Mr Scraps

Colin Perry

Description

Inspired by the true story of a dog named Rip, the first search-and-rescue dog during the Second World War, Mr Scraps is a heartwarming story of courage, love and devotion that will appeal to parents and children alike.

Informations

• Publié par: eBook Versions
• Date de parution: 01 avril 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781843962755
• Langue: English

Extrait

Published in the
United Kingdom by WHINC

Copyright © 2013 Taylor Holden

Author s website
www.wendyholden.com

Taylor Holden has asserted her
right under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988 to be identified
as the author of this work.

ISBN-13 978-1-84396-275-5

A CIP catalogue record for
this ebook edition is available
from the British Library.

Cover art
Val rie N guelouart
Cover photogaphs
Shutterstock Susan Schmitz,
Cyrustr, Everett Historical, MagicDogWorkshop)

ePub ebook edition production
www.ebookversions.com

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system
or transmitted in any form
or by any means electronic,
photomechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise without
the prior written permission
of the publisher. Any person who
does any unauthorised act in
relation to this publication may be
liable to criminal prosecution.
Contents


Title Page
Copyright Credits
About this book
About the author
Dedication

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue
About this book


INSPIRED by the true story of a dog named Rip who was the first search-and-rescue dog during the Second World War, Mr. Scraps is a heartwarming story of courage, love and devotion that will appeal to parents and children alike.
Bobby, a seven-year-old rescue dog of dubious heritage, lives with his Master and uses his sense of smell to navigate the world. His Boy is missing in action, his Lady has slipped down the rabbit-hole and there’s little excitement in his life. No sooner had his Master told him they were at war than the terror-birds started dropping the egg-bombs that forever change his world.
Through Bobby’s perceptive eyes, ears, and nose, the reader experiences the life of a canine victim of war. Alone and terrified, he encounters only death and fire-stink until he is befriended by a scab-kneed boy called Lawrie who names him Mr. Scraps, and Harry, a fireman who realises how useful he could be.
In a daily game of seek-and-reward Mr. Scraps becomes the first ever search-and-rescue dog. Between them, he and Harry find more than three hundred dead or dying and are almost killed in the process. After the war Mr. Scraps is awarded the Dickin Medal (the animal equivalent of the Victoria Cross).
About the author


Taylor Holden is the nom de plume of author Wendy Holden, who has written more than thirty books including the memoir of Uggie, the Jack Russell from the Oscar winning movie The Artist , and a novel, The Sense of Paper , published by Random House, New York.
A former war correspondent, she specializes in war, biography and the ghost-written memoirs of remarkable humans and animals. She lives in Suffolk, England, with her husband and two dogs.

Author s website
For Lawrie and Ellen
MR. SCRAPS



Taylor Holden




WHINC
ONE


DON T worry, Bobby..., myMaster said as he broke off a piece of toast. My nose told me long before heoffered it to me that it was spread with margarine not butter but I gobbled itup anyway. ....We ll get through this together, lad. Just like always.
The splinters of joists andfloorboards I d help him collect from the bombsites spat noisily from thegrate, showering us with sparks. Watch out! he cried, brushing embers from mycoat. We don t want you getting scorched. Mavis down The Golden Fleece already says you re the scruffiest mutt she s ever seen. Blinkin cheek!
I leaned contentedlyagainst his leg while his fingers worked the rub-spot directly behind my leftear that made me feel all tingly warm inside. His hands smelled of carbolic soapbut I pretended not to notice. We both knew that if he were to rub an inch lower,my hind leg would go into a spasm of scratching that, although he seemed to findhighly amusing, neither of us felt like triggering during our rare moment of peace.
I don t know what I d havedone without you these last few weeks, my Master added with a sigh. What withPeg gone, and young Kit missing in North Africa, I think I d be quite daft.
I, too, missed Kit and my Lady,who d gladdened my dog-heart in so many different ways. It was Kit who d chosenme as a year-old mongrel from an animal shelter where I d lived largely unpettedsince birth. From the day he sprang me from my stinky cage, we had such funplaying in the park or swimming in the docks. When it was time to head home, I dchase him back on his bike, snapping at his wheels and barking dementedly. Aftersupper, we d curl up together on his bed where he d read a comic and I d twitchas I slept, reliving our antics. Then Kit wasn t so much fun anymore. He preferredto spend time alone with his friends or sitting in his room listening to swingmusic, so my Lady took over my care. She fed me liver, lined my basket with anold sweater and spent ages trying to brush out my disobedient coat. She may nothave played with me or understood my ways but she treated me like her own fleshand blood. Which was just as well, because on his eighteenth birthday her humanson stood before us in a uniform that reeked of camphor as she and my Master clungto each other, their faces as pale as the moon.
The following year, whenthe scent of Kit s boot polish had long since faded from the house, my Ladytook on a strangely sour odour herself. Within three months she was gone. She dvanished down the rabbit-hole my master called Heaven. The succulent liver wasreplaced with dried food and no one tried to tame my unruly pelt any more. Homedidn t smell the same at all.
Then almost withoutwarning one sultry autumn night, something bad happened. It s started, Bobby, my Master told me, switching off the box he called the wireless .  He sighedand added, We re at war.
What this seemed to mean wasthat screaming metal birds carrying eggs the humans called bombs began to rainon us and they kept falling. Night after night we cowered in cupboards, undertables, or in a hastily-erected garden shelter whose mustiness made me nose-wrinkle.
I m supposed to leaveyou in the house, my Master told me, as he held me close. Those silly beggarsat the Ministry gave me some bromide pills to put in your food against nerve gas.They even suggested cotton-wool for your ears, but they ve clearly never had adog.
The night of the margarinetoast was the first in a long while that the bombing raids hadn t accompanied night-break.As the light leached from the sky and a gentle rain began to fall, my Mastermade supper and lit a fire and we settled companionably together like the goodold days.
Half-asleep in the firelight,I leaned so hard against his leg that when he stopped rubbing my ear I almosttoppled over. Waking abruptly, my eyes followed his hands as he reached for hisbriarwood pipe and filled it from a leather pouch whose contents emanated toffee,plums, and autumn leaves. Once the pipe was filled and tapped down, he postedit neatly between his lips and struck a match against the brick surround of thefireplace, drawing in sulphur.
Sniffing the air, I sank belowthe smoke and rested my head between my forepaws. It had been another long day ina month or more of long days and I was ready for some shut-eye. The previous sleep-nighthad been the worst yet, especially when my Master had suddenly decided that thebombing was getting so close we d have to seek shelter.
There s nothing for it,Bobby, he d shouted over the crashing and cracking of egg-bombs. Come on,lad. Let s see if you can fit in here.
Having been stuffedunceremoniously inside an old carpet bag of my Lady s, I was carried bumpily fora half mile and then down into what he referred to as B-Low . It smelled like thebowels of the earth as we sat wedged between men, women, and children who d scurriedto the same Underground station with food, blankets and their most preciousbelongings.
I shuddered at the memoryof being trapped far beneath the pavement in all that human heat. The air was thickwith the smell of feet, sour breath, sweat and worse as hundreds of people lay side-by-sidetogether on the station platform. To relieve themselves, they used earth-buckets hidden behind a screen. They doused them with water but the stench wasunbearable. I couldn t help but drip-drool and no amount of secret work on my rub-spotcould help me settle.
Even though our tunnelshuddered repeatedly with the shock of explosions far above us, I still strainedto get out the minute the All-Clear was sounded. In the grey dawn, my Master carriedme up what seemed like endless stairs to inspect what was left of our world.
No dogs! a policemanbarked when he spotted me a few feet from the station entrance. You know therules! If we let one in, we ll have to let em all in! His face was ruddy withrage.
Sorry, officer, myMaster replied, bowing his head as I lifted mine to a distinct whiff of ammonia. It won t happen again, he added, while a woman slipped out behind him strugglingto contain a small damp cat-baby in an inside pocket of her coat.
No, it won t, cos I llbe keeping my beady eye on you! the policeman snapped. He did, indeed, haveone eye that looked like a shiny black bead. Almost as an afterthought, he cried, Don t you know there s a war on?
In weary response, I cockedmy leg on a pillar box blown clean off its base and left straddling the pavement.Only once I d relieved myself did I look around and try to make sense of the uglynew landscape of broken bricks, wood splintered to matchsticks, and vastunstable mountains of rubble.
Lifting my snout, I inhaled.The air was welcomingly cool after the night spent B-Low but it was still chokedwith fire-stink. I yearned for a wide expanse of living space, the feeling of wet-greengrass under my paws, and an inviting copse. Instead there were only theunwho