The Dog Who Saved the World

Chapter Seventy-two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventy-three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventy-four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventy-five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventy-six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventy-seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)

Books by Ross Welford (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

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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 off 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.

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Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, allow me to introduce (drum roll …):

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 – grey, 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 vicar said I could name him, and so I said ‘Mishmash’, which sounded like ‘Miss Mash’, but, because he’s a boy dog, he became Mister 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 dafter. 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 wind 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.

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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 centre, not daring to knock. Mr Mash has just scoffed a Magnum 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 buggies; cars with dark windows hum along the coast road; and people pedal FreeBikes in the cycle lane. Ramzy nudges me to point out Saskia Hennessey’s older sister, in just a bikini, flip-flops and goosebumps, shimmying towards the beach with some friends. I keep my head down: I don’t want to be recognised.

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 bushy white hair on top of her thin dark body, she reminds me of a magic wand.