Pip and the Muddy Gate

The Greens' garden had a little wooden gate at the bottom, and a new puppy had just come through it.

His name was Pip. He was small and brown, with one ear that stood up and one ear that flopped. Ava was five, and she wanted one thing more than anything. She wanted Pip to like her.

"Hello, Pip," said Ava. "Do you want to be my friend?"

Pip wagged his whole back end. Then he trotted off and sat beside the rain barrel, as far from Ava as a puppy could get.

Ava tried a ball. Pip sniffed it and looked away.

Ava tried a biscuit. Pip ate it in one gulp, and then he looked away again.

"Oh," said Ava. She sat down on the step. "Maybe he doesn't like me."

A crow landed on the fence. It had a shiny button in its beak, and it dropped the button by the gate. Then it picked up a bottle top and flew off. That was just what crows did in this garden. They always took one thing and left another, and nobody minded.

Pip ran over to the button. He pushed it with his nose. Plink! It rolled down the path, and he chased it.

Ava watched. Pip did not want a ball. He wanted something that rolled and shone and went plink.

Ava ran inside. She came back with a jar lid and a spoon. She sat in the mud by the gate, and she tapped the lid with the spoon.

Plink, plink, plink.

Pip's good ear went up. His floppy ear went up too, just a little. He came over, one muddy paw at a time, and he put his nose on the lid.

"Plink," said Ava.

Pip licked her chin. Then he climbed right into her lap, mud and all, and the lid went plink under his tummy.

Ava laughed. Pip sighed a big, warm sigh, and his heavy little head settled on her knee.