“Oh, Mum! It’s Christmas!” wailed Maisie.

  “I don’t care. I’m not having all those crumbs trodden into the carpet.”

  No one was cross with Ginger, because he was only a puppy and didn’t know any better.

  “It’s your fault for giving it to him in the sitting room,” said Maisie’s mum. “He should have had it in the kitchen.”

  On Boxing Day an aunt and uncle came to visit with their two children. Maisie and the children played chasing games with Ginger all up and down the stairs and in and out of the bedrooms. The children cried “Hoo, hoo!” and ran at Ginger with their arms held above their heads. Ginger streamed down the stairs and into the kitchen and back up the stairs and underneath a wardrobe and over a bed and back down the stairs, wild-eyed and panting.

  In the end he grew so over-excited that he made a little puddle on the hall carpet.

  “That’s the trouble with dogs,” said Maisie’s aunt. “They make the place filthy.”

  “He’s only a baby,” said Maisie. “He isn’t house-trained yet.”

  “Rub his nose in it and chuck him in the garden,” said Maisie’s uncle. “It’s the only way he’ll learn.”

  But Maisie had heard a vet on television say that you should never punish a puppy for making a puddle in the wrong place. You should take him into the garden and praise him and pat him when he made one in the right place.

  “It was my fault,” said Maisie. “I should have taken him out.”

  “You’re too soft,” said her uncle. “He needs a good walloping.”

  “I’m not walloping Ginger!” said Maisie.

  After all, you didn’t wallop a baby for doing a puddle in its nappy; why should you wallop a puppy?

  “It’s up to you to teach him,” said Maisie’s mum.

  Maisie promised that she would.

  James Colin had a Christmas tree all covered in spangles and sparkles and ropes of tinsel. It was his Christmas tree. His very own. Nothing to do with the baby. The baby was too young for Christmas trees. All the baby could do was wave its fingers and go “Gaaah!”

  At the foot of the tree were great piles of presents. They were the small presents, that were opened after breakfast. Some were for the baby, but most were for James. The baby didn’t understand about Christmas. It was just a waste of money, buying presents for it, but everyone did. Even James had had to buy it a cuddly toy. He hadn’t wanted to, but his mum had insisted.

  “He’s your brother! Of course you must buy him a present. He’ll buy one for you!”

  His mum was telling fibs. The baby couldn’t buy James a present. It didn’t have any money, for one thing; and for another, it couldn’t walk or talk, so how could it possibly go out and buy anything? It couldn’t! All the same, there was a present that said ‘To James with love from Alexander’. And when he opened it his mum would say: “Now give Alex a kiss and say thank you.”

  She was always trying to make James kiss it. But James wouldn’t! He wasn’t ever going to. He liked to pretend that the baby didn’t exist.

  On Christmas Eve, Gran arrived. James ran to let her in.

  “How’s my best boy?” cried Gran. And she gave James a big hug and a kiss.

  James’s heart swelled with pride. He was Gran’s best boy! Not everyone was interested in silly smelly babies.

  “Come and see my tree!” He tugged at Gran’s arm. “Come and see all my presents.”

  “My, what a rush we’re in!” Gran stood in the hall, unbuttoning her coat. “Give an old lady time to get her breath! Where’s the new arrival? Where’s my second-best boy?”

  “You don’t want to see him.” James said it anxiously. “He’s very boring. He does nothing but sleep.”

  “Oh, what a wonderful quiet baby he must be!”

  “Sleep and yell,” said James, quickly. “Sometimes he sleeps and sometimes he yells. As a matter of fact,” said James, “he yells more than he sleeps. He does a lot of yelling. Really loud sort of yelling. He yells most of the time. Just yells and yells for no reason.”

  “There’s always a reason,” said Gran. “Poor little mite!”

  “He’s not poor.” A note of desperation entered James’s voice. “He’s really bad-tempered. He bashes things with his rattle. I don’t think you’d like him.”

  “Nonsense!” said Gran. “Get away with you!” She gave James a little push. “I liked you when you were a baby, didn’t I?”

  That was different, thought James. James had been a beautiful baby. He opened his mouth to say so, but Gran was already leading the way down the hall.

  “Come on!” she said. “Let’s go and take a look at him.”

  In the end, Gran was just as bad as everyone else. Coo coo, gurgle gurgle.

  “Who’s his granny’s little sweetheart, then?”

  It made James sick.

  But even James couldn’t go on feeling sick all over Christmas. Especially not on Christmas morning, when he woke to find a pillow case stuffed full of presents at the end of his bed! These were his big presents. His important presents.

  He dragged the pillow case with him into Mum and Dad’s room and hauled it up onto their bed. Dad groaned and tried to go back to sleep again, but of course he couldn’t. It was far too exciting!

  “Let’s see what you’ve got,” said Mum.

  James dipped his hand into the pillow case and pulled out the first present.

  “Wow!” said Dad. “What’s in there?”

  James tore at the wrapping paper. A book? A football annual! Brilliant! He dived back into the pillow case. Very soon, the bed was awash with a sea of brightly coloured wrapping paper and streams of red ribbon.

  “What’s this?” said James, pulling the last parcel out of the pillow case.

  Mum smiled. “That’s the dog you wanted.”

  “Dog?” said James.

  For a moment he actually thought it might be a real dog that Mum had tied up in Christmas paper and put into the pillow case. But of course you couldn’t do that with a real dog; it would be cruel. And of course it wasn’t a real dog. It was a pretend dog. A computer dog.

  “You have to look after it just as you would a real one.” His mum said it eagerly. She did so want James to be happy with his dog! “You have to feed it and groom it and play with it.”

  “And give it a name,” said Dad. “What shall we call it? Rover?”

  James put the pretend dog back in its box.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  “That’s right!” Mum nodded, approvingly. “You can’t give a dog just any old name. You have to get to know it first.”

  How could you get to know a computer dog? You couldn’t take it for walks. You couldn’t stroke it or pat it. You couldn’t cuddle it in bed.

  James knew his mum was trying her best to please him, but he almost wished she hadn’t given him the computer dog. He wanted a real dog! He could have had one if it hadn’t been for the baby.

  “When you’re eight years old,” his mum had always said.

  And now here he was, almost eight and a half, and all he got was a pretend dog! Because of the baby.

  The baby was too young. If they had a real dog, the baby might hurt it. Or the dog might hurt the baby.

  And anyway, a dog would take too much looking after. Mum already had her hands full helping Dad in the shop. The shop was downstairs, at the front. It sold sweets and groceries and newspapers. It was always very busy. Mum didn’t have time for a dog and a baby.

  So why couldn’t they have had the dog and not the baby?

  James rubbed his eyes and swallowed a lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. This was Christmas Day! You couldn’t cry on Christmas Day. After all, he had known he wasn’t going to have a dog. He’d been trying very hard not to think about it. Now this – this computer thing had gone and brought it all back.

  “Let’s go and make a cup of tea,” said Mum, “then you can take one in to your gran.”

  It was good snuggling under the duvet with Gran while she drank her tea. James took some of his presents in to show her.

  “My! You are a lucky boy,” said Gran. “And I hear you’ve got a new puppy, too?”

  James frowned. “It’s not a real one.”

  “No, well, people shouldn’t give real puppies as presents,” said Gran. “’Specially not at Christmas.”

  “Why not?” said James.

  “Because sometimes, once Christmas is over, people get bored with their new puppies. They think they’re just a nuisance and they can’t be bothered with them any more.”

  “I wouldn’t be like that,” said James. He plucked at the corner of Gran’s duvet. “They had some puppies in the pet shop. Mum wouldn’t let me have one.”

  “Quite right!” Gran nodded. “Puppies should not be sold in pet shops. A pet shop is no place for a puppy. They should be kept with their mothers, and people should go and see them in their own homes.”

  James pleated the duvet through his fingers.

  “They had this big notice in the window, PUPPIES FOR SALE. Mum wouldn’t even let me go and look at them!”

  “I expect she didn’t want you to be tempted.”

  “But she said I could have one when I was eight years old!” James threw the duvet away from him. “It’s all the baby’s fault.”

  There was a pause.

  “The baby didn’t ask to be born,” murmured Gran. “I don’t think it’s very fair to blame him. Do you? Honestly?”

  James pursed his lips.

  “He’s so tiny and helpless,” said Gran. “And you’re so big and strong! Alexander needs taking care of just the same as a little puppy would.”

  “That’s Mum’s job!” roared James. He would take care of a puppy, if only Mum would let him have one. Mum could take care of the baby.

  “It’s all she ever does!” James scrambled off the bed. “Takes care of it!” He swept up his presents and made for the door. “All day long, all she ever does!”

  Christmas was over, but Ginger’s people still loved him. Well, Maisie still loved him. She took him into the garden after every meal and said, “Good boy, Ginge! Be a good boy!” And if he was a good boy she praised him and patted him, and Ginger’s tail flew in circles. He almost burst with pride when Maisie was pleased with him.

  Sometimes he wasn’t such a good boy and then Maisie looked grave and said, “Bad boy, Ginger! Dirty boy!” and Ginger drooped and tucked his tail between his legs and was shut out all by himself in the garden. But never for very long. Maisie couldn’t bear to be cross with him! It always ended up with a kiss and a cuddle and a whispered ‘Sorry’ from Maisie because she’d called him a dirty boy.

  Life was good for Ginger. He was too small to go for walks, but Maisie threw a ball for him in the back garden and taught him ‘Fetch’ and ‘Sit’. At night he slept in Maisie’s room on a special dog blanket, and Maisie’s mum fed him dishes of delicious food and thought it really funny when he started tugging at the fringes on the rug or burying doggie biscuits under the back-door mat.

  Only Maisie’s dad had any doubts. He wasn’t unkind to Ginger but he didn’t ever pet him or cuddle him like Maisie and her mum did.

  “It’s all very well for now,” said Maisie’s dad, “but what’s going to happen when the novelty wears off?”

  Maisie thought her dad was a real old grump. What did he mean, ‘when the novelty wore off’? The novelty wasn’t going to wear off!

  She swept Ginger into her arms.

  “He’s my very own puppy and I shall love him for ever!”

  But then there came a day when everything changed for Ginger. His little life began to fall apart. Maisie went back to school, her mum and dad went back to work, and suddenly Ginger was on his own, shut away in the kitchen with a bowl of water and a dish of dog biscuits and told to ‘Be a good boy’.

  Ginger couldn’t understand it. ‘Be a good boy’ meant going into the garden with Maisie, being praised and patted. Not shut away all by himself in the kitchen!

  Never in his life had Ginger been on his own. Not completely on his own. There had always been someone. His mum, his brother and sisters, the man in the pet shop. Even when his sisters had gone and the pet shop had been shut up for the night there had been the squawking creature and the furry things. Now there wasn’t anyone.

  The first time it happened he was really frightened. Why had they left him? Had he done something wrong? Was he being punished? Were they ever going to come back?

  In a frenzy, Ginger began biting and scratching at the bottom of the door. He had to get out, he had to get out! If he could only get out, he might be able to find them.

  But the door was firmly shut, and wouldn’t open. And in his panic Ginger had overturned his water bowl and all the water had gone streaming across the floor.

  Ginger pointed his nose at the ceiling and began to howl. He howled and he howled, as if his heart were breaking. His people had gone and he would never see them again!

  After a while, he sank down with his nose pressed to the door crack, his ears alert for any sound that might just mean they were coming back.

  But they didn’t.

  Outside it grew dark, and Ginger was still on his own. He whimpered and scraped again at the door. He was thirsty, but there wasn’t any water left. The dog biscuits were still there, but he felt too anxious to eat.

  Before they had gone, Maisie’s mum had spread newspaper on the floor. He didn’t know why she had done that. He leapt on it and tore it fiercely into shreds. Bits of newspaper flew everywhere.

  For a moment he felt better. He sat back, his tongue lolling. The newspaper had obviously been put there for him to do something with. Well, he had done something with it! He had torn it up. They would praise him and say what a good dog he had been.

  If they came back.

  And then at last, when he had almost given up hope, he heard the sound of a key being turned. He heard footsteps along the passage and the voices of Maisie and her mum. Joyfully, Ginger sprang to his feet. The kitchen door opened and Maisie appeared, looking very smart in her school uniform. Ginger hurled himself at her, barking, his tail flying in circles.

  “Careful!” screamed Maisie. “Watch my tights! Oh, Ginger, stop it! You’ll make holes in them!”

  Maisie’s mum came into the kitchen. She saw the shredded newspaper and the overturned water bowl. Then she saw the bottom of the door, where Ginger had bitten and scraped in his desperate attempts to get out.

  “Oh, you naughty dog! she cried. “You bad, naughty, wicked dog!”

  And she gave him three sharp whacks across the nose.

  Ginger cowered. What had he done? What had he done that was wrong?

  “Don’t you ever, ever— ” Maisie’s mum grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him across to the door. “Ever, ever do such a thing again!”

  Maisie tried her best to speak up for him.

  “He couldn’t help it, Mum! He didn’t know it was wrong.”

  “Well,” said her mum, “he’d better learn, that’s all I can say.” She tightened her lips into a thin straight line. “I’m not having a dog that wrecks the place. He either learns or he goes.”

  Ginger wasn’t the only one who was in trouble. James Colin was, too.

  “James Colin,” said his mum, “you have been a very naughty boy! What is the meaning of this?”

  She pointed sternly at a big round hole that had appeared in the carpet in James’s bedroom. James shuffled his feet.

  “You deliberately cut a hole!” said his mum.

  James did not deny it.

  “Why? What on earth did you do it for?”

  James hunched a shoulder. “Felt like it.”

  “What are you talking about? You felt like it?”

  “Felt like cutting a hole.”

  There was a moment of silence. James could tell that his mum was really cross. He could tell that she would really have liked to slap him, only that was something she never did.

  He wouldn’t have minded. She could slap him if she wanted. At least if she was slapping him it meant that she was paying attention to James rather than the baby.

  That was why he had cut the hole. Because he had known that it would make her mad and that she would come and ask him questions about it. She would want to know what he had done it for. She would have to spend time with him.

  “I don’t know.” His mum shook her head. “I just don’t know what to do with you. You used to be such a good, sensible boy. I really used to feel that I could depend on you. Now— ”

  Now? James waited, eagerly. Now what? What was she going to say about him?

  Nothing!

  From the other room, the baby started crying.

  “There’s the baby,” said Mum. “I’ll speak to you later, young man!”

  Mum turned and left the room. The baby had only to open his mouth for Mum to go running. James could cut a huge great hole in the middle of his carpet and she couldn’t even spare him five minutes.

  What did he have to do to get her attention?

  Poor Ginger! His life was going from bad to worse. He had been a Christmas puppy; and now that it was no longer Christmas it seemed that no one loved him any more.

  Every day he was left on his own, shut in the kitchen for hour after hour. Every day when his people came back it seemed that he had done something wrong. Either he had chewed something or spilt something or made a puddle where he shouldn’t.

  He didn’t jump up, now, when the people came in. He had learnt that they didn’t like that. They pushed him away, quite roughly, and screamed at him to ‘Get down!’

  He didn’t even sleep in Maisie’s room any more. One night he had had a little accident on the carpet and Maisie’s mum had said, “We can’t have this! The kitchen is the place for dogs.”

  So now he not only spent all day in the kitchen but all night, as well.

  He was old enough to go for walks, but nobody bothered to take him. Maisie’s mum said that Maisie ought to do it – “He’s your dog! You were the one who wanted him” – but Maisie never seemed to have the time. In the morning she was always in a rush for school, and in the evening it was too dark, or she had homework, or there was something she wanted to watch on television.