The 101 Dalmatians by Dodie Smith
Worn out, the three dogs lay in their baskets in front of the kitchen fire.
“Think of my baby Cadpig in a sack,” said Missis with a sob.
“Her big brother Patch will take care of her,” said Pongo soothingly—though he felt most unsoothed himself.
“Lucky is so brave, he will bite the thieves,” wailed Perdita. “And then they will kill him.”
“No, they won‘t,” said Pongo. “The pups were stolen because they are valuable. No one will kill them. They are only valuable while they are alive.”
But even as he said this, a terrible suspicion was forming in his mind. And it grew and grew as the night wore on. Long after Missis and Perdita, utterly exhausted, had fallen asleep, he lay awake, staring at the fire, chewing the wicker of his basket as a man might have smoked a pipe.
Anyone who did not know Pongo well would have thought him handsome, amusing, and charming, but not particularly clever. Even the Dearlys did not quite realize the depths of his mind. He was often still so puppyish. He would run after balls and sticks, climb into laps far too small to hold him, roll over on his back to have his stomach scratched. How was anyone to guess that this playful creature owned one of the keenest brains in Dogdom?
It was at work now. All through the long December night he put two and two together and made four. Once or twice he almost made five.
He had no intention of alarming Missis and Perdita with his suspicions. Poor Pongo! He not only suffered on his own account, as a father; he also suffered on the account of two mothers. (For he had come to feel the puppies had two mothers, though he never felt he had two wives—he looked on Perdita as a much loved young sister.) He would say nothing about his worst fears until he was quite sure. Meanwhile, there was an important task ahead of him. He was still planning it when the Nannies came down to start another day.
As a rule, this was a splendid time—with the fire freshly made, plenty of food around, and the puppies at their most playful. This morning—well, as Nanny Butler said, it just didn’t bear thinking about. But she thought about it, and so did everybody else in that pupless house.
No good news came during the day, but the Dearlys were surprised and relieved to find that the dogs ate well. (Pongo had been firm: “You girls have got to keep your strength up.”) And there was an even greater surprise in the afternoon. Pongo and Missis showed very plainly that they wanted to take the Dearlys for a walk. Perdita did not. She was determined to stay at home in case any pup returned and was in need of a wash.
Cold weather had come at last—Christmas was only a week away.
“Missis must wear her coat,” said Mrs. Dearly.
It was a beautiful blue coat with a white binding; Missis was very proud of it. Coats had been bought for Pongo and Perdita too. But Pongo had made it clear he disliked wearing his.
So the coat was put on Missis, and both dogs were dressed in their handsome chain collars. And then they put the Dearlys on their leashes and led them into the park.
From the first it was quite clear the dogs knew just where they wanted to go. Very firmly they led the way right across the park, across the road, and to the open space which is called Primrose Hill. This did not surprise the Dearlys as it had always been a favourite walk. What did surprise them was the way Pongo and Missis behaved when they got to the top of the hill. They stood side by side and they barked.
They barked to the north, they barked to the south, they barked to the east and west. And each time they changed their positions they began the barking with three very strange short, sharp barks.
“Anyone would think they were signalling,” said Mr. Dearly.
But he did not really mean it. And they were signalling.
Many people must have noticed how dogs like to bark in the early evening. Indeed, twilight has sometimes been called “Dogs’ Barking Time.” Busy town dogs bark less than country dogs, but all dogs know all about the Twilight Barking. It is their way of keeping in touch with distant friends, passing on important news, enjoying a good gossip. But none of the dogs who answered Pongo and Missis expected to enjoy a gossip, for the three short, sharp barks meant “Help! Help! Help!”
No dog sends that signal unless the need is desperate. And no dog who hears it ever fails to respond.
Within a few minutes the news of the stolen puppies was travelling across England, and every dog who heard at once turned detective. Dogs living in London’s Underworld (hard-bitten characters, also hard-biting) set out to explore sinister alleys where dog thieves lurk. Dogs in Pet Shops hastened to make quite sure all puppies offered for sale were not Dalmatians in disguise. And dogs who could do nothing else swiftly handed on the news, spreading it through London and on through the suburbs, and on, on to the open country: “Help! Help! Help! Fifteen Dalmatian puppies stolen. Send news to Pongo and Missis Pongo, of Regent’s Park, London. End of message.”
Pongo and Missis hoped all this would be happening. But all they really knew was that they had made contact with the dogs near enough to answer them, and that those dogs would be standing by, at twilight the next evening, to relay any news that had come along.
One Great Dane, over towards Hampstead, was particularly encouraging.
“I have a chain of friends all over England,” he said in his great, booming bark. “And I will be on duty day and night. Courage, courage, O Dogs of Regent’s Park!”
It was almost dark now. And the Dearlys were suggesting—very gently—that they should be taken home. So after a few last words with the Great Dane, Pongo and Missis led the way down Primrose Hill. The dogs who had answered them were silent now, but the Twilight Barking was spreading in an ever-widening circle. And tonight it would not end with twilight. It would go on and on as the moon rose high over England.
The next day a great many people who had read Mr. Dearly’s advertisements rang up to sympathize. (Cruella de Vil did, and seemed most upset when she was told the puppies had been stolen while she was talking to Nanny Cook.) But no one had anything helpful to say. And Scotland Yard was Frankly Baffled. So it was another sad, sad day for the Dearlys, the Nannies, and the dogs.
Just before dusk, Pongo and Missis again showed that they wished to take the Dearlys for a walk. So off they started, and again the dogs led the way to the top of Primrose Hill. And again they stood side by side and gave three sharp barks. But this time, though no human ear could have detected it, they were slightly different barks. And they meant, not “Help! Help! Help!” but “Ready! Ready! Ready!”
The dogs who had collected news from all over London replied first. Reports had come in from the West End and the East End and south of the Thames. And all these reports were the same.
“Calling Pongo and Missis Pongo of Regent’s Park. No news of your puppies. Deepest regrets. End of message.”
Poor Missis! She had hoped so much that her pups were still in London. Pongo’s secret suspicion had led him to pin his hopes to news from the country. And soon it was pouring in—some of it relayed across London. But it was always the same.
“Calling Pongo and Missis Pongo of Regent’s Park. No news of your puppies. Deepest regrets. End of message.”
Again and again Pongo and Missis barked the “Ready!” signal, each time with fresh hope. Again and again came bitter disapointment. At last only the Great Dane over towards Hampstead remained to be heard from. They signalled to him—their last hope!
Back came his booming bark.
“Calling Pongo and Missis Pongo of Regent’s Park. No news of your puppies. Deepest regrets. End of—”
The Great Dane stopped in mid-bark. A second later he barked again. “Wait! Wait Wait!”
Dead still, their hearts thumping, Pongo and Missis waited. They waited so long that Mr. Dearly put his hand on Pongo’s head and said, “What about coming home, boy?” For the first time in his life, Pongo jerked his head from Mr. Dearly’s hand, then went on standing stock still. And at last the Great Dane spoke again, booming triumphantly through the fast gat
“Calling Pongo and Missis Pongo. News! News at last! Stand by to receive details.”
A most wonderful thing had happened. Just as the Great Dane had been about to sign off, a Pomeranian with a piercing yap had got a message through to him. She had heard it from a Poodle who had heard it from a Boxer who had heard it from a Pekinese. Dogs of almost every known breed had helped to carry the news—and a great many dogs of unknown breed (none the worse for that, and all of them bright as buttons). In all, four hundred and eighty dogs had relayed the message, which had travelled over sixty miles as the dog barks. Each dog had given the “Urgent” signal, which had silenced all gossiping dogs. Not that many dogs were merely gossiping that night; almost all the Twilight Barking had been about the missing puppies.
This was the strange story that now came through to Pongo and Missis: Some hours earlier, an elderly English Sheepdog, living on a farm in a remote Suffolk village, had gone for an afternoon amble. He knew all about the missing puppies and had just been discussing them with the tabby cat at the farm. She was a great friend of his.
Some little way from the village, on a lonely heath, was an old house completely surrounded by an unusually high wall. Two brothers, named Saul and Jasper Baddun lived there, but were merely caretakers for the real owner. The place had an evil reputation—no local dog would have dreamed of putting its nose inside the tall iron gates. In any case, these gates were always kept locked.
It so happened that the Sheepdog’s walk took him past this house. He quickened his pace, having no wish to meet either of the Badduns. And at that moment, something came sailing out over the high wall.
It was a bone, the Sheepdog saw with pleasure; but not a bone with meat on it, he noted with disgust. It was an old, dry bone, and on it were some peculiar scratches. The scratches formed letters. And the letters were S.O. S.
Someone was asking for help! Someone behind the tall wall and the high, chained gates! The Sheepdog barked a low, cautious bark. He was answered by a high, shrill bark. Then he heard a yelp, as if some dog had been cuffed. The Sheepdog barked again, saying, “I’ll do all I can.” Then he picked up the bone in his teeth and raced back to the farm.
Once home, he showed the bone to the tabby cat and asked her help. Then, together, they hurried to the lonely house. At the back they found a tree whose branches reached over the wall. The cat climbed the tree, went along its branches, and then leaped to a tree the other side of the wall.
“Take care of yourself,” barked the Sheepdog. “Remember those Baddun brothers are villains.”
The cat clawed her way down, backwards, to the ground, then hurried through the overgrown shrubbery. Soon she came to an old brick wall which enclosed a stableyard. From behind the wall came whimperings and snufflings. She leaped to the top of the wall and looked down.
The next second, one of the Baddun brothers saw her and threw a stone at her. She dodged it, jumped from the wall, and ran for her life. In two minutes she was safely back with the Sheepdog.
“They’re there!” she said triumphantly. “The place is seething with Dalmatian puppies!”
The Sheepdog was a formidable Twilight Barker. Tonight, with the most important news in Dogdom to send out, he surpassed himself. And so the message travelled, by way of farm dogs and house dogs, great dogs and small dogs. Sometimes a bark would carry half a mile or more; sometimes it would need to carry only a few yards. One sharp-eared Cairn saved the chain from breaking by picking up a bark from nearly a mile away and then almost bursting herself getting it on to the dog next door. Across miles and miles of country, across miles and miles of suburbs, across a network of London streets, the chain held firm; from the depths of Suffolk to the top of Primrose Hill—where Pongo and Missis, still as statues, stood listening, listening.
“Puppies found in lonely house. S.O.S. on old bone . . .” Missis could not take it all in. But Pongo missed nothing. There were instructions for reaching the village, suggestions for the journey, offers of hospitality on the way. And the dog chain was standing by to take a message back to the pups—the Sheepdog would bark it over the wall in the dead of night.
At first Missis was too excited to think of anything to say, but Pongo barked clearly, “Tell them we’re coming! Tell them we start tonight! Tell them to be brave!”
Then Missis found her voice. “Give them all our love! Tell Patch to take care of the Cadpig! Tell Lucky not to be too daring! Tell Roly Poly to keep out of mischief!” She would have sent a message to every one of the fifteen pups if Pongo had not whispered, “That’s enough, dear. We mustn’t make it too complicated. Let the Great Dane start work now.”
So they signed off and there was a sudden silence. And then, though not quite so loudly, they heard the Great Dane again. But this time he was not barking towards them. What they heard was their message, starting on its way to Suffolk.
To the Rescue!
As they walked the Dearlys home, Pongo said to Missis, “Did you hear who owns the house where the puppies are imprisoned?”
Missis said, “No, Pongo, I’m afraid I missed many things the Great Dane barked.”
“I will tell you everything later,” said Pongo.
He was faced with a problem. He now knew that his terrible suspicions were justified and it was time Missis learned the truth. But if he told her before dinner, she might lose her appetite, and if he told her afterwards, she might lose her dinner. So still he said nothing. And he made her eat every crumb of dinner and then join him in asking for more—which the Nannies gave with delight.
“It may be a long time before we get another meal,” he explained.
While the Nannies fed the Dearlys, the dogs made their plans. Perdita at once offered to come to Suffolk with them.
“But you are still much too delicate for the journey, dear Perdita,” said Missis. “Besides, what could you do?”
“I could wash the puppies,” said Perdita.
Both Pongo and Missis then said they knew Perdita was a beautiful puppy-washer but her job must be to comfort the Dearlys. And she felt that herself.
“If only we could make them understand why we are leaving them!” said Missis, sadly.
“If we could do that, we shouldn’t have to leave them,” said Pongo. “They would drive us to Suffolk in the car. And send the police.”
“Oh, let us have one more try to speak their language,” said Missis.
The Dearlys were sitting by the fire in the big white drawing room. They welcomed the two dogs and offered them the sofa. But Pongo and Missis had no wish for a comfortable nap. They stood together, looking imploringly at the Dearlys.
Then Pongo barked gently, “Wuff, wuff, wuffolk!”
Mr. Dearly patted him but understood nothing.
Then Missis tried. “Wuff, wuff, wuffolk!”
“Are you telling us the puppies are in Suffolk?” said Mrs. Dearly.
The dogs wagged their tails wildly. Buy Mrs. Dearly was only joking. It was hopeless, and the dogs knew it always would be.
Dogs can never speak the language of humans, and humans can never speak the language of dogs. But many dogs can understand almost every word humans say, while humans seldom learn to recognize more than half a dozen barks, if that. And barks are only a small part of the dog language. A wagging tail can mean so many things. Humans know that it means a dog is pleased, but not what a dog is saying about his pleasedness. (Really, it is very clever of humans to understand a wagging tail at all, as they have no tails of their own.) Then there are the snufflings and sniffings, the pricking of ears—all meaning different things. And many, many words are expressed by a dog’s eyes.
It was with their eyes that Pongo and Missis spoke most that evening, for they knew the Dearlys could at least understand one eye-word. That word was “love,” and the dogs said it again and again, leaning their heads against the Dearlys’ knees. And the Dearlys said, “Dear Pongo,” “Dear Missis,” again and again.
“They’re asking us
At eleven o‘clock the dogs gave Mrs. Dearly’s hand one last kiss and took Mr. Dearly out for his last run. Perdita joined them for this. She had spent the evening with the Nannies, feeling that Pongo and Missis might wish to be alone with their pets. Then all three dogs went to their baskets in the warm kitchen and the house settled for the night.
But it did not settle for long. Shortly before midnight Pongo and Missis got up, ate some biscuits they had hidden, and took long drinks of water. Then they said a loving good-bye to Perdita, who was in tears, nosed open a window at the back of the house, and got out into the mews. (They knew they could not open the gate at the top of the area steps.) Carefully they nosed the window shut, so that Perdita would not get a chill, and then went round to the area railings to give her one last smile. (Dogs smile in various ways: Pongo and Missis smiled by wrinkling their noses.) She was there at the kitchen window, bravely trying to wag her tail.
Beyond Perdita, Missis could see the three cushioned baskets in the rosy glow from the fire. She thought of the many peaceful nights she had spent in hers, in the happy days when a dog could fall asleep looking forward to breakfast. Poor Missis! Of course she loved Pongo, the puppies, the Dearlys, and the Nannies—and dear, kind Perdita—best of everything in the world. But she also loved her creature comforts. Never had her home seemed so dear to her as now when she was leaving it for a dangerous, unknown world.