"What's a pedigree?" asked Dog.

"It's an idea invented by humans," replied Sniffy scornfully, "and it's completely fake." . . .

"Are you a pedigree?" Dog asked Woolly.

Woolly managed a feeble smile. "I have every kind of pedigree in me. I'm related to any dog you care to mention. Even Sniffy here, who doesn't look a bit like me. Even you. . . ."

"Don't you have an owner?"

The smile vanished from Woolly's face. A long silence followed. A very long silence indeed. Finally Woolly said, "I used to have a mistress. . . ."

Silence.

"And?"

Silence.

"I lost her."

The sun was high in the sky. It was stiflingly hot under the great metal roof of the dog pound. There were a lot of tongues hanging out.

"What d'you mean, lost her?"

"Just that. I went out for a walk one evening and when I came back the next morning, she was gone. The apartment was empty. She'd moved out." . . .

"But didn't you follow her smell?" asked Dog, amazed.

"What good would it have done? If she didn't want me anymore, what was the point?" . . .

After a while Woolly said in a thoughtful voice, "Anyway, it's my fault. I didn't train her properly--"

Their conversation was interrupted by something Dog would never forget. Something that's made him call out every night ever since. The main gate swung open onto the setting sun. A black van reversed through the gate into the dog pound. Ten men wearing leather gloves jumped out. They opened a whole row of cages, grabbed hold of the dogs, and hurled them into the van. The director of the dog pound watched the whole operation with a blank smile on his face. The dogs were kicking with all four legs and barking and biting. But it was over in a flash, and nothing they did made any difference. The van took off again. The gates closed behind it.

There was a deathly silence. A gust of Total Terror had just blown through. All the dogs were looking at the row of empty cages.

Excerpted from DOG © Copyright 2003 by Daniel Pennac. Reprinted with permission by Candlewick Press. All rights reserved.