That’s Not Pom

Pom went in the wash. Something else came out.

Pom went everywhere with Wren. He had one flat ear and a trunk for holding. And he smelled of Pom. Then Dad sniffed him. “Pom needs a wash.”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Wren. But in went Pom, with the socks and the tea towels. Swish, swash, slosh. Round went Pom. Round and round and round.

Out came an elephant. His ears stood up. He smelled of flowers. Wren sniffed him once. Wren sniffed him twice. “That’s not Pom.”

Pom needed his smell back. So Wren took him into the garden and rolled him in the grass. Roll, roll, roll. Sniff. He smelled of grass. And a bit of worm. “That’s not Pom.”

So Wren put him in Pickle’s basket, just for a minute. Pickle licked him. Then Pickle lay down on him. Sniff. “That’s not Pom,” said Wren. “That’s Pickle.”

Dad was having a nap on the sofa. His arm was up. His mouth was open. Wren tiptoed over. Very gently, she tucked Pom under Dad’s arm…

She counted to ten. Then she pulled him out. Sniff. “That’s not Pom!” said Wren. “That’s DAD!” Dad opened one eye. “What’s Dad?”

At bedtime, Pom smelled of grass and dog and Dad. He did not smell of Pom. Wren held him close anyway, his ear on her cheek, the way she always did. She shut her eyes.

In the morning, Pom’s ear had gone flat again. His trunk was squashed. He was warm all over. Wren put her nose right in his tummy. Sniff…

He smelled of sleep. He smelled of Wren. “That’s Pom,” said Wren.

Then Dad washed Pickle’s blanket. Pickle sniffed it. Pickle looked at Wren.