The Hundred and One Dalmatians Modern Classic. Dodie Smith
guests out, and demanded: ‘Where are those puppies?’
Nanny Butler had no intention of telling, but Cruella heard the Dearlys’ voices and ran upstairs. This time she was wearing a black satin dress with ropes of pearls, but the same absolutely simple white mink cloak. She had kept it round her all through dinner, although the room was very warm (and the pepper very hot).
‘I must, I must see the darling puppies,’ she cried.
The cupboard door was a little open. The Dearlys were inside, soothing Missis. Three puppies had been born before Nanny Butler, on bringing Missis a nourishing chicken dinner, had discovered what was happening.
Cruella flung open the door and stared down at the three puppies.
‘But they’re mongrels – all white, no spots at all!’ she cried. ‘You must drown them at once.’
‘Dalmatians are always born white,’ said Mr Dearly, glaring at Cruella. ‘The spots come later.’
‘And we wouldn’t drown them even if they were mongrels,’ said Mrs Dearly, indignantly.
‘It’d be quite easy,’ said Cruella. ‘I’ve drowned dozens and dozens of my cat’s kittens. She always chooses some wretched alley-cat for their father so they’re never worth keeping.’
‘Surely you leave her one kitten?’ said Mrs Dearly.
‘If I’d done that, I’d be overrun with cats,’ said Cruella. ‘Are you sure those horrid little white rats are pure Dalmatian puppies?’
‘Quite sure,’ snapped Mr Dearly. ‘Now please go away. You’re upsetting Missis.’
And indeed Missis was upset. Even with the Dearlys there to protect her and her puppies, she was a little afraid of this tall woman with black-and-white hair who stared so hard. And that poor cat who had lost all those kittens! Never, never, would Missis forget that! (And one day she was to be glad that she remembered it.)
‘How long will it be before the puppies are old enough to leave their mother?’ asked Cruella. ‘In case I want to buy some.’
‘Seven or eight weeks,’ said Mr Dearly. ‘But there won’t be any for sale.’ Then he shut the cupboard door in Cruella’s face and Nanny Butler firmly showed her out of the house.
Nanny Cook was busy telephoning the Splendid Vet but he was out on another case. His wife said she would tell him as soon as he came home and there was no need to worry – it sounded as if Missis was getting on very well.
She certainly was. There was now a fourth puppy. Missis washed it and then Mr Dearly dried it, while Mrs Dearly gave Missis a drink of warm milk. Then the pup was put with the other three, in a basket placed where Missis could see it. Soon she had a fifth puppy. Then a sixth – and a seventh.
The night wore on. Eight puppies, nine puppies! Surely that would be all? Dalmatians do not often have more in their first family. Ten puppies! Eleven puppies!
Then the twelfth arrived and it did not look like its brothers and sisters. The flesh showing through its white hair was not a healthy pink but a sickly yellow. And instead of kicking its little legs, it lay quite still. The Nannies, who were sitting just outside the cupboard, told Mr and Mrs Dearly that it had been born dead.
‘But, with so many, its mother will never miss it,’ said Nanny Cook, comfortingly.
Mr Dearly held the tiny creature in the palm of his hand and looked at it sorrowfully.
‘It isn’t fair it should have no life at all,’ said Mrs Dearly, with tears in her eyes.
Something he had once read came back to Mr Dearly. He began to massage the puppy; then he tousled it gently in a towel. And suddenly there was a faint hint of pink around its nose – and then its whole little body was flushed with pink, beneath its snowy hair. Its legs moved! Its mouth opened! It was alive!
Mr Dearly quickly put it close to Missis so that she could give it some milk at once, and it stayed there, feeding, until the next puppy arrived – for arrive it did. That made thirteen!
Shortly before dawn, the front door-bell rang. It was the Splendid Vet, who had been up all night saving the life of a dog that had been run over. By then, all the puppies had been born and Missis was giving breakfast to eight of them – all she could manage at one time.
‘Excellent!’ said the Splendid Vet. ‘A really magnificent family. And how is the father bearing up?’
The Dearlys felt guilty. They had not given Pongo a thought since the puppies had begun to arrive. He had been shut up in the kitchen. All night long he had paced backwards and forwards and only once had he heard any news – when Nanny Cook had come down to make coffee and sandwiches. She had told him that Missis was doing well – but only as a joke, for she had no idea he would understand.
‘Poor Pongo, we must have him up,’ said Mrs Dearly. But the Splendid Vet said mother dogs did not usually like to have father dogs around when puppies had just been born. At that moment there was a clatter of toenails on the polished floor of the hall – and upstairs, four at a time, came Pongo. Nanny Cook had just gone down to make some tea for the Splendid Vet, and the anxious father had streaked past her the minute she opened the kitchen door.
‘Careful, Pongo!’ said the Splendid Vet. ‘She may not want you.’
But Missis was weakly thumping her tail. ‘Go down and have your breakfast and a good sleep,’ she said – but nobody except Pongo heard a sound. His eyes and his wildly wagging tail told her all he was feeling, his love for her and those eight fine pups enjoying their first breakfast. And those others, in the basket, waiting their turn – how many were there?
‘It’s a pity dogs can’t count,’ said Mrs Dearly.
But Pongo could count, perfectly. He went downstairs with his head high and a new light in his fine, dark eyes. For he knew himself to be the proud father of fifteen.
‘AND NOW,’ said the Splendid Vet to the Dearlys, ‘you must get a foster mother.’
He explained that though Missis would do her best to feed fifteen puppies, doing so would make her terribly thin and tired. And the strong puppies would get more milk than the weak ones. The puppy Mr Dearly had brought to life was very small and would need special care.
The largest pup of all had a black patch all over its ear and one side of its face. This is a bad fault in a Dalmatian – which should be born pure white, as Mr Dearly had told Cruella de Vil. Some people would have drowned this patched pup, because it would never be valuable. But the Dearlys felt particularly fond of it because it had started life with a bit of bad luck. (And they liked being able to recognise it. Until the spots started to come through, some weeks later, the big puppy with the patch and the small, delicate puppy were the only ones who could be told apart from the others.)
The Splendid Vet said the foster mother would have to be some poor dog who had lost her own puppies but still had milk to give. He thought he could get such a dog. But as he wasn’t sure, the Dearlys had better telephone all the Lost Dogs’ Homes. And until the foster mother was found, they could help Missis by feeding the pups with a doll’s feeding bottle or an old-fashioned fountain-pen filler.
Then the Splendid Vet went home for an hour’s sleep before starting his day’s work.
Nanny Cook got breakfast and Nanny Butler took Pongo for a run. And Missis was persuaded to leave her family for a few minutes’ walk. When she came back, Mrs Dearly had tidied the cupboard. Missis gave the second lot of pups a meal and then she and her family of fifteen had a glorious sleep. And Pongo, down in the kitchen, had a glorious sleep, too, knowing that