Benny was a Boxer — wide-chested, wrinkle-nosed, and springy on his front paws in a way he simply could not help. Hop-hop-hop. That was just how Benny worked. Mr. Figaro stood at the garden gate in his cardigan, pointing at the old championship belt hanging on the latch, the one with the little bone buckle that gleamed like a coin. "Rain is coming, Benny," said Mr. Figaro. "Bring that belt inside before it gets soaked." He tapped his nose. Benny tapped his nose too, which was considerably larger and considerably flatter, and set off across the yard.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. The evening air was thick with something — cut grass and turned earth and something else, something small and warm and hiding. Benny's big flat nose swept left, swept right, swept nearly into a puddle. His paws zigzagged him toward the flower bed before his brain had quite agreed to go. The marigolds were orange as traffic cones. Right in the middle of them, tucked between two roots, was a very small, very round, very spiky ball. Not a ball. A hedgehog. A baby hedgehog, curled so tightly that his own nose was buried and he could not seem to find it again. He had been like this for some time, by the look of things.
Benny sniffed him carefully. The hedgehog did not move. Benny sniffed again. Still nothing. Benny sat back on his haunches and considered the situation in the serious way that Boxers consider things, which involves a lot of forehead wrinkles. Then Benny got excited, because that is what Benny does. Hop-hop-hop — right there on the soft flower bed earth, both front paws coming down with a gentle thump-thump-thump. The ground bounced just a little. The marigolds shivered. And the tiny hedgehog — startled by the trembling soil — uncurled all at once, blinked two small black eyes, sniffed a sniff considerably smaller than Benny's, and toddled off toward the hedge on his four pin-sized legs. Gone.
Benny watched him go, tongue out, tail going like a propeller. Then a cold drop of water landed square on the end of Benny's flat nose. He looked up. The sky had gone the colour of a bruised plum, and a second drop hit his ear, and a third, and then the rain came all at once — a rushing, hissing curtain of it across the garden. Benny galloped. His ears flew out behind him like two floppy flags. His jowls wobbled magnificently. The gate was right there, the belt was right there, and Benny snatched it up in his wide square jaw without slowing down at all.
He arrived at the back door in a skid, claws clicking on the step, rain drumming on the dustbin lid behind him. He marched inside. He crossed the kitchen. He dropped the belt — with a very ceremonial clank — directly at Mr. Figaro's slippered feet. Mr. Figaro looked down. Mr. Figaro looked at Benny. He picked up the belt and, very slowly, with great seriousness, buckled it around Benny's broad barrel chest. The bone buckle glinted under the kitchen light. "Champion," said Mr. Figaro, "of the entire garden."
Sniff, sniff, sniff — Benny pressed his wrinkled nose once against Mr. Figaro's hand. Then he did one last hop-hop-hop, turned two circles in his basket by the radiator, and lay down with a huff that ruffled the fur on his own front paws. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the window glass. The championship belt lay across the edge of the basket, the little bone buckle still gleaming, and Benny's eyes went heavy, then heavier, then closed.
