Dog Stories Page 4

  Miss Ryder glared at the lad. ‘Sorry, Michael, your lunch box looks to be in perfectly good order.’

  ‘Ohhhh,’ the boy groaned and slunk away. ‘Ripped off.’

  So my classmates didn’t hate me after all, and although I vowed not to talk to Suzie for the rest of the year, it didn’t take long for that dreadful, loveable rascal of a dog to wheedle her way back into my good books – at least until the next garbage night.

  DOGGONE

  BY MARTIN CHATTERTON

  I say, I say, I say … my dog’s got no nose.

  How does he smell?

  Terrible.

  Boom-tish.

  Okay, that joke is staler than Dad’s favourite undies – and just about as funny – but for me it really isn’t a joke because my dog has got no nose.

  That’s right, old Spike doesn’t have a hooter. He is short a schnoz, minus a muzzle, negative in nostrils. Spike has some other items missing too – ears, teeth, eyes, neck, body, legs, tail. In fact, there’s nothing Spike does have because Spike is invisible.

  No one, including my family, actually knows Spike exists. Sometimes I’m not sure he exists, but then there he is waking me up every morning, licking my face with his invisible tongue and wagging his invisible tail. I can’t help it if no one else can see Spike. I mean, I can’t see Spike, so how can I possibly convince anyone else he’s real?

  But he is real.

  I know exactly when Spike’s around.

  He sort of just shows up. I can smell his doggy breath when he gets close and, if I reach out, I can touch his tangled fur. He likes to sit with his head on my lap when I’m watching TV or reading, and when he sleeps at the foot of my bed every night I can feel his weight on my legs.

  Of course he’s real.

  Spike showed up a few weeks after Dad died. It was a Wednesday afternoon and I’d only been back at school a few days. To be honest, I’d been glad to go back. The house just didn’t feel right without Dad. It seemed darker somehow, and bigger. I suppose Dad had taken up quite a bit of space when he was there. He was always joking around, tickling me and cracking farts when Mum wasn’t looking. Sometimes she was looking and she’d hold her nose, laughing and disgusted all at the same time.

  Until he got sick, Dad had filled the space inside the house with his noise and smells and stuff. Lots of stuff lying around all over the place: his workboots (stinkier than any of his farts), his TV remotes, his paperback books, his coffee-stained cups, his paint-spattered job sheets.

  Dad stuff.

  After he’d gone, Mum … Well, Mum had become almost invisible herself. I think she was feeling so bad that she had no space left inside for me.

  So Pops and Grandma came round a lot when Mum couldn’t – or wouldn’t – get out of bed. They’d take me out to the park and to the beach, cook my meals and give me stuff I knew I shouldn’t eat but did anyway.

  It was a few days after I started back at school when Spike turned up. I wasn’t expecting him – how could anyone expect an invisible dog? One minute I was staring at a TV show, the next I felt something lick the back of my hand. I guess I should have freaked out when that happened but I didn’t. I just knew Spike was there. And I knew he was called Spike too. Don’t ask me how, I just did.

  I lifted my hand and patted his head. I could feel the breeze from his wagging tail.

  Pops was in the kitchen making a cup of tea. I got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen, Spike close behind.

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  Pops turned round and smiled. ‘Hey.’

  I examined Pop’s wrinkly face closely. There was nothing there that showed he knew there was an invisible dog in the kitchen.

  ‘Notice anything?’ I said.

  Pops shook his head. ‘Have you had a haircut?’ he asked.

  I smiled. It had been a while since I’d smiled properly – you know, a proper, natural smile – and it felt weird. Pops couldn’t see Spike. Somehow that was a good thing. It made Spike special.

  Grandma walked into the kitchen carrying a tray. She smiled at me too. Since Dad died it seemed like everyone smiled at me. It kind of got on my nerves a bit because there was something in those smiles that reminded me about what had happened. This time, though, I didn’t mind a bit.

  ‘You see anything, Grandma?’ I said.

  ‘I see a hungry boy,’ she said in that singy-songy voice you might use on a baby. Grandma still thinks I’m about two years old. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d whipped out a dummy and jammed it in my mouth. ‘Would oo like a wickle bit of ice-cream?’

  I shook my head. Grandma was pushing this baby act a little too far for my liking. ‘No, I’m good,’ I said.

  Next to me Spike nudged my hand as if to say he’d like some ice-cream. His thick tail thwacked against the back of my leg. I wasn’t sure what would happen if an invisible dog ate visible ice-cream. Would we be able to see it go into Spike’s mouth and slide down his invisible throat? Having an invisible dog throws up some interesting problems.

  ‘You sure?’ said Grandma.

  I nodded and looked back towards the TV. As I settled into the cushions, I could feel Spike jump up next to me and put his head on my leg, like he was watching TV too.

  ‘Good boy, Spike,’ I whispered.

  ‘What?’ said Pops. He and Grandma were looking at me with worried faces. They’d been doing that a lot lately. Everyone had been doing a lot of that lately.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  Since then Spike goes everywhere with me. Except for school. Dogs aren’t allowed in school, even invisible ones. And even if I wanted to take Spike to school, somehow he’s never around when I get the bus. It’s as if he knows when I need him and he shows up.

  I’m not weird or anything. It’s not like I throw sticks for my invisible dog to chase, or yell commands at him. Imagine seeing someone do that. What would you think? Exactly.

  Sometimes I go with Spike to the oval where Dad and I used to have a kick. Spike loves chasing the ball and to anyone watching I’m just a kid practising with a ball – nothing to see here, move along – instead of some screwball with an invisible dog. Once or twice I swear I’ve heard Dad shouting from the sidelines.

  All in all, having an invisible dog has plenty of advantages over regular dogs. You don’t have to feed them. You don’t have to clean up their poop (because they don’t poop, or, if they do, I can’t see it) and you can let them sleep on your bed, or climb on the furniture without anyone yelling.

  I’m keeping mine. Even if he does smell terrible.

  MANY DOGS, ONE BONE

  BY GEORGE IVANOFF

  The eyes flickered.

  Alex started. Perhaps it wasn’t broken after all. He leaned down and scooped it up. He placed the toy in his lap and examined it.

  It was made of rusty bits of metal welded together into a vague dog shape. It had LED lights for eyes and wheels instead of legs. It looked homemade rather than like something bought from a toy store.

  Alex liked odd things. He liked one-of-a-kind things. He had lots of homemade toys, from the wooden figures his father carved for him to the intricate models Alex constructed out of bottle tops and straws and other things that people threw away.

  That’s why Alex was in the junkyard now. He was looking for materials he could use on the futuristic city he was building.

  But instead, he had found a cool toy dog that might not be completely broken. He flipped it over and looked at the underside. There was a hatch in the centre, between the four wheels.

  Alex spun one of the wheels and smiled. This dog had wheels, just like him. Alex’s legs didn’t work properly, so he got around in a wheelchair. The chair was second-hand and had been fixed up by his dad. And now he had a second-hand toy dog with wheels that he was going to fix up.

  Alex opened the hatch and peered in.

  He was expecting to see a space for batteries. Instead, there was a green crystal in a little metal cage. There was one wire connec
ted to the cage and two wires hanging loose.

  Alex connected one of the wires.

  The dog’s eyes lit up, glowing a dim yellow.

  Alex connected the last wire.

  The wheels spun. Whirring noises came from within the toy. The head jerked one way and then the other. The hatch snapped shut.

  Alex turned the dog right side up and stared into its eyes. They flickered. It was like they were blinking.

  ‘Thank … you.’

  Alex almost fell out of his chair. Did the dog just talk?

  ‘Need bone.’

  The voice was raspy and electronic. A recorded voice, thought Alex. Lots of toys had recorded voices.

  ‘Put me down.’

  Alex hesitated. ‘Okay,’ he finally said, leaning to the side of his wheelchair and placing the dog on the ground.

  ‘Bone!’ said the dog, and it trundled off towards a massive pile of junk a few metres away. It charged at the debris and burrowed in.

  Now what? wondered Alex. He couldn’t follow it, so he waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  He was about to move on when an old radio fell from the top of the heap, and from beneath it emerged the dog.

  It skidded down the pile of junk and came to a stop before Alex. In its mouth, the dog had a bone. The bone was glowing a brilliant white.

  ‘Bone of Power,’ said the dog. Its voice was as clear as ever despite the bone in its mouth. ‘With bone I free my brothers and sisters from evil mechanical overlords and their robot dobermans.’

  Bone of Power?

  Mechanical overlords?

  Robot dobermans?

  With a spray of debris, the junk pile erupted as three large robot dogs burst forth. Landing on the ground, they glared at the little dog with the glowing bone, their eyes alight with red sparks, their jaws dripping with oil.

  Alex could hardly believe his eyes. These robots were as big as the biggest real doberman he had ever seen. Bigger maybe! Whereas the little dog was rusty and sort of cobbled together, these ones were sleek and shiny and new … and REALLY scary. The metallic dog skeletons were packed full of wires and circuitry, with teeth like saw blades and claws like meat hooks.

  Robot dobermans, thought Alex. Robo-dobos. He almost laughed, but it stuck halfway as the metallic dogs growled. The sound was deep and filled with menace.

  Alex shivered.

  ‘Bone!’ rasped the first doberman.

  ‘Give!’ grunted the second.

  ‘Now!’ barked the third.

  With a visible shudder, the little dog sped off.

  ‘Destroy!’ thundered the first doberman, and the others raised their mechanical heads to the sky and howled. It was a hard, scratchy, electronic sound that made Alex’s ears hurt.

  Without really thinking about it, Alex put his hands to his wheels and raced after the little dog. He could hear the robo-dobos take off in pursuit.

  Alex had never been able to walk or run. He had spent most of his life in a wheelchair, getting around by turning the wheels with his hands. He was pretty good at it. In fact, he was GREAT at it. He was the fastest kid on his wheelchair basketball team.

  He zoomed between the mounds of scrap and quickly caught up to the little dog. Barely even slowing down, he scooped the creature up onto his lap and continued on.

  ‘Help?’ said the small dog.

  ‘Yep,’ answered Alex, between breaths. ‘Help.’

  ‘Many dogs, one bone,’ said the dog.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Must get to brothers and sisters,’ continued the dog. ‘Will tell the way.’ As they approached a huge skip filled with old furniture, the dog called out, ‘Left!’

  Alex went to the left of the skip. Up ahead was a pile of old rusted cars.

  ‘Right.’

  Alex veered around.

  A compound surrounded by a tall wire fence loomed up. Inside, there was junk piled upon junk piled upon junk. A section of fence had been ripped away, and beyond it was a tunnel leading deep into the massive heap.

  ‘Inside.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Inside!’ repeated the dog.

  Alex aimed his chair and sped into the tunnel. It was only just wide enough. Each time the wheelchair wavered, the footrest scraped against the junk walls. Behind him the relentless growling, the pounding of metal feet and the scratching of sharp claws got nearer.

  Finally, the wheelchair shot out the other end of the tunnel.

  ‘Brothers and sisters,’ said the dog.

  Alex slowed down and gazed ahead at a pile of robot dogs that looked just like the creature in his lap.

  The lead robo-dobo took his chance and lunged, its deadly jaws clamping down onto the right wheel of Alex’s chair. Alex was flung out and the little dog was thrown from his lap. With the glowing bone still in its mouth, it flew through the air and landed in the heart of the dog pile.

  The robo-dobos stared down at Alex, sparking menace in their eyes. ‘Human bad,’ they snarled in unison. They advanced, their jaws opening wide.

  But Alex was looking beyond them to the dog pile. The dogs were moving. They were stacking up one on top of the other, coming together to form something larger.

  That something barked. It was a loud bark. Loud enough to make the ground tremble.

  The robo-dobos stopped in their tracks and turned slowly to face …

  A giant robot dog! The smaller dogs had formed one large beast, and in the centre of its chest was the dog Alex had reactivated, with the glowing bone still clasped in its mouth.

  The robo-dobos took off, their electronic yelps fading as they disappeared back into the tunnel.

  The giant dog bent down and opened its mouth. For a moment Alex thought it was about to eat him. But instead, its jaws closed over his broken wheelchair.

  From inside the mouth came sounds of screeching metal and buzzing machinery. Then the giant opened its mouth and placed the wheelchair on the ground. But it wasn’t quite the same wheelchair. It was like an armoured chair, covered in mechanical parts. Lights blinked, gears whirred and gauges flickered. Metal plates extended up from the armrests like shields. Chunky tyres sat under massive wheel guards. It was AWESOME!

  ‘Thank you,’ said the little dog. ‘Must return home now.’

  The bone in its mouth glowed brighter and brighter until Alex had to look away. When he looked back, the creature was gone.

  But his new wheelchair was still there.

  Alex hauled himself into the wheelchair. A joystick was now embedded in the right armrest. He eased it forward, and the wheelchair lurched. He let go, and it stopped.

  He tried again, manoeuvring it back towards the tunnel.

  ‘I wonder how fast it can go,’ he whispered to himself. With a big smile, he pushed forward on the joystick and zoomed off.

  THE MAGIC PIDDLE

  BY BRONWYN O’REILLY

  It’s all I can think about.

  It tickles.

  It tingles.

  It burns.

  I need to piddle. Badly. I try to take my mind off it but I can’t. Instead, as if to tease me, my mind takes me back to when it all began …

  YESTERDAY

  I’m sitting in the back seat of the car in between Blake and Little Lil while Mum drives us home. I watch as Blake waves his finger in front of Lil’s face. Lil eyes him warily, but she can’t move away. She’s strapped into one of those harness contraptions. It ties her so tightly to the seat that when anything exciting happens out the window she can’t see it.

  Blake’s finger gets closer and closer to Lil’s left nostril. Slowly, he worms it around the entrance. I know he’d never go right in – it’s too risky with cooties and all – but he waggles his finger around just enough to pretend he’s in there. Then he sticks it in her mouth.

  Lil screams.

  Mum screams. Then she stops the car and starts yelling at Blake.

  I ignore them all. I climb on top of Blake’s lap,
place my paws on the windowsill and stare outside. We’ve pulled over in front of Mr Kuznetsov’s house. He’s in his gardening clothes watering his roses, and boy, do his roses look ripe for another type of watering.

  We arrive home and Mum tells Blake to go do something useful such as take me for a walk. That’s fine by me.

  Blake and I head off down the road. As we get closer to Mr Kuznetsov’s house, the smell of his roses gets stronger. A shiver travels from my nose to my tail. I look back at Blake and bark. There’s a smirk on his face. Blake and Mr Kuznetsov haven’t been friends ever since the weedkiller-in-the-watering-can incident.

  We round the corner and there stands Mr K with his shiny tin watering-can in hand, humming quietly.

  ‘Hello, Mr K!’ Blake calls out.

  Mr K turns his head. His face says that he’s far from happy.

  While Mr K decides what to do about Blake and me, I look around and spot the most perfect rose I have ever seen right by my back left paw. Its spiky stem is dwarfed by the enormous white petals, each perfectly formed and wide open, beckoning to me.

  Mr K is struggling to be polite. ‘Hello, Blake. Please, can you keep your dog away from my roses?’

  ‘Aw, Mr K, he’s just looking,’ Blake says.

  But all I can think about is the satisfying sizzle of a wilting rose. I lift my back leg and piddle.

  A lion-like roar comes out of Mr K’s mouth. ‘Aaarghhhh! That’s it! I’ll teach you to fertilise my roses! This will stop you from wanting to fertilise anything ever again!’

  He mumbles something under his breath and flings the water from his can at Blake and me. Blake dodges the flow and sniggers while my fur flattens under the deluge.

  Oh well, I think. It’s just a bit of water.

  But that’s when the nightmare starts.

  That night, before I go to bed, I take my bedtime piddle on the trunk of the small tree that grows down the back of the garden. Mum’s got a set of wind chimes tied to one of the branches, but it’s calm outside, so I can’t hear them tinkling.