘Don’t listen to the feline,’ quipped Dash. ‘That old furball rarely has anything useful to say.’

  ‘Roooaaaww!’ Muffles protested, baring her teeth at the little dog.

  ‘Oh you two, do be quiet,’ Mrs Fudge pleaded. ‘I have enough to worry about without you fighting like – well, cat and dog.’ She looked from Raphael to Pippa and sighed loudly. ‘You know, Raphael, I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. I am going to have to advertise for a full-time assistant.’

  ‘But—!’ Pippa leaped to her feet in outrage.

  ‘She’s right,’ said Dash.

  ‘NO!’ Pippa wailed. ‘I am Mrs Fudge’s assistant and she doesn’t need another one. We just have to be a bit more organized with our bookings, that’s all.’

  ‘No, that’s not all,’ Dash began, but he faltered when he saw the flash of steel in Pippa’s bright blue eyes and the way she was clenching and unclenching her tiny fists.

  ‘Pippa my darlin’,’ chipped in Raphael, ‘you can see how exhausted Mrs Fudge be.’

  ‘Ahem,’ said Mrs Fudge, peering over the top of her spectacles. ‘You are doing that thing again – talking about me as though I’m not here.’ Raphael and Dash looked shamefaced. Mrs Fudge continued. ‘I do think it is worth putting out an advertisement, Pippa. You never know, we might find someone who you will enjoy working with. It could be fun as well as helpful!’

  But Pippa did not think there could be anything fun about Mrs Fudge having a full-time assistant. She crossed her skinny arms tightly across her chest and stuck out her bottom lip in the most frightful scowl.

  Dash scuttled over and rubbed his soft head against her leg. ‘Come on, Pippa. Why don’t we think of things to put in an advertisement? You are so very good at writing and drawing – I’m sure you could come up with a brilliant poster.’

  Pippa eyed the little dog. ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. (She was a sucker for a compliment.) ‘I’ll get my pens.’ She fetched her bag and pulled out a pencil case and a notebook.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ said Mrs Fudge, patting her kindly on the arm.

  Pippa sat at the kitchen table and got out some felt-tips and opened her notebook at a fresh page. ‘What do you want to say in this advert then?’ she asked grudgingly.

  ‘Hmmm, let me tink a minute.’ Raphael began rollerblading up and down while he thought. ‘How’s about “Full-time assistant wanted to help out at Chop ’n’ Chat”? And then we must list the kind of qualities the person needs. To make sure that they are perfect for the job,’ he said. He began ticking things off on his fingers: ‘Must be punctual—’

  ‘I am punctual,’ said Pippa as she wrote it down.

  ‘Must be good with dogs,’ added Dash.

  ‘I am good with dogs,’ Pippa mumbled as she scribbled away.

  ‘Should have good customer-relation skills,’ said Mrs Fudge.

  ‘What does that mean and how do you spell it?’ asked Pippa, looking up from the page.

  ‘It mean the person must be good with people too,’ Raphael explained.

  ‘But I am all these things!’ Pippa protested.

  ‘Of course you are. You are tippity-top, mar-vell-ous help – when you are here,’ said Raphael, putting a friendly hand on her shoulder. ‘But even you can’t be in two places at once, can you now?’

  Pippa puffed out her cheeks and shook her head. ‘You’re right, Raphael. I know. Let’s finish the advertisement then.’

  And so they did. And this is what it looked like:

  Pippa coloured it in and drew lots of lovely pictures around the edge of dogs being groomed and people having their hair done.

  ‘Well done, Pippa, that is beautiful!’ exclaimed Mrs Fudge, giving her a cuddle. ‘We’ll soon have a string of suitable candidates rushing to our door.’ She looked her young friend in the eye and added, ‘But I’m sure none of them will be as wonderful as you, dear.’

  ‘They’d better not be,’ said Pippa (but under her breath so no one could hear her).

  4

  An Unlikely Candidate

  The advertisement for a new assistant sparked an electric current of gossip through Crumbly-under-Edge, the like of which had not been experienced since Trinity Meddler had arrived in the town. Eve
rywhere Pippa went on her skateboard she heard people talking about the advertisement: parents and teachers jabbered about it in the school yard; people queueing for a bus prattled about it; people in the library whispered about it; even the patients in the doctor’s surgery mumbled about it quietly to one another while they waited to be seen.

  ‘Everyone seems to have forgotten that Mrs Fudge already has an assistant,’ she muttered darkly, as she whizzed through the wet lanes and leaf-strewn alleys. ‘As soon as someone gets this job Mrs Fudge won’t want me at all.’

  But Pippa need not have worried. The first interview turned out to be a disaster. Mrs Fudge had organized it for a Friday afternoon so that Pippa could be there, but when Pippa arrived from school that day, she found her old friend looking rather perplexed.

  ‘I don’t quite know what to expect from this candidate,’ Mrs Fudge admitted. She was busy making tea and arranging pens and pencils and paper on the kitchen table. ‘The voice was so muffled on the phone, I could hardly make out a word the person was saying, and we got cut off before they could give me their name. Still,’ she sighed, ‘it’s the only call I’ve had so far, so I had better not judge too hastily.’

  However, both Pippa and Mrs Fudge felt their jaws go slack with astonishment when they discovered who the caller was. Surely, thought Pippa, as she gawped at the person on the doorstep, surely she hasn’t come for an interview?

  It was certainly the most unlikely candidate either of them could have imagined.

  ‘M-Marble?’ stammered Mrs Fudge, finding her voice. ‘I – I don’t seem to have a booking for you today, and I’m afraid I can’t fit you in just at present because I’m—’