To our good friends Deb and Tim

and all the Martins.

AM

For our dogs, Millie and Sandy.

SH

First published in Great Britain 2018

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2018 Alan MacDonald

Illustrations copyright © 2018 Sarah Horne

The moral rights of the author and illustrators have been asserted

First e-book edition 2018

ISBN 978 1 4052 8723 4

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1796 0

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication and Copyright

CHAPTER 1: Smoke Signals

CHAPTER 2: Dream Cafe

CHAPTER 3: Puppy Love

CHAPTER 4: Home Sweet Bone

CHAPTER 5: Follow That Van!

CHAPTER 6: In the Soup

CHAPTER 7: Nosing Around

CHAPTER 8: Ghost Dog

CHAPTER 9: Early Closing

CHAPTER 10: A Grand Day for a Run

CHAPTER 11: Dog’s Dinner

Back series promotional page

CHAPTER 1

SMOKE SIGNALS

It was Saturday morning in the Shilling house and a delicious smell was drifting upstairs from the kitchen. Sam was in his room getting dressed. Downstairs his dad was cooking sausages. His mum sat at the kitchen table while Oscar sat on the floor because dogs generally didn’t bother with chairs. Sausages, however, were his number-one favourite and his tail was beating the floor impatiently while he waited for them to cook. Dad slotted four pieces of bread into the Hercules Speedy Pop-up Toaster (one of his many inventions) and went back to turning the sausages.

‘Have you noticed you can’t get a decent cup of coffee round here?’ he said.

‘Mmm?’ said Mum.

‘Or tea or hot chocolate for that matter,’ Dad went on. ‘There’s nowhere to buy it – not without walking all the way into town.’

‘There’s a drinks machine at the garage,’ Mum pointed out.

Dad snorted. ‘Have you actually tried their coffee?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t give it to a dog!’

Oscar looked up and frowned. He sniffed the air and his tail ceased drumming for a moment. The Hercules Speedy Pop-up Toaster was taking its own sweet time. Stranger still, it was giving off a funny smell – a bit like burning toast. Oscar barked to get everyone’s attention.

‘Quiet, Oscar!’ cried Mr Shilling. ‘There’s nowhere on the seafront at all,’ he said, returning to his subject. ‘Don’t you think that’s odd?’

Oscar stared. Smoke was now rising from the toaster. It seemed impossible to miss, though everyone else was missing it. He decided he’d have to do something before things got out of hand. Trotting over to Mr Shilling he jumped up and pawed at the back of his legs.

‘OSCAR!’ cried Dad, turning round. ‘What’s the matter with him today?’

‘He’s probably hungry,’ replied Mum. ‘He can smell sausages.’

Oscar felt like howling. The toaster! he wanted to shout. For dog’s sake – LOOK!

Mum poured milk into her cereal bowl.

‘What’s that funny smell?’ she frowned. ‘Can you smell it?’

Finally thought Oscar. He looked at Mrs Shilling then back at the toaster. No response. This was getting ridiculous. He lay down on the floor with his paws over his head as if preparing for an explosion.

Dad stared at him. ‘Is he sick or something?’

Sam walked into the kitchen, still pulling on his sweatshirt.

Oscar sat up and barked loudly.

‘What’s up, Oscar?’ asked Sam.

Oscar turned and looked back at the toaster and raised a paw to point.

‘Something’s burning!’ cried Sam.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Suddenly the smoke alarm in the kitchen went off making them all jump. Seconds later there was a deafening BANG! as the Hercules Speedy Pop-up Toaster burst into flames.

‘THE TOASTER!’ cried Dad, waving the frying pan as sausages cartwheeled onto the floor. Everyone started shouting at once.

‘DO SOMETHING!’

‘CALL 999!’

‘PUT IT OUT, PUT IT OUT!’

It was Mum who actually did something, grabbing a towel to beat out the flames. Two charred pieces of bread popped up from the toaster with a clunk and promptly disintegrated.

There was a silence broken only by the sound of chomping and slobbering. Oscar felt it would be a great pity to let sausages go to waste, so he was eating them off the floor. Mum went over and opened a window to let out the smoke, before collapsing onto a chair.

‘That toaster has got to go. Why can’t we have a normal one?’ she sighed.

‘It must have overheated,’ said Dad. ‘It’s easily fixed.’

Sam shook his head. ‘Well it’s a good job Oscar was paying attention,’ he said.

‘Oscar?’ said Dad.

‘Yes, I could hear him barking from upstairs,’ said Sam. ‘He was obviously trying to warn you!’

Dad blinked. ‘He was barking, come to think of it,’ he said. ‘I told him to shut up.’

Mum bent down to pat Oscar on the head.

‘Clever boy, Oscar, well done!’ she said.

Oscar swallowed the last piece of sausage, which was hanging out of his mouth.

Oscar was clever, of course, though Sam knew his parents had no idea how clever. Ever since Oscar had arrived a few months ago on the number 9 bus, Sam had the feeling that the dog had adopted them. It was Oscar who had helped Mr Shilling sell his new invention, the Poopomatic, to the Town Council. These days a small fleet of Poopomatics patrolled the streets of Little Bunting keeping them clean and free from dog mess. This was the first time Mr Shilling had ever actually sold one of his inventions and Sam had been wondering what he planned to do with all the money. He poured himself a bowl of Puffo Pops since Oscar had wolfed all the sausages.

‘What was I saying before the toaster exploded?’ asked Dad. ‘Oh yes. A decent cup of coffee, that’s what this town needs.’

‘I’d rather have an adventure playground,’ said Sam.

‘Anyway, why do you keep going on about coffee?’ asked Mum.

Mr Shilling smiled with the air of someone about to make an important announcement.

‘Because,’ he said, ‘I’ve just bought a little cafe on the seafront.’

‘WHAT?’ Mum almost fell off her seat. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘It’s perfect,’ said Dad. ‘It’s an old beach hut in a great spot down on the front. I thought it could be a summer season thing while I work on my inventions in the winter.’

Sam could hardly believe his ears.

‘We’re going to run a cafe?’ he asked.

‘It’s news to me,’ said Mum.

‘I’ll take you to see it,’ promised Dad. ‘Honestly, I think this could be the best idea I’ve ever had.’

Sam smiled. His dad had said exactly the same thing about the Grandem – a four-saddle bike for all the family, which had failed to sell a single model. A cafe was different though, thought Sam, you wouldn’t fall off it while going round corners. Cafes served pizza, ice cream and chocolate brownies – which luckily were all things that he loved!

‘Are you telling me you’ve spent all of our savings on some old beach hut?’ demanded Mum.

‘Of course not all,’ said Dad. ‘I had to keep some back because the place needs a bit of work.’

‘And who’s going to run this cafe and cook all the meals?’ demanded Mum.

‘Well me, obviously,’ replied Dad.

‘Crumble!’ muttered Oscar to himself.

Dad looked round at Sam. ‘What did you say?’

‘Er . . . good idea,’ answered Sam, shooting Oscar a warning look. He was right about one thing though: no one could claim that Dad was famous for his cooking. His speciality was beans on toast – and even then the toast was usually burnt.

CHAPTER 2

DREAM CAFE

Sam stood outside the house waiting for Dad with Oscar. Dad was eager to take them to see the new cafe for themselves. Mum said she had too much to do this morning and would go another time.

‘So what do you think?’ Sam asked.

Oscar took his time, scratching himself. ‘I’ve never seen the point of cafes,’ he said.

You might have expected Sam to gasp or fall over backwards in amazement but by now he was used to the fact that Oscar could talk. It was a secret between the two of them. Oscar said that things would only get complicated if Sam’s parents ever knew and it would cause an almighty fuss. Sam hadn’t even told his best friend Louie, although keeping the secret wasn’t always easy. Oscar said it was best to pretend that he was just an ordinary dog who happened to be very clever.

‘A cafe’s somewhere people go to eat and drink,’ explained Sam.

‘You can do that at home,’ Oscar pointed out.

‘Yes, I know, but people like eating out sometimes,’ said Sam. ‘It’s kind of a treat.’

‘Like biscuits you mean?’ asked Oscar.

‘Sort of. I expect you’ll see when we get there,’ said Sam.

It was hard to explain cafes to a dog and besides Dad was coming out of the house, so they had to stop talking.

They walked along the seafront for about a quarter of a mile, until Dad stopped and pointed. ‘There it is,’ he said, proudly.

Sam stared. He’d expected something with large windows, comfy booths and warm lighting – a cafe in other words – but this place resembled a rundown Scout hut. The outside needed painting, the windows were broken and the roof sagged as if an elephant had recently sat on it.

‘You bought that ?’ said Sam.

Dad nodded. ‘Of course, it needs a little work but you have to use a bit of imagination.’

Sam thought you’d need a whole lot of imagination.

Inside the hut there was a small puddle on the floor where the rain had got in. The floorboards were pebble-dashed with seagull droppings.

Oscar padded around, sniffing in all the corners. The hut had two rooms and in the back one they found a tall cupboard, a rusty cooker and a sink, which all looked like they had been there since Roman times.

Sam wrinkled his nose. ‘It’s a bit stinky,’ he complained.

‘I know, but we can clean it up. With the counter over here, a lick of paint and better lighting it’ll be the best cafe on the seafront,’ argued Dad.

‘The only cafe on the seafront,’ said Sam.

‘Exactly, which is why it can’t possibly fail,’ said Dad. ‘It’s just what this town needs. I don’t know why I’ve never thought of it before.’

‘I thought you wanted to make things – inventions,’ said Sam.

‘I’ll do that too, but this is kind of a reinvention,’ explained Dad. ‘I’m turning a neglected beach hut into a successful cafe.’

‘Right, so what are you going to call it?’ asked Sam.

‘I haven’t really thought. The Old Beach Cafe, I guess,’ replied Dad.

Sam wrinkled his nose. ‘Sounds a bit boring.’

‘Or maybe the Seaview Cafe?’

‘Deathly boring,’ said Sam. ‘What about Oscar’s ?’

Dad snorted. ‘You can’t have a cafe named after a dog!’

Oscar looked offended. In his opinion a lot of things could be named after dogs. Why have Henry Road when you could have Barkley Square or Oscar Avenue?

‘What about the food?’ Sam asked.

‘Ah that’s the really clever part,’ said Dad. ‘We won’t serve all the usual stuff like burgers, chips or ice cream.’

‘We won’t?’ said Sam.

‘No, my idea is beautifully simple,’ said Dad. ‘We’re going to serve TOAST.’

‘Toast?’ repeated Sam.

‘Well obviously not just toast,’ said Dad. ‘Cheese on toast, beans on toast, egg on toast – in fact pretty much anything on toast!’

Sam frowned. ‘But what if people don’t like toast?’ he asked.

‘Everyone likes toast!’ laughed Dad. ‘And the great thing is it’s simple, you can’t go wrong with making toast.’

‘You can if you burn it,’ said Sam.

He suspected that toast was the one thing his dad knew how to cook. Other dishes, like chilli con carne or lemon meringue pie for instance, he hadn’t the faintest clue. Still, the cafe would certainly be different.

‘So it’s really a toast cafe?’ he said.

‘I suppose it is,’ said Dad. ‘In fact that’s brilliant, Sam! The Toast Cafe – that’s what we’ll call it!’

‘Oh my great-grandmothers!’

A familiar voice interrupted them. It was Mr Trusscot, their busybody neighbour and Leader of the Town Council, whose bald head was poking round the door. Oscar gave a low growl. He’d come to regard Trusscot as a mortal enemy ever since he’d tried to turn large parts of town into ‘dog-free zones’.

Trusscot walked in and looked around, shaking his head.

‘I heard a rumour that some idiot had bought this dump,’ he said.

‘As it happens you’re looking at the idiot,’ replied Dad.

‘YOU?’ Trusscot stared. ‘What on earth for?’

‘If you must know, it’s going to be a beach cafe,’ Sam informed him.

Trusscot bent over. He shook, making strange squeaky noises like a rusty gate. Sam realised he was laughing.

‘A cafe? Oh hee hee hee! That’s a good one!’ he chortled.

‘It’s not a joke,’ scowled Dad.

Mr Trusscot took out a hanky and wiped his eyes.

‘Of course not, I mean just look at this place, it’s got everything,’ he said. ‘Broken windows, a leaking roof and bird wotsit on the floor!’

‘Very funny,’ said Dad. ‘You won’t be laughing when this place is a roaring success.’

‘A success? It’ll never happen,’ scoffed Mr Trusscot.

‘I bet you it will,’ replied Dad.

‘Not a chance,’ said Trusscot.

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes it is right, actually! ’

Sam rolled his eyes. He’d heard better arguments than this in the school playground. Mr Trusscot produced his wallet and pulled out a note.

‘Twenty pounds says that you’ll never last a week,’ he said.

‘Twenty? Pah! Make it fifty,’ said Dad.

‘If you’re so sure, why not a hundred?’ replied Trusscot.

Sam looked alarmed. This was getting out of hand. Mum would go up the wall if she found out Dad had bet Mr Trusscot a hundred pounds!

‘If you’re going to bet, at least make it interesting,’ he said.

‘How do you mean “interesting”?’ asked Trusscot.

‘Well it’s a cafe, so why don’t you make the bet about food?’ asked Sam.

‘Oh I see, you mean the loser has to eat a plate of snails or something,’ said Trusscot.

‘Or a seaweed sandwich,’ said Dad.

Sam’s eye fell on Oscar. ‘How about a bowl of dog food?’ he suggested.

Mr Trusscot turned pale. He couldn’t stand dogs and just the smell of the gloopy, ghastly food they ate made him feel sick. There was no way he was ever going to eat it. Then again, he wouldn’t have to, because he’d make sure he won.

‘All right, you’re on,’ he said.

‘Fine by me,’ replied Dad.

‘One week from the day you open,’ said the Councillor. ‘If you don’t last a week, then you lose.’

‘And if we do, you lose,’ said Dad, shaking Trusscot’s hand.

Mr Trusscot glanced at Oscar who had been watching him suspiciously since he arrived.

‘While I’m here,’ he said, ‘you should keep that dog on a lead. It’s for his own good.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Sam.

‘The Council’s had a lot of complaints lately about stray dogs causing a nuisance,’ said Trusscot. ‘So we’ve decided to take action. Starting this week, we’ve employed a company to clear them all off the streets.’

Oscar sat up, suddenly alert.

‘But what will happen to them?’ asked Sam.

‘Oh I shouldn’t worry, I’m sure they’ll be taken care of,’ said Trusscot. ‘Now I’ll leave you to get on – you’ve obviously got a great deal to do. What are you going to call the place by the way – The Cockroach Cafe ?’

He went off, shaking his head and squeaking at his own joke.

Sam thought he wouldn’t mind seeing smug-faced Mr Trusscot sitting down to a big bowl of dog food. All the same he couldn’t help worrying that his Dad had made a risky bet. At the moment the hut looked like somewhere you’d pay to avoid. He looked around for Oscar and found him waiting by the door.

‘I’d better go,’ Sam said. ‘I think Oscar wants me to take him for a walk.’

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