Trixie Fights For Furry Rights. Ros Asquith

      “OK,” Dinah said. “Why don’t we just go down there and hide it? Chloe could keep Mr Drugg talking, he likes her. She pretty much keeps his shop going all by herself.”

      Chloe gave Dinah an annoyed look. Well, as annoyed as she’s capable of, which isn’t very. “No good,” she said. “Your mum would notice.” (This would be Very Extremely soon, since Mum nips into Mr Drugg’s on a daily basis.)

      “What about putting a sign saying SOLD on top of it?” I suggested.

      “No good,” said Chloe again. “Your mum would see it and if the puppies weren’t sold she’d know it was us.”

      We all shuffled about in silence, until Chloe squeaked, “I’ve got it! We’ll change one digit of the phone number. It would be easy to change 1189 to 7189. And your mum won’t notice for ages because the ad will still look nearly the same.”

      “Chloe, you are a GENIUS!”

      Chloe went red-as-a-beetroot and gazed at her feet. “I don’t know…” she murmured. “It’s breaking the law, really.”

      “What law?” I demanded. “William The Conqueror’s Sweetie Man Protection Act of 1071? There’s no law that says you can get your head chopped off for making a mistake on an advert.”

      “Yes, but it’s not a mistake, it’s a scam by us. We’ll be criminals,” Chloe moaned.

      “Look,” Dinah said impatiently, “do we want to save these puppies or not? You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”

      Chloe and I looked blank.

      “We’re not making an omelet, we’re saving my puppies,” I said. “What are you talking about?”

      “I don’t know. It’s something my dad says,” Dinah replied. “Anyway,” (she gave Chloe a big hug, which made her blush even more), “it’s an amazing idea. I had exactly the same one at the same time, actually.”

      “Yeah, yeah,” Chloe and I went. Dinah hates to be beaten at problem-solving.

      I did a lot of nagging and persuading for the next two days, but on Saturday Mum put the card in the newsagent.

      FIVE ADORABLE RED SETTER/OLD ENGLISH SHEEPDOG CROSS PUPPIES. EXCELLENT PEDIGREES.GOOD HOMES ONLY.

      Then she put in our phone number and, worst of all, stuck on a photo of the puppies that I had taken only last week! It was the cutest picture you could imagine. They were all brushed and combed and shampooed, and even sleepy old Fattypuff looked alert, and Gertrude’s tail was even curlier and wurlier than usual.

      I gulped. It was really happening. I was going to lose the puppies. Unless Chloe’s phone-number trick might just possibly work.

      I made Mum put that bit about good homes in, even though it went against my better judgement to help with the horrible Advertisement of Doom. I also pointed out that the pedigree thingy on Harpo’s side was not strictly true, i.e. a lie, since Mum first found Harpo abandoned in a park.

      “And now,” I said, “you are abandoning the puppies just like Harpo’s cruel owners abandoned her in the first place.”

      “That’s not fair,” said Dad, coming into the room carrying three planks for protection. “They’ll go to good homes.”

      “Let me at least keep Bonzo!” I wailed. I hadn’t asked properly before because I thought it would be disloyal to the other puppies. But the thought of losing Bonzo from my bed each night suddenly overwhelmed me.

      Mum paused on her way to the door. “I’ll think about it,” she said.

      Was this a ray of hope?

      I rushed to ring Dinah.

      “No, that’s terrible,” she said. “If they let you keep Bonzo it will let them off the hook. You are betraying the other puppies.”

      “Great. Now I am a traitor as well as the Saddest Person in the World.”

      “No, we can still stop this happening. Let’s go down the newsagent and sabotage the ad.”

      “It sounds easy,” I grumbled, “but how are we really going to do it? Old Drugg is the suspiciousest and most hawk-eyed person in the world, even if he’s only got one eye that works. I just stroked a chocolate mouse in there once, right at the other side of the shop, and he made me buy it. He can see round corners.”

      “We’ll find a way. Call Chloe and we’ll go down there.”

      Half an hour later, me and Dinah and Chloe arrived at Mr Drugg’s shop, armed with a black felt tip. He’d given Mum’s disgustrous advert the very best place right in the middle of the noticeboard in the window. Big Fattypuff’s saucer eyes gazed down at me, and I couldn’t bear to look at Bonzo’s furry little face, so I dived into the shop more determined than ever.

      Mr Drugg has NOT MORE THAN TWO SCHOOL CHILDREN AT A TIME signs everywhere and shouts if you breathe on his biros. Luckily, though, he has a soft spot for Chloe who is his most regular customer. Sweeties are Mr Drugg’s pride and joy. He has shelves and shelves full of them in old-fashioned huge glass jars – every kind you could wish for and a lot imported from abroad which you can’t get anywhere else in Bottomley. It’s weird, for a bloke who hates kids. He knows me and Dinah are Chloe’s best friends, so he usually lets us stand quietly at the back of his shop while Chloe and he have long chats about which is best, fudge or marshmallows.

      So, Chloe engaged him in a long conversation about the best brands of peppermint and whether the tongue-burning toffee twisters she’d ordered last week had come in yet and had he heard of the new multiflavoured sherbert from Taiwan? Chloe’s a walking encyclopedia of sweets, and me and Dinah could see Mr Drugg was really enjoying himself talking to an expert.

      Dinah leafed through magazines by the window to shield me from Drugg’s demonic eye.

      “All right, he’s showing Chloe a box of Firebreathing Flogwobblers or something,” Dinah giggled. “They’re so strong he keeps them under lock and key in the back room, guarded by dogs.”

      “Never mind that,” I hissed. “Shall I go for it?”

      “It’s now or never,” Dinah said. “You could even draw a few fleas and fly-covered sores on that itsy-bitsy picture of the puppies, just to put people off.” She was laughing so much now I thought old Drugg was bound to hear her, but his ears aren’t as good as his one eye.