Free Doglands by Tim Willocks Page B

behind it and stopped to think about what to do next.
    If he ran too fast, people would take notice. They might try to stop him. He decided to walk like a good, responsible dog. He was in a town, he knew that much. He’d driven through it with Gerry and Harriet, but he’d never walked around there. Kinnear said that these days there were hardly any buildings that allowed dogs to go inside, so there was no point. Besides, Furgul didn’t want to go in a building. He wanted to get out of town, away from the masters and Grown-Ups and Vets and people. He sniffed the air to find some scent of the Doglands. He was sure that he would know it if he smelled it, and surely they couldn’t be too far away. But all he could smell was car smoke and garbage and filth.
    He left the Dumpster and trotted down the nearest street.
    Where should he go from here? He needed some advice, some directions, some help. He moved smoothly between the legs of the people walking by, so slick that most of them didn’t even notice him. Some looked at him, but he didn’t look at them. He trotted on before anyone could stop him. Hundreds of smells flooded into his nose. Human smells. Cat smells. Rat smells. Car smells. Smells of cooking. Fried chicken. Fried potatoes. Fried meat. Grease. Grease. Grease. Smelly armpits. Smelly feet. But not a whiff of dog to be found.
    Then he found more dogs than he could handle.
    A man with a funny mustache and wearing tight black shiny shorts was pulling eight dogs along by their leashes. Furgul counted again. Yes. Eight! The man must have been one of the “dog walkers” Kinnear had told him about. Furgul had found it hard to believe, but lots of people paid
other
people to walk their dogs for them. Kinnear said that this was because these people spent so much time sitting at their screens, or sitting in the hairdressers, or sitting in their cars, that their legs had just stopped working.
    Furgul decided to blend in with the dogs so he wouldn’t stand out so much.
    At the time it seemed like a clever idea.
    Furgul slipped into the middle of the pack and slunk along as close to the ground as he could. He blended in like Kinnear at a squirrel’s birthday party. There was a Pomeranian, a cockapoo, a mini schnauzer, a Jack Russell, a Cavalier King Charles, a Yorkie, a dachshund and a chow. One had a brightpink collar with golden studs and another a leopard-print leash. Some wore ribbons and jewels in their hair. The dachshund wore a little red dress.
    The tallest of them was twelve inches shorter than Furgul.
    Worst of all, every one of the eight “dogs” was a girl.
    They all gaped at Furgul with their tongues hanging out.
    “I’m traveling in disguise,” whispered Furgul. “So just act natural, girls. Don’t attract attention—and, please, keep your voices down.”
    He was instantly deafened by a clamor of giggles, squeals and chatter.
    “Who’s this tall drink of water?”
    “Don’t look now, ladies, but he’s a dog. A real one.”
    “You know what they say about a long snout.”
    “Look at those scars!”
    “And those thighs!”
    “I bet he goes like a train.”
    “The cheeky devil isn’t even wearing a collar!”
    “He’s stark naked!”
    Furgul started panting with embarrassment and panic. He couldn’t think of anything to say. His only experience of girls was of fighting tooth and claw with Dervla in the park. This pack of tiny females terrified him more than a gang of wolves. He scanned the street above their heads in search of help. He felt a small sharp snout exploring the gap between his hind legs. It was the dachshund.
    “He’s got a full set!” squeaked the dachshund.
    “What, both of them?” yelped the mini schnauzer.
    “Trust me,” replied the dachshund. “There aren’t any scars down here.”
    “Think about it, girls,” said the Cavalier. “They’ll only ever let you breed with a dog who looks exactly like you.”
    “And how much fun is that if you look like me?”