by Ross Welford
Also by Ross Welford
Time Traveling with a Hamster
What Not to Do If You Turn Invisible
The 1,000 Year Old Boy
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Ross Welford
Cover art copyright © 2020 by Tom Clohosy Cole
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Schwartz & Wade Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Originally published in paperback in the UK by HarperCollins Children’s Books, London, in 2019.
Schwartz & Wade Books and the colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Welford, Ross, author.
Title: The dog who saved the world / Ross Welford.
Description: First edition. | New York: Schwartz & Wade Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, 2020. | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Audience: Grades 4–6. | Summary: “A girl and her dog set out to save the world from a deadly plague by time traveling into the future”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019043233 | ISBN 978-0-525-70748-6 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-0-525-70749-3 (library binding) | ISBN 978-0-525-70750-9 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Dogs—Juvenile fiction. | Time travel—Juvenile fiction. | Epidemics—Juvenile fiction. | Science fiction. | CYAC: Dogs—Fiction. | Time travel—Fiction. | Epidemics—Fiction. | Science fiction. | LCGFT: Science fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.W4355 Do 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9780525707509
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Contents
Cover
Other Titles
Title Page
Copyright
Whitley Bay, Not Many Years from Now
Introduction
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Part Three
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Part Four
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
I’ve got this framed poster on my bedroom wall that Dad got me for my birthday. I see it every morning and every night, so I know it by heart:
THE WISDOM OF THE DOGS
Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like dogs.
If what you want is buried, dig and dig until you find it.
Don’t bite if a growl is enough.
Like people in spite of their faults.
Start each day with a wagging tail.
Whatever your size, be brave.
Whatever your age, learn new tricks.
If someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit near,
and nuzzle them, gently.
It’s all true. Every single word. As I discovered last summer, when the world nearly ended.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, allow me to introduce (drumroll…):
Mr. Mash: The Dog Who Saved the World!
I love him more than anything. I know that sounds harsh on Dad and Clem, but I think they’ll understand, especially after what happened over that summer.
We don’t know exactly how old he is, how he became a stray, or even what sort of dog he might be. He’s got shaggy fur—gray, brown, and white—and ears that flop over at the ends. He’s got a cute, inquisitive face like a schnauzer; big soft eyes; and a strong, very waggy tail like a Labrador.
In other words, he’s a mishmash. When we got him from the St. Woof’s shelter, the re
verend said I could name him, and so I said “Mishmash,” which sounded like “Miss Mash,” but because he’s a boy dog, he became Mr. Mash.
Mr. Mash: my very best, very stupid friend. His tongue is far too big for his mouth, so it often just lolls out, making him look even sillier. He’s completely unable to tell if something is food or not, so he just eats it anyway. This, in turn, means he has what the vicar calls “a gas problem.”
You can say that again. “Silent and violent,” Dad says.
“Disgusting,” says Jessica, but she never liked him much anyway.
Without Mr. Mash, the world might have ended.
Really.
It’s six o’clock on a warm summer’s evening and Ramzy Rahman and I are staring at the back entrance of the Spanish City entertainment center, not daring to knock. Mr. Mash has just scarfed down a Magnum ice cream bar that someone dropped on the pavement and is licking his chops, ready for another. He even ate the wooden stick.
There’s a massive double-height steel door in the white wall—one of those doors that’s so big that there’s a normal-sized door cut into it. In the middle of the normal door—looking totally out of place—is a knocker like you’d see on the door of a haunted mansion. The metal is green and in the shape of a snarling wolf’s head.
Mr. Mash looks up at the wolf’s head and curls his lip, though he doesn’t actually growl.
Around the corner, on the seafront, men in shorts push babies in strollers; cars with dark windows hum along the coast road; and people pedal FreeBikes in the bike lane. Ramzy nudges me to point out Saskia Hennessey’s older sister, in just a bikini, flip-flops, and goose bumps, shimmying toward the beach with some friends. I keep my head down: I don’t want to be recognized.
Above us, the sky is the intense blue of late afternoon, and it’s so hot that even the seagulls have retreated to the shade. Ramzy is doing his familiar shuffle-dance of excitement, and I feel I should calm him down.
“Ramzy,” I say patiently. “We’re just visiting an old lady. She’s probably lonely and wants to give us tea and scones or something. Scroll through photos of her grandchildren. And we’ll be polite and then we’ll be off the hook. That’s not an adventure, unless you’re very odd.”
Ramzy gives me a look that says, But I am very odd!
Eventually, I lift up the wolf’s head, which hinges at the jaws, and bring it down with a single sharp rap that echoes much louder than I expected, making Ramzy jump.
His eyes are shining with excitement and he whispers to me, “Tea, scones, wolves, and adventure!”
Dr. Pretorius must have been waiting, because no sooner have I knocked than we hear several bolts sliding back on the other side of the door, and it opens with a very satisfying creak. (I see Ramzy grin: he would have been disappointed if the door had not creaked.)
Now, to complete his delight, there should have been a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning revealing Dr. Pretorius in a long black cape, saying, “Greetings, mortals,” or something.
Instead, it’s still bright and sunny, not even slightly stormy, and Dr. Pretorius—as long and as thin as a cat’s tail—is wearing the same woollen beach robe as when we met her this morning.
She just says, “Hi,” in her throaty American accent. Just that: “Hi.”
Then she turns and walks back into what looks like a large dark storage area. With her white hair on top of her thin dark body, she reminds me of a magic wand.
She has gone several steps before she stops and turns to Ramzy and me.
“Well? Whatcha waitin’ for? The last train to Clarksville? Come on in. Bring the mutt if you have to.”
On the other side of the cluttered storage area is a narrow flight of metal stairs leading up to a platform with a handrail. She doesn’t wait to see if we are following, so I peer round the high, dusty space. It’s piled with boxes, bricks, bags of cement, ladders, planks, a small cement mixer, a leather sofa propped up on its end, and a builder’s dumpster filled with rubble. There’s other stuff too: a horse’s saddle, a car seat, bar stools, an exercise bike, a huge machine for making espresso, and something the size of an old-fashioned wheelbarrow on its side, half covered by a dusty blue tarpaulin.
Ramzy pokes me in the back and points to it. “Psst. Check out the copter-drone!”
I have heard of copter-drones, obviously, and I’ve seen people demonstrating them on YouTube and stuff, but I’ve never seen one for real. I’m thinking that Clem would be dead jealous that I’ve seen one before he has. Then I remember that I’m not supposed to tell anyone that I’m here.
Dr. Pretorius is saying: “…my green wolf knocker—d’you like it? It’s called verdigris. From the old French, green of Greece. It’s copper carbonate caused by the brass tarnishing in the salty air. Same as the Statue of Liberty. But you knew that, didn’t you?”
We say nothing, following her up the stairs, both of us casting curious glances back at the storage area and what might—or more probably might not—have been a copter-drone.
She stops at the top and turns. “Didn’t you?”
“Oh aye. Definitely,” says Ramzy, nodding enthusiastically.
“Liar!” she snarls, and points her long chin at him. I notice that the white halo of her Afro quivers when she talks, then goes still when she stops. “What’s the chemical formula for copper carbonate?”
Ramzy’s poor face! His mouth droops. Ramzy is clever but not that clever. “Erm…erm…”
Dr. Pretorius turns again and marches along the metal landing, her beach robe billowing behind her. “It’s CuCO3,” she calls over her shoulder. “What do they teach you at that school of yours, huh? Is it still self-esteem and climate change? Ha! Come on, keep up!”
We trot after her, Mr. Mash’s claws click-clacking on the metal walkway.
She halts by a pair of double doors in the center of a long, curved wall and faces us. She takes a deep breath and then starts a coughing fit that goes on for ages. At one point, she is almost bent double as she hacks and coughs. It kind of spoils the dramatic moment, but then, as suddenly as she started, she stops and straightens up. Her face softens a little. “Ah! Don’t look so scared, fella. I’m just gettin’ old is all. What’s your name?”
“R-Ramzy. Ramzy Rahman. Ma’am.”
The side of her mouth goes up and she chuckles. “Ma’am? Ha! Well, you got better manners than I have, buddy. Invitin’ you into my place without even a proper introduction. So we’ve got Ramzy Rahman and…?”
“Georgina Santos. Georgie for short.” I don’t do the ma’am bit. I can’t carry it off like Ramzy.
“OK, Georgie-for-short and Ramzy-ma’am. That was my little test, see? But from now on no more lies, huh? From here on in, I’m trusting you. Did you tell anyone you were here?”
Ramzy and I shake our heads, and both say, “No.”
“Noooo,” she drawls, and takes off her thick glasses, bending down to peer at us with her pale eyes. “So is it a deal?”
We both nod, although I’m not at all sure what the deal is exactly.
“Deal,” we say together.
Seemingly satisfied, she turns round and flings open both doors, growling, “Well, ain’t that dandy? We’ve got ourselves a deal! Welcome, my little chickadees, to the future! Ha ha ha haaa!” Her laugh is like an arpeggio, each bark higher than the one before, ending on a loud screech.
Ramzy catches my eye and smirks. If Dr. Pretorius is pretending to be a weird person, then she’s overdoing it. Only…I think it’s real.
Mr. Mash gives a little whine. He doesn’t want to go through the doors, and I know exactly how he feels.
I’ve tried really hard to work out where the whole thing started. By “the whole thing,” I mean Dr. Pretorius’s “FutureDome” stuff, the campervan explosion, Dog Plague, the million-pound jackpot…everything. And I think it started
with Mr. Mash:
Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like dogs.
That’s number one on my Wisdom of the Dogs poster. I know it sounds a bit final, so I’ve come up with some exceptions:
People (Ramzy’s aunty Nush, for example) who have grown up in countries and cultures where dogs are not pets. So it’s not really their fault.
Mail carriers and delivery people who have been attacked by dogs, though it’s really the owner’s fault for not training the dog properly.
People who are allergic. I have to say that because of Jessica. More on her coming up soon.
But, exceptions aside, I think it’s a pretty good rule. Dogs just want to be with us. Did you know that dogs have lived alongside humans for pretty much as long as we’ve been on earth? That’s why we have the expression “man’s best friend.” (And woman’s, and children’s as well, obviously.)