The Dog Who Saved the World. Ross Welford

      I’ve tried really hard to work out where the whole thing started. By ‘the whole thing’, I mean Dr Pretorius’s ‘FutureDome’ stuff, the campervan explosion, the Dog Plague, the million-pound jackpot … everything. And I think it started with Mr Mash:

       Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like dogs.

      That’s number one on my Wisdom of the Dogs poster. I know it sounds a bit final so I’ve come up with some exceptions:

      1 People (Ramzy’s Aunty Nush, for example) who have grown up in countries and cultures where dogs are not pets. So it’s not really their fault.

      2 Postmen and delivery people who have been attacked by dogs, though it’s really the owner’s fault for not training the dog properly.

      3 People who are allergic. I have to say that because of Jessica. More on her coming up soon.

      But, exceptions aside, I think it’s a pretty good rule. Dogs just want to be with us. Did you know that dogs have lived alongside humans for pretty much as long as we’ve been on earth? That’s why we have the expression ‘man’s best friend’. (And woman’s, and children’s as well, obviously.)

      I was born wanting a dog. That’s what Dad says, anyway. He says my first words were, ‘Can we get a dog?’ I think he’s joking but I like to pretend it’s true.

      Next to the poster on my bedroom wall I’ve got a collection of pictures of famous people with their dogs. My favourites are:

       Robby Els and his poodle.

       G-Topp and his (very cute) chihuahua.

       The American president and her Great Dane.

       Our king with his Jack Russell (I met the king once, when I was a baby, before he was the king. He didn’t have his dog with him, though.)

       The old queen with her corgis.

      Anyway, eventually we got a dog. It was March last year, not long after Dad’s girlfriend, Jessica, moved in. (Coincidence? I don’t think so.)

      I knew something was up. Dad had taken a couple of calls from his friend Maurice, who used to be a vicar and now runs St Woof’s Dog Shelter on Eastbourne Gardens. Nothing odd about that, but when he answered he would say, ‘Ah, Maurice! Hold on,’ and then leave the room, and once when he came back in he was smirking so much his face was nearly bursting. Of course, I didn’t even dare to hope.

      I asked Clem, but he’d already started his retreat to his bedroom, otherwise known as the Teen Cave (a retreat that is now more or less complete). He shrugged and – to be fair – getting a dog was always my thing, not my brother’s. If it doesn’t have a smelly petrol engine, Clem’s not all that bothered.

      Not daring to hope is really, really hard when you’re hoping like mad. I’d look at the calendar on my wall – 12 Months of Paw-some Puppies! – and wonder if we’d get one, ranking my preferences in a list that I kept in my bedside drawer.

      1 Golden retriever (excellent with children).

      2 Cockapoo.

      3 Chocolate Labrador.

      4 Great Dane (I know, they’re massive. ‘You may as well buy a horse,’ says Dad).

      5 Border collie (v. smart, need lots of training).

      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 so hard to like – without success.

      

      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.

      

      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,