by Jean Ure
Harriet fetched Poochie’s lead. Unlike normal dogs, he didn’t jump up and down or start turning in circles. He didn’t seem to know what a lead was for.
“Walkies!” said Harriet; but Poochie just looked at her.
Determinedly, she led him out through the front gate. Where should they go? Harriet decided that they would walk up the road towards the park.
They wouldn’t go into the park; but at least Poochie could stand by the gates and look at all the grass and the trees and the other dogs enjoying themselves.
On the way there, they bumped into Stinky Allport carrying his football.
“What’s that?” said Stinky, pointing at Poochie.
“It’s my dog,” said Harriet.
“Dog?” said Stinky. “Call that a dog?”
“Well, it’s not actually mine,” said Harriet. “But it’s a good dog.”
Stinky bounced his football. “What’s it called?”
Harriet hesitated. “Tiger,” she said.
“Tiger?”
“’Cause he’s actually very fierce. I know he doesn’t look it, but he is. He’s a hound from hell,” said Harriet.
“Oh, yeah?” said Stinky.
“He is so!” said Harriet.
Stinky plainly wasn’t convinced. He eyed Poochie contemptuously.
“My aunt’s got a German shepherd,” he said.
“He’d see off a German shepherd any day! German shepherd’s nothing to him.”
They reached the gates of the park.
“Coming in, then?” said Stinky.
Harriet shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m –”
She was about to say she wasn’t allowed to get Poochie in a mess.
She stopped.
“What’s the problem?” jeered Stinky. “Scared he might get ate up by other dogs?”
“It’s not that,” said Harriet. “I’m scared he might attack them. I know he’s only small, but he goes for the legs.”
She gazed down at Poochie, on the end of his lead. For the first time since he had come to them, he was looking almost like a real dog. His ears were up, his eyes were bright, his nose was twitching.
“I suppose I could just walk him on the path,” she said.
Harriet and Stinky, with Poochie on his lead, walked into the park and set off along the path. They had only gone a few yards when from out of nowhere an enormous black dog appeared. It was about twenty times the size of Poochie: it was almost the size of Harriet.
Its head was bigger by far than Stinky’s football – and it was making straight for them, snorting and roaring, at the speed of an express train!
“Run for it!” yelled Stinky.
Stinky legged it to the nearest tree. Harriet bent to snatch up Poochie, but before she could do so the big black dog was upon them.
Harriet froze. The dog put its head down to sniff at Poochie’s backside. Poochie sprang round. He bared his teeth and made a noise that sounded to Harriet like swearing.
The big black dog didn’t stay to argue: it turned and bolted, its stumpy tail between its legs.
“Phew!” said Harriet.
“Has it gone?” Stinky emerged cautiously from behind his tree. “You know what that was? That was a Rottweiler, that was!”
A Rottweiler! And Poochie had seen it off!
“Told you he was fierce,” said Harriet. She patted Poochie’s top knot. “Good dog!”
“I thought it best to keep away,” explained Stinky. “They manage better on their own.”
Poochie had certainly managed on his own. Harriet felt quite proud of him.
“You gonna let him off?” said Stinky.
Harriet wrestled with her conscience. Her mum had said not to; Cousin Birdie had said not to; but what harm could it do?
He wasn’t going to go anywhere. All he was going to do was just walk along the path with Harriet and Stinky.
“All right,” said Harriet. She unclipped Poochie’s lead.
“Heel!” she said. “Good dog!”
Poochie didn’t know about “heel”. He had never in his life before been let off the lead … he had never in his life before seen so much open space!
He took one look, spotted a puddle of mud, and dived joyfully towards it.
“Hoy!” shrieked Harriet. “Get out of there!”
She might as well have saved her breath. Poochie was in ecstasy. He was rolling on his back, to and fro, to and fro, in the lovely squidgy, slushy mud. He was being a dog at last! A real dog!
“Cripes,” said Harriet, as the black stinking mess that was Poochie hauled itself out of the puddle.
Poochie shook himself vigorously, scraped the ground with his front paws and went tearing off across the grass in pursuit of a German shepherd dog.
“Stop him!” yelled Stinky. “It’ll eat him alive!”
Harriet and Stinky went tearing off in pursuit.
Too late! By the time they arrived an outraged owner was hauling at the German shepherd’s collar and making furious shooshing motions at Poochie.
“Do you mind getting your dog away from my bitch?” yelled the owner.
Poochie didn’t want to come away from the German shepherd; he had obviously taken a fancy to her.
“Right little goer, isn’t he?” Stinky said it admiringly. “Let’s teach him to play football.”
Now that he was off the lead, Poochie was a different dog. He soon picked up the idea of playing football. They had a wonderful game all across the park, with Harriet and Stinky passing the ball and Poochie doing his best to intercept.
Then they reached the woody bit, where there were squirrels to chase and undergrowth to explore. Poochie’s red ribbon disappeared, and he got burrs and bits of leaf and twig all tangled up in his lovely silky coat, which actually wasn’t lovely and silky any more but filthy and matted.
Harriet regarded him in dismay. This was the dog that was going to beat Maude Ffinch and her Laddy Boy into a cocked hat!
“A dirty dog is a happy dog,” said Stinky, who by this time was rather dirty himself.
Poochie stood panting, looking up at them, bright-eyed, through a fringe of hair.
“I dunno what Mum’s going to say,” worried Harriet. She took out her handkerchief to try and wipe off some of the mud, but by now it had dried as hard as rock cake.
“I know!” shouted Stinky. “He can go and swim in the lake!”
Poochie liked swimming in the lake. In fact he liked it so much that he refused to come out and Harriet and Stinky had to wade in after him.
All three of them emerged covered in duckweed and green slime. Poochie looked worse than ever.
Oh, well, thought Harriet; it was only a bit of mud. It would wash out. They could use Lynn’s special shampoo and conditioner, and then dry him with Lynn’s hair dryer and get him all silky again before Cousin Birdie turned up. She would never need to know.
As they ambled back down the path, with Stinky and Harriet idly kicking the football and Poochie making little forays on to the grass to investigate interesting smells, a big tweedy woman came striding towards them with another Yorkshire terrier. This one had a blue bow in its top knot.
Blue bow took one look at Poochie and flew at him, frothing with rage. As Harriet said afterwards, it wasn’t Poochie’s fault. He had been quietly minding his own business, sniffing at a smell. But naturally, if a dog jumps you, you have to defend yourself.
Poochie defended himself vigorously.
The tweedy woman bawled, “Get him off! Get him off! Before he marks him!”
Harriet made a grab at some flying fur: the woman snatched it from her.
“Laddy Boy! My poor Laddy Boy! What did the nasty vicious doggie do to you?”
So that was Laddy Boy, was it? The famous Laddy Boy that Poochie was going to beat into a cocked hat.
“Mine didn’t do anything,” said Harriet. “It was yours that started it.”
“How dare you!” said the woman. “My Laddy Boy wouldn
’t harm a flea.”
“Ought to be locked up,” muttered Harriet, as she and Stinky went on their way, with Poochie safely back on the lead.
“Poochie didn’t do a thing,” she crooned, “did you?”
“Didn’t stand a chance,” said Stinky. He studied Poochie a moment. “Looks to me,” he said, “as if it’s gone and ate a bit of his ear.”
“What?” Harriet dropped to her knees beside Poochie.
She gave a wail. It was true! The tip of one of Poochie’s ears was missing!
“But it’s all right,” said Stinky, “’cause ours came away with a mouthful of fur, so I reckon they was quits.”
Poochie stepped out on the way home like a dog who is not so much quits as positively triumphant. He swaggered, he pranced, he puffed himself up.
He had seen off a Rottweiler, made overtures to a German shepherd, rolled in the mud, swum in the lake, and had a punch-up with the hated Laddy Boy. What more could a dog desire?
Poochie was in his seventh heaven of bliss – but Cousin Birdie was not going to be. Nor was Harriet’s mum.
Harriet’s mum was going to go raving mad. She would stop Harriet’s pocket money, for sure.
“Maybe …” Stinky bounced his football. “Maybe you could tell ’em –”
“What?” said Harriet.
“I dunno,” said Stinky. He paused, at his front gate. “See you tomorrow?”
“Don’t expect so,” said Harriet. “Don’t expect I’ll be let go anywhere tomorrow. Expect I’ll be shut up in my room eating bread and water.”
Harriet had done some dreadful things in her time. She had locked the headmaster in the gardening shed; she had put a red T-shirt into the washing machine and dyed all the sheets and pillow cases in streaky shades of pink; she had set fire to the back fence; she had cut a hole in the carpet – but none of it was as bad as letting Cousin Birdie’s prize Yorkie get the tip of his ear bitten off.
Now she was going to be for it!
She smuggled Poochie in through the back gate, hoping that at least she might be able to dump him in the sink and wash away the mud before Mum caught sight of him.
Maybe if he was all silky and brushed nobody would notice the tip of his ear. After all, it was only a very tiny piece of ear.
She pushed open the kitchen door and lifted Poochie to put him in the sink. There was a screech. Harriet spun round in alarm. Cousin Birdie was standing there!
“What have you done with my Poochie?” screamed Cousin Birdie.
Just Harriet’s luck! Cousin Birdie had come back earlier than expected.
Needless to say, she noticed the ear immediately. She noticed the ear almost even before she noticed the mud.
That was it, she said. The dog was ruined. He was never going to beat Maude Ffinch into a cocked hat now. Harriet might just as well take him away and – and give him to the first person she saw!
Harriet was shocked. Give him away? Give Poochie away? Just because a tiny piece of his ear was missing? She’d never heard such wickedness!
“Well, he’s no use to me,” said Cousin Birdie.
Mum, doing her best, said that of course she and Dad would buy Cousin Birdie a replacement. But Cousin Birdie said she didn’t want another one, thank you very much; Poochie was the last of a line.
If Mum and Dad felt guilty, they could buy her some tomato plants, instead. She was going to take up market gardening. She had had enough of dog shows: she was sick of all the jealousy and pettiness that went on.
“That Maude Ffinch and her precious Laddy Boy. Let her win first prize! See if I care!”
“I don’t think she will win first prize,” said Harriet, running water into the sink. “I don’t think she’ll win any sort of prize. Poochie pulled a lump of Laddy Boy’s fur out.”
Cousin Birdie’s face lit up.
“Did he really?” she said. “How utterly splendid!”
When Cousin Birdie went home next day, she left Poochie in Harriet’s care.
“He’s yours,” she said, “if you want him.”
Harriet turned breathlessly to her mum.
“Mum,” she said. “Can I?”
Mum just humped a shoulder.
Fat Cat, curled into a ball in Poochie’s basket, opened one eye and twitched a whisker. That dog had better behave itself!
After lunch, a new-look, bristle-cut Poochie, minus his top knot and red ribbon, strode purposefully up the road with Harriet.
At the gates to the park they met Stinky and Wendy Williams.
“What’s that?” said Wendy, pointing.
“This is my dog,” said Harriet.
“Dog?” said Wendy. “Call that a dog?”
“Hound from hell,” said Stinky. “Sees off Rottweilers … that’s a good dog, that is! Hey, Tiger!”
He bent and snapped his fingers.
“How about a game of football?”
Also by Jean Ure
Lemonade Sky
Love and Kisses
Fortune Cookie
Star Crazy Me!
Over the Moon
Boys Beware
Sugar and Spice
Is Anybody There?
Secret Meeting
Passion Flower
Shrinking Violet
Boys on the Brain
Skinny Melon and Me
Becky Bananas, This is Your Life!
Fruit and Nutcase
The Secret Life of Sally Tomato
Family Fan Club
Ice Lolly
Special three-in-one editions
The Tutti-Frutti Collection
The Flower Power Collection
The Friends Forever Collection
And for younger readers
Dazzling Danny
Daisy May
Monster in the Mirror
Copyright
HarperCollins Children’s Books
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by Collins Children’s Books 1996
Text © Jean Ure 1996
Illustrations copyright © Stephen Lee 1996
The author and illustrator assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work.
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Source ISBN: 9780006751519
EBook Edition © JUNE 2013 ISBN: 9780007480326
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