Dog Stories Page 2

  The burglars climbed up the big tree in front of Rhonda’s cottage.

  Buster gave another big whistle. All the dogs stood around the bottom of the tree. They barked and snapped and howled up at the burglars.

  The burglars were too scared to move.

  7 – ‘Good Dogs!’

  Buster could hear the loud engine noises of two big motorbikes. It was Vee and Roger coming to pick him up.

  And, look, there was Rhonda on the back of Vee’s motorbike! Her arms were full of dog food from a visit to the pet shop.

  Vee and Rhonda gave Buster a big hug.

  Roger called out to the burglars. ‘Come down from the tree!’

  ‘We’re scared of the dogs!’ they shouted back.

  Buster gave one more loud whistle. The dogs came to Buster. They sat quietly.

  ‘Good dogs!’ he said.

  ‘Now, come down!’ Roger called out again. ‘The dogs won’t hurt you, they do what Buster tells them!’

  Buster looked very proud.

  The scared burglars climbed slowly down from the tree.

  ‘That Buster sure is good with those dogs!’ said one of the burglars to the other.

  8 – Buster Finds Friends

  The next day there was a picture of Buster and the dogs on the front page of the newspaper.

  BUSTER REED

  DOES GOOD

  Suddenly Buster Reed was the school hero. For a little while anyway.

  Now sometimes Buster Reed is good …

  Sometimes Buster Reed is bad …

  And sometimes Buster Reed is just somewhere in between …

  And these days Buster has lots and lots of friends … as well as one very special friend.

  THE DOG KISSER

  BY TRISTAN BANCKS

  My dog was licking the guy’s face like it was gelato. When he was done with the nose and eyes he started in on the dude’s ears.

  ‘Attaboy,’ said the guy. ‘Who’s my schnooky? Who’s da-puppy-dog, huh? Who’s da one?’

  This sent Bando, my lab retriever, into a frenzy and he licked even faster. Saliva trickled down the man’s face. His eyelashes hung with dog spit. His ears were glazed with goo.

  I knew him simply as The Dog Kisser. Every day I took Bando for a walk on the beach a couple of blocks from my house and every day, no matter what time, we stumbled upon The Dog Kisser.

  ‘C’mon, boy. C’mon, Ban,’ I called, but he pretended not to hear. See, I refused to even let Bando lick my toe, let alone my face. I was a doggy love-free zone but, finally, he’d discovered somebody with no lick-limits. I couldn’t watch any longer. It was wrong.

  ‘Bando, NOW! Come!’ I took him by the collar and hauled him away from the guy. ‘Sorry, mate,’ I said, even though I wasn’t. ‘We’ve got to go. I’ve got … stuff to do.’

  I threw the chewed-up pink frisbee down the beach, towards the water. Bando bolted after it. I took one last look over my shoulder and saw Dog Kisser kneeling there on all fours in the dune. His short, dark, spiky hair was thick with dog dribble gel. He looked heartbroken as Ban scampered out of his life for another day. I shuddered and ran, finding Bando lying in the shallows, jawing on his frisbee.

  That night I complained again at dinner.

  ‘He’s just being friendly,’ Mum said. ‘It’s nice that somebody loves him. You barely go near Bando. Sometimes I wonder why we even have a dog.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen this dude go for it. It’s unnatural to let a dog lick you like that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘You’re exaggerating.’

  ‘Yet again!’ said Tanya, my older sister, her only words for the entire meal.

  But I wasn’t exaggerating; if I’d had a tiny, button-sized video camera I’d have recorded it and put the horror show up on our new plasma while they were eating dinner. Then we’d see who was ‘just being friendly’.

  Next afternoon, four o’clock, after a two-minute noodle session (I was digging this prawn flavour that tasted like chicken), I put Bando on his lead and headed out the gate. I checked both ways. No sign of The Kisser. I took a right and Ban reefed the lead out of my hand, darting off to roll in a cane toad pancake on the road. Then he sprinted up the street and gobbled a browny-grey lump on the grass near the telegraph pole. Poo of some kind.

  ‘Bando, come!’ I yelled. He snaffled one last morsel and ran after me, top speed, slamming on the brakes to sniff the Give Way sign and relieve himself. At the cricket ground we cut through the sandy bush track, the fastest way to the beach. I was nervous because there was no way out if you met The Dog Kisser on the track. You could try going cross-country through the bush, but I’d done it once and been cut up pretty bad by lantana. I broke into a jog and Bando followed, overtaking me halfway up the trail.

  By the time I’d caught up with him at the beach park he was giving a pit bull terrier’s bottom a fairly serious inspection.

  ‘Sorry!’ I said to the owner. ‘Ban, c’mon, man. Gimme a break.’

  I threw his mangled frisbee over the sand dune and he ran off down the path to the beach. When I arrived at the crest of the dune I scanned the beach for The DK.

  Nothing.

  Good.

  I continued down the path and tackled Bando at the bottom, eating a face full of sand.

  And then I heard it.

  ‘Whooza bootiful one, huh?’

  I wiped sand from my eyes and somehow, out of nowhere, The Dog Kisser had appeared. Did he have some kind of underground lair down here? Was he a ghost? How did he always just show up?

  As I stood, Bando ran over and began tucking in, really going for it. And then The Dog Kisser did something I’d never seen before. He opened his mouth and Bando licked right inside. Everything went slo-mo as their tongues touched. Then my mind cut to rapid flashes of the cane toad that Ban had rolled in, the poo he’d eaten, the pit bull terrier’s bottom, then back to him pashing The DK right there on the sand. This was a new low.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Dog Kisser tried to say, muffled by Bando’s tongue.

  ‘No, it’s not okay,’ I said. ‘It’s seriously not okay!’

  I pulled Bando off the dude and he gave a high-pitched whine. Dog Kisser looked as though he was about to start blubbering too, his arms outstretched. I dragged Bando until we were a safe distance away and flung the frisbee back up the dune. Bando gave chase and I followed. I didn’t look back to the Kisser. I’d made a decision. My dog-walking days were over.

  For a week, Bando was in lockdown. He never left the yard. He was miserable and kept staring at me with these creepy, sad eyes. Then, one afternoon, I was watching dodgy afternoon game shows when Mum came home from work.

  ‘Have you still not taken that dog for a walk?’ she said as she dropped her bags on the dining table.

  ‘Hi, Ma. Nice to see you, too.’

  ‘He’s dug another crater in the middle of the lawn. Say goodbye to your pocket money if you don’t start walking him,’ she said.

  ‘But the –’ I said.

  ‘I know – the big, terrifying Dog Kisser’s out there. Boo-hoo. Get over it. Start walking him or no allowance.’

  I sat there for a minute, depressed. Then I had an idea. I jumped up and made a beeline for the pile of newspapers in the box beside the bin. I found the Echo and flicked to the classifieds. I knew I’d seen a dog walking service in there – a cheap one run by the church or something.

  Bingo. There it was. Page 32. Salvation Army dog walking services. Three bucks an hour. I could shell out for that twice a week and still have four bucks pocket money left. I grabbed the phone and punched digits.

  Next afternoon at five the doorbell rang. Bando scarpered up the hall. I came out of the lounge room, smiling, and grabbed his lead off the hallstand. I looked down towards the open front door. My jaw sagged. Kneeling on the floor, being smothered with fetid doggy love, was somebody I recognised.

  ‘Izza puppy dog, hey. It’s you, is it? Thassalovelyoneofadoggy, huh? Gunna g
o for walks, hey?’ he said.

  I could not believe it. Was I going to have to pay this guy to kiss my dog? I slowly shuffled up the hall to the open door and The DK grabbed the lead from my hand, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘See you in an hour!’ he said, all chipper. ‘C’mon, boy!’

  They ran down the steps. He had seven other dogs tied up at our front gate – a sausage dog, a schnauzer, two Chihuahuas, a great dane, a dalmatian and a doberman. He bent down and all eight dogs licked him from the tips of his fingers to the top of his head. Saliva flew everywhere, showering our front path and, just for a second, I felt jealous. Those dogs loved him. It didn’t feel like anybody loved me as much as they loved him. Not my mum, my sister. Nobody. I suddenly felt cold and alone. And yet here he was, a lowly dog kisser, being adored by hounds of every shape, colour and breed.

  Without thinking I started walking down the steps. I didn’t really know what I was doing but something was drawing me towards them. A second or two later I kneeled on the path and Bando and a couple of other dogs bounded over and started licking me. Their pink tongues tickled my ears and nose. At first I pulled away but, I had to admit, it kind of felt good. And with each coat of saliva on my neck and face I felt more loved. I felt like one of them, like part of the pack. And, in that moment, my life had changed forever. I’d crossed the line. I, Tom Weekly, was a dog kisser.

  Survey: Percentage of People Who Like Being Licked by Dogs

  Jack reckons I’m weird because I let Bando lick me now, so I asked everyone in my class if they’re dog kissers or not. Here’s what they said:

  Dog Kissers: 67%

  Not Dog Kissers: 25%

  Undecided: 8%

  So, maybe the non-dog-kissers are the freaks?

  MR PUFFLES

  BY CRISTINA BRIONES

  Mr Puffles wrinkled his snout at the bright orange mush in his bowl. It had been a month since his humans, Roger and Lucy, started serving him this disgusting, gut-churning slush. It wasn’t food. It was torture.

  And he was sick of it.

  No matter how many times he’d whimper or bark, they just wouldn’t listen.

  ‘Oh, Mr Puffles, aren’t you going to eat your delicious, nutritious food?’ said Roger. ‘It’s packed full of the essential ingredients every growing dog needs. It’s Dr Al’s Dog Tweats, after all.’

  ‘Please, I beg you! Give me back my usual kibble!’ arfed Mr Puffles.

  ‘Now, now, poochiekins,’ Lucy chided. ‘Be a good little man and eat your foody-woody.’ She tapped his nose lightly. ‘We had to order it online, which makes it extra special indeed.’

  Mr Puffles sneezed and shook his fur in defiance.

  Suddenly the TV blaring in the background broke to a live broadcast. Next to the news reporter was a stubby bald man with massive jowls, carrying a trembling, wide-eyed Chihuahua.

  ‘We’re here today with dog-lover Dr Al and his buddy, Freddy,’ said the reporter. ‘After the huge success of his pet food Dr Al is relocating his warehouse and opening up his own store right here, in Glenfell Falls!’

  ‘That’s right, Felicity!’ Dr Al exclaimed. He held up a small orange bone. ‘This biscuit contains the vitamins of one hundred rare carrots sourced from the northern regions of Pakistan to give your best friend the silkiest, shiniest coat.’

  At the sight of the biscuit, the Chihuahua struggled desperately to get away. Dr Al laughed nervously and shoved the biscuit into the dog’s mouth. Poor Freddy went green.

  Mr Puffles’ face turned white (which is hard to tell with a Maltese terrier). A feeling of dread ran up his spine and down to his paws.

  ‘That’s perfect!’ trilled Lucy. ‘I was just about to go and buy more nail polish remover, and Dr Al’s is right nearby. I can grab more tweats along the way for our precious prince.’ She ruffled Mr Puffles’ head.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Roger said.

  As his humans rolled out of the driveway, Mr Puffles shook himself clean and looked out the window. He thought hard about what the opening of this new store would mean.

  Endless gross doggy grub.

  His fellow canines suffering the same fate.

  Mr Puffles remembered the fear in Freddy’s eyes and he knew what he had to do.

  Mr Puffles sprinted past the living room and through the door flap. ‘Outta my way!’ he yapped at the pigeons on the lawn. They scattered into the trees.

  At last, Mr Puffles entered his kennel. He pressed his paw on the secret button behind his bed basket. Eyes shining, he wiggled his tail with glee as the basket flipped to reveal a staircase.

  Inside, the glowing buttons on the control panel lit up the room. Mr Puffles positioned himself on his master chair overlooking a giant screen and quickly began to type on the keyboard. Lines of numbers and letters appeared on the screen. Mr Puffles pressed ENTER and tapped the green tab that read RING. He waited.

  BIP BIP BIP BIP BIP

  The video call connected, and his super master helmet, which he’d designed himself using a terracotta pot from the garden and wires he’d chewed off Roger’s speakers, lowered from the ceiling to fit around his head. A microphone rose to stop right under his snout.

  The screen distorted, and the face of the person on the other end of the line appeared. ‘Hello? Look, this isn’t a good time. I’m in the middle –’

  Although seeing the man made his shaggy fur stand straight on its end, Mr Puffles didn’t whimper, nor did he howl. He had to stay professional.

  He flicked the HUMAN TRANSLATOR toggle. ‘Hello, Dr Al,’ he barked. ‘How nice it is to finally speak with you.’

  The face on the screen looked both ways, glanced at the screen, and then looked both ways again. His face scrunched up. Dr Al paused and brought the phone closer to his face. ‘Are you … Are you a dog?’ he asked, bewildered.

  ‘That is correct. It is I, Grand Pufflepuff the Third, and I demand you to stop what you are doing right now. Close your shop. Shut down your despicable business, for the sake of all canines of the world.’ Mr Puffles stopped for effect. ‘Or you will face severe consequences.’

  Dr Al continued to stare at Mr Puffles in disbelief, his jaw hanging from his mouth, his jowls flopping. Until suddenly –

  ‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!’

  The man was laughing so hard his chubby face went beetroot-red and tears were streaming from his eyes. The phone fell from his hand.

  As it landed on the floor, Mr Puffles caught a glimpse of the customers grabbing bags and bags, and tins and tins, of his disgusting dog food. Somebody dressed in a poodle costume was handing out balloons to kids.

  And then, the worst sight of all: Roger and Lucy were waiting in line at the checkout. With them was a trolley stacked high with Dr Al’s Dog Tweats – possibly a year’s worth.

  Mr Puffles’ hackles rose and a deep growl came from his throat.

  Dr Al picked up the phone, hiccupping back giggles.

  ‘ENOUGH!’ Mr Puffles rumbled. His fur felt electric now. ‘Will you or won’t you shut down your operation for good?’

  ‘Look here,’ Dr Al snarled, ‘no dog is going to tell me what to do. You got that, you lousy pooch?’

  Dr Al bared his teeth, which reminded Mr Puffles of the mangy old bulldog that lived down the road.

  ‘Very well, then. You leave me no choice.’ Mr Puffles lifted his paw over the yellow button labelled ACTIVATE and, very delicately, pushed it flat. ‘Goodbye, doctor.’

  Mr Puffles hopped onto the leather couch and turned on the TV.

  It was another news broadcast from Dr Al’s factory, but this time Dr Al looked frantic – and absolutely drenched. Behind him was a scene of pure chaos.

  Parts of the factory had exploded from the sheer volume of water that flooded the building, and the shop was completely ruined. People were soaking wet, not to mention all of Dr Al’s Dog Tweats products, which had been destroyed when the store’s fire sprinklers went off and the doors had mysteriously locked themselves, trapping everyone inside.
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  Felicity the news reporter tried to interview Dr Al about the day’s events, clumps of make-up running down her face.

  ‘What will happen now that this, um, incident has taken place?’ she asked. ‘I understand that you kept ALL your stock here, and that it took years and years to make your products due to the rareness of their unique ingredients.’

  Dr Al stepped forward and slipped on the ground. When he looked up, his eyes were full of rage and his jowls puffed out in anger. ‘I will get you, Grand Pufflepuff the Third,’ he howled at the camera. ‘If it’s the last thing I doooooooo!’

  Mr Puffles congratulated himself on his fine computer-hacking skills, and scratched himself in his favourite spot. He couldn’t wait to greet Roger and Lucy when they got home.

  THE CASE OF THE MISSING HOMEWORK

  BY R.A. SPRATT

  ‘Barnes … Barnes!’

  Friday was sitting in the dining hall, eating dinner. It was Wednesday and the meal was Toad in the Hole, which was the second-best dinner of the week, so Friday did not enjoy having it interrupted.

  She turned to see Parker, a third-form boy, running towards her.

  ‘You’ve got to help me!’ he cried as he came to a panting halt beside her.

  ‘I’ve got to, have I?’ said Friday.

  ‘You should have said please,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Please, Barnes,’ said Parker. ‘I’m in a sticky mess.’

  ‘My first name is Friday,’ said Friday. ‘I know you boys insist on referring to each other by your surnames but I’m not a boy, so I don’t like it.’

  ‘Sorry, Friday,’ said Parker. ‘You will help me, won’t you? I’ll pay you. Here –’ He rifled in his pockets and found a $20 note. ‘I’ve got a 20 right here if you just come and have a look. And I’ll give you another 20 if you can find it.’

  ‘Find what?’ asked Friday. Her irritation with Parker could not dampen her natural curiosity for a mystery.