Dervla. “Next time we meet.”
“There are no Doglands,” said Kinnear. “And there won’t be a next time either. You mark my words.”
Dervla gave Kinnear a real growl. The growl was so threatening that even Furgul’s blood ran cold. Kinnear fled to hide behind Harriet’s legs. He stood there shaking.
“Who’s the bag of marrowbone jelly?” asked Dervla.
“That’s Kinnear,” said Furgul. “He’s all right, really.”
“Thanks,” said Kinnear. “But that girl is what you call a bad influence.”
“Hey, fatty,” growled Dervla. “If you want to know what ‘bad influence’ looks like, just come over here.”
But, as usual, Kinnear knew exactly what he was talking about.
There was no next time.
Harriet and Gerry went straight from the park to their favorite pet store and bought Furgul the most hated of all contraptions—a plastic muzzle.
They strapped it over his snout and then looked pleased with themselves. After that Furgul had to wear the muzzle every time they took him out. They never let him off the leash again. And whenever Furgul saw Dervla across the park and barked her name—and heard her bark back—Gerry and Harriet turned around and walked him the other way.
One day Furgul and Kinnear snoozed in their baskets while the Grown-Ups were out at work. In his best dreams Furgul dreamed about Dervla. In the bad ones—like the one he had today—he dreamed about Dedbone’s Hole. He dreamed about his mother, Keeva, who was still there, living in a crate. Furgul saw her, huddled all alone, crying in the night as she thought about her pups. The pups that had been torn from her and sent away to die.
When Furgul woke up, he felt sick inside. He was ashamed of himself.
In the cavern under Dogsnout Mountain he had sworn that when he was grown up, he’d set Keeva free. Well, now he was grown up—and what had he done about it? Nothing. He just lay here in this basket feeling sorry for himself, getting more and more like Kinnear—more and more tame, and more and more afraid—and less and less like Argal, his father. Keeva had named him “the brave,” but Furgul wasn’t brave at all.
“I’m a coward,” he muttered to himself.
“What’s that?” said Kinnear, waking from his nap.
“Nothing.”
“Cheer up, mate,” said Kinnear. “Look on the bright side. Everything you have to put up with—even the muzzle—is worth it in the end because you get this warm bed to sleep in, lots of love and affection—well, more than you probably deserve—and a bowl of fine food twice a day.”
“Those little brown pellets that look like stale cat dung and taste even worse?”
“No, no, no,” said Kinnear. “Chuck Chumley’s Extra Meaty Dog Feed is designed by scientists. It’s the perfectly balanced diet—all the protein, nutrition and vitamins we need for a shiny coat, a waggy tail, sweet breath—”
“And a belly that scrapes on the ground.”
Kinnear ignored this insult. “It’s over four percent real chicken, you know. Plus another ten percent meat and animal derivatives!”
“Yes,” said Furgul. “Beaks, feathers and butt holes. I need something I can get my teeth into. The taste of blood. Thecrunch of bone. Something to make me feel like a dog. Living like this makes me feel like—”
He stopped. It made him feel like he should have stayed in the river and drowned. But he didn’t say so. He felt bad. He felt confused. He didn’t know what to do.
Kinnear stuck his pug nose in the air. “I’ve never tasted blood in my life and I’m proud of it.”
Furgul wondered what Kinnear’s blood would taste like. He licked his lips.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Kinnear, “but I won’t fight you. I don’t believe in fighting. It’s antisocial. It isn’t safe. And it’s against the rules.”
“Even in play?”
“Accidents do happen,” said Kinnear. “Better to be safe than sorry. And as you know, fighting upsets our masters.”
“Then why
“There are no Doglands,” said Kinnear. “And there won’t be a next time either. You mark my words.”
Dervla gave Kinnear a real growl. The growl was so threatening that even Furgul’s blood ran cold. Kinnear fled to hide behind Harriet’s legs. He stood there shaking.
“Who’s the bag of marrowbone jelly?” asked Dervla.
“That’s Kinnear,” said Furgul. “He’s all right, really.”
“Thanks,” said Kinnear. “But that girl is what you call a bad influence.”
“Hey, fatty,” growled Dervla. “If you want to know what ‘bad influence’ looks like, just come over here.”
But, as usual, Kinnear knew exactly what he was talking about.
There was no next time.
Harriet and Gerry went straight from the park to their favorite pet store and bought Furgul the most hated of all contraptions—a plastic muzzle.
They strapped it over his snout and then looked pleased with themselves. After that Furgul had to wear the muzzle every time they took him out. They never let him off the leash again. And whenever Furgul saw Dervla across the park and barked her name—and heard her bark back—Gerry and Harriet turned around and walked him the other way.
One day Furgul and Kinnear snoozed in their baskets while the Grown-Ups were out at work. In his best dreams Furgul dreamed about Dervla. In the bad ones—like the one he had today—he dreamed about Dedbone’s Hole. He dreamed about his mother, Keeva, who was still there, living in a crate. Furgul saw her, huddled all alone, crying in the night as she thought about her pups. The pups that had been torn from her and sent away to die.
When Furgul woke up, he felt sick inside. He was ashamed of himself.
In the cavern under Dogsnout Mountain he had sworn that when he was grown up, he’d set Keeva free. Well, now he was grown up—and what had he done about it? Nothing. He just lay here in this basket feeling sorry for himself, getting more and more like Kinnear—more and more tame, and more and more afraid—and less and less like Argal, his father. Keeva had named him “the brave,” but Furgul wasn’t brave at all.
“I’m a coward,” he muttered to himself.
“What’s that?” said Kinnear, waking from his nap.
“Nothing.”
“Cheer up, mate,” said Kinnear. “Look on the bright side. Everything you have to put up with—even the muzzle—is worth it in the end because you get this warm bed to sleep in, lots of love and affection—well, more than you probably deserve—and a bowl of fine food twice a day.”
“Those little brown pellets that look like stale cat dung and taste even worse?”
“No, no, no,” said Kinnear. “Chuck Chumley’s Extra Meaty Dog Feed is designed by scientists. It’s the perfectly balanced diet—all the protein, nutrition and vitamins we need for a shiny coat, a waggy tail, sweet breath—”
“And a belly that scrapes on the ground.”
Kinnear ignored this insult. “It’s over four percent real chicken, you know. Plus another ten percent meat and animal derivatives!”
“Yes,” said Furgul. “Beaks, feathers and butt holes. I need something I can get my teeth into. The taste of blood. Thecrunch of bone. Something to make me feel like a dog. Living like this makes me feel like—”
He stopped. It made him feel like he should have stayed in the river and drowned. But he didn’t say so. He felt bad. He felt confused. He didn’t know what to do.
Kinnear stuck his pug nose in the air. “I’ve never tasted blood in my life and I’m proud of it.”
Furgul wondered what Kinnear’s blood would taste like. He licked his lips.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Kinnear, “but I won’t fight you. I don’t believe in fighting. It’s antisocial. It isn’t safe. And it’s against the rules.”
“Even in play?”
“Accidents do happen,” said Kinnear. “Better to be safe than sorry. And as you know, fighting upsets our masters.”
“Then why
Similar Books
