The Dog Who Saved the World

I even tried to work out what was going on in Dad’s head. It was like, Jessica’s moving in, Clem’s growing up, Georgie’s not happy about any of that, so let’s get her a dog.

Which suited me fine. And then … I came back from school one Friday, walked into the kitchen and Dad was there. He said, ‘Close your eyes!’ but I had already heard a dog whining behind the door.

I have never, ever been happier than when Dad opened the door to the living room, and I first saw this bundle of fur, wagging his tail so much that his entire backside was in motion. I sank to my knees and, when he licked me, I fell instantly, totally in love.

Dad had got him from St Woof’s, and we didn’t know his age. The vicar (who knows about this sort of thing) estimated him to be about five years old. Nor did he fit anywhere on my list of favourite dog breeds.

So I made a new list, where ‘mongrels’ was at the top.

It lasted a month. Twenty-seven days, actually. Twenty-seven days of pure happiness, and then it was over. Trashed by Jessica, who I try sohard to like – without success.

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It wasn’t Mr Mash’s ‘wind problem’ that was the issue.

I for one would have put up with that. Although sometimes the smell could make your eyes water, it was never for long. No: it was Jessica, one hundred per cent.

It started with a cough, then wheezing, then a rash on her hands. Jessica, it turned out, was completely allergic.

‘Didn’t you know?’ I wailed, and she shook her head. Believe it or not, she had simply never been in close enough contact with dogs for long enough to discover that she was hypersensitive to their fur, or their saliva, or something. Or maybe it developed when she was an adult. I don’t think she was making it up: she’s not that bad.

OK, I did – occasionally – think that. But after Jessica had an asthma attack that left her exhausted, and her hair all sweaty, we knew that Mr Mash would have to go back.

It’s probably unusual to have the best day and the worst day of your life within a month, especially since I was still only ten at the time.

I cried for a week, and Jessica kept saying she was sorry and trying to hug me with her bony arms, but I was furious. I still am, sometimes.

Mr Mash went back to St Woof’s. And the only good thing is that he is still there. The vicar says I can see him whenever I like.

I became a St Woof’s volunteer. I’m way too young officially, but Dad says he persuaded the vicar to ‘bend the rules’.

Actually, it wasn’t the only good thing. The other good thing was that there were loads of dogs at St Woof’s, and I liked them all.

But I loved Mr Mash the best, and it was because of him that – fifteen months later – Ramzy and I ended up meeting Dr Pretorius.

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It was morning, about nine, and there was a cool, early mist hanging over the beach. There was me, Ramzy, Mr Mash, plus two of the other dogs from St Woof’s.

I had let Mr Mash off his lead, and he’d run down the steps and across the sand to the shore, where he likes to try to eat the white tops of the little waves. Ramzy was holding on to ugly Dudley who can’t be let off the lead because he has zero recall, which is when you call to a dog and he doesn’t come. Dudley once ran as far as the lighthouse, and would probably have run further if the tide hadn’t been in.

So there was Mr Mash down by the shoreline, Dudley straining on his leash, and Sally-Ann, the Lhasa apso, sniffing the stone steps very reluctantly. Sally-Ann’s a ‘paying guest’ at St Woof’s and I genuinely think she’s snobby towards the other dogs there, like a duchess having to stay at a cheap hotel.

At the bottom of the steps was a tall old lady cramming a load of white hair, bit by bit, into a yellow rubber swimming cap. I nudged Ramzy. ‘It’s her,’ I whispered. ‘From the Spanish City.’ At that stage, we didn’t know her name, and hadn’t even met her, although we had both seen her before.

We hung back at the top of the steps. The old lady snapped on a pair of swimming goggles, shrugged off a long beach robe and started walking across the sand towards the sea. The tide was in, so it was a short walk, but long enough for us to stare in wonder.

Her one-piece bathing suit matched the vivid yellow of her cap and made her long legs and arms – a rich dark brown – seem even darker. She had almost no flesh where her bottom should be: just a slight swelling below the scooped back of the swimsuit. She moved confidently but slowly and didn’t stop when she got to the water, just carried on walking until the sea was at waist level, then she bent forward and started a steady swim out towards a buoy about fifty metres away.

What happened about fifteen minutes later was Mr Mash’s fault. By now, Ramzy and I were on the beach. We’d seen the old lady come out of the water and walk back up the sand to where her stuff was. She was a bit scary-looking, and I didn’t want to have to pass her as we went back up the steps, so we stayed by the shoreline.

I have no idea what Mr Mash could have found even slightly edible about a yellow swimming cap, but suddenly he was running up the beach to where the old lady had dropped it, and he had it in his jaws.

‘Hey! You! Get off that!’ she yelled, and then I was running too.

‘Mr Mash! Off! Off! Leave it!’ I yelled.

‘Give it to me!’ shouted the old lady, and that was it. Mr Mash leapt up at her with the swimming cap in his mouth, and over she went on to the sand, banging her wrist on the steps as she fell. I heard something scrape and the old lady exclaimed in pain.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry! He’s just being friendly!’ I cried, and the lady sat upright, sand sticking to her wet skin where she’d fallen. She rubbed her wrist while, behind her, the daft mongrel slowly chewed her bathing cap.

On her wrist was a big watch, one of those ones with pointers and numbers, and she was looking at it. Then she held it up to show me a wide scratch on the glass front.

‘Your dog did that,’ she said. ‘And what the heck is he doing to my swim cap?’

‘I’m really sorry.’ It was pretty much all I could think of saying. I just wanted to run away.

Ramzy, meanwhile, was wringing his hands and shuffling in the sand like he needed to go to the loo, his mouth pulled tight into a line of fear. His skinny legs were trembling and making his enormous school shorts shake. Dudley was yapping with excitement on the end of his lead, while Sally-Ann sat nearby, facing the other way as if she was trying to ignore the commotion.

The woman looked at me carefully as she got to her feet and pulled on the long woollen beach robe that reached to her ankles. ‘You’re lucky my watch isn’t broken,’ she said to me, in her strange, low-pitched American accent. Then she added, ‘You’re the two I saw a few weeks ago, aren’t you?’

I nodded. ‘I … I’m sorry about your wrist. Is it OK?’

‘No, of course it’s not OK. It hurts like heck and there’s a great big scratch on the crystal of my watch.’

‘I’m very sorry.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, so you said. I get it. You’re sorry. Jeez, is that dog gonna eat the whole darn thing? It sure looks like it.’ Her huge white Afro bobbed as she talked. She stretched her sinewy neck to peer at me and I think I squeaked in surprise when I saw her unusual pale blue eyes: I don’t think I’d ever seen a black person with eyes like that and it was difficult not to stare. I dragged my gaze away to look at Mr Mash.

‘Stop it, Mr Mash!’ I said. I tried to pull the cap from the dog’s mouth, but it was ruined. ‘I’m sorry!’ I said again. Then, ‘Stop that, Dudley!’ to Dudley, who had a dead seagull in his mouth. It was all pretty chaotic.

The old lady replaced her thick spectacles, then she folded her skinny arms with their papery skin. She looked me up and down. ‘How old are you?’ she snarled.

‘I’m eleven.’

‘Hmph. What about Mr Madrid over there?’ She jerked her thumb at Ramzy, who was still hopping from foot to foot with anxiety. He was wearing his black Real Madrid football top, although – so far as I know – he doesn’t follow the team. It’s not a real top: it’s made by Adidas but I don’t think he cares.

‘He’s ten,’ I said.

‘And five-sixths,’ Ramzy chipped in, then immediately looked embarrassed. He’s the youngest in our year.

A trace of a smile appeared on the old lady’s face: it wasn’t much more than the slight lifting of one side of her mouth. I didn’t know then that it was an expression I would get used to. She flexed her wrist and winced. ‘Five-sixths, huh? Well, ain’t you the big fella?’ She took a long breath in through her nose as if she was making a big decision about what to say next.

‘I really don’t want to have to report all this,’ she said, staring out at the sea, and then her eyes flashed to the side, measuring my reaction. ‘You know – a stolen swim cap, a potentially serious injury, a damaged watch, an outta control dog …’

‘Oh, he’s not out of—’

‘Like I say, I don’t want to have to report it. That would be a drag. But you two could help me.’ She turned round to face us and put her long hands on her narrow hips. ‘You know the Spanish City?’