Rascal: Swept Beneath The Waters. Chris Cooper

able to cross here.

      As he set off in the direction of the bridge, Rascal became aware of the one vehicle parked at the top of the hill alongside the park. It was the red pickup truck, the same one that had passed him on the road earlier. But where was the driver now?

      The answer came moments later when a burly man burst out from behind the park’s wooden shelter, down near the waterfront. He was in his mid-twenties, with hair cropped close to his head. His face was set in a grimace, as if he wanted to get out of this place as fast as possible.

      Over the past few months, Rascal had learned to read humans. It was a matter of survival. With some you could sense their kindness – it almost shone from them like a light. But there were other people Rascal now knew he had to avoid. It had been a hard lesson to learn. Such people cared nothing about a stray dog like him. If he tried to beg a bite to eat from one of them, he was more likely to receive a snarled insult or even a kick for his troubles.

      Rascal was sure of one thing: this man belonged to the second kind. And for the man to get back to his truck at the top of the hill, he would have to go right by Rascal. Fear stabbed at the dog.

      Rascal did his best to disappear into himself, to not look up, to act as if he wasn’t there at all.

      ‘I can’t get away from stinkin’ dogs,’ snarled the man, when he neared the path Rascal was on. The stale smell of cigarettes was strong on him and . . . something else too, but Rascal couldn’t place the scent.

      ‘Beat it!’ yelled the man.

      Rascal scurried quickly out of range of the boot that lashed his way.

      The man ran right past him and up the hill. He pulled open the truck door and soon the engine roared into life. The man revved it a few times and then, with a squeal of wheels on concrete, the truck disappeared down the road.

      The dog padded forwards carefully. The man was gone, but Rascal’s senses told him that he was not alone in this park. He sniffed the air, finally identifying the scent. He knew it! There was another dog close by, maybe more than one.

      But where?

      It was only chance that the wind died down at the right moment for Rascal to hear the whimper. It sounded small and frightened, and it came from a line of bushes at the back of the shelter the man had emerged from.

      Rascal edged closer. He heard the whimper again, this time joined by another. He pushed his snout through the bushes and saw a canvas bag lying on the other side. An acrid trace of cigarette smell hung around the bag and Rascal knew instantly that the man in the red pickup truck must have left this here.

      The top of the bag was open and a tiny snout was poking out.

      It was a puppy, a little black-and-brown dog so young that its fur was still fluffy.

      Carefully, Rascal nudged the puppy back and then pulled on the opening of the bag. There were two other puppies in there, these ones even tinier than the first. They were snuggling next to each other for warmth.

      Rascal looked around but could see no other dog anywhere . . . no mother.

      These puppies were all alone.

CHAPTER 2

      Rascal gave them a reassuring lick, but that wasn’t what these puppies wanted. Their whimpers became more urgent. The sound could mean only one thing: they were hungry. They needed food right away.

      That was a feeling Rascal knew only too well. He looked up at the town that lay just beyond the park. If he went there to try to find some food for these puppies, he might be seen and caught. And if that happened, he might never get to see Joel again.

      And yet . . . He looked down at the three little puppies. The biggest and most adventurous of them, the one that had been poking its nose out of the bag, was rubbing its head against Rascal’s front leg.

      How could he leave them like this? They seemed completely helpless. It was impossible to say how long they would survive without food.

      There was nothing for it. Rascal nudged the bigger puppy back inside and did his best to close the bag up. Then he ran towards the town ahead, his extra burst of speed making him realise how tired and hungry he was himself.

      Rascal didn’t cross the bridge. Instead, he explored the alley behind a row of shops on this side of the river. Between two of them sat a large grey bin. It was stuffed full of rubbish and there were several other black plastic bags on the ground next to it.

      He sniffed at the bags and his nose was attacked by a jumble of different food smells. Most of them weren’t very appealing – at least not to Rascal’s nose – but through all the bad smells he could tell there was meat somewhere. He sniffed again and identified which bag the good smell was coming from. He pawed at it. When this didn’t help, he took hold of the plastic with his teeth and pulled. The bag ripped open and spilled its contents.

      The good smell was coming from a big flat box that Rascal now pushed open with his snout. It contained several slices of old pizza with round bits of cooked meat on them.

      The hunger in his own belly sprang to life. It had been a long time since Rascal had eaten . . . too long. He took a bite from one of the slices. The meat was too spicy and the base was stale, but his stomach was still grateful.

      He was just finishing the last of the slice of pizza when the back door to one of the buildings opened. A man appeared, carrying another rubbish bag. He was wearing a white jacket that was spattered with food stains.

      For an instant their eyes locked. Rascal tensed to run, but then the man smiled.

      ‘You must be starving if you’ll eat that,’ he said. He knelt down and held out his hand in a friendly gesture. ‘Here, boy,’ he said.

      Usually Rascal would have loved to stick around. He could tell that this man was the sort who would find him something better to eat.

      But the puppies were waiting for him back at the park. Rascal picked up the largest slice of pizza in his teeth, resisting the urge to bite down.

      ‘It’s OK. I won’t hurt you,’ said the man at the door, but Rascal was already running back.

      He made it to the park as quickly as he could, taking care not to drop the food or let it trail along the ground. When he reached the bushes by the shelter, he set the slice of pizza down on the ground and pushed his way again to the canvas bag. He moved the top of the bag gently with his jaws . . . and looked down at the two puppies inside.

      Two puppies!

      The biggest of the three was no longer in the bag.

      Rascal backed out of the bushes as fast as he could. The other puppy couldn’t have gone far, could it?

      He scanned the park quickly but saw nothing. He turned his attention back to the bushes. Perhaps it had crawled in deeper? But then he heard a small sound from behind him, a little yap of curiosity. It was coming from beside the river.

      Anxiety pressed down on Rascal like a terrible weight. He started towards the river, unable to see the puppy beyond a line of plants at the edge of the park lawn. Suddenly there was another noise – this time a yelp of surprise and alarm. Rascal felt a jolt of fear run through him like lightning. He raced to the river’s edge.

      At first he saw nothing in the murky water. But then a tiny head broke above the surface. It was the little puppy and it was terrified. It let out a panicked yelp and then disappeared back under again.