Chapter One

There were six puppies in the window of the pet shop. People who know about dogs would have easily recognized their breeds. There was a Labrador, a springer spaniel, an Old English sheepdog, a poodle and a pug.

But even the most expert dog-fancier couldn’t have put a name to the sixth one. In fact, most of those who stopped to look in the pet-shop window either didn’t notice it (because it was so extremely small) or thought it was a rough-haired guinea-pig (which it resembled in size and shape) that had got into the wrong pen.

“What on earth is that?” the rest had said to one another when the sixth puppy was first put in with them. “Looks like something the cat dragged in!” And they sniggered amongst themselves.

“I say!” said the Old English sheepdog puppy loudly. “What are you?”

The newcomer wagged a tail the length of a pencil-stub.

“I’m a dog,” it said in an extremely small voice.

The pug snorted.

“You could have fooled me,” said the poodle.

“Do you mean,” said the Labrador, “that you’re a dog, as opposed to a bitch?”

“Well, yes.”

“But what sort of dog?” asked the springer spaniel.

“How d’you mean, what sort?”

The pug snorted again, and then they all started barking questions.

“What breed are you?”

“What variety of dog?”

“Why are you so small?”

“Why are you so hairy?”

“Are you registered with the Kennel Club?”

“How many champions have you in your pedigree?”

“Pedigree?” said the sixth puppy. “What’s a pedigree?

There was a stunned silence, broken at last by a positive volley of snorts.

“Pshaw!” said the pug. “He’s a mongrel!”

At that they all turned their backs and began to talk among themselves.

“I say!” said the Labrador. “D’you know what I’m going to be when I grow up?”

“A gun-dog, I bet,” said the springer spaniel, “like me. I’m going to be a gun-dog and go out with my master and bring back the pheasants he shoots.”

“No,” said the Labrador, “as a matter of fact I’m not. I’m going to be a guide-dog for the blind. A much more worthwhile job.”

“No more worthwhile than mine,” said the Old English sheepdog. “I’m going to work sheep. I’ll be galloping about all over the countryside …”

“… getting filthy dirty,” interrupted the poodle, “while I’m having my coat shampooed and specially trimmed and clipped, and a silk ribbon tied in my topknot. I’m going to be a show-dog and win masses of prizes.”

The pug snorted.

“What about you?” barked the others. “You haven’t said what you’re going to be when you grow up.”

“I am going to be a lap-dog,” said the pug loftily. “I shall be thoroughly spoiled and eat nothing but chicken and steak, and the only exercise I shall take will be to walk to my food-dish. Pshaw!”

“What about me?” said that extremely small voice. “You haven’t asked me what I’m going to be when I grow up.”

The Labrador yawned.

“Oh, all right,” it said. “Tell us if you must.”

“I,” said the sixth puppy proudly, “am going to be a guard-dog.”

At this the others began to roll helplessly about, yapping and yelping and snorting with glee.

“A guard-dog!” they cried.

“Mind your ankles, burglars!”

“He’s not tall enough to reach their ankles!”

“If he did, those little teeth would only tickle them!”

“Perhaps his bark is worse than his bite!”

“It is!” said the sixth puppy. “Listen!”

Then, out of his hairy little mouth came the most awful noise you can possibly imagine. It was a loud noise, a very very loud noise for such a tiny animal, but its volume was nothing like as awful as its tone.

Think of these sounds: chalk scraping on a blackboard, a wet finger squeaking on a window-pane, a hacksaw cutting through metal, rusty door-hinges creaking, an angry baby screaming, and throw in the horribly bubbly sound of someone with a really nasty cough. Mix them all up together and there you have the noise that the sixth puppy made.

It was a dreadful noise, a revolting disgusting jarring vulgar noise, and it set all the creatures in the pet shop fluttering and scuttering about in panic. As for the other puppies, they bunched together as far away as they could get, their hackles raised, their lips wrinkled in loathing.

At last, after what seemed an age, the sixth puppy stopped. Head on one side, he wagged his pencil-stub tail.

“You see,” he said happily in his usual extremely small voice. “I can make quite a rumpus when I really try.”