Chapter 7 Pug-tato
With my eyes closed, I drowsily noticed the cheerful chirping of some nearby birds alongside the hum of distant traffic. I opened my eyes, yawned and gazed out of my bedroom window. My chest felt tight for some reason. And then I remembered…
Wow, what a dream that was. I breathed out a huge sigh of relief. Phew, it felt so real.
I stretched my arms and wandered over to Oxford’s bed to give him his usual morning puggy cuddle.
But Oxford wasn’t there.
Oh no. This couldn’t be happening.
There was no pug. There was just…
A POTATO!
I felt like I was going to puke. It wasn’t a dream at all. My little Oxford, my favourite little pug, the best dog in the whole world was missing!
I paced back and forth, trying to remember what had happened but it was all a bit foggy. At the top of my voice I hollered,
Mum raced up the stairs and popped her head into my room.“Are you feeling alright now, lovely? You passed out right into my arms.”
“It’s Oxford,” I said, pointing at the pug’s bed where the potato now lay. “He’s… he’s… he’s missing!”
Mum peeked at the dog bed and tutted. “He’s fine, Evie. He’s just sleeping.”
Mum obviously wasn’t listening. “Sleeping? What are you talking about? Mum, where is he?”
“I don’t understand,” said Mum, pointing at the potato, “he’s in his bed. Are you feeling alright, Evie?”
But I was not feeling alright. I was feeling incredibly frustrated that she just wasn’t listening to me. “Mum, that is not Oxford – that’s a potato!”
“Oh, Evie,” she laughed. “Don’t play tricks on me. You had me worried then!”
“Tricks?! I’m not playing tricks, Mum! That is not Oxford!”
And that was when Mum did something that made me suspect that things had gone wrong – like SERIOUSLY WRONG! She walked over to the bed, stroked the top of the potato and said, “I think he’s fine, Evie. Maybe he just needs a walk? I think we can get one in before school.”
“Wait – WHAT?!”
“Come on then, Oxford,” she said, scooping up the little stationary potato. “Let’s take you out for a little puggy walk.”
“Hang on,” I said. “How on earth are we going to walk a potato?!”
“What’s gotten into you?” laughed Mum. “We’re not walking a potato. We’re walking Oxford.”
I screwed up my face in confusion. Was Mum playing a joke on me or did she really think that was Oxford? There was only one way to find out – so I went along with it.
Mum buckled the pug-tato onto the lead,
dropped it on the floor
and dragged it out the front door.
I watched in astonishment as Mum cheerily whistled her way down the street, dragging a leashed potato behind her. Had a piece of debris from the explosion whacked her in the head? Why was she pretending a random spud was actually our pug?
“Morning, Mrs Glenmorrag,” said Mum to the brisk woman that lived above the chemist.
“Good mornin’,” she said back in her heavy Scottish accent. “Yer wee pug is looking a bit oot of sorts today.”
“Oh yes,” said Mum. “We had a day out yesterday and didn’t manage to give him a walk so he’s a little off.”
A LITTLE OFF?! I thought to myself. He’s 100% carbohydrate – how is that just A LITTLE OFF ?!
“Oh aye,” said Mrs Glenmorrag, nodding towards the old and limp border terrier following behind her. “Angus is exactly the same today.”
Not quite EXACTLY THE SAME, I thought to myself again.
She bent down to pat the potato. “Who’s a lovely wee lad?”
This was just bonkers now. Had they gotten together in the night and agreed to play a prank on me? That didn’t seem very likely but it wasn’t outside the realms of possibility.
We continued dragging spud-Oxford around the estate. The longer we walked, the more baffling it all seemed.
Just as we were a few doors away from home, we saw Harry Harrington, the local tailor, in the distance.
He was out walking his dog; he has a pug too. He and Mum get on quite well, mainly because they’re in absolute agreement: pugs are just the best dog a person can have, as long as they are bred correctly.
“A fine morning,” hollered Harry to Mum from down the road.
“Oh yes,” Mum called back, “perfect weather for the pugs, isn’t it? Not too hot and not too cold.”
As Harry made his way closer to us, I could see that his pug seemed to be a bit… I don’t know… bobbly?
“Samantha is having just the most charming walk today,” said Harry. “I’ve trained her to stop sniffing pee on lamp posts and I must say, she’s much happier for it.
Aren’t you, Samantha?”
I watched as he reached down to stroke his little Samantha-pug… only… it wasn’t a pug. H ARRY
H ARRINGTON HAD A PUG - TATO TOO!
“Yes, I’m all about taking care of canine mental health, and inhaling waste fumes can’t be doing any good for her anxiety,” he continued. “So I call her each time she pulls towards pee.”
“I’m sorry,” I spluttered at the suit-wearing tailor – and as rude as this was, I just couldn’t help myself – “but what is wrong with you?! Seriously, what is wrong with you?”
“Evie!” scolded Mum.
“It’s okay,” he said, a little taken aback, “I’m just trying something experimental, is all. Seeing if I can make my little darling happier.”
“But that’s not a pug. That’s a potato!” I said, firmly.
“A… potato?” he questioned, a slight quiver to his lower lip.
“Y OU ’ VE GOT A SPUD ON A STRING !” I yelled.
“I… I don’t quite know what to say,” he sniffled. “I just wanted to… I was trying to… waaaaaaahhh.” Harry Harrington burst into tears. “Why does no one care about puggy mental health?!”
“Harry,” called Mum, “I’m sorry about Evie, she’s just—”
But it was too late. He was dabbing his eyes with his suit jacket and dragging his pug-tato away.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you this morning, Evie, but it needs to stop,” said Mum.
I didn’t know what to say back to her. If this was a trick that was being played on me, then it was of incredible scale and it was very, very cruel.
But if it wasn’t a trick… well, I didn’t want to think about that at all…