My Dog Made Me Write This Book

by Elizabeth Fensham

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  First published in the United States in 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Copyright © 2014, 2019 by Elizabeth Fensham

  Cover and interior artwork © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover and interior illustrations by James Lancett

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Young Readers, an imprint of Sourcebooks Kids

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebookskids.com

  Originally published as My Dog Doesn’t Like Me in 2014 in Australia by University of Queensland Press.

  Names: Fensham, Elizabeth, author.

  Title: My dog made me write this book / Elizabeth Fensham.

  Other titles: My dog doesn’t like me

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, [2019] | “Originally published as My Dog Doesn’t Like Me in 2014 in Australia by University of Queensland Press.” | Summary: Ugly, the dog, prefers everyone in the family to eight-year-old Eric, his owner, but when Eric’s crazy ideas fail to win over Ugly, he tries something more basic.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018057204 | (trade pbk. : alk. paper)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Human-animal relationships--Fiction. | Dogs--Training--Fiction. | Family life--Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.F3484 My 2019 | DDC [Fic]--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018057204

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To the readers of this book, including the children who want their dogs to like them.

  And in memory of our beloved family dogs: Lassie, Laddie, Simon, Shane, Jason, Maud, and Toby.

  -E.F.

  For Ash the Schnauzer: We will never forget you or your doggy farts.

  -J.L.

  1

  Running away is a very difficult thing to do if you are going to do it right. To be warm and safe, there’s a lot to organize. Before I knew it, my school backpack was almost full, and I had packed only a book, my coat, and a chocolate bar. I still needed to take:

  • a blanket

  • a flashlight

  • a water bottle

  • some sensible, healthy food

  • my whistle

  • two extra books to read in case I never saw a library again in my whole life

  • some paper and a pen

  • my tin of pocket money

  How was I going to carry all that?

  In the end, I snuck out to Dad’s shed and grabbed the wheelbarrow. When Mom was in the bathroom, I crept into the kitchen and raided the pantry and fridge. I put on my backpack and dragged the rest of my stuff out to the wheelbarrow.

  Unfortunately, my horrible big sister, Gretchen, spotted me. She laughed in a tease-y way and said, “I’ll help you run away, Eccle! Here, give me that.” She tried to take the wheelbarrow from me, but it tipped over. Everything fell out. Then she stooped down to put all my things back in.

  “Better give us your new address,” said Gretchen in a nasty, cheerful voice.

  I didn’t answer. I started pushing the barrow up the driveway and along the sidewalk. I was heading for the little park two doors down. Our neighbor, Mrs. Manchester, was drinking a cup of tea on her front porch. Her ginger cat, Penelope, was draped over her lap like a rug. “Off for an exciting adventure, Eric?” she called out to me.

  How was I supposed to reply to that? Mrs. Manchester must have thought I was like a three-year-old playing make-believe. As I turned to reply to the old lady, I noticed Gretchen had followed behind like a spy. She called out to Mrs. Manchester, “Eccle is running away from home!”

  “Oh dear me,” said Mrs. Manchester. “Your parents will be very worried.”

  I didn’t wait to hear more. In a fury, I put my head down and pushed that wheelbarrow so hard and fast that I was trotting like a pony. Gretchen’s cruel tongue gave me a spurt of energy. When I got to the playground, I stopped and sat on a bench. I was panting, and my heart was thumping—out of anger and sadness.

  Ugly had brought me to this. I was homeless because of a dog. Tonight, he’d be safe and warm. Maybe he’d take over my bedroom. Where would I be? I might even be in danger. That scared me—stranger danger. How would I stay safe?

  I looked around. It was a summer evening. The sun was sinking lower and lower in the sky. Spooky fingers of shadow were sliding across the grass toward me. In the sunshine, I felt I could cope. But what would I do in the dark? Was I going to stay on the bench all night, or find somewhere else? By now, Gretchen the spy had turned and gone home. No one cared. I was alone in the world.

  I started to realize that running away was very boring. I sat and sat on that hard, wooden bench for a whole half hour. I ate my chocolate bar. Then, a mom with a baby in a stroller and a noisy little boy walked into the park. The mom looked tired; she sat on another bench and texted someone on a cell phone while her noisy boy played around on the swings, the slide, and the other play equipment.

  • • •

  After the mom and kids left, a beat-up-looking car stopped and three teenagers got out. They played on the equipment too, and were just as loud as the little boy had been. No one spoke to me, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t want anyone asking questions. I pretended to read my book, but I was too upset to concentrate. That shows how sad I was, because I usually love reading.

  After that, it got almost dark. I started imagin
ing all the things that could happen to me. In the middle of my imagining, I noticed a creepy-looking man. He had a cap pulled down over his eyes, and he wore a black, baggy coat. He was hanging around the edge of the park.

  Sometimes, he’d walk out of sight. Then, he’d come back again. My heart started thumping in my chest; it was going in all directions like a terrified wild bird trapped in a room. What a stupid, dangerous thing I was doing—being all by myself.

  People’s backyard fences were left, right, and behind me. Should I climb one of them and ask for help? What if I climbed into someone’s place and they thought I was a robber? What if the people were bad guys? I was stuck. How I wished I were safely at home reading a good book in my bedroom. Reading an adventure about a boy running away is much more fun than actually running away, I realized.

  I reached down and picked up a heavy stick to protect myself from the scary man. Next, I took my whistle out of the wheelbarrow and got ready to blow it loudly. But then I noticed the man’s bent back and the way he shuffled and limped a little.

  It was Grandpa! He was keeping an eye on me.

  Someone cared.

  That’s when I decided to go home—but not with Grandpa. That would be giving in to the rest of the family and Ugly, who didn’t care. I stood up and rearranged my things in the wheelbarrow, trying to look busy. Grandpa shuffled farther down the street toward home. I quietly followed, keeping a distance.

  • • •

  After Grandpa went inside the house, I waited a few moments. Leaving most of my things in the wheelbarrow, I slipped through the open front door. I crept down the hallway. Second door on the right, and I was back inside my bedroom. I sat on my bed, enjoying feeling safe and warm, until Dad appeared and invited me to the kitchen for a family chat.

  Most of what was said can wait for later, but in the end, I was sent back to my room for being rude to Gretchen. Now, I wouldn’t mind being sent to my room if I’d been rude to Mom or Dad or Grandpa, but Gretchen? It’s like the victim is in prison and the bad guy is free. Boy, was I mad.

  I was stuck in my room for so long (actually, for the rest of the night). At first, I was too upset to do anything—not playing games or even reading, which I really love. That left me with nothing much to look at except for the curtains Mom had made me with the dog pictures all over them, which made me even sadder. The curtains reminded me of my eighth birthday more than a year ago.

  It was while I was stuck in my room feeling all clogged up with miserableness that I became an author. I thought I might start writing down my sad and angry story. It’s been over a week now since I became an author. After I finish writing each part, it feels good to get everything off my chest.

  2

  My dog doesn’t like me. It’s a fact. When I got back from running away, I explained this to my family.

  “Hogwash,” Grandpa grumbled, and he stomped out of the kitchen and down the back steps to his veggie garden.

  My big sister, Gretchen, muttered, “You are such a loser,” and kept on filing her fingernails.

  Dad said, “What a bunch of nonsense!” He walked away and sat at his computer to do his bills.

  Mom bent down, patted the dog, and said, “Poor guy.”

  The dog looked deep into Mom’s eyes, as he always does. He knows how to get her on his side. But I’m telling you the truth. My dog truly, truly doesn’t like me. He won’t give me the time of day. I’m not sure what “time of day” even means, but I know he wouldn’t give it to me. I just don’t exist for him.

  I know because that silly dog just won’t spend any time with me. He loves Mom; he follows her around like a bad smell. Grandpa says that about Gretchen’s boyfriend, Shane. It exactly describes my dog, Ugly. For one thing, if Mom stands up, he gets up off the floor. If Mom walks to one room, he plods after her. I swear, if Mom twirled and whirled in little circles, Ugly would turn in circles too.

  And as for “like a bad smell,” that’s my dog all over—especially when it’s been raining and his fur is wet and spongy like sheep’s wool. Mom is what you call a “neat freak” and likes things clean and tidy, but Ugly is allowed to plod through the house and leave his big, round doggy footprints on the floor. And if I did that? I’d get yelled at.

  I said that to Mom as an example of how she’s made Ugly her favorite.

  She said, “Don’t be silly. You know better. And you can take your shoes off or wipe your feet, but a dog can’t.”

  “He can too,” I said. “If he is as intelligent as you think he is, then he could learn to wipe his paws.”

  Before Mom could admit I might be right, Gretchen said, “You’re jealous, Eccle!”

  “Am not,” I said.

  Gretchen laughed in a nasty way and said, “My little brother is jealous of a dog!”

  I could feel the tears prickling my eyes, but I didn’t want Gretchen to see. “I’m not little. I’m older than nine now. And I’m not jealous, and you’re the sister of a dog.” I didn’t get time to explain, because Dad was already angrily pointing me toward my room.

  “I don’t want to hear you talk like that again, Eric!” he said.

  I only get called by my full name, Eric, when someone’s angry with me. (Eccle or Ec is what I called myself when I was two years old because I couldn’t pronounce Eric.) So this time, I knew Dad was really angry.

  “That’s the second time in just a few hours that you’ve been unacceptably rude,” said Dad. “First to your mother, and now to your sister. It stops now!”

  As I’ve already explained, I was totally miserable stuck there in my bedroom. Tears were leaking from my eyes, although I was trying to stop them. Until the moment I decided to start writing a book, I even thought about running away again. No one takes me seriously.

  • • •

  Even as I was being marched out of the kitchen, I noticed that Ugly—who was lying with his snout across Mom’s feet as she sat at the table—lifted his head and twitched one ear for only a moment. Then he dropped his head back onto Mom’s shoes, as if to say, “Is that what the fuss is about? Just that kid being difficult again?”

  I’m not jealous of my dog. I’m just disappointed in him, and I have good reason. Actually, I’m not just disappointed in him. If he doesn’t like me, then I don’t like him either!

  3

  When I said my dog doesn’t like me, you might not have noticed that important little word “my.” Ugly is supposed to be mine. He was my present for my eighth birthday.

  • • •

  I had always wanted a dog. Mom and Dad decided it was a good idea for me to have one for a few reasons. Firstly, having a big, bossy sister who is ten years older than me means I can sometimes feel a little lonely. And although no one said it to me, I think my family felt I needed to get out and exercise more.

  “With big feet like yours, you’ll eventually grow into them,” Grandpa says, but the rest of my family says I’m “on the chubby side.” Walking a dog seems to be one way people stay in shape. But all of the walks Ugly and I take are disastrous. He pulls really hard on his leash, dragging me along so that my feet nearly fly off the ground.

  But back to my birthday. Turning eight felt good. I’ve always liked the shape of an eight—like a racetrack. And the idea of a dog for my present seemed fantastic. In the Bright family, we have a birthday breakfast. You have whatever your favorite food is, and you get to open your presents after that. I had pancakes, berries, and ice cream, and then I ripped into my gifts. They all had a dog theme.

  • • •

  First were Mom and Dad’s presents. Mom had sewn me some new bedroom curtains and a cushion cover made with amazing material that had pictures of different dog breeds all over it. Dad gave me a red tartan dog collar with a matching red leash, plus a padded dog bed with raised sides to keep out uncomfortable breezes.

  Grandpa gave me two bowls (one for wat
er and the other for food) and a book called Lassie, which is about a really faithful, clever dog.

  Gretchen gave me a bag of dog biscuits and heartworm medication. She said, “You could also benefit from some deworming medication, Eccle.”

  I felt hurt. Gretchen rolled her eyes and said, “Just joking!”—words she often throws at me after she says something mean.

  Mom said, “Ease up, Gretchen. It’s your brother’s birthday.”

  Gretchen’s mouth went the shape of a squashed strawberry. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. Because it was my birthday and because I was now eight years old, I tried to be grown-up, so I shrugged and smiled. But I know that it’s unfair to say mean things and then pretend it was a joke.

  Anyway, after Gretchen’s “joke,” Dad got us all talking about what sort of dog I could choose and where we’d find one. We all agreed that the dog should be medium-sized. We’d get him or her from the dog shelter, which is an orphanage for dogs. I liked the idea of rescuing an unwanted orphan.

  I took the dog collar and leash to school to show the class.

  Travis Petropoulos said, “Those are weird birthday presents.” But most of the kids were happy and excited for me.

  My birthday ended really well. I came home from school with the two friends I’d been allowed to invite—Hugh Cravenforth and my ex-fiancée, Millicent Dunn. (Milly and I were engaged for a week in our first year of school, but that got boring. She wanted flowers and a ring—all that sort of stuff. Now we’re just good friends.) Mom had arrived home early from work and had baked me a cake in the shape of a smiling dog with its tail sticking happily up in the air.

  Before we dug into cake and ice cream and “wore it all over our faces,” as Grandpa called it, Mom took a photo of us. It’s now sitting in a frame on my dresser. I’m standing in the middle between my friends. My hair is wet and freshly combed, but straw-colored pieces are already sticking out. I can see I had more of a tummy back then. Hugh is on my left. He has dark, curly hair, and he’s tall and bony—big knees and elbows. Milly is on my other side. She has her light-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail with a big blue ribbon. She has the friendliest smile, with a wide gap between her two front teeth.