Pugs of the Frozen North (A Not-So-Impossible Tale)
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With a little luck and a pack of pugs, anything is paws-ible!
When True Winter comes, it’s time for the Great Northern Race! The best sled teams in the world must reach a mysterious man called the Snowfather. He will grant one wish to the winners. Young racers Sika and Shen want to win more than anything. But they don’t have big sled dogs—all they have is sixty-six yappy, yippy puppy pugs. Can this unlikely team make their dreams come true?
For early chapter book readers who are ready for something longer, the Not-So-Impossible Tales are packed with humor, action, and color illustrations on almost every page.
"A madcap, magical blend of fluff and other good stuff."—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
Hope, Sika! You must try these noodles!” “They’re delicious!” agreed Mitzi von Primm. “But I mustn’t have any more. I’m watching my figure.” “Delicious indeed!” agreed Shackleton Jones. “But I’d best be on my way. I still mean to beat you good people to the top of the world!” But just then, a yeti plonked a big dish of noodles down on the table, and Mitzi and Shackleton took huge helpings for themselves, just like everybody else. Sika took some, too. She was surprised how nice they tasted. She
put his foot down, and when SNOBOT and the pugs and the sled hit it, it sounded like a snowy opera. “Shhhh!” hissed Shen, afraid that the singing snow would warn the yetis somebody was coming. “Shhhh!” said a patch of snow nearby. “Who said that?” whispered Shen. “Who said that?” said the snow quite loudly. It was echosnow, which repeats anything you say to it, only louder. It started all the pugs yipping, and the echosnow yipped back at them more loudly, which made the pugs yip louder still.
just a faint silvering of light upon the southern sky. The pugs ran north as fast as their two hundred sixty-four little legs could carry them, following the tracks of the other sleds. There are fifty different types of snow in a True Winter, and Shen and Sika had soon seen nearly all of them. They crossed patches of blindsnow and patches of echosnow. They plunged through warbling drifts of songsnow and screaming mounds of screechsnow. They crossed a broad, rolling plain of slumbersnow, which
this way for those—she had come so that the Snowfather could save her grandpa, and that was the one thing the Snowfather couldn’t do. After the feast they slept—a good night’s sleep in white beds as deep and soft as snowdrifts. And when they woke, it was time to go home. Out in the Snowfather’s garden, Sideplate was strapping Sir Basil’s lunch box firmly to his sled, with Sir Basil buzzing inside it like a well-dressed wasp. Shackleton Jones was preparing his own sled for takeoff—he had fitted
yap and dance around, straining and pulling at the heavy thing he’d hitched them to. Ten pugs couldn’t shift the sled at all. Twenty couldn’t. Even when thirty were attached, it didn’t budge, and Sika said, “See? They just aren’t sled dogs. This is hopeless.” But when forty dogs were tied on, the big sled stirred and slid a few inches over the ice. When fifty were attached, it started to gather speed. When the sixty-sixth was in position, Sika shouted, “Mush, doggies! Mush!” and it shot away as