Pudding Wags for Jo
The night before the summer show, Jo brushed Pudding’s tail one hundred times.
She counted out loud. Pudding lay on the rug and let her. Pudding was a small brown shaggy dog, and her tail was small and brown and shaggy too. By the hundredth brush it was as fluffy as a feather duster.
“Tomorrow you’re going to wag,” said Jo. “And you’re going to win the rosette for Waggiest Tail.”
Pudding wagged a little. That was because it was nearly bath time. Every night Pudding sat on the bath mat while Jo had her bath. Every night Mom sang the song about the boat with the yellow sail. And when Mom sang that song, Pudding wagged so hard the bath mat went crooked.
The summer show was on the village green. There was a big white tent full of cakes and jam. There was a band that went oom-pah, oom-pah. And there was a ring just for the dogs.
There were big dogs everywhere. A big spotty dog. A big curly dog. A dog so big and white and woolly that Jo thought at first it was a sheep.
Pudding did not like it one bit. She hid behind Jo’s legs and tucked her tail tight under her tummy.
Jo began to hum. She always hummed when she was worried. It was not a proper song, just hmm, hmm, hmm.
The judge was Mr. Hobb. He had a very big moustache and a very kind face under it. He held a little silver clicker. Every time a dog wagged, he pressed it. Click-click.
“Next for Waggiest Tail,” said Mr. Hobb. “Jo and Pudding!”
Jo walked into the ring. Pudding walked so close that she kept stepping on Jo’s heels.
“Wag, Pudding,” said Jo.
And Pudding did not wag.
Jo took a biscuit out of her pocket. Pudding ate it. Crunch. Then she sniffed Jo’s pocket for another one.
“Wag, Pudding,” said Jo.
And Pudding did not wag.
Beside them, the big spotty dog was wagging like a windmill. The big woolly dog wagged so hard it knocked over a water bucket. Mr. Hobb’s clicker went click-click, click-click, click-click, and his thumb could hardly keep up.
Jo had one more idea. She wiggled her own bottom from side to side, to show Pudding how it was done.
“Wag, Pudding,” said Jo. “Like this!”
And Pudding did not wag. The band played louder. Pudding pushed her nose into the back of Jo’s knee and shut her eyes.
Jo stopped wiggling. She stopped her worried hum. She knew her dog better than anybody, and she knew what Pudding needed. Somewhere quiet. And the right song.
Jo picked Pudding up and carried her around to the back of the big white tent. Nobody was there. The band sounded far away.
Jo sat down in the grass with Pudding in her lap. Then she hummed the boat song, the one Mom sang at bath time. Little boat, little boat, with your yellow sail, carry me over the water and home.
Pudding opened her eyes. One ear went up. Then the other. Then Pudding’s tail went thump.
Thump. Thump.
Then it wagged round and round like a feather duster.
Click-click.
Jo looked up. There was Mr. Hobb. He put a finger to his moustache, as if to say, shh, keep going. Then he sat down in the grass too, with a small “oof.”
Jo hummed the boat song all the way through, and then again. Pudding wagged and wagged. Mr. Hobb clicked and clicked until his thumb was tired.
At last he looked at his clicker. Both ends of his moustache went up.
“Well,” said Mr. Hobb. “That is the most wags I have counted all day.”
“More than the spotty dog?” said Jo.
“More than the spotty dog,” said Mr. Hobb. “More than the woolly one, too. The big dogs were wagging at the band and the people and the bucket. Pudding’s wags were all for you.” He looked at the fluffy tail. “And it is a very well-brushed tail.”
“One hundred times,” said Jo.
Mr. Hobb took the rosette out of his pocket. It was red, with two long ribbons. He pinned it carefully on Pudding’s collar. Then he looked at it and said, “Oh dear. I’ve put it on upside down.”
The ribbons stuck up behind Pudding’s ears like two little flags.
“Leave it,” said Jo. “That’s how Pudding’s goes.”
Mr. Hobb went back to the ring with a tin under his arm. Inside were round dog biscuits, each with a red ribbon tied through the middle. The spotty dog got one. The curly dog got one. The woolly dog got one, and wagged so hard it knocked the bucket over again. So every dog got a rosette, and every rosette was crunchy.
Pudding got one too. Crunch.
That night the red rosette hung on Jo’s bedpost, upside down. Pudding lay curled on Jo’s feet, as warm as a hot-water bottle. Mom tucked the blanket around them both and turned out the big light.
“I’m glad you’re my dog,” said Jo.
She was very sleepy. She did not say, “Wag, Pudding.” She just hummed the boat song, very softly, one more time.
And Pudding wagged. Her tail went thump, thump, twice, on the blanket.
Then the tail was still, and Pudding was asleep. And soon Jo was asleep too, warm and happy, with the waggiest dog in the whole village snoring on her toes.