Ross Welford

The Dog Who Saved the World


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Chapter Forty-one

       Chapter Forty-two

       Chapter Forty-three

       Chapter Forty-four

       Chapter Forty-five

       Chapter Forty-six

       Chapter Forty-seven

       Chapter Forty-eight

       Chapter Forty-nine

       Chapter Fifty

       Part Three

       Chapter Fifty-one

       Chapter Fifty-two

       Chapter Fifty-three

       Chapter Fifty-four

       Chapter Fifty-five

       Chapter Fifty-six

       Chapter Fifty-seven

       Chapter Fifty-eight

       Part Four

       Chapter Fifty-nine

       Chapter Sixty

       Chapter Sixty-one

       Chapter Sixty-two

       Chapter Sixty-three

       Chapter Sixty-four

       Chapter Sixty-five

       Chapter Sixty-six

       Chapter Sixty-seven

       Chapter Sixty-eight

       Chapter Sixty-nine

       Chapter Seventy

       Chapter Seventy-one

       Chapter Seventy-two

       Chapter Seventy-three

       Chapter Seventy-four

       Chapter Seventy-five

       Chapter Seventy-six

       Chapter Seventy-seven

       Epilogue

       Acknowledgements

       Keep Reading …

       Books by Ross Welford

       About the Publisher

      

      I’ve got this framed poster on my bedroom wall that Dad got me for my birthday. I see it every morning and every night, so I know it off by heart.

       THE WISDOM OF THE DOGS

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

       If what you want is buried, dig and dig until you find it.

       Don’t bite if a growl is enough.

       Like people in spite of their faults.

       Start each day with a wagging tail.

       Whatever your size, be brave.

       Whatever your age, learn new tricks.

       If someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit near and nuzzle them, gently.

      It’s all true. Every single word. As I discovered last summer, when the world nearly ended.

      

      Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, allow me to introduce (drum roll …):

       Mr Mash: The Dog Who Saved the World!

      I love him more than anything. I know that sounds harsh on Dad and Clem, but I think they’ll understand, especially after what happened over that summer.

      We don’t know exactly how old he is, how he became a stray, or even what sort of dog he might be. He’s got shaggy fur – grey, brown and white – and ears that flop over at the ends. He’s got a cute, inquisitive face like a schnauzer, big soft eyes and a strong, very waggy tail like a Labrador.

      In other words, he’s a mishmash. When we got him from the St Woof’s shelter, the vicar said I could name him, and so I said ‘Mishmash’, which sounded like ‘Miss Mash’, but, because he’s a boy dog, he became Mister Mash.

      Mr Mash: my very best, very stupid friend. His tongue is far too big for his mouth, so it often just lolls out, making him look even dafter. He’s completely unable to tell if something is food or not, so he just eats it anyway. This, in turn, means he has what the vicar calls ‘a wind problem’.

      You can say that again. ‘Silent and violent,’ Dad says.