Pippa was a Yorkshire Terrier, and Pippa had a very important job. She was the Official Bow-Carrier for the Great Neighbourhood Dog Show, and tonight — tonight! — she had to deliver one sparkly pink bow to the judging tent before the final parade began. The bow was enormous. Fluffy. Nearly her own size. Pippa was barely bigger than a shoe. Sniff, sniff, sniff. She set off across the park. The bow billowed out behind her like a sail on a very small, very determined ship. The evening air smelled of cut grass and popcorn and something fried. Pippa's little legs went pat-pat-pat along the path, and the bow went whooomp, whooomp, whooomp through the breeze behind her.
Then a gust came. A proper one. The bow caught the wind, swung wide, and spun Pippa in one complete, glittery circle right there on the path. Her ears flew out sideways. Her paws left the ground for just a moment. She landed facing the wrong direction, blinking, bow still perfectly in her teeth. Sniff, sniff, sniff. She turned herself around and kept going.
That was when her nose caught something. Something warm and golden and salty, drifting from the left. Sausage rolls. Definitely sausage rolls. Pippa's nose yanked her sideways off the path before her brain had quite agreed to it, and the bow dragged through a long stripe of dewy grass, collecting two daisies and a crisp packet along the way. She shook off the crisp packet. She kept moving.
Then her ears swivelled. Both of them, sharp and tall, pointing toward the recycling bins at the edge of the park. There was a sound — very soft, very small. A tiny whimper, like a question nobody had answered yet. Pippa changed direction. Behind the green bins, blinking in the half-dark, sat a puppy. A round, bewildered, butterscotch-coloured puppy who had somehow got his head stuck clean through the middle of a paper rosette. He was wearing it like a ruffled hat. He did not look pleased about this. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Pippa put her nose right up to his nose.
Then she went to work. She'd been wrangling an enormous bow all evening — she knew exactly how to loop, tug, and ease a thing over a large soft head without pulling ears. One careful loop of her paw. One gentle tilt. The rosette popped free and landed flat on the ground like a little paper crown that had given up. The puppy sneezed. His tail began to wag. He fell into step beside her. Just like that. Together they crossed the last stretch of park, Pippa in front with the pink bow streaming, the butterscotch puppy trotting behind with the rescued rosette hanging from his collar like a medal. The judging tent glittered ahead, strung with yellow bulbs that turned the grass gold underneath.
Pippa did not slow down at the entrance. She tumbled in — slightly sideways, ears first — bow miraculously intact, new puppy at her heels, two daisies still caught in the ribbon. The judges looked up. One dropped her pencil. "Best entrance," said the judge in the middle, very quietly, "that I have ever seen." Pippa set the bow down on the table. She sat up straight. The butterscotch puppy sat beside her. They took a bow — the real kind, noses to the ground — and then they were done. Someone brought a velvet cushion, wide and soft as a cloud. Pippa turned three times and settled. The puppy pressed his warm side against hers. Above them, the yellow bulbs clicked off one by one, until only the last small light remained — and then that one too went quietly out.
