Читать книгу Mr Dog and the Faraway Fox - Ben Fogle, Ben Fogle - Страница 9
ОглавлениеIt was late in the city. The roads were quiet and the house windows were dark. But not all animals went to bed just because humans did! Nocturnal creatures still roamed the streets and gardens…
An eerie sound, like a howling scream, rose up into the starry springtime blackness of the sky.
Mr Dog jumped awake, his dark eyes wide under their bushy brows. He was a raggedy mutt, with dark scruffy fur, a big black nose and front paws as white as his muzzle. ‘What a curious noise,’ he said to himself, stretching with a yawn. ‘I wonder what it was?’
The short, sad, yowling cry came again. Mr Dog pit-patted across the kitchen to the back door, stuck his head out through the catflap and raised an ear. He tried to trace the lonely sound. But the night was quiet again, just the grumble of a car passing in a nearby road, so he went back inside.
Mr Dog didn’t often stay in cities. A travelling dog by nature, he preferred fresh air, fields and forests. If he chose to stay with a pet owner, it was usually in a sleepy town or a small-time village. But a little while ago he’d stepped on a thorn and his paw had grown sore. He’d limped into town in search of help.
Luckily, a kind, animal-loving lady called Minnah had found him and taken him home. She’d pulled out the thorn with tweezers, given him a good bath and even washed the red-and-white spotted hanky that he used as a collar! Her friend, who was a vet, had checked his paw, and luckily the only treatment needed was to soak it in a special bath for ten minutes, twice a day.
‘It’s feeling much better already,’ murmured Mr Dog, waggling his paw. ‘And how sweet and clean I smell! I may have to change my name to Lord Dog…’ He stood on his back paws and tried to look as posh as possible. ‘Hmm, perhaps even Sir Dog?’
‘Sir Silly Dog!’ someone giggled from a pet-carrier on the kitchen floor.
‘Silly? I’m being serious.’ Mr Dog beamed at the tortoise inside the carrier. ‘Or sir-ious, at least. How are you feeling, Shelly?’
Shelly pushed out her little scaly head. ‘I’m feeling glad to have such a noble neighbour!’ she said. Shelly was a fifteen-year-old tortoise with a richly patterned shell and a sense of fun that was missing in many tortoises. She was staying with Minnah for a few days while her owners were away. ‘I just really hope that someone finds poor old Crawly soon.’
‘So do I,’ Mr Dog agreed sadly. Crawly was another tortoise who had lived with Shelly for years. Then, two days ago, Crawly had gone missing from their garden. There had been no sign of a forced entry.
‘One minute Crawly was there beneath a hedge,’ Shelly said, not for the first time, ‘and the next minute… he was gone.’ Shelly’s head slowly shrank back inside her shell. ‘It all happened so fast.’
‘Don’t lose hope.’ Mr Dog put his nose to the side of the pet-carrier and snuffled Shelly’s shell. ‘Crawly might still show up, you know…’
Suddenly, he heard the creak of a floorboard. The kitchen light flicked on and Minnah came into the room.
‘Hello, boy.’ She yawned, patting his head. Mr Dog woofed softly in greeting and wagged his brushy tail.
‘That screaming fox woke you up too, did it?’ said Minnah, filling the kettle. ‘What a racket, calling out like that…’
‘A fox!’ Shelly shivered in her shell – though, of course, Minnah couldn’t hear a word she said. ‘I never knew that a fox could make a sound like that.’
‘Nor me,’ Mr Dog agreed. ‘Minnah certainly taught us something tonight.’
Shelly’s dark eyes twinkled. ‘You mean… she “tortoise” something!’
Mr Dog rolled on to his back and wriggled in amusement. Shelly beamed.
Minnah made herself a cup of tea, and fed Mr Dog a biscuit. Then she switched off the light and went back up to bed.
Mr Dog had just settled himself in his basket when the eerie fox cry sounded again.
‘I don’t like the thought of a fox being so close by,’ Shelly confessed. ‘My owner said it could’ve been a fox who took Crawly from the garden.’
‘I hope not,’ said Mr Dog, who was a friend to all animals and never one to judge. ‘Dogs and foxes tend to avoid each other, so I haven’t really met one before…’
After a while, Shelly fell asleep, but Mr Dog’s ears jumped as the strange howl sounded once more from outside.
I wonder why that fox is calling? thought Mr Dog. Perhaps it’s in trouble. Maybe I can help. Limping just a little, Mr Dog padded over to the catflap and squeezed through it. At the very least, I can ask him to keep the noise down so he doesn’t disturb the neighbours…
The catflap opened on to a side alley: one way led to the main street, the other to a quiet lane that backed on to a row of garages. The night was cool and Mr Dog’s nose twitched with the city’s scents. The houses were dark, but the streetlamps cast bright orange patches over the pavements. Somewhere distant, gulls gave their rowdy cries and a clock struck three. Mr Dog felt happy. How nice it was to be outside again!
His nose twitched with a strong, musky smell from the fir trees that lined someone’s garden. That fox has marked this territory, thought Mr Dog. A boy fox, unless I’m very much mistaken. He must be close by…
Then Mr Dog caught another smell.
The smell of a tortoise!
Quickly he pushed his head through the fir trees – and couldn’t believe his eyes.
A small and scrappy red fox was sitting happily in the garden – holding a tortoise in its jaws!
