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Ronnie was a dog of great intelligence. He could ‘fetch’, ‘sit’, ‘lie’ and even ‘jump’ to order. He knew how to persuade his best friend, Sal, to give him food and drink - or to take him for a walk any time he felt like it. Oh yes, he had his owner, twelve year-old Sal, wrapped around his giant paw.
Sal was only nine when she picked Ronnie out from a litter of tiny pups at the house of a friend of her mum’s. Ronnie was a bloodhound – black and tan with long floppy ears, rolls of saggy skin hanging round his thick neck and doleful eyes that pretended to be stupid, but actually kept an eye on everything.
Ronnie soon got the nickname ‘sleuth-hound’ for his brilliance at finding lost keys, socks, mobile phones or even Sal’s dad’s nose-hair clippers, which had somehow got dropped behind the back of the cooker. Sal’s dad had desperately wanted her to choose a dachshund or a poodle - a dog that wouldn’t be trouble or take up much space, but neither Sal nor her dad had any idea just how glad they’d be, one hot summer’s day in August, that their beloved sleuth-hound wasn’t just a fantastic hunting dog, but also that he had supernaturally good hearing...
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