The 101 Dalmatians (4 page)

Anyway, Perdita was able to feed the two puppies. Pongo went upstairs and told Missis so (though to the Dearlys it only sounded like the thumping of his tail). Then he said good night and went back to the kitchen, where his basket was ready for him. Perdita had the basket Missis usually slept in. She had fed and washed the two puppies and was now having a light supper. (The Splendid Vet had said she must eat all she possibly could, to get her strength back.) Pongo had a snack himself, to encourage her. Then the Nannies went to bed and the kitchen was left in darkness except for the glow from the fire. And when the two puppies were asleep, Perdita told Pongo her story.

She had been born in a large country house, not far from the common where Mrs. Dearly had found her. Although very pretty, she had been less valuable than her brothers and sisters; her spots were rather small and her tail inclined to curl (it had straightened as she grew older). As no one rich or important wanted to be her pet, she was given to a farmer, who, though not cruel to her, never gave her the love all Dalmatians need. And he let her run wild, which is not good for any kind of dog.

A time came when she felt a great desire to marry. But no marriage was arranged for her and, as the farm was over a mile from any village, no dog had come courting her. So one day she set out to find a husband for herself.

Her way to the village lay across the common, where she saw a large, handsome car which had been driven onto the grass. A group of people were having a picnic—and with them was a superb liver-spotted Dalmatian. Now, liver-spotted Dalmatians are unusual. Perdita had been the only one in her family, and always thought herself a freak. She instantly knew that the dog on the common was no freak but a most valuable animal, for he wore a magnificent collar and was being offered a piece of chicken by a richly dressed lady. At that moment, he saw Perdita.

It was love at first sight. Without even bothering to eat the chicken, he came bounding to her, and they were away into a wood together before anyone could stop them. Here they made swift arrangements for their marriage, promising to love each other always. Then the happy husband told his wife she must, of course, come and live with him, and led her back to the common. But as they reached it, along came the farmer Perdita lived with, in his rattling old car. He dragged her into it—and the picnic party bundled her husband into their car. Both dogs struggled and howled but it was useless. The cars drove off in opposite directions.

Nine weeks after her marriage, Perdita had eight puppies. The farmer did not give her extra food, or help to feed the puppies himself, so she got thinner and thinner; by the time her family was a month old, she was just skin and bone. Then the farmer put down some food for the puppies to eat, and they quickly learned how to, but they still went on taking all the milk Perdita could give them, so she never had a chance to regain her weight. She was such a very young mother, barely full-grown herself, but she loved her babies dearly and did all she could for them. And as she got thinner, they got fatter.

The spots on Dalmatians begin to come through after two weeks. But the time Perdita's family were six weeks old it was obvious that they were going to be beautifully marked and very valuable—Perdita heard the farmer say so to a stranger who came to the farm one morning. She was still helping to feed them; they would eat all the farmer offered and then come to her for milk. Then she and they would all have a happy sleep in the old box she had been given for a bed.

One afternoon she woke to find not one puppy in bed with her. She searched the farmhouse, she searched the farmyard. No puppies anywhere. She ran onto the road, fearing they might have been run over. On and on she went, pausing every few minutes to bark. No answering puppy-bark came to her. Soon it began to rain. She thought of the puppies all getting wet, and barked more and more desperately. A car nearly ran over her; she saved herself only by jumping into a muddy ditch, where the mud even got into her eyes and ears. By the time she reached the common where she had met her husband, she was shivering and weak on her legs. The thought of her lost husband added to her misery at the loss of the puppies. She had eaten nothing since the previous afternoon—the farmer gave her only one meal a day. At last, faint with hunger and utterly broken-spirited, she collapsed. And there, not long after, Mrs. Dearly found her.

That was Perdita's whole story; except that she never told Pongo that the farmer had named her Spotty—because she liked Perdita so much better.

Pongo sympathized with all his heart and did his best to comfort her. He said he did not think the puppies were lost. It was more likely that they had been sold—perhaps to the stranger who came to see them. And this might be the best thing that could have happened to them—for if they were valuable, they were sure to be well taken care of. There would never have been enough food at the farm for them when they got really big. Perdita knew all this was true. And the two tiny puppies in the basket with her were wonderfully comforting—so were the kind things Pongo said about being grateful to her for feeding them. Soon she felt much happier and slid into a warm, well-fed sleep.

Pongo lay awake for a long time, wishing Missis and all the puppies could be with him in the firelit kitchen. He strolled over and looked at the two puppies asleep with Perdita, and felt proud and protective—and extremely sorry for Perdita. Really, she was a very pretty girt—if not a patch on his Missis.

Then he went back to his basket, had a last wash, and settled down. The fire sank lower; soon the kitchen was lit only by a faint light from a street lamp on the Outer Circle. Pongo slept. Perdita slept. And the two puppies, who had come successfully through their first day in the world, slept as peacefully as if they had been with their own mother.

Up in the cupboard, Missis had just served supper for eight and was a trifle tired. Mr. Dearly had just served supper for five and was so exhausted by his day of puppy-feeding that he had to crawl out of the cupboard on his hands and knees. Mrs. Dearly got him to bed and fed him with hot milk from a Thermos. They slept with their door open, in case Missis needed anything, but she was very peaceful—though just before she fell asleep she did wonder a little about the strange female down in the kitchen with Pongo. She didn't
worry,
exactly; she just
wondered.

On the top floor, Nanny Cook slept dreaming of Dalmatian puppies dressed as babies, and Nanny Butler slept dreaming of babies dressed as Dalmatian puppies.

What with four humans, three dogs, and fifteen puppies, it really was a very sleep-full house.

THE next day five more puppies were brought down to Perdita, and she fed them splendidly. So Mr. Dearly went to his business. He hurried back early to do some pup-feeding and found that Mrs. Dearly was feeding the upstairs puppies and the Nannies were taking it in turns to feed the kitchen puppies. He was a little jealous but soon got over it—for he knew that what really mattered was that pups should get plenty of milk without exhausting Missis and poor, thin Perdita too much.

Perdita now had her bed in the dresser cupboard, where there would not be too much light for the puppies' eyes. These began to open in eight days. And a week after that, the puppies' spots began to show.

What a day it was when Mr. Dearly sighted the first spot! After that, spots came thick and fast, though they would not all be through for some months. In a very few days it was possible to recognize every pup by its spots. There were seven girls and eight boys. The prettiest of all the girls was the tiny pup whose life Mr. Dearly had saved at birth, but she was very small and delicate. When pigs have families, the smallest, weakest piglet is often called the cadpig. Mr. Dearly always called the tiny puppy Cadpig, which can be a nice little name when spoken with love.

Patch, the pup born with a black ear, was still the biggest and strongest puppy. He always seemed to be next to Cadpig, as if these two already knew they were going to be special friends. There was a fat, funny boy-puppy called Roly Poly, who was always getting into mischief. And the most striking pup of all was one who had a perfect horseshoe of spots on his back—and had therefore been named Lucky. He was terrifically energetic and showed from the beginning that he was going to be the ringleader of all his brothers and sisters.

A few days after the first spots came through, something very upsetting happened: Perdita's milk supply failed. She was miserable about it because she loved the seven pups she had been feeding as much as if they were her own. And she was very, very frightened. Now that she was no longer useful, why should the Dearlys keep her in this warm, comfortable house where—for the first time in her life—she had been given enough to eat? But it was not the food and warmth that mattered most to her. It was the love. She had been treated as one of the family. The thought of leaving it all was more than she could bear.

And what happened to dogs nobody wanted? All sorts of fears awoke in her heart.

The morning she found she had no milk to offer at all, she crept unhappily out of the dresser cupboard and saw Mrs. Dearly having a mid-morning cup of tea with the Nannies. Mrs. Dearly held out a biscuit. Perdita did not take it. She just laid her head against Mrs. Dearly's knee and gave a little moan.

Mrs. Dearly stoked her and said, “Poor Perdita! I wish we could explain to her that we are helping to feed her seven puppies, so she doesn't need to worry. Darling Perdita, you are washing them beautifully and keeping them warm at night. We couldn't possibly do without you.”

She had no hope of being understood; she just thought her soothing tone would be comforting. But Perdita was picking up more and more human words every day and understood perfectly. She was wild with relief. For the first time she showed really high spirits, jumping up and kissing Mrs. Dearly, then dashing back to wash the puppies all over again.

Not many days after this, all pups began learning to lap milk for themselves and could soon eat milk puddings and bread soaked in gravy. They were now much too big to go on living in cupboards. Missis and her eight were moved down to the laundry, while Perdita's seven had the run of the kitchen—where they got terribly under the Nannies' feet.

“What a pity they can't be in the laundry with their brothers and sisters,” said Nanny Cook one morning.

“Missis might hurt them—she wouldn't know them for her own now,” said Nanny Butler. “And she and Perdita would fight.”

Pongo heard this and decided something must be done. For he knew that, whatever
usual
dogs would do, Missis
would
know her own puppies and she and Perdita would not fight. So he had a word with Missis, under the laundry door, and that afternoon, when the Nannies were upstairs, he took a flying leap at the door and managed to burst it open. Out hurtled Missis and eight puppies, and when the Nannies came downstairs they found Pongo, Missis, and Perdita all playing happily with fifteen puppies—who were now so mixed up that it took the Nannies all their time to decide which pups had been brought up by which mother.

After that, all pups lived in the laundry. The door was kept open and a piece of wood was put across it high enough to keep all puppies in—but low enough to be jumped by Missis and Perdita when they wanted to come into the kitchen.

By now it was December, but the days were fine and surprisingly warm, so the puppies were able to play in the area several times a day. They were quite safe there, for the gate at the top of the steps which led to the street now had a strong spring to keep it closed. One morning, when the three dogs and the fifteen puppies were taking the air, Pongo saw a tall woman looking down over the area railings.

He recognized her at once. It was Cruella de Vil.

As usual, she was wearing her absolutely simple white mink cloak, but she now had a brown mink coat under it. Her hat was made of fur, her boots were lined with fur, and she wore big fur gloves.

“What will she wear when it's really cold?” thought Nanny Butler,
coming out into the area.

Cruella opened the gate and walked down the steps, saying how pretty the puppies were. Lucky, always the ringleader, came running towards her and nibbled at the fur round the tops of her boots. She picked him up and placed him against her cloak, as if he were something to be worn.

“Such a pretty horseshoe,” she said, looking at the spots on his back. “But they all have pretty markings. Are they old enough to leave their mother yet?”

“Very nearly,” said Nanny Butler. “But they won't have to. Mr. and Mrs. Dearly are going to keep them
all.”
(Sometimes the Nannies wondered just how this was going to be managed.)

“How nice!” said Cruella, and began going up the steps, still holding Lucky against her cloak. Pongo, Missis, and Perdita all barked sharply, and Lucky reached up and nipped Cruella's ear. She gave a scream and dropped him. Nanny Butler was quick enough to catch him in her apron.

“That woman!” said Nanny Cook, who had just come out into the area. “She's enough to frighten the spots off a pup. What's the matter, Lucky?”

For Lucky had dashed into the laundry and was gulping down water. Crueila's ear had tasted of pepper.

Every day now, the puppies grew stronger and more independent. They now fed themselves entirely, eating shredded meat as well as soaked bread and milk puddings. Missis and Perdita were quite happy to leave them now for an hour or more at a time, so the three grown-up dogs took Mrs. Dearly and Nanny Butler for a good walk in the park every morning, while Nanny Cook got the lunch and kept an eye on the puppies. One morning, when she had just let them out into the area, the front doorbell rang.

It was Cruella de Vil, and when she heard Mrs. Dearly was out she said she would come in and wait. She asked many questions about the Dearlys and the puppies and went on talking so long that at last Nanny Cook said she really must go down and let the puppies in, as a cold wind was blowing. Cruella then said she would walk in the park and hope to meet Mrs. Dearly. “Perhaps I can see her from here,” she said, strolling to the window.