Viola Vincent Reporting: Underdog

By Anna Kenna

A chance meeting with Theo and his dog Mac alerts Caitlin to a puppy farm operating in her community. Through her alter ego Viola Vincent, and with the help of reporter friend Megan, Caitlin embarks on a mission to expose the cruel trade and rescue Sissy, a breeding bitch chained to a life of misery. This is the second book in the Viola Vincent Reporting series - authentic story-telling by former investigative journalist, turned author, Anna Kenna.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Kenna
• Release date: Sep 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9780473411305

Anna Kenna

Anna Kenna is an award-winning investigative reporter who has worked in radio and television in New Zealand where she lives with her husband and two terriers. These days Anna is a successful children’s author, writing books for children from toddlers to teens. Many of her books and stories can be found in classrooms in the U.S and other parts of the world.The Viola Vincent Reporting series explores real issues in society through the activities of fiercely determined young Caitlin Nove (Viola Vincent, an anagram of Caitlin V Nove, is the pen name 13-year-old uses to disguise her secret identity as a rookie reporter for the local paper).Book one, Viola Vincent Reporting, is about Caitlin's investigation into the bike accident that nearly killed her mother. The second book, Underdog (Sept 2017) deals with the cruel world of puppy farming.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The sky is smudge grey. A tetchy wind ruffles the pines and lifts a piece of roofing iron that bangs rhythmically against the timber frame of a low rectangular building. The structure once housed agricultural machinery - tractors, ploughs, manure spreaders and irrigation equipment - but now it is part of a farming business of a different kind. Inside, rows of cages contain female dogs who have either given birth or are about to. These animals have never known life outside this building. Many are on to their third or fourth litter. As long as they keep producing they are safe, if you can call living in filthy enclosures in darkness every day of their lives, safe.

Just after midnight, barely audible above the sound of the wind, whimpering can be heard and the occasional deep groan of an animal in pain. On sodden newspaper, barely shielding her from the cold concrete, a Jack Russell bitch pushes out another pink pup to join three others squeaking and snuffling in the darkness. Although barely four years old, this is her third litter, a mix of Jack Russell and Miniature Poodle. Jackapoos, they will be advertised as. Fashionable crossbreeds, sure to be big sellers in a greedy marketplace.

The young bitch has no name. She began life, as did her mother before her, in this building, one of four pups that survived from a litter of six. Born into life as a breeding bitch, within a year she was pregnant herself and so the cycle continued.

As her body settles from the effort of the birth, she licks each pup and nudges it toward her teats. As the wind continues to howl outside, her babies suckle and she falls into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Chapter 2

Caitlin Nove woke, unfurled her body and pushed her legs down under the covers.

Skoota opened one eye and stretched a paw, exposing his claws.

You big lump, murmured Caitlin, prodding him with her foot.

The big marmalade cat sprang off the bed, elongated his body into a luxurious stretch and began hooking his claws into the carpet.

Caitlin hoped he would stop and she wouldn't need to take any action but Skoota was going for it, kneading the carpet with a horrible ripping sound. Caitlin frowned, eased herself onto one elbow and hurled a pillow at him. "Oi. Stop it," she said.

Skoota jumped sideways and continued clawing the carpet.

Caitlin groaned and bounced out of bed. "Skoota, no!" she said, nudging his rear with her foot. She quickly withdrew it as a paw swiped the air.

Caitlin stomped into the bathroom and turned on the tap. She yawned noisily then moistened a wash cloth and dabbed her face. She squinted at her reflection, ran her fingers through her short brown hair and frowned at an angry pimple on her forehead.

She could hear her mum and Phil downstairs, chatting and laughing over breakfast. She was still getting used to Phil living with them.

For years it had just been Caitlin and her mum, Rita, but the accident that had put her mum in a wheelchair had changed everything. She had to admit Phil's steady presence and devotion to her mother made her life, as well as her mum's, a lot easier. It had also taken pressure off her granddad who had been doing so much around the place.

Caitlin brushed her teeth and dabbed some concealer on the pimple, blending the edges into her skin. She pulled on some track pants and a T-shirt and headed downstairs.

Afternoon, said Phil, as she made an appearance.

Caitlin rolled her eyes and opened the fridge.

Eggs on the stove, he said, taking a bite of toast.

Caitlin's mum smiled a greeting and continued scrolling through the news on her tablet. She'd learned not to converse with her daughter until she was properly awake and had some food on board. "All set for this afternoon?" she finally ventured, as Caitlin spooned up the last of her cereal.

S'pose, said Caitlin, sagging in her chair.

Such enthusiasm, laughed Mum, as she scooped her auburn hair into a pony tail.

It was the school annual wearable art competition. The theme this year was iconic New Zealand foods and the students had to come up with a costume that depicted a popular food product. Caitlin was listed in the programme as 'The Weetbix Kid - the longest running cereal in New Zealand breakfast history'. It had seemed like a fun idea last term when Mrs Titoki had called for entries but now Caitlin wished she'd never entered. It hadn't helped that her friend Brooke had pulled out when a trip to Fiji came up, courtesy of her mum's new boyfriend. Caitlin was still mad at her but it was too late to pull out, especially as Mum had spent ages on a costume. It consisted of a big cardboard box painted just like the cereal packet and an elaborate headdress made of crushed cereal biscuits.

Caitlin yawned loudly and slid lower in the chair.

Her mother smiled. "What are you up to this morning?"

Building my worm farm, said Caitlin, pointedly. "Since you guys don't do anything to reduce your appalling carbon footprint."

Mum laughed. "Well, before you start saving the planet, can you load the dishwasher please? I have an appointment at the hairdressers."

Caitlin pushed her cereal bowl aside and laid her forehead on her arms. "Yes Mother."

From the kitchen window she watched Mum ease herself into the driver's seat and stow her wheelchair. Before she set off, Phil leaned into the car and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He caught a glimpse of Caitlin at the kitchen window and smiled. Caitlin stabbed a finger at her tonsils. He laughed and shook his head.

As Caitlin began loading the dishwasher, she thought back to those days when her mum came home from the spinal unit, all angry and withdrawn. She shuddered at the memory. Her mum had been pretty hard to live with and Caitlin had come to respect Phil all the more for sticking around.

Chapter 3

The morning sun rises, its rays spreading across the valley like a soothing balm after the night's storm. A rabbit pokes its nose from its burrow and sniffs the air before emerging fully and hopping across the dewy grass. Across the valley cows are returning from the milking sheds, their udders slack and their breaths puffing into the chill air with every lumbering step.

The little dog wakes to feel the warmth of her puppies beside her. Her maternal senses are on full alert with the smells and sounds of new life. She licks the pup closest to her and eases herself to her feet. She stretches and then squats. Steam rises as she expels a stream of urine onto the already soaked newspaper. Her tiny body is aching after the birth and her belly, soft and stretched from carrying her pups, hangs low as she stands. She laps at the last of the filthy water in a bowl in the corner of her cage. Her pups, a tangle of warm bodies, squeak at her absence.

The door at the front of the building opens, letting in a shaft of sunlight and smells from the world outside, a world the young mother has never experienced. She has never felt grass beneath her paws or frolicked in a stream. She has never known human companionship and love.

A stocky man in gumboots, the stump of a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, is making his way down the rows of cages, opening each door and emptying a handful of dry biscuits into the food bowls. He wears a mask over his nose and yellow earmuffs. He sees the dogs’ mouths moving in unison but he hears nothing.

As the food is delivered, the mothers and mothers-to-be get to their feet, some with hungry puppies still attached. As the door to her cage opens, there are no words of comfort for the little dog, no check to see what shape she is in after the birth. The food bowl is nudged towards her then a large hand snatches up each of her pups and takes it out of the cage for inspection. The little dog rushes forward as her squeaking babies are taken one by one and she nips at the hand. For her troubles she gets a whack in the face that sends her flying and makes her sneeze and sneeze again. Only when all her pups are returned safe, and the door closed, can she relax, but her meal will have to wait. Her pups are nuzzling her. She flops back onto her side as little mouths search out her warm milk.

Chapter 4

Caitlin couldn't take much more. Her stiff costume was digging into her armpits. Her Weetbix hat, in spite of an entire bottle of glue and most of a roll of cling film, was flaking into her eyes, and she was thirsty. She scanned the room. Nobody looked happy. A girl in a plastic tube, representing a jar of Vegemite, was slumped against the wall and a boy dressed as L & P soft drink seemed to have totally lost his fizz.

Caitlin yawned and raised her elbows to take the pressure off her armpits.

Harley Mitchell, with his usual smirk, mimicked her from across the room. "Bock...Bock...Bock," he called, flapping his arms and strutting around like a chicken.

Caitlin scowled and made a rude gesture.

Harley, dressed as a can of Watties spaghetti and sausages, did a mock haka, finishing by exaggeratedly poking out his tongue and drawing his finger across his throat.

Dork! mouthed Caitlin.

Hiya VV, said a voice behind her.

Caitlin swung around, causing a cascade of cereal flakes to dislodge and settle in her eyelashes. "Megan," she said, greeting a young woman with curly red hair and a camera slung around her neck. "What are you doing here?"

Paper wanted some pics of the wearable art awards, said Megan.

"More like the unbearable art awards," groaned Caitlin.

Megan laughed and eased her camera off. "You look fantastic kiddo! Can I get a pic?"

Caitlin frowned and sagged dramatically. "Do you have to?"

Yes, I do, said Megan, raising the camera. "Now give me your best pose."

Caitlin straightened up and forced a smile as Megan adjusted the lens and manoeuvred herself to get the right background. Her ringlets bounced as she moved, awkwardly splaying her long legs like a human tripod.

Caitlin had met Megan when the young reporter was sent by her paper, The Courier, to cover a protest Caitlin had helped organise at her school about the state of the toilets. Later, they investigated the bike accident that nearly cost Caitlin's mum her life. With Megan's help, Caitlin had been able to prove the bike her mum was riding was faulty, part of a shipment illegally imported to New Zealand. The story, which made news worldwide, gave birth to Caitlin's secret identity as undercover reporter Viola Vincent (an anagram of her full name, Caitlin V. Nove). She’d had to come up with a fake name because the newspaper editor said she was too young to write under her real name.

Megan was finally happy with the background. "Smile," she called.

Caitlin forced a fleeting smile, as Harley Mitchell did his best to photo bomb the shot, until Megan told him where to go. Megan took a few more photos and lowered the camera. After a check of what she'd got, she gave Caitlin the thumbs up. She put the camera down and began scanning the programme.

Ah, there you are. The Weetbix Kid eh? She laughed. "More like a cereal killer." She nodded at Caitlin's head wear. "How many boxes of Weetbix were harmed making that?"

Heaps, said Caitlin, "but, as you can see, it's falling apart."

I noticed, said Megan, brushing some cereal from Caitlin's shoulder. "Never took you to be so flaky."

Ha ha. Caitlin shook her head as Megan headed off to get some more photos.

Mrs Titoki cleared her throat and clapped her hands. "OK everyone, listen up. We're on in five minutes. Quickly now, get into line."

There was a flurry of activity as everyone adjusted their costumes and tried to avoid each other's protuberances.

Caitlin watched Harley shuffle into line and turn his attention to the girl in front of him. She was dressed as a Pavlova and, if it wasn't enough to be sweltering under billowing clouds of white fabric in the stuffy school hall, now she had to put up with Harley plucking at the fabric strawberries on her headdress.

Stop it! She screeched, attempting a backwards swipe.

Harley, once more and you're out! hissed Mrs Titoki as they marched onto the stage.

Caitlin watched Harley grin and play to the audience by twirling the chain of sausages around his neck. Little did Caitlin know that those sausages were about to have a profound effect on her life.

Chapter 5

It's early morning. The valley is still waking when a white van turns into the driveway of the property. Its tyres crunch along the gravel and its headlights bounce as it rumbles over the many pot holes on its way to the farmhouse. Soon voices can be heard as two men wearing ear