Coming round after being knocked out cold, Gristle went to join the end of the line. Still a bit dazed, he tripped over his own paws.

WALLOP!

Gristle began tumbling towards the end of the queue. His head was where his bottom should be, and his bottom was where his head should be. Therefore, he couldn’t see where he was going. Not that it mattered, as he was going too fast to stop himself. He walloped into Scarper, who walloped into Plank, who walloped into the next dog, who walloped into the next…

Soon a hundred dogs were tumbling on top of each other.

They were surging forward together. An unstoppable force! A TIDAL WAVE OF DOGS!

Noses. Legs. Ears. Tongues. Paws. Tails. Bellies. Backs. Bottoms. All were tangled up together.

The chief cried out “STOP!” as they headed straight for her.

But the dogs couldn’t stop even if they’d wanted to.

In a moment, the chief was buried under a FUR MOUNTAIN!

THWUMP!

The pile of a hundred dogs and one lady was as tall as the school watchtower.

“WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!” barked the dogs as they tried to wriggle off each other. Right at the very bottom, with a bottom in her face (not of the human kind, but of the dog kind) was the chief.

When she finally emerged with a little dog perched on her head, the lady was fuming.

Her face was scarlet with fury and steam was coming out of her ears.

The lady’s immaculate uniform was dirty and torn to shreds.

“THAT’S IT!” cried the chief. “YOU HAVE ALL FAILED! NONE OF YOU WILL BECOME POLICE DOGS THIS YEAR!”

All eyes turned to Gristle.

“GRRR!” growled the dogs angrily.

Gristle looked around as if they couldn’t possibly mean him.

“Is it something I said?” he asked innocently.

From that moment on, the Lost Patrol became outcasts. The other dogs blamed them bitterly. Now they would all have to do another year of training.

IT WAS A CATASTROPHE.

All three members of the Lost Patrol found themselves being picked on.

Their ears were nibbled.

Their treats were stolen.

Their shed was peed on.

Their toys were mauled.

Their water bowls were kicked over.

Their tails were yanked.

Their collars were chewed.

Their paws were tickled.

Their bones were buried.

Worst of all, their food was farted on!

DUM! DUM! DUM!

I told you it was bad.

“Is it me or are all the other dogs being a bit funny with us?” asked Gristle.

“Yes. They’ve all been so nice!” replied Plank.

“NO! THEY HAVEN’T!” shouted Scarper. “They have all been horrible to us!”

The three dogs were in their little shed at the far end of the parade ground. As always, the sad-looking flag with the words “The Lost Patrol” flew at half-mast from a pole on the roof.

“I thought my breakfast had a different flavour,” piped up Plank.

“Yes! It did! A farty flavour!” replied Gristle.

“Can you buy it in the tin like that?” asked Plank.

“No! You can’t buy it like that!” exclaimed Scarper.

“Shame,” remarked Plank.

“Don’t you understand?” cried Scarper. “All our food has been farted on! The other dogs are doing everything they can possibly do to make our lives a misery!”

“Whatever for?” asked Gristle.

“For what you did!” replied Scarper. “Making us all tumble over each other and end up in a huge fur mountain on top of the Chief of Police!”

“That was MY fault?” asked an innocent-looking Gristle.

“YES!”

Gristle covered his eyes with his paw, hopped over to the corner of the shed and fell on to his side.

THUMP!

Then he whimpered, as he was feeling mightily sorry for himself.

“HMMM!”

Little did the Lost Patrol know that the worst was yet to come.