Ginger began to climb the lower slopes of the hill.
Gaspode considered barking loudly, and then if anyone drew attention to this afterwards he could always say it was to frighten her. Trouble was, he had about enough wind left for a threatening wheeze.
Ginger topped a rise and went down into the little dell among the trees.
Gaspode staggered after her, righted himself, opened his mouth to whimper a warning, and almost swallowed his tongue.
The door had opened several inches. More sand rolled down the heap even as Gaspode watched.
And he could hear voices. They didn't seem to be speaking words but the bones of words, meaning without disguise. They hummed around his bullet head like mendicant mosquitoes, begging and cajoling and
-he was the most famous dog in the world. The knots unravelled from his coat, the frayed patches sprouted glossy curls, his fur grew on his suddenly-supple frame and withdrew from his teeth. Plates appeared in front of him not laden with the multi-coloured and mysterious organs that he was normally expected to eat but with dark red steak. There was sweet water, no, there was beer in a bowl with his name on it. Tantalizing odours on the air suggested that a number of lady dogs would be happy to make his acquaintance after he had drunk and dined. Thousands of people thought he was marvellous. He had a collar with his name on it, and -
No, that couldn't be right. Not a collar. It'd be a squeaky toy next, if you dint draw the line at collars.
The image collapsed in confusion, and now -
the pack bounded through the dark, snow-covered trees, falling in behind him, red mouths agape, long legs eating up the road. The fleeing humans on the sledge didn't have a chance; one was thrown aside when a runner bounced off a branch, and lay screaming in the road as Gaspode and the wolves fell upon -
No, that wasn't right, he thought wretchedly. You dint actually eat humans. They got up your nose all right, the gods knew, but you couldn't acktually eat 'em.
A confusion of instincts threatened to short-circuit his schizophrenically doggy mind.
The voices gave up their assault in disgust and turned their attention to Ginger, who was methodically trying to shift more sand.
One of Gaspode's fleas bit him sharply. It was probably dreaming of being the biggest flea in the world. His leg came up automatically to scratch it, and the spell faded.
He blinked.
'Bloody hell,' he whined.
This is what's happening to the humans! Wonder what they're making her dream?
The hairs rose along Gaspode's back.
You didn't need any special mysterious animal instincts here. Perfectly generalized everyday instincts were enough to horrify him. There was something dreadful on the other side of the door.
She was trying to let it out.
He had to wake her up.
Biting wasn't really a good idea. His teeth weren't that good these days. He doubted very much if barking would be any better. That left one alternative . . .
The sand moved eerily under his paws; maybe it was dreaming of being rocks. The scrawny trees around the hollow were wrapped in sequoia fantasies. Even the air that curled around Gaspode's bullet head moved sluggishly, although it's anyone's guess what the air dreams about.
Gaspode trotted up to Ginger and pushed his nose against her leg.
The universe contains any amount of horrible ways to be woken up, such as the noise of the mob breaking down the front door, the scream of fire engines, or the realization that today is the Monday which on Friday night was a comfortably long way off. A dog's wet nose is not strictly speaking the worst of the bunch, but it has its own peculiar dreadfulness which connoisseurs of the ghastly and dog owners everywhere have come to
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