My Pug Turned into a Potato! by Alex Peart-Johnson and The Stardust Experience

T HE S TARDUST E XPERIENCE : T HE C HILDREN ’ S G HOSTWRITING S PECIALISTS WWW .T HE S TARDUST E XPERIENCE . COM T ELL US YOUR IDEA . W E WRITE IT . Y OU SELL IT .

W RITTEN BY Alex Peart-Johnson I LLUSTRATED BY Tina Das & Yogesh Mahajan E DITED , DESIGNED & PUBLISHED BY The Stardust Experience F OR A UTHOR , E DUCATIONAL OR L ICENSING Q UERIES , CONTACT A LEX P EART -J OHNSON AT A LEX @ THESTARDUSTEXPERIENCE . COM Text & illustrations copyright (C) by The Stardust Experience All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For Zoe and Kiefer.

And for Ena, the greatest pug there ever was. xxx->

FREE RESOURCES for Educators & Parents: For comprehension questions, classroom activities based on the book, and colouring pages, download a copy of our free educational resource pack:

www.thestardustexperience.com/pugpack ACTIVITIES INCLUDE: - Chapter-by-chapter comprehension questions - Design & draw your own bizarre crisp flavour - Write a review of the crisp factory tour - A diary entry as Oxford the pug - Character interviews - Colouring pages - & more

‘F IND THE G OLDEN C RISP & W IN A T OUR OF THE S AUNTER ’ S F ACTORY ’.

If only I knew the trouble that those words would get me into…

I just had to try and find that stupid crisp, didn’t I? Honestly, I really couldn’t help myself. Once I’m interested in something, I just can’t let it go. It’s a bit of a gift and a curse.

If you’d given me a wish to get anything in the world, six months ago, I would have actually used it to get my hands on that Golden Crisp.

Mind you, five months ago, I would have used it to get my pug, Oxford, safely out of the tree he was stuck up.

But four months ago, I would have used it to do whatever was necessary to undo everything and get back to my own reality.

It’s funny how what you want just keeps changing… ix

Chapter 1

And a Pug Stuck Up a Pear Tree

O

xford the pug was stuck twenty feet up a tree.

It sounds like a silly image from the front of a cheesy Christmas card. But when it’s your furry best friend that might slip and fall, it’s terrifying!

Do you know who has zero balance and no sense of danger? My pug, Oxford.

Do you know who is lacking in fingers and thumbs to grip on? My pug, Oxford.

Do you know whose fuzzy, droopy face is to blame for him being up there?

Okay, while it is technically Oxford’s fault, it’s also kind of my fault too. You see, like me, Oxford loves food and ham was always his favourite. In fact, I’d say it was all he lived for!

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A typical day with Oxford would go something like this: “Do you want to go for a walk, Oxford?” I’d ask.

‘H AAAAM ?!’ his silly face would suggest, as he’d barrel-roll into the kitchen.

“Do you want to go for a wee?” I’d ask.

His head would tilt curiously. ‘D ID YOU SAY H AAAAAM ?!’

“Bad boy! No, bad boy!” I’d say.

‘H AAAAAM BOY ? H AAAAAM ? D O I GET HAAAAAM ?’

It was this very love of food that got him stuck up the tree, only this time, it wasn’t ham. And that’s the part that’s my fault…

Though Oxford was high up in the branches, he seemed quite calm. I, however, was not calm at all!

“Mum, what are we going to do?” I screamed.

“It’s alright,” said Mum, messing with her phone, “I’m calling the window man.”

“To get the pug?”

“No, Evie!” said Mum, pointing up at the smashed pane of glass. “To fix your bedroom window.”

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“But Mum—” I started, but she was now on the phone and heading back into the house. “Hiya, is that Transparent Darren…?”

With Mum out of the picture, it seemed that it was on me to save Oxford.

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I rushed over to the trampoline and tried to drag it over to the tree to catch him but it was too heavy.

Instead, I darted to the tree to see if I could climb up and get him but there was nothing to grip onto.

Excited that I was closer to him, a small smile crept onto Oxford’s face.

I smiled back. “It’s okay, my favourite little guy, I’m going to save you!”

And that was my biggest mistake. I should have known this would have got Oxford excited.

His tiny curly tail started to wag with such force that his wiggly rear end swayed the whole branch from side to side. “Woof woof!”

“Oxford, you’re going to—” And that’s when he slipped!

“OXFORD!” He was now hanging from the branch by his two front paws, clinging for his life.

“MUUUUUUUUM!” Mum came to the back door, still on the phone. “...yes, that is very transparent, Darren! Can you just give me a 4

second?” She put the phone to her chest and shot me an angry look. “What now?”

“It’s Oxford, Mum. He’s going to fall!”

Mum looked up and the phone dropped from her hand and clattered to the floor. “Oh my giddy aunt. Darren, I’ll have to call you back.”

Mum raced barefoot across the garden and just before she got to the tree, Oxford could hold on no longer and he fell!

The drop took him just a few feet down where, thankfully, he got wedged firmly between two lower branches. He was well and truly stuck.

I let out a huge sigh of relief. He was still trapped up a tree but at least he wasn’t going to fall now.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” said Mum. “Here I am, calling the blinking window man when I should have been calling the Dinkley Fire Brigade! How did he even get up there?”

It was about now I suspected my obsession with crisps had gone a bit too far. I didn’t want to tell her.

You see, about six weeks before Oxford’s treetop adventure, we were out on a puggy walk when I saw

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Mr Watson putting up a poster outside his shop. It read:

As soon as I saw that, I just knew I had to try to win. If Oxford loved ham then I looooooved crisps. And the opportunity to go behind the scenes and discover the magic of crisps? UNMISSABLE! So, in the weeks that followed, I used all of my 6

pocket money to buy every pack of limited-edition crisps I could afford, trying to get the Golden Crisp.

Unfortunately, four of the five flavours were just plain disgusting. I mean, would you eat some of these?

I couldn’t believe a company would actually put some of those flavours out!

Mum said it was a ‘cheap marketing trick’ and that people will buy odd things to see how strange they 7

really are. I think she might be right, but, still, who is getting the urge for a mouthful of dirt?!

Luckily, the one flavour I did like, the Sugared Sugar & Caramelised Caramel (with a Candied Candy Shell), were like heaven for your mouth.

The crisps came in multipacks so I just started to feed Oxford the ones I didn’t like. And that was when we discovered there was a food Oxford loved more than ham: crisps. Specifically the Banana-smoked Bacon & Brussels Sprouts flavour (he’s an odd little pug).

After a couple weeks Mum said that Oxford was ‘getting so fat he might explode’ (though I don’t think that’s actually possible), so she made me start throwing the spare crisps away instead of feeding them to the pug.

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This then triggered a bizarre reaction in Oxford.

Without a regular supply of crisps, he started to twitch and shake and shudder. But when I’d feed him a crisp again, the behaviour would stop. Mum said this behaviour was called ‘withdrawal symptoms’ and he’d get better soon. But he didn’t.

About a week later, Mum was out in our back garden trying to stuff all the spare crisp packets into our big bin, but it was so full it wouldn’t shut.

From the upstairs bedroom window, Oxford was watching in a twitching fever. He really wanted to lick them. And that’s when it happened…

A huuuuuge gust of wind blew the bin open and swept a tonne of the packets up into the air and scattered them all over the garden like a really crinkly and bad-for-theenvironment snowstorm.

Seeing so many packets up for grabs, Oxford threw himself at the upstairs window.

His flat face slid down the window, leaving a trail of puggy saliva before he backed off and ran at the window again. This time…

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The determined little pug crashed his way through the upstairs bedroom window, fell down,

then landed on my trampoline. This catapulted him back up into the air,

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before he plummeted back down and got stuck up the tree.

Thankfully, the Dinkley Fire Brigade didn’t take long to arrive. As they were setting up the ladder, they assessed the situation.

“He’s much calmer than I thought he’d be,” said the first fireman, climbing up the tree-leaning ladder.

“It’s because he knows he’s got nine lives,” said the second fireman with a confident nod towards Oxford’s wedged bum.

“No,” interrupted Mum. “That’s a cat.”

“A cat?” scoffed the second fireman. “It’s doing a remarkable impression of a pug.”

The first fireman belly-laughed loudly, almost toppling off the ladder he was halfway up.

Mum rolled her eyes and wrapped her fluffy dressing gown around her waist a little more tightly. “No, I mean it’s cats that have nine lives, not dogs.”

“Riiiiight,” said the second fireman, not really following.

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A few minutes later, the first fireman was heading back down the ladder with Oxford safely in his arms.

“No wonder he was calm,” said the first fireman pointing at the shiny item in Oxford’s mouth. “He’s been chewing on this crisp packet. Banana-smoked Bacon & Brussels Sprouts? Yuck! That’s disgusting.”

But Oxford didn’t seem to think so.

“Eugh!” shuddered the second fireman. “All of these new Saunter’s flavours are just horrible.”

He was almost right. Most of them were horrible. But Sugared Sugar & Caramelised Caramel (with a Candied Candy Shell) were absolutely delicious. They got the Evie Evershaw seal of approval!

Oh, yes – that’s me, by the way. I’m Evie Evershaw. I’m eleven years old. And I love pugs. And crisps.

Well, I used to love crisps; that is, until I went on my epic quest to find the Golden Crisp…

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Chapter 2

Buying Up the Shop!

T

wo weeks had passed since the pug-in-a-tree incident and my quest for the Golden Crisp was in full swing.

Unfortunately, the final day of the ‘Find the Golden Crisp’ promotion had arrived, and I still hadn’t found it.

But giving up wasn’t an option so I decided to enlist the help of my best friends.

It was 5.55 a.m. and me, Alfie and Roxanne were standing outside Mr Watson’s shop waiting for it to open. While I wanted to get the Golden Crisp, Alfie was quite partial to the Peppered Prawn & Popcorn flavour and Roxanne was obsessed with the Double Choc Donut & Dirt.

“How much l-l-longer,” whined Alfie, shivering in his unicorn pyjama onesie. “I’m freezing!”

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“It opens at six,” I said. “Relax. We’ll be the first ones in.”

“We’d better be,” said Roxanne, all snug in her orange duffle coat. “I’m mowing my grandad’s lawn every two weeks from March to October because of this.”

“That is some serious commitment,” I said.

“Yeah,” she shrugged, “but £50 is £50.”

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“Ohhhhhh, h–h-hurry up and open; I’m f-f-freezing,” chattered Alfie. “Open…” He lifted his hand to bang it on the shop door, “…up!”

Just as Alfie’s hand whooshed towards the door, Mr Watson, the nervous and very slight shopkeeper, opened it, and Alfie’s mighty strike walloped him in the torso.

“I’m so sorry, Mr—” “Nnnnnngg,” grunted the shopkeeper, holding his midriff. “I’m sorry, I’ll get some spoons in, I promise, Mrs Battersby!” Mr Watson was a small thin wisp of a man with a constant look of panic on his face. He always had a pair of spectacles perched on his ageing bald head, though legend has it he’s never worn them on his face.

“Spoons?” I laughed. “We don’t want spoons! And who’s Mrs Battersby?”

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The shopkeeper opened his eyes. His face softened a little as he pulled the door fully open and skittishly looked from side to side. “Oh, sorry, young ’uns. I thought you were… never mind.”

“No, we’re here for all of your crisps,” said Roxanne, boldly pointing her finger into the shop through her duffle coat, “and I mean allllll of them.”

“Oh no!” said Mr Watson, his hands shooting up into the air. “Not another hold-up. No, please, I have a wife 18

– and a child too. Granted, he’s a twenty-four-year-old binman – but it still counts. Just take the crisps, take them!”

“Relax, Mr W,” I said. “It’s not a weapon, she’s just pointing.”

Roxanne pulled the pointed finger from her duffle coat pocket and inspected it. “Yeah, it’s just a finger – fingers aren’t scary.”

“Ah,” said the now-embarrassed shopkeeper. He was still trembling. “I see. Well, in you come!”

“F-f-finally!” shivered Alfie.

I’d say it took us roughly two minutes to empty every pack of Saunter’s Crisps into our trolley and race back to the checkout. The only other customer around was Arthur McKinley, an old man who lived two doors down from me – and he was just there for his morning newspaper. He had no interest in crisps.

“That’s, erm, quite a lot of, er, crisps you have there!” chattered Mr Watson, nervously. “You’re not, erm, going to do any, err, funny business with these, are you?”

Roxanne, bold as ever, slammed her hands onto the desk. “How dare you! These crisps are limited edition – and today is the last day we can ever buy more of them.

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And Evie here,” she said, presenting me, “is going to get a Golden Crisp, whatever it takes. She’ll do anything.”

She leaned her determined face towards the shopkeeper (who looked very close to tears) and whispered, “And I mean anything.”

“Oh, I, er… I, um, s-s-see.” Mr Watson was trying ever so hard to keep himself together but Roxanne is especially frightening (and he’s especially jumpy!). He took a moment to compose himself then continued. “Well, I’m glad you’ve got your, erm, crisps now, and I hope you get your visit to the Saunters factory too.”

We turned around to see where the voice had come from. It was old Mr McKinley, clutching his newspaper and breathing heavily. The five-minute uphill walk from his house to the shop had obviously taken a toll on him.

He spoke like Darth Vader might if someone kept pausing him every two seconds.

“Are you alright, Mr McKinley?” I asked.

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“I… was just… saying,” wheezed the old man, “they go out… but… they never… come in.”

“Great, thanks, old man,” said Roxanne, impatiently turning back to the shopkeeper. “Can we get a move on here?”

“Roxanne!” scolded a now slightly warmer Alfie. He’d found a heater next to the tills and was perched almost atop it. “Don’t be rude!”

“What?! By the time he gets to the end of another sentence, the crisp promotion will be over!”

Roxanne really can be a bit mean, sometimes. Alfie thought so too. That’s why he ignored her and turned back to wheezy old Mr McKinley. “What do you mean?

What goes out but never comes in?”

“The… potatoes,” he struggled. “At… Saunter’s.

Millions of… packs of… crisps… go out. No… potatoes… go in. There’s… something…” He took in a particularly huge gasp before finishing his sentence. “… afoot.”

“You know,” said Mr Watson, “a friend of Martin, my binman son, works as gate security at the crisp factory.

He told him the exact same thing. He was saying—” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” snapped Roxanne. “Less talking, more scanning – we’re on a tight schedule here!”

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“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Mr Watson. The pressure made him fumble the crisps and drop three or four packets onto the floor. “I’ll get them, I’ll get them!” he said.

“Please don’t hurt me!”

Roxanne shook her head impatiently and glanced at the clock. “Whatever, let’s get a move on.”

Old Mr McKinley shook his head and muttered something to himself that sounded like ‘they never listen to me’ but I couldn’t be sure.

After we’d paid for the crisps, we pushed the trolley out of the shop and Roxanne jumped in.

Then I hopped onto the back…

as Alfie ran at the side before jumping in…

and we made our way down the hill and back to my house.

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When we got inside, we dumped all of the crisps on the living room floor and started to rip open each pack, one by one.

Oops! Oxford was in amongst the action and I hadn’t noticed. He must have been having the time of his life – that was until I picked him up, thinking he was a packet of crisps, and tried to open him. That was when he let out a “YEEEELP!”, jumped out of my arms and scurried off into the kitchen.

It only took us about eight minutes to open all 137 packets of crisps. And in those eight minutes I found out three things: 1 - Mums definitely do not like 137 packs’ worth of crisps crushed into their living room carpet (I was grounded. Sad times).

2 - Pugs definitely do like 137 packs’ worth of crisps crushed into the living room carpet 24

(Oxford stopped acting weird for a while after eating crisps).

3 - I was definitely not going to the Saunter’s Crisp Factory.

Yep, that’s right – all of those packets and not a Golden Crisp in sight.

So, that was that.

Or so I thought…

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Chapter 3

A Golden (Crispy) Lining

B

eing grounded always sucks, but this particular week had just been the worst week ever.

I also had extra maths homework because of a boring old test – and Mum said I couldn’t do anything else until I’d finished the ten million hours’ worth of worksheets! I decided to just get to it but I couldn’t concentrate because all I could hear was:

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It was our washing machine. It was on the fritz and was so loud it was vibrating the floorboards in my bedroom.

It was like our house was trying to blast off into space!

Then there was another sound caught my attention…

I knew that familiar snort…

Oh no…

It was Oxford…

He was lying on his back with his legs in the air, twitching. Was it just that he needed crisps again? Would this pass if I just left him to it? I waited a moment to see what would happen but he looked like he was dying!

“Oxford?” I said. But he just kept twitching. In a panic, I bolted downstairs and into the kitchen and screamed, “Mum, there’s something wrong with Oxford!”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” yelled Mum, over the washing machine as it was mid

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“It’s the pug, Mum – I think he might need some crisps, and fast!”

“I still can’t hear you.”

“THE PUG IS DYING!” “Nope. Can’t hear a thing,” said Mum again.

Frustrated, I quickly clicked off the washing machine’s power button. Much to the delight of my ears, the kerthunking stopped. “What I was trying to say,” I gasped, “was that you need to come and see Oxford – and right now!”

“I can hear something,” said Mum, squinting her eyes in confusion, “but I’m not quite sure what it is.”

Oh no, I thought. Mum’s gone deaf! The weird washer sounds must have blown her ear drums! “IF YOU CAN’T HEAR ME,” I shouted, making my mouth movements really big, “CAN YOU READ MY LIPS?” “I can’t hear you,” she continued, “because I don’t listen to little girls that are supposed to be doing their maths homework—” “But, Mum, Oxford—” I cried, but she cut me off again.

“And even if I was listening, I’ve already told you – it’s withdrawal symptoms—” 29

“Mum – JUST LISTEN TO ME!”

In anger, I kicked the washing machine and the door had popped open.

Mum looked mad.

Then water started gushing all over the floor.

Mum looked even madder.

As we continued to argue, Mum grabbed the sodden washing from the machine and splatted it down in the sink.

Meanwhile, Oxford had made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. Gasping and twitching, he’d wobbled over to the washing machine. He scrambled and clambered, and huffed and puffed, and hoisted himself into the drum.

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“Look at the state of him, Mum. I told you!”

Oxford seemed to be trying to snuffle something from inside the washer door, but instead, the motion caused him to start running round the drum like he was on a huge hamster wheel. At least he wasn’t twitching on his back any more.

“Erm, excuse me, pug,” said Mum, “what do you think you’re doing in my washer?”

Faster and faster he went before

He came flying out of the machine, twisting and turning in the air, before landing next to the sink with a huge

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Oh no, something was wrong with Oxford again. This time, he was choking!

“Oh my,” said Mum, finally taking things seriously. She slammed the washing machine door shut and dropped to her knees. “There’s only one thing for it – THE KISS OF LIFE!” Now, I know very little about first aid, but I’m pretty sure my mum, crawling on the sodden kitchen floor, pretty much snogging our dog, was not the solution here. But that’s exactly what she did.

“Oh my goodness,” gasped Mum, coming up for a big gulp of air. “He tastes so bad. Like, so bad!”

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“Mum, you don’t need to do that,” I said, absolutely repulsed.

“Oh, I do. No pugs are dying on my watch,” she said, going back in for a second kiss. But this time she started to heave.

“Mum, STOP! You’re going to be sick on the dog!”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?!”

Oxford was now choking even more sharply than before. Mum’s kiss of life seemed to have made things worse!

Mum looked down at Oxford’s panicked little face and started to cry. “Oh, Oxford, I’m so sorry!”

It looked like it was on me to save him. I had no idea what to do. Well, there was one idea I’d seen in a cartoon but… I didn’t know if it would work.

I picked up Oxford and held his back to my tummy.

Then, I put my hands around his waist and gave him one huge pumping squeeze.

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He coughed up part of the thing he was choking on and it flew across the kitchen

It hit the washing machine power button and the washing machine started turning again – just making

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normal noises now. When I put Oxford down, he started to cough and hack again.

This time he threw up an open, but almost full packet of Banana-smoked Bacon & Brussels Sprouts crisps. He then proceeded to eat the fresh crisps that had cascaded from the pack onto the floor around him. Finally, Oxford seemed to be okay.

“Phew,” I said looking at Mum. “He’s okay!”

“And the washer’s fixed too!” gleamed Mum. “I can’t believe he’s been storing crisps in there.”

What I couldn’t believe was that Mum was more concerned about the washer than the pug! Still, it wasn’t important. Oxford was okay now and that was what mattered. Once he’d hoovered up all the crisps, I scooped up my perfect little pug and held him like a very pudgy baby.

“Oh, what’s this?” said Mum pointing to something on the floor. “Must’ve been the thing that clanged the washing machine back on?”

I looked down.

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I gasped.

It wasn’t…

It couldn’t be…

It was…

How could…?

It must’ve been in the packet he’d stored in the washer.

Could this be real?

Yes, I was sure it was!

It was… A GOLDEN CRISP!

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Chapter 4

A Grand Entrance

T

he next morning, I borrowed Mum’s phone and called the Saunter’s Crisps helpline to report my win but it just kept ringing and ringing and ringing.

Eventually, a robotic voice said: “THE NUMBER YOU HAVE CALLED IS BUSY. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.”

I tried again. And again. And again. Still, the same thing happened. You’d think they’d have someone on the line, especially considering that they’d just run a national crisp competition!

After the eighteenth attempt, someone finally picked up.

I was met with the gravelly and rather grouchy voice of what was either a very angry middle-aged woman or some kind of ogre (I’m still not sure which!).

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