“You’re not the only one in the dog-house now,” said Tickety, as she helped herself to one of Horace’s dog-biscuits.
“It’s every dog in town!” cried Boo, tying a long piece of elastic to the red roof of Horace’s kennel.
“People don’t believe the dogs taught themselves to drive,” explained Tickety. “They don’t think dogs are clever enough.”
“Or hamsters,” said Boo. He tied the other end of the elastic to his ankle.
“They think a criminal gang has been teaching dogs tricks, to get them to steal cars,” said Tickety. “It was on the news.”
“They said everyone must keep their dogs away from cars. Bungeee!”
Boo threw himself off the dog-house roof. There was a loud twang as the elastic broke.
“Oh, no!” cried Horace, pulling Boo out of his water bowl. “How dreadful! If the dogs aren’t allowed to drive, how can we beat the cats at their challenge?”
Tickety nodded. “They didn’t mention cats. Nobody will keep them away from cars.”
“Bet you I can hold my breath for three minutes,” announced Boo. “Stunt hamsters rule!” He dived back into the water bowl.
Horace looked dolefully over at the garage where Mr Hay had locked the car. “Do you suppose I could break in?”
“No,” said Tickety. “Mr Hay’s just bought a new padlock for the garage door. So have half the people on the street. And any car that isn’t in a garage is bristling with alarms.”
“Couldn’t you steal the padlock key?” asked Horace hopefully.
“Mr Hay’s hidden it,” sighed Tickety. “So I’m afraid we’re stuck. We have no car. We can’t meet the cats’ challenge.”
Horace groaned, slumping to the ground in his despair. “They’ll be unbearable! They’ll gloat! And there’s nothing worse than a gloating cat.”
Tickety nodded glumly. “I know. But unless you can think of something, we’ll just have to put up with it.”
With a splash and a splutter, Boo came to the surface of the water bowl. “Two and a half,” he gasped. Horace fished him out.
“I don’t know how to do it,” he said gloomily.
“It’s easy!” declared Boo. “Just take a deep breath and hold your nose–” Tickety grabbed Boo by his stubby tail and dragged him away.
Horace lay and moped. He had no car. The triumphant cats would claim the victory.
He moped all day. He moped all night.
Sometimes he stopped moping to sulk. Sometimes he brooded for a change. Sometimes he howled. Sometimes he just whined and whimpered.
By the next morning, Mr Hay was fed up.
“I’ve had enough of this dog moping!” he snapped. “Josh? Take Horace for a long walk. He needs more exercise.”
Horace whined some more. He didn’t need exercise. He needed wheels!
“Walkies, Horace! Come on, boy! What’s wrong?” Joshua tugged at his lead until Horace had to move.
He plodded along the street behind Josh, tail down, head drooping. Seeing all the padlocked garages added to his misery. To cap it all, they had to walk past Mordle’s Modern Motors, with its gleaming sports cars – and its trio of cats sitting smugly on the wall.
“What’s up, boy? Why are you unhappy?” Josh knelt down by the forecourt and gave Horace a big hug. Horace tried to pull away.
“Poor old pudding,” said Josh, tickling his tummy.
“Noooo!” howled Horace. “Not now!”
“Aaaaaah! The dear little diddums doggie!” came the taunting cry from the cats. “Who’s a poor little pudding, then? Who’s a snivelling softy?”
Horace was frantic to escape. At last he wriggled free from Joshua’s caresses and raced off down the road with the lead trailing behind him.
He ran all the way to the park. Here he slowed to a walk, since there were no cats to taunt him. Instead, there were dozens of other moping dogs being dragged round by their impatient owners.
Horace barked a gloomy greeting at his friends: Silverside, the butcher’s dog, and Jellybean, the fat spaniel from the sweet shop.
Then he noticed Ragbag, the bouncy mongrel from the supermarket rally. She lolloped over eagerly, ears waving in the breeze.
“Hi, Horace! You’ve heard the news?”
Horace nodded sadly. “We’ve no way of getting to the cars. What can we do?”
“I thought you’d know,” she said, surprised. “You’re the clever one, Horace. You’re the champ! You’re the one with all the good ideas!”
Before Horace could reply, Joshua ran up. He was panting and breathless.
“Bad dog, Horace!” he scolded. “You mustn’t run away like that. Come here. Heel!” He grabbed Horace and tried to make him sit.
Horace twisted away. All the watching dogs thought he was a champ! They mustn’t see Josh treating him like a naughty puppy.
So, pulling free again, he galloped off towards the pond, where toddlers were pushing toy prams and hurling bread at the ducks.
Suddenly Horace pulled up in mid-gallop. Police! Not that he minded the police normally – but this was different.
He recognised that policewoman, sitting on a bench to eat her sandwich. And he knew the stern and grizzled German Shepherd dog who lay beside her. Justine.
The police dog looked up. Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled.
“Well, well! Look who it is,” she said, with a snarl. “Horace the canine crook!”
Horace was about to turn and run away, when he remembered he was the champ. All the other dogs were watching, waiting to see what he would do. He couldn’t back off now.
So he began to bark.
“Go! Go! Go! My park! My park!”
Sergeant Baines looked up in surprise and put down her sandwich.
“What a noise that dog’s making! Is it yours?” she asked Joshua as he came running up.
“Yes! Sorry! He doesn’t usually bark,” gasped Josh. “Here, boy!”
He reached for Horace’s collar. Horace ducked out of his grasp. With an agile leap, he sprang away.
He sprang too fast. A little girl stood in his path with her toy pram. He was about to knock her over...
No, no! thought Horace. Not that! Champs didn’t bowl toddlers over!
With a huge effort, he managed to twist sideways in mid-air. He missed the toddler by centimetres. Instead, he fell smack into her pram.
The pram began to roll. With Horace struggling to get out, it trundled slowly down the slope into the pond. There it tipped over and deposited Horace into a family of baffled ducks.
The ducks pecked him, screeching quacks of protest. The little girl began to cry. Her mother began to shout.
Sergeant Baines came hurrying over. “Can’t you keep that dog under control?”
“Sorry,” groaned Josh. “Sorry. He’s usually better than this.”
“I should hope he is! Because at the moment he’s a walking disaster area!”
Horace shook off the ducks. He waded back to shore and sneezed. A slimy wreath of duckweed had draped itself around his head, a slice of soggy bread stuck to his back and a lily pad dangled from one ear.
“Get that dog on a lead!” commanded Sergeant Baines.
“He’s a scruffy scoundrel,” growled Justine. “I’ll be watching him.”
Josh grabbed Horace’s collar. This time, there was no escape. As he was dragged away, the police dog fixed him with a long, suspicious stare.
A dozen other doggy faces were watching too, with their mouths open. Horace could not look at them for shame.
Under their astonished gaze, the champion driver, crowned with duckweed, hung his head and dripped and drooped out of the park.
Chapter Three