That day, excitement buzzed through the little town. Almost every resident set off early in the morning for the weekly market, eager to gather everything they needed for New Year’s Eve.
This year, Mrs. Robertson had invited everyone to her home, and alongside the classic cheese fondue, she wanted to lay out a big buffet for her guests. Each guest had been given a small task by Mrs. Robertson, and now they were scattered all across the market.
Some were meant to prepare a herring salad, while others gathered the ingredients for the fondue. Beetroot salad, fresh baguette, meatballs, pickled olives, halved eggs in mustard sauce, and little rosemary potatoes were all on the various shopping lists.
Winston the dachshund had also been up early that day, so he could get to the market on time with his owner. First, they queued at the bakery for what felt like forever, picking out countless doughnuts with every filling imaginable.
After that, they wanted to choose a small gift for Mrs. Robertson, and they managed to snag a beautiful four-leaf clover in a sparkling plant pot.
“There! That’s done, Winston,” his owner said contentedly, taking a deep breath. “I’m really glad we don’t have far to go to the party later. After all, my homemade sausage salad, all those lovely doughnuts, and the clover need to arrive at Mrs. Robertson’s in one piece.”
Winston gave a little shrug — the only thing that interested him was the sausage salad. He never quite understood all the fuss over New Year’s Eve, and if he was honest, he wasn’t especially fond of it either. Secretly, he hoped it would be a good long while before the sun went down and the first bangers went shooting into the sky.
Like most animals, Winston found the noise of fireworks dreadful and could happily do without them. Still, he bore it with quiet dignity.
“Something about this celebration seems to fascinate humans,” he thought to himself. He decided, in any case, that around midnight he would slip away quietly into Mrs. Robertson’s cellar and not come back out until most of the fireworks had burned themselves out.
Once all the shopping was done, the two of them slowly made their way home. Winston stretched out on the garden bench once more and began to doze.
“I doubt there’ll be much sleeping tonight,” he mused, closing his eyes. While Winston dreamed of the smell of sausage salad, a flurry of activity was already beginning next door.
Mrs. Robertson already had her four grandchildren visiting, dashing excitedly through the garden. Some of the guests had offered to take care of decorating the garden and terrace, so Mrs. Robertson could focus on the buffet.
But suddenly Winston jolted awake. Next door, something was crackling and popping, and a great cloud of smoke was rising from Mrs. Robertson’s garden.
“Oh my goodness! Fire! Fire!” Winston thought. He leapt up at once, barking loudly, and searched for the fastest way through the prickly hedge that separated the two gardens.
“Ouch, those wretched thorns, every single time,” the dachshund grumbled, arriving in his neighbour’s garden completely out of breath. The children and Mrs. Robertson stared at him, startled.
“Winston, what’s wrong? We’re only having a little campfire!” Together, they stood around an iron fire basket, fixing sticky bread dough onto little wooden sticks to toast over the flames.
Relieved that there was no real fire at Mrs. Robertson’s after all, Winston set off for home again. This time, though, he took the far less painful route around the house.
Once his owner had covered the salad with foil, arranged the doughnuts on a silver tray, and straightened his black bow tie one more time, the two of them set off for the party.
By now, almost all the guests had arrived, and Mrs. Robertson’s house buzzed like the inside of a beehive. Little clusters of people stood everywhere, chatting animatedly, and the number of children seemed to have multiplied since the afternoon.
Just as Winston was about to trot into the living room, he found himself watched by dozens of curious little eyes — and moments later, he was being petted on the back, the ears, and even the tummy.
“Hey, stop that! I’m ticklish,” Winston thought, wishing he could turn straight around again. But he stayed brave and didn’t make a sound.
It was only when Mrs. Robertson hurried into the living room to fetch a few more glasses from the cupboard that she reminded her grandchildren and the neighbours’ children to be gentle with the dachshund.
“He’s a dog, not a stuffed toy, children! Let the poor dachshund have a bit of peace. There’s a lot going on here today.”
The children listened to Mrs. Robertson and gave Winston a short breather. But it wasn’t long before they were bouncing around him again, darting from one room to the next.
When Winston had settled into a cosy corner of the hallway, he happened to notice a small group of guests standing together. “That’s Mrs. Robertson’s present. I’ll set the envelope down here on the dresser for now, and we’ll give it to her just before midnight, alright?” The others nodded and gave the envelope an approving pat.
Then they scattered off into different rooms. “Those must be the tickets to the philharmonic orchestra,” Winston thought. His owner had left the programme lying on the armchair not long ago and had mentioned, in passing, that Mrs. Robertson would be given tickets as a thank-you for hosting such a lovely New Year’s Eve party.
Winston enjoyed watching the party slowly come to life. The buffet had opened, the guests were in good spirits, and outside the night air was bitterly cold.
While most of the guests gathered in the living room or the kitchen, Winston stepped outside for some fresh air and watched the campfire blazing away. Just as he was about to join the others by the fire, it happened.
The fur on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end, and he froze on the spot. Right above him, a rocket shot into the sky trailing a streak of colourful light, screeching so loudly it was almost deafening.
“This is exactly why I don’t like this celebration. And this is exactly the moment to disappear into Mrs. Robertson’s cellar,” Winston told himself, and hurried off toward it as fast as he could.
Winston made his way down the stone steps and found himself in the cellar. He spotted a few cobwebs here and there, but otherwise it looked rather cosy.
He grabbed a garden cushion and dragged it with his snout to the bottom of the stairs. “This is where I’ll settle in for the next few hours,” he decided, and closed his eyes.
By now it was eleven o’clock, and a faint restlessness had crept into the house. Board games were being set out on the long table in the living room, and silver garlands were hung up everywhere. Fortune cookies sat on the tables, and even Winston and his owner’s lovely four-leaf clover had found its spot.
But suddenly, several guests disappeared into the hallway, and Winston’s owner was waved over urgently, too. “It’s gone! The envelope with the concert tickets is gone!” a woman whispered nervously.
“Just stay calm for a moment. Where could it possibly have gone? And think again, carefully — are you sure you didn’t put it down somewhere else?” her husband said. But the woman shook her head. “I know for certain I left it right here, and now it’s gone!”
The search began, and all the guests tried to help as discreetly as they could. Above all, they wanted to make sure Mrs. Robertson didn’t catch wind of the surprise — let alone that it might be about to fall apart.
But a glance at the clock made it clear that time was slipping away. “Where is Winston whenever you actually need him?” his owner asked, and now he, too, set off in search of his dog.
It was only when Mrs. Robertson asked him to fetch the sparkling wine for the toast from the cellar that it dawned on him. “Of course, the cellar!” He hurried off, stumbling quickly down the stairs.
“Winston, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You won’t believe what’s happening up there. The envelope with the concert tickets has vanished, and Mrs. Robertson’s surprise is about to fall apart.”
He pointed anxiously at his wristwatch. It was already twenty minutes to midnight. Winston was wide awake now. “The envelope was still on the dresser earlier,” he thought.
“Where could it have gone?” he wondered. He dashed straight up the stairs and began sniffing around. But he quickly realised that the smells of the fondue cheese, the smoked salmon, and the campfire outside had covered up every trace.
He checked every room on the ground floor, watching the guests closely as he went. Most of them were busy searching themselves, shifting furniture and rugs aside. “Good thing Mrs. Robertson hasn’t noticed any of this,” Winston thought, glancing over at the kitchen. The hostess was busy filling glasses and setting out the sparklers for the table.
Then Winston had an idea. “It’s oddly quiet in here. Where have the children got to, anyway?”
He sniffed his way through the hallway and climbed the stairs. Up there were the guest rooms and bedrooms. Winston pricked up his ears and headed straight for what used to be the nursery.
When he quietly poked his head through the gap in the door, he saw the children happily playing post office with a stack of old letters. Next to them stood a little wooden counter, and one of the girls wore a yellow cap on her head.
“Next, please!” she called out to her little brother, who appeared to be queuing in front of the counter. “Let’s have a look! This letter needs more postage.”
She set an envelope down on a small scale and stamped it. “There, all done. Next, please.”
Winston was just about to turn and leave when something shiny caught his eye. A little girl was proudly holding up the missing golden envelope and setting it down on the counter. Winston put two and two together.
“Now or never!” he thought, and dashed into the room as fast as his legs would carry him. As soon as the children noticed him, he began spinning wildly in circles, panting loudly.
“What’s wrong with the dog?” one of the older children asked, calling down the stairs. “Mum, come quick! Something’s not right up here.”
In no time, her mother came hurrying into the room. “What a convenient coincidence,” Winston thought, recognising her at once.
Winston immediately dropped his circus act and walked slowly and carefully over to the little girl, nudging the counter with his nose. The woman spotted the envelope right away and looked down at the dachshund gratefully. “You really did save the evening, Winston!” she said, giving him a pat between the ears.
Together, they went back downstairs. Just before midnight, all the guests gathered around Mrs. Robertson. “These two tickets belong to you now — but it’s Winston you should thank.”
The dachshund found all the attention almost embarrassing. But if there was one thing he’d least expected, it was solving a mystery on New Year’s Eve of all nights.
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