CHAPTER 26

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The dogs circled the ring one last time and everyone held their breath. Which one would the judge choose as the “Best in Show”?

Honey lay next to Olivia’s chair, her bandaged paw tucked under her, watching the dogs sail past. Farther along the row, her friends sat beside their humans and watched eagerly as well. All around them, people waited tensely, their eyes riveted on the show ring. If you didn’t know better, you would never have guessed that another tragedy had almost happened last night, but Honey could see, far on the other side of the arena, the bright yellow tape cordoning off the blackened area that was all that was left of the storeroom.

She turned her eyes back to the show ring. The judge walked slowly down the line of dogs, each perfectly posed, heads high, necks arched, legs extended—the model specimens of their breeds. His eyes darted thoughtfully from one dog to another as he fingered the rosettes he held in his hands.

Then, making a decision, he strode forwards: first to the man with the Bloodhound—Second Place ... and then to a woman standing next to a young Cocker Spaniel. He handed her the gold rosette. First Place. Ferrari had won “Best in Show”.

The crowd exploded into applause as the woman squealed and hugged Ferrari. Then she picked up his lead and took him for a victory lap around the show ring. The young Cocker Spaniel trotted around with a smug expression as everybody cheered.

“Well, he does deserve to win,” said Anja next to Honey. “But, oh liver ... he is going to be really unbearable now.” She rolled her eyes.

Honey grinned. “One day, someone will knock him down to size.”

“Just let him try to get too cocky,” muttered Ruffster beside them. “I’ll make sure everybody knows about his cute blankie habit!”

The judge motioned Ferrari and his human towards the podium and the silver trophy cup that was waiting for them there. Honey glanced over at Dior, who was lying next to the Afghan Lady a few feet away, his beautiful silver coat now shaved into a short fuzz around his body. She wondered how he felt, looking at the trophy that he was giving up. But if he felt any regrets, he didn’t show it—his long, aristocratic face was serene as he watched the ring.

Olivia picked up her camera and left her seat, heading for the podium. Ferrari swaggered over to the silver trophy cup and climbed up on the podium. Puffing his chest out, he posed, knowing that every eye was going to be on him. He looked around with smug satisfaction, waiting for the applause to start. But the clapping faltered and a hush fell over the arena as everybody suddenly looked beyond the podium to the main doors.

Coming slowly through the open doorway was an old dog. His coat was dirty and matted, his gait stiff, but he held his head high and his brown eyes, through the dreadlocks, were bright. He was a Hungarian Puli and he walked like a champion returning home.

There was a gasp from the crowd. A woman stood up, hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. She took a few hesitant steps forwards and said faintly, “Graf?”

The old dog wagged his tail.

The woman cried out and rushed across the hall, throwing her arms around him. The crowd broke into an uproar. Suddenly, everybody was talking and asking questions at once. More people rushed to the old dog and fussed over him. Graf’s owner wiped her eyes and smiled through her tears.

“Great Dog Star, is that really Graf?” asked Anja, craning her neck to see. “I can’t believe it! I thought he was dead!” She turned to Honey. “You don’t seem so surprised ... did you know?”

Honey started to explain about their trip to the big hill and how they found the old Puli, then she stopped herself. No, it was Graf’s story to tell.

But perhaps he wouldn’t need to.

Honey watched as Graf’s owner slowly straightened and began to talk, her voice carrying clearly across the arena, as she confessed to what had happened ten years ago. People’s faces showed shock, horror and disgust as she slowly recounted the whole story. She bowed her head at the end and, for a moment, there was silence. Then the angry voices started—the frowns, the indignant shouts, the shrill accusations of blame. The woman stood with her head bowed through the whole thing and Graf stood next to her, trembling. Honey’s heart went out to him. This was his worst nightmare come true.

Then the “Best in Show” judge took a step forwards and something in his face made the crowd fall silent. He reached out and touched Graf’s owner gently on the shoulder. It was a gesture of understanding. And forgiveness.

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The crowd that filled the arena late that afternoon was as big as that for the “Best in Show” finale, but this time there was no cheering, no applause. Instead, everybody murmured excitedly amongst themselves as they waited. Finally a man appeared at the back of the arena and began walking towards the wall of winners’ portraits. It was the judge and he was carrying a large rectangular object in his hands. An expectant hush fell over the crowd as he arrived at the wall. He reached up and carefully removed the last picture in the line of champions—the one of Graf. Then he replaced it with a new portrait. This one showed a young Weimaraner standing proudly, his pale, grey coat gleaming on a lean, muscular body, his amber eyes smiling. Underneath the picture was etched the year, the pedigree name—and then simply, “Oskar”.

Honey looked through the crowd and met Graf’s eyes. The Puli had been cleaned up: his coat shaved, washed, and groomed, and now restored to its original white colour, with the one grey ear showing clearly. He looked like a different dog—not just because of his coat, but because of the light in his eyes. The judge walked over to him and patted him gently on the head. Graf looked at Honey and wagged his tail.

People began clapping. A different kind of clapping. And dogs began to bark. Honey saw Graf lift his head, his eyes shining, to look at Oskar’s portrait. And then suddenly, from the corners of the arena, came the howling. People gasped and looked around, their faces tense at first ... but then slowly they relaxed, their eyes dreamy. This was not the eerie, mournful howling of before. This was the howling of happiness, the howling of a dog saying goodbye.

Honey turned her head and saw something shimmer in the arena doorway. A pale, grey, ghostly dog. The Phantom Hound. He looked at her for the last time, his amber eyes soft and his tail wagging. Thank you. Then he turned and faded into the light. Honey knew that she would never see him again.

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Olivia grunted as she shoved her camera bags into the back seat of her car, grumbling and muttering to herself as she tried to fit everything securely. Honey stood next to the boot and watched the other caravans and cars around them being packed up: crates being collapsed, towels being folded, grooming brushes collected into pouches ... and dogs sniffing bums and wagging tails, bidding each other goodbye.

“I think you could have been a great show dog if you’d wanted to.”

Honey turned to find Dior walking up to her. Even with his coat shaved, the big Afghan was still stunning, his every movement graceful and elegant. She gave him a teasing wag of her tail. “You mean I wasn’t bad for a pet dog wannabe.”

He gave a slightly sheepish smile. “Maybe it was just as well everything happened as it did. I think you could have been stiff competition for me in the ring.”

Honey laughed. “Yeah, right.” She shook her head and Dior ducked to avoid the glob of drool that flew from her jowls. Honey looked over at the Afghans’ car and then back at Dior. “Is Tiffany ...?”

“My human has decided to find her a nice pet home,” said Dior. “Our neighbour adores Tiffy and would love to adopt her. I think Tiffy would be much happier living with her. She would get loads of fuss and attention. She’s not a bad dog,” he said hesitantly. “It’s just ... some dogs aren’t cut out to be show dogs. They lose sight of what it’s really about. It’s not about the winning, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Honey stared at him in astonishment. “But I thought everybody wants to win?”

“Of course, we’d all like to win. But showing is a sport. And every sport is not just about winning or losing, but the challenge of doing your best.” He sighed. “I wish Tiffy could have understood that.”

“Maybe she does now,” said Honey gently.

“Hey, mate, you seen Suka and Biscuit?” asked Ruffster, coming up to join them.

“Suka’s left already,” said Honey. “Her Boy has to get up early for school tomorrow, so they left first. I think Biscuit is still around. But we’ll probably see them at the dog park later in the week anyway.” She paused, her eyes on a yellow car with a sloping roof nearby. A woman was busy loading bags into the boot and a beautiful French Poodle with a snow-white coat stood next to her. “Oh, look, there’s Colette. She came up to me earlier to say goodbye and she was looking for you, Ruffster.”

Ruffster dropped his head and shuffled his paws.

Honey looked at him quizzically. “Don’t you want to say goodbye?”

“Don’t know what to say,” muttered Ruffster. “Don’t even look nice and groomed no more. Just back to a scruffy mongrel now.”

Honey heaved a sigh of exasperation. She started to say something but the sound of an engine humming made them look up. Marie had started the yellow car and was calling to Colette to hop in. The French Poodle looked around once more, wistfully, then her tail drooped and she climbed into the front passenger seat next to her human. The door slammed and they watched as the yellow car moved away. It turned in a wide circle around the parking area and joined the lane leading out to the main road. They saw Colette’s face appear at the front window, her eyes still hopeful.

Dior turned to Ruffster. “Are you just going to let her go like that?” he demanded. “Then you’re even less of a dog than I thought you were.”

Ruffster hunched miserably. “Don’t know what to say, mate.”

“Just tell her what’s in your heart.”

“I ... I can’t!” said Ruffster. “What if she doesn’t like me? What if she—” he gulped, “—laughs at me?”

“What if she doesn’t’?” said Dior. “You’ll never know if you don’t try. Do you want to know the real reason I’m a champion? Not because of my fancy looks or clever tricks or even cheating ... it’s because I’ve never been afraid to try.”

Ruffster stared at him for a moment, then looked towards the yellow car. It was gathering speed now. In a minute, it would be turning out onto the main road and then it would be gone. It was now or never.

Ruffster drew a deep breath and took off at a run. He shot across the parking area and began chasing the yellow car, his legs stretching out in front of him in a full gallop. Faster and faster he ran, his tongue lolling out, his one upright ear flapping in the wind. The other dogs turned to watch. Somebody barked, “Go, mongrel!”

Honey held her breath as she watched Ruffster slowly gain until he reached the back of the yellow car. But the turn onto the main road was coming up and the yellow car was revving its engines again. Would he make it? Ruffster put on an extra burst of speed and bounded up alongside it.

Colette saw him through the window and her eyes lit up. She began jumping up and down, barking and wagging her pom-pom tail. The car swerved and wobbled, nearly smacking into Ruffster, then it slowed down jerkily and finally stopped.

The front passenger door swung open and Colette jumped out. Honey couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she saw Ruffster’s tail begin to wag. Then the French Poodle reached over and touched her nose to his. Ruffster’s tail wagged even harder. Honey smiled to herself.

Finally, reluctantly, Colette got back into the little yellow car and the passenger door slammed shut again. Ruffster began walking slowly back to the arena. Halfway along, he stopped and looked back at the yellow car. It was revving its engines again and beginning to pull away. Colette jumped up and stuck her head out the window.

“À bientôt, cherie!” she barked.

“A bean toe sherry!” called Ruffster happily.

Biscuit popped his head up near Honey. “Beans? Did somebody say beans? Where? I love beans!” He sighed as Honey shook her head. “I’m going to starve to death. Can you believe it—my Missus says I have to continue this diet, even after we go home!” He looked hopefully back towards the field. “Do you think there’s enough time for me to get some cow poo before we leave?”

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THE END

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** a Glossary of British terms used in the story is available after “Books in this Series” and the excerpt

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