The World of Harry Porter - Children's and Young Adult Author

For the reader

Within the following story, you will find many references to ‘Rescue Dogs’. In England, where Tilly lives the term rescue dog refers to a dog that has been rescued and subsequently re-homed either through a registered dog sanctuary of perhaps through the R.S.P.C.A. (The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals). A number of private individuals also work hard to rescue these unfortunate dogs, and their work is valuable in the re-homing of many who would otherwise be destroyed. The term ‘rescue dog should not be confused with the more familiar term ‘Search and Rescue dog’ which refers to those dogs used for the purposes of rescuing people in distress. That being said, Tilly, the dog featured in this tale is both, being trained in the search and rescue techniques needed to find lost or missing persons, as well as being the pet that she has always wanted to be.

Acknowledgements

The series of books, Harry Porter’s Dog Tales, of which this tale forms a part, owes much to the help of others who along the way, have helped not just with supporting me in the writing and preparation of the books themselves, but also in the day to day business of working and living with our wonderful ‘pack’ of rescue dogs.

            So I would like to say a big thank you to Canine Behaviourists Brian and Carol, of ‘Dog Whispers’, without whose help Tilly especially and many of the others would not be the dogs they are today. Thanks also to those often nameless volunteers who work and process, and help to rehome the innumerable dogs who pass through the gates of dog sanctuaries, here and in other countries, every day of the year.

            I owe a debt of gratitude to Rebecca and Victoria, the first children to read and pass comment on the manuscripts. If they hadn’t enjoyed them, these stories would never have reached a publisher.

            To Vivian at 4RV, thank you for believing in Tilly and her gang, and to my agent Aidana, thanks for everything.

Finally, my thanks go to Juliet, whose skill in the grooming and clipping of the dogs keeps them looking their best whatever the weather. She works had at her craft, and it shows.

Introduction

Tilly is ‘The Leader of The Pack’, the dog who has taken on the responsibility of being the senior dog in the household of author Harry Porter. She acts as ‘mother’ to the other dogs and will stand up for any of them who may be threatened by any strange dogs they may meet who show signs of being unfriendly. She is intelligent and loving, and this is her story. Like all the dogs in Harry’s house, she is a rescue dog, one who was either abandoned or hurt and abused by her previous owners. She has lived with Harry and his family for nearly three years and has learned that not all human beings want to hurt her or be cruel to her. Hers is the first story in the series of Harry Porter’s Dog Tales, each of which tells the story of one of the remarkable and very individual little dogs that make up this enchanting series.    What follows, told in her own ‘words’ is, Tilly’s Tale.

Chapter 1

Shivering in the Snow

Before I start this story, let me tell you who I am. My name’s Tilly, and I’m four years old, about twelve inches tall, and I’m a sort of grey with a bit of white on the chest, and, oh yes, in case I didn’t mention it I’m a dog! Not just any dog, I’m a rescue dog. What? You don’t know what a rescue dog is? Well, let me tell you that a rescued dog is one of the luckiest dogs in the world. Why? Perhaps if I just tell you my story you’ll understand what I mean, and what makes us so special, because that’s what Harry, my Dad says us rescue dogs are, very special.

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I remember the thick, dark, heavy clouds hanging in the sky over the little garden. Icicles hung from the branches of the bushes that had been planted around the borders, and the lawn had disappeared beneath its new white blanket of soft, but very cold snow. It was December, and Christmas Day had passed two days before. Inside the house the owners were warm and snug, the fire in the grate keeping the cold of winter where it should be, outside.

            It was so very cold that even the birds had failed to make an appearance to peck at the meagre crumbs that had been placed upon the bird table that stood near the fence at the bottom of the garden. Without the sounds of their voices, an eerie silence hung over the garden, and not a living creature stirred. Well, almost!

            Under the bush that had the longest branches, an evergreen with thick heavy leaves, I lay huddled in a ball, trying to keep warm. I was freezing. My little body shivered and I scratched at the ground with a paw, trying to make a bed of sorts in the undergrowth, amongst the snow and the pieces of leaf litter that lay beneath the bush. My fur was overgrown, dense and matted, a sign that I’d not been brushed or combed for a long, long time. I peered out sadly from beneath the bush, and frost clung to the long hairs that dangled from my chin and tail. I wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time why I’d been cast out to live in this cold and terrible place. Not so long ago, I’d lived in a lovely warm and cosy home with old Sam. He was an old man, and so lovely and cuddly to be with, and I knew that he loved me. He’d spend most of the day with me, talking to me, giving me little biscuit treats, and when he felt up to it, he’d take me for a walk in the park on a smart red lead that he’d bought for me the day he’d taken me home as a puppy. He’d bought me a warm cosy dog bed, one with high sides that helped keep draughts away and had given me a lovely pink blanket that I could arrange with my paws into a comfortable, cosy place to sleep. Sometimes though, old Sam would call to me at night and I’d jump up and sleep beside him on his bed, my head resting gently on the pillow next to Sam’s. He gave me a cuddly toy, a little teddy bear that I’d proudly carry around the house with me, and cuddle up to at night in my bed, when I wasn’t lying next to Sam.

          One day, Sam didn’t get up from his bed, and I knew something was wrong when the old man failed to give me my usual morning biscuits or to let me out in the garden to play. Sam’s son and his wife came by soon afterwards, and I heard my name mentioned as old Sam asked his family to take care of me, “his perfect little dog” he called me, if anything happened to him. I wasn’t allowed back in the house for a long time, and I couldn’t work out what was going on. What on earth was wrong with Sam, my friend, my master, the one person in the world who loved me? A short time later, two men in white coats came and took Sam away on a bed with wheels, and I never saw him again.

            I was left alone for almost the whole day, until Sam’s son arrived just as it was getting dark. He gathered up my bed and the toys that Sam had given me, and took me and my few possessions to his house a mile away from Sam’s. Instead of taking me into the house with him when we got there, the man instead made me sit outside while he talked to his wife.

            “I will not have that dog in the house,” she shouted. “You know I can’t stand animals of any kind.”

            “But, Dad asked me to take care of her, you know he did,” the man replied.

            “She stays in the garden and that’s that!” the woman said.

            My tail, which I normally carried proudly curled over my back, drooped and I let it fall between my legs. Somehow I had a feeling that things were about to change, and I was right. A wave of unhappiness and sadness washed over me as I realised that for some reason, Sam wasn’t coming back for me, and that I’d arrived at a home where it was quite obvious that I wasn’t wanted.

            So, time went by, and there I was, lying wearily and sadly under the bush at the bottom of the garden, day after day after day. As the cold months of winter dragged on, I always seemed to feel wet, and the cold made my body ache constantly. I cried to myself every day. What? You didn’t know dogs could cry? Well, we can, and I’d never felt so unhappy in my life, and I was so alone, and felt as depressed as a dog can get. Dogs feel most of the emotions that humans do, except perhaps hatred. We don’t understand that one at all. How many times have you seen a dog being shouted at or punished, and then running to their human master to try and gain affection from them? That’s because our nature is essentially one of love and caring for those we live with. Perhaps the strongest emotion I felt during that time was that of being unwanted. That, for a dog is probably the worst feeling of all. Without Sam, I felt as though no-one in the whole world loved or wanted me anymore. I grieved for my old friend, and I wished for the day when someone would love me, perhaps just a little, once again....