The School for Talking Pets

by Kelli Anne Hawkins

  ‘So, Miss, what do you think? Rusty should definitely enter, right?’

  Miss Chester swallowed the piece of apple with a shudder and looked at Rusty. ‘Oh yes, of course,’ she said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘Doesn’t hurt to try, Rusty.’

  She took three steps away, threw the apple into the bin and spun back towards them, looking more excited.

  Maybe she does think I can win, thought Rusty in surprise. Miss Chester shoved the remaining biscuit into her mouth and dusted crumbs from her shirt.

  ‘You know, children,’ she said in a voice made thick with biscuit mush, ‘I think I should go and have a word with Oliver and Genevieve about this. Both wrote marvellous essays about their favourite countries just last month. Do you remember? They might be in with a chance to win this thing.’ She peered over her glasses at the other groups of children. ‘Ah, there’s Oliver. I’ll go and talk to him now. Enjoy your break. Don’t forget to put your rubbish in the bin,’ Miss Chester said absently over her shoulder as she marched off.

  Rusty’s shoulders slumped.

  Charlotte smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry about her, Rusty. I think you should enter anyway.’

  They watched Miss Chester pull Oliver, the smartest kid in their class, away from his friends and gesture animatedly at him with both hands.

  Rusty picked up a pebble from the concrete and tossed it away, not meeting Charlotte’s supportive gaze. ‘The day I win a competition like that, Charlotte, is the day pigs might fly.’

  CHAPTER 4

  WHY BOTHER?

  That night Rusty didn’t watch cooking shows on TV with his father.

  Cooking shows were all his dad ever watched on TV, other than the news. Which was strange, as Mr Mulligan didn’t enjoy cooking one little bit. But his father didn’t watch those shows for food preparation tips. He watched them because he liked to criticise the techniques of the chefs; to shout things at the screen like, ‘That steak’s way too rare, stupid!’ or ‘Come on, no-one likes broccoli!’

  Normally, Rusty found this quite good fun. But that night he didn’t feel like insulting a professional chef. Instead he sat in his bedroom at his desk. Beside him, Bongo basked under the heat lamp in his enclosure, nibbling on the slices of pear Rusty fed him.

  ‘What do you think, Bongo? Should I enter the competition?’

  Bongo didn’t answer Rusty’s question. He couldn’t, of course.

  Rusty popped a slice of pear in his own mouth and stared at a piece of blank paper as he chewed. He meant what he’d said to Charlotte. Why would he bother to enter a competition against almost every other child in the world? Rusty wasn’t particularly smart. He wasn’t particularly good at anything. Not at sport or making friends or music or art or handball or even cooking. He was just . . . well, average. Entering the competition was a waste of time for someone as average as him.

  Still.

  The possibility of Bongo speaking to him, the chance to meet talking animals . . . Rusty hadn’t wanted anything so badly since he’d begged his dad to let him keep the stumpy-tailed baby lizard he’d found under the frangipani tree in the back garden two years earlier.

  Mr Mulligan had said no to that request. But Rusty had snuck the lizard inside anyway and somehow managed to keep him alive for two whole weeks before his father had walked past his bedroom door and caught his son feeding strawberry halves to a lizard wrapped in his best woollen jumper.

  ‘Rusty Mulligan. Take that blue-tongue outside right this second,’ he had said in his sternest voice. ‘It is illegal to catch native lizards.’

  ‘But, Dad,’ Rusty had tearfully implored, ‘Bongo’s an orphan. I saw Mrs Nikolaou’s cat, Rodney, chewing on his mother. He doesn’t have anyone else.’

  Mr Mulligan had shaken his head and rolled his eyes. ‘Bongo. What sort of name is that?’

  ‘Please, I can’t let him die,’ Rusty had begged. ‘He’s my best friend.’

  His dad had snorted. ‘Your best friend? You only just found it! And what sort of pet is a lizard, anyway?’

  Rusty had stroked the lizard’s back, Bongo peering up at him with tiny, beady, baby-lizard black eyes.

  Mr Mulligan’s scowl had softened a little as he watched his son. ‘Alright then. Fine. You’re soft like your mother was, boy.’

  Rusty hadn’t taken his dad’s words as an insult. He knew how much his father missed his mum. Mrs Mulligan had died when Rusty was a toddler. He didn’t remember much about her — just that she smelled like vanilla and coconut, and that her hand had always been wonderfully cool on his forehead when he felt sick.

  ‘We’ll go to the pet shop this afternoon and get him a proper home. But you’ll be paying for it out of your pocket money, OK?’

  Rusty had grinned and nodded.

  Mr Mulligan had sighed, shaking his head as he left. It had taken Rusty more than a year to pay his father back, but it was worth it.

  He looked at Bongo now. The lizard had grown to be almost as long as the school ruler in Rusty’s pencil case, and Rusty still had absolutely no idea what his best friend was thinking. He would give anything to find out.

  He sighed.

  Maybe Charlotte was right. If he didn’t enter, he couldn’t win. Rusty put down the pear and picked up a pencil.

  Just then, Bongo opened his mouth and stuck out his blue tongue and, for a fraction of a second, Rusty could have sworn his lizard winked at him.

  ‘You think I should enter, do you?’ he said, surprised. ‘OK then, I’ll do my best.’

  He scribbled some words on the paper.

  I’m Rusty Mulligan. I’m ordinary. So’s my lizard, Bongo. But Bongo’s my best friend and I would love to hear him talk. Please choose us.

  He nibbled the end of his pencil as he counted the words. Twenty-five. He sighed. It didn’t seem like all that much. But it was the truth. He couldn’t offer Miss Alice Einstein more than that.

  It would have to do.

  Rusty switched on his computer. ‘Here goes nothing,’ he said. He filled out the form before he could change his mind. ‘Wish us luck, Bongo,’ he said and pressed ‘Submit’.

  CHAPTER 5

  TAKING CARE OF THE TALKING-ANIMAL PROBLEM

  11.45PM THE HAGUE, THE NETHERLANDS URGENT EXTRAORDINARY MEETING OF THE SECRET ALLIED NATIONS CLANDESTINE ECONOMIC FORUM (SANCEF)

  ‘Sweet Buckets of Balding Badgers!’ declared the American delegate in a strong Southern accent. ‘I ask you, friends, what are we going to do about that blasted talking kitty cat?’

  As if on cue, chatter broke out at the conference table in at least twenty-seven languages. Fists thumped for emphasis and arms waved to make a point. Since the table was longer than an Olympic swimming pool and representatives from most countries of the world were present, the sound was deafening.

  Each person yammered at the person beside them in anger, or disbelief, or even — in some cases — fear. A tall Canadian asked a grey-haired Dane in a panicked voice, ‘Do you know how many cats there are in the world? I don’t, but I bet it’s a helluva lot. Have you seen their claws? What happens if cats decide they want to run the world, now they’re talking? We’ll be wearing their scratches, that’s what.’

  A moustachioed Egyptian nodded along to a short, red-faced Frenchman who complained, ‘And the milk! If cows talk, maybe they will tell us they are no longer ’appy to be milked. I mean, what cow would want to be milked? No more chocolat for us. Non! Worse! No more cheese!’

  A dark-haired Argentinian woman muttered, ‘Talking animals! It cannot be. There will be revolution, mark my words!’ to a smartly dressed Chinese man, who sighed despondently in return.

  ‘ENOUGH,’ boomed a voice from the end of the table.

  The word echoed around the ancient stone walls of the bunker. Those standing immediately sat, and all heads swivelled to the speaker. The quiet was broken only by a sneeze that seemed far too loud to have come from the small Korean woman who sat twisting a spotted handkerchief in her slim hands.

>   ‘Excuse me,’ muttered the woman, sinking into her chair.

  ‘I understand your concern, General Wade,’ the voice continued, ignoring the sneezer. ‘It’s a concern shared by us all. And I agree. We need to take care of the problem of the talking-pet school. ASAP.’

  The speaker was British. His long nose and intelligent eyes gave him an air of command. His neat dark hair was speckled with grey and his smile was that of a man used to being right. He paused, his gaze lingering on many of those around the table. The world’s representatives leaned forwards a little, desperate to be told how to fix the looming crisis.

  ‘I have a plan.’

  A collective sigh sounded as each person sat back in his or her seat.

  Someone else had taken charge.

  Someone else would fix the problem.

  ‘What is this plan, Lord Roderick?’ asked General Wade, the American, removing a toothpick from his mouth.

  ‘I think it would be best if you don’t know the details,’ Lord Roderick said. ‘Just be assured the British arm of this organisation will take care of the matter.’

  General Wade tapped his toothpick on the table. ‘No offence, Lord Roderick, but this is serious. Not just for you, but for all of us. How do we know we can trust you with this operation?’

  The silence stretched so long General Wade began to regret his question. He fiddled with his toothpick until it snapped in two.

  Lord Roderick took pity on the American. ‘General, the British division of SANCEF, which is — as you are all well aware — headed by both myself and my wife, has been dealing with matters such as these on behalf of this great organisation for many years now. Although Lady Roderick was unable to be with us today, I can assure you that we are confident of resolving this problem in a timely matter. As usual.’

  At the mention of Lady Roderick, the temperature of the room dropped several degrees, yet somehow felt suffocating. The Argentinian delegate’s eyes widened and the Canadian let slip a moan before clapping a hand over his own mouth. Lord Roderick ignored them.

  ‘We will put our best people onto this. They’ll follow the competition winners to the island. Then, when the timing is right, they’ll close down the talking-pet school . . . for good.’ Lord Roderick smiled thinly. ‘I know exactly who to put on the case.’

  As he stood and began to stride towards the exit, the crack of his shoes on the stone floor was as sharp as gunfire. ‘The two individuals I have in mind possess a unique combination of brains and brawn that I have no doubt will be more than capable of overcoming a teacher, some children and a few — apparently talking — animals.’

  At the door, Lord Roderick stopped and faced the room. His next words were almost a whisper. ‘Give me two weeks, friends, and Miss Alice Einstein’s School for Talking Pets will be no more.’ A shiver rippled through the delegates and Lord Roderick smiled again, baring two rows of neat white teeth. ‘Depend on it.’

  CHAPTER 6

  AND THE WINNERS ARE . . .

  Rusty was a mess.

  The winners of the competition were due to be announced that morning.

  Rusty had tried not to get his hopes up, but of course he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He wanted to win so badly. After a night of tossing and turning, he came downstairs and switched on the TV. Miss Alice Einstein was due to name the winners at six o’clock — which was nine o’clock the previous evening in London. Rusty had eleven and a half minutes to spare.

  Since all channels were to show the announcement, Rusty left the TV on and went to fetch Bongo. He set the lizard on the windowsill to warm up as he half-listened to the murmur of the hosts and chewed his already-bitten-to-the-quick fingernails.

  ‘I hope they hurry up, Bongo,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll run out of fingernails soon.’

  Rusty thought about making some Vegemite toast, but his stomach churned so badly he knew he couldn’t eat. Not until he’d heard the results. He thought about making breakfast for his father but, as a security guard, his dad often worked nights and today he was still sleeping.

  So Rusty sat, staring alternately at the clock on the wall and out the window at his frosty backyard. Bongo didn’t seem happy to have been removed from his comfortable, cosy enclosure. He’d turned his back to Rusty as if annoyed.

  ‘Sorry, Bongo, but it’s nearly . . . Oh, it’s time,’ Rusty said, his apology forgotten as the host started talking.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’

  Davinia Morton sparkled in a sequinned ballgown, her hair piled high on her head. Her male counterpart, Richard Hamilton, wore a black tuxedo complete with a red bow tie.

  They are really taking this announcement seriously, Rusty thought.

  He sat through the introductions and interviews with celebrities he didn’t know for almost ten minutes, his heart racing.

  Finally, dramatic music sounded. Miss Alice Einstein was ushered in. She emerged into the bright lights, blinking, then smiled slightly and raised her eyebrows, appearing as surprised by the formality of the occasion as Rusty had been. She wore red jeans, a yellow T-shirt and purple hi-top sneakers and seemed even younger than she had the week before. Her hair was still crazy — like one of her fingers had been stuck in an electrical socket. But it was the animals following her out onto the stage who mesmerised Rusty.

  There were three of them. The first was the white fluffball cat with the squished-in face and posh voice, Nader Heydar. After him trotted a tall, shaggy-haired brown and white animal with long, pointed ears and liquid black eyes. Finally came a puppy, his ears still a bit floppy. He bounded on stage to the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the hosts.

  Miss Einstein walked up to the microphone in the centre of the stage. To one side moved Nader, to her other side, the shaggy-haired animal and the puppy.

  ‘Hello, everyone. It’s time to announce the results of my competition for five children to attend Miss Alice Einstein’s School for Talking Pets. To help, I’ve brought three former students along with me. Nader, whom you have already met.’ Here she gestured at Nader, who nodded graciously. ‘Also with me this evening is our school’s one and only llama graduate, Lavender. Lavender now works in the school’s administration department and remains our undefeated Scrabble champion. Beside her is one of our youngest students, three-month-old Corgi, Camembert.’

  ‘Lovely to see you all here on this magnificent summer’s evening,’ said Lavender.

  The hosts gasped. Rusty gasped. He supposed the world wasn’t yet used to hearing animals talk, even when they expected it. Lavender’s voice reminded Rusty of his mother’s — what he could remember of it — soft, squishy and warm.

  The puppy spoke next. ‘Hello! Hello!’ he said, sounding exactly as Rusty imagined a talking puppy would sound. ‘It’s hot up here! Everything smells like bacon! No, like sardines! No, like dirt!’ His little black nose quivered, and his gaze darted from side to side in excitement. The hosts ‘ooh-ed’ and ‘aah-ed’ again.

  ‘Now, Cam,’ said Miss Einstein, ‘remember what I said earlier. We need to be still and not sniff anything. Just for another few minutes, OK?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, of course, Miss E. Of course,’ he continued, tail wagging. ‘It’s just that everything smells so good!’

  Miss Einstein raised her eyebrows, and Camembert sat and focused on her, stilling his thumping tail with an obvious effort. ‘Good boy, Cam.’ She turned back to the camera. ‘OK, we will now announce the names of the children who have won the competition.’

  The hosts fell silent. It seemed to Rusty the whole world fell silent.

  After a moment that seemed to last an eternity, Miss Einstein continued. ‘Our first winner is Braithwaite Kingsley-Smythe from England, and his dog Bismarck.’

  Rusty’s heart sank.

  Nader spoke next. ‘I would like to extend a warm welcome to one of my own kind and her human companion. Felis catus Hannah, and her owner, Maximilian von Zimmermann of Germany.’

  Rusty wanted to feel happy for Maximil
ian and Hannah, and Braithwaite and Bismarck, but at that moment he could not say that he did.

  ‘Our third winner,’ continued Lavender with a twitch of her ears, ‘is a female child from Japan. Her name is Akira Tanaka. Her pet is a crested budgerigar named Sora. Congratulations to them both.’

  Why did you think you had a chance? Rusty wondered as he stroked Bongo’s head. You’re average, remember.

  It was the puppy’s turn next. ‘My go! My turn!’ he said, standing up. ‘Shelby Simmons! American! Guinea pig called . . .’ He paused and looked up at Miss Einstein questioningly.

  ‘You can do it, Cam,’ she said, no sign of annoyance in her voice.

  The puppy sat again and lifted a paw to rub his ear. ‘Oh! Oh! I remember. Porky! Porky the guinea pig,’ he said as he stood up and wagged his tail so hard his whole body wiggled.

  ‘Good boy, Cam,’ Miss Einstein said. She faced the camera and Rusty put his head in his hands. It was all but over. ‘And now to our final winner. Before I announce the name of the lucky child, I would like to thank everyone who entered the competition. We had over seven million entries and we’ve been busy day and night reading them and marvelling at the wonderful relationships so many of you have with your pets. This was a remarkably difficult decision. However, we are very happy with our choices.’

  Miss Alice Einstein paused and Rusty looked up. He felt as if she were looking directly into his soul.

  ‘Our final winner is Rusty Mulligan of Australia, and his blue-tongued lizard, Bongo.’

  CHAPTER 7

  MR POPULAR

  Rusty didn’t move.

  He couldn’t.