My Dalmatian, 1934

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My Dalmatian’s name is Koky. I named him. My name’s Henry, and I wanted to introduce him to you. Koky has lots of great qualities, but plenty of flaws too. He’s from Croatia, and he’s the mascot of American firemen. Over two hundred years ago, Dalmatians ran alongside the horses pulling fire carts, especially in big cities like Chicago and New York. The dogs would bark to warn families when a fire had broken out. But times have changed, and besides, I live in England, not America. In Essex, to be precise. I was born in this county less than ten years ago. I’m Henry Safford. Here, Dalmatians are used to clear the way for coaches and for post wagons. But there’s no question of my Dalmatian working, or entering His Majesty’s service. He’s my best friend, and he does lots of things for my parents. He’s lively and happy, and my father calls him a “very good boy.” Koky will never go to work for the Royal Mail, that I can tell you. What would I get out of that? He’ll never go to help the firemen in New York, either. That would be the last thing we need. Let’s just say that I, Henry, am more stubborn than Koky, and I want him to win a dog show!

Today, Essex County Council is holding a rather peculiar dog show. “Adorable,” according to Mummy. “Ridiculous,” Daddy called it. The idea is for the owners to dress like their dogs, and to enter, the master must be no older than 12. Whoever wins will get a trip to London for the whole family – including their loyal pup! The winners will also get an engraved gold medal bearing the likeness of child and dog. That would be a fine thing to hang on my wall, since I’ve never won a medal or a trophy at school, not even for good behaviour or sportsmanship. But this time I think I’m in with a chance. I made sure we got all the colours right so I could dress up just like my Dalmatian. I asked Mummy to make me a suit with “lots of little black dots – but not littler than Koky’s!” She cocked her head with a smile, as she does when I say something silly. But the costume’s not the only thing; I have to work on my performance too. I have to imitate his stride and the rhythm of his loping, powerful movements. I have to match my dog’s pedigree. Koky can bolt fast, but he has his faults too. His feet are flat, and his eyes are black. I have green eyes, which is much more original, even if I can’t claim any kind of pedigree. My parents didn’t come from any honourable family; they were just about middle class, but they had “enough to get by on,” as Mummy said. “Nothing to be ashamed of, either,” added Daddy. This is my chance to make them proud. I wanted to give myself a fighting chance by attending to all the little details. Koky has dark rings around his eyes, so I asked Daddy to put some makeup on me. The leash and the collar are real, too. They’re made of leather, and made for real dogs.

The stands were full of happy families, waving banners and pennants. They ate sandwiches and draped blankets over their knees, squeezing against one another with smiling faces. A distinguished gentleman wearing a red suit and a top hat announced the start of the show through his megaphone. The participants were invited to walk to the centre of the field. I walked over gingerly with Koky. My heart was pounding. I looked at the other competitors: there were German Shepherds, a pair of poodles, a duo of Basset hounds...but none were as elegant as Koky and I. Mommy waved to us from the stands. She was wearing a flowery dress and her Sunday coat. She looked happy, and more proud than Daddy, who was lighting his pipe nervously. But Mr. Thompson, our neighbour, gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. He thought the contest was great fun, and came to cheer me on.

Koky sniffed the London pavements, and pulled hard on his leash. Daddy ruffled my hair, glad in the end that I entered the contest. “Look at that!” Mommy exclaimed when she saw Big Ben, but my favourite thing about London was the guards outside Buckingham Palace.

Alan Alfredo Geday