Grand

by Nick Park

Genres: General Fiction; Biographical; Media Tie-In; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

The world's most intelligent and well-read dog, the famously mute Gromit, finally breaks his silence, presenting his memoir to Nick Park, the four-time Academy Award © winner and creator of Wallace & Gromit.

Yes. I’m a dog. And you’re reading a book written by a dog.

Which of us is the odder? I guess we’ll just have to get used to it.

Now, this is supposed to be Wallace’s story. And maybe, at some point, he’ll finish building the machine he was going to write this book with. Currently he’s stood on top of the dining table and wondering why he fitted a typewriter with wheels and a flame-thrower (we made an agreement for new inventions – there’s even a list on the fridge, and 'No Flame-Throwers' is at Number 3).

Until then, this is my story. The tale of what goes on behind my eyes. And I really do know where all the bones are buried. So. I guess it’s time I spoke.

Release date: October 27, 2026

Publisher: Penguin Press

Print pages: 272

Sample

BARKING

Yes. I'm a dog. And you're reading a book written by a dog.

I'll just let you take that in for a minute. Maybe have a cup of tea and a biscuit. You'll get used to it. Most humans are quite adaptable.

Now, this is supposed to be Wallace's story. And maybe, at some point, he'll finish building the machine he was going to write this book with. Currently he's stood on top of the dining table and wondering why he fitted a typewriter with wheels and a flame thrower (we made an agreement for new inventions - there's even a list on the fridge - and 'No Flame Throwers' is at number three).

Until then, this is my story. The tale of what goes on behind my eyes. And I really do know where all the bones are buried. So. I guess it's time I spoke.

UNBOXING

Like most love stories, ours begins with a single look. In our case, it was through the flaps of a cardboard box.

It just so happens to be my first memory. It is of a box being opened and a kindly, puzzled face peering down at me and saying, 'Well now, you're not the muffin maker I ordered.'

I cannot remember how I got into that box, or how that box came to find itself on the doorstep of 62 West Wallaby Street one wet February night, but there we are. I arrived in Wallace's life much to his bemusement.

He stood there on the steps of his house, in his dressing gown and slippers, scratching his ears with a screwdriver and blinking.

I looked up at him, unblinking. I've been steady-eyed, ever since I was a puppy.

We remained this way for some considerable time.

'Oh dear,' said Wallace eventually.

That seemed to go all right, so he said it again.

I'd only just met him but I could tell that he was thinking. What was he thinking about? Was he thinking about me? About the long and exciting life we'd have together? About the adventures we'd have, the space voyages we'd take? Actually, no, he was thinking about the central heating bill because he'd left the front door open.

'I'm letting all the hot air out.' He tutted.

Then he leaned over the box and tucked the flaps back in place.

For a dreadful moment I thought that he was going to leave me there. Instead, he picked up the box and announced, 'Never leave a delivery on the doorstop, you don't know when it'll come in handy,' and then he took me in.

And that was that.