Food, food, glorious food – here comes Streaker!
Are you feeling silly enough to read more?
THE BATTLE FOR CHRISTMAS
THE BEAK SPEAKS
BEWARE! KILLER TOMATOES
CHICKEN SCHOOL
DINOSAUR POX
GIANT JIM AND THE HURRICANE
I’M TELLING YOU, THEY’RE ALIENS
THE INDOOR PIRATES
THE INDOOR PIRATES ON TREASURE ISLAND
INVASION OF THE CHRISTMAS PUDDINGS
THE KARATE PRINCESS
THE KARATE PRINCESS TO THE RESCUE
KRAZY COW SAVES THE WORLD - WELL, ALMOST
LETS DO THE PHARAOH!
PANDEMONIUM AT SCHOOL
PIRATE PANDEMONIUM
THE SHOCKING ADVENTURES OF LIGHTNING LUCY
THERE’S A PHARAOH IN OUR BATH!
THERE’S A VIKING IN MY BED AND OTHER STORIES
TROUBLE WITH ANIMALS
Read about Streaker’s adventures:
THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG
RETURN OF THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG
WANTED! THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG
LOST! THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG
Read about Nicholas’s daft family:
MY DAD’S GOT AN ALLIGATOR!
MY GRANNY’S GREAT ESCAPE
MY MUM’S GOING TO EXPLODE!
MY BROTHER’S FAMOUS BOTTOM
MY BROTHER’S FAMOUS BOTTOM GETS PINCHED
MY BROTHER’S FAMOUS BOTTOM GOES CAMPING
MY BROTHER’S HOT CROSS BOTTOM
JEREMY STRONG’S LAUGH-YOUR-SOCKS-OFF
JOKE BOOK
Jeremy Strong once worked in a bakery, putting the jam into three thousand doughnuts every night. Now he puts the jam into stories instead, which he finds much more exciting. At the age of three, he fell out of a first-floor bedroom window and landed on his head. His mother says that this damaged him for the rest of his life and refuses to take any responsibility. He loves writing stories because he says it is ‘the only time you alone have complete control and can make anything happen’. His ambition is to make you laugh (or at least snuffle). Jeremy Strong lives near Bath with four cats and a flying cow.
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
puffinbooks.com
First published in Puffin Books 2006
This edition published 2009
Text copyright © Jeremy Strong, 2006
Illustrations copyright © Rowan Clifford, 2006
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-190884-7
This is for Paul and Katharine Curtis, with many thanks for the food, the comfy bed, the excellent company, the hens and for simply being there.
Contents
1 Food, Glorious Food
2 The Terminator
3 Fishy Business
4 Shocking Events
5 Boxing Clever
6 Wanted!
7 Some Very Fancy Dressing
8 Mrs Bittenbott’s Revenge
9 Condemned!
10 And the Winner Is …
1 Food, Glorious Food
So, there I was, lying on my front, in a rain puddle, in the middle of the High Street, with a dog standing on my back. Streaker had a roast chicken jammed in her jaws and looked immensely pleased with herself. I closed my eyes and groaned. Could this get any worse? In short – yes.
‘Where did you get that chicken from?’ I hissed.
She couldn’t answer of course. Her mouth was full.
Besides, she didn’t need to, because at that moment I saw the answer hurtling towards me – a very big man with a body built like a monster truck. Streaker took one look at the approaching human juggernaut and fwoooosh! She’d vanished, complete with her packed lunch. She couldn’t have run faster if she’d been shot from a cannon.
‘Streaker!’ I yelled.
Monster-truck man skidded to a halt right next to me. He was bright red, roaring and blowing as if all his exhaust pipes had fallen off. ‘Was that your dog?’ he thundered.
Gulp! Time for an instant decision. Should I tell the truth or should I just pretend for a bit? I glanced at the man’s bulging muscles. I looked at his swollen, angry face. I decided to pretend, otherwise I might die on the spot, and I hadn’t made my funeral arrangements.
‘That dog? No,’ I squeaked.
‘You called her. How do you know her name if she’s not your dog?’
‘Um – seen her before. She gets everywhere. I don’t know who she belongs to, but I heard someone call her name once and I remembered it. She mugged me. She jumped me from behind and shoved me in a puddle. I’m soaking. Mum’ll be mad.’
The man stared after the vanishing cloud of dust. ‘Pesky dog stole my roast chicken. I’d only just bought it. Stole it right out of my bag. That was my lunch.’
‘Dogs,’ I grunted. ‘What can you do? Nothing but bother.’
The man searched my face. ‘You sure that dog isn’t yours?’
‘If I had a dog like that, I’d be in serious trouble,’ I pointed out to him, quite pleased with myself really because this wasn’t pretending at all. It was only too true.
The man’s shoulders slumped forward as he calmed down, and he scratched his head. ‘Straight out of my bag, a whole roast chicken – gone. Now what am I going to do?’
‘Better get another one,’ I suggested.
The man raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘Suppose I better had.’ He growled, took a swipe at nothing with one big boot, then trudged back up the street. ‘If you see that dog again, give it a big kick from me,’ he grunted by way of saying goodbye.
Give Streaker a big kick? No way! Streaker was the best dog in the whole world! It was just that she was a bit unpredictable. And uncontrollable. And a general nuisance. And a criminal and a lot more besides. Even so, you couldn’t help loving her – at least I couldn’t. Streaker is the cleverest dog I know, and I know, well, at least two dogs. She is probably the cleverest dog in Doggy Land.
When I got home Streaker was already there, sitting on the front step with a cheerful grin on her face, surrounded by bits of chicken carcass. Mum stuck her head out of the front window and made a stern announcement.
‘She brought a roast chicken home, Trevor. Has she been stealing again?’
>
‘She doesn’t know it’s stealing, Mum,’ I explained. ‘She’s a dog.’
‘I wouldn’t let her come in – not with a roast chicken. I made her sit outside. What are you going to do with her?’
Don’t you love it when parents are faced with a problem and they ask you: what are YOU going to do about it? They never ask themselves, do they? If you want my opinion, parents should take on a lot more responsibility.
‘Perhaps it’s a phase she’s going through,’ I suggested. ‘She never used to steal food. It only started recently. I blame it on Charlie Smugg’s Alsatians.’
Charlie Smugg is the son of our local policeman, Sergeant Smugg. They have three Alsatians in their house. Three! They’re always chasing Streaker and they’d been having a real go at her lately, encouraged by Charlie, of course. ‘Look, there’s breakfast!’ he’d shout. ‘Go, Hounds of Death!’ You’ve probably gathered that Charlie and his dad are not exactly my best friends.
Anyhow, Charlie’s Alsatians got Streaker trapped behind the public loos in the park a few weeks ago. They’d already chased her way across the park and I was miles behind. There was nothing I could do to help her. I heard a lot of growling and squeaks. I was frantic. Then the Alsatians came charging back out and suddenly there was Streaker up on the roof of all places.
‘Hurr hurr,’ sniggered Charlie. ‘That’ll teach her. I hope they bit her, bit her hard.’ See? That’s the sort of person he is.
Streaker’s coat was pretty roughed up and dirty but she seemed OK, apart from being stuck on a toilet roof and rather overexcited. But then she’s nearly always overexcited, so it’s difficult to tell what’s normal for her really.
That’s why sometimes it’s hard to tell if she’s being weirder than usual, but she is, definitely. She’s more loopy than ever and I reckon that encounter with the Alsatians made her brain even more lopsided than before. That’s what I told Mum, anyhow.
‘Maybe, but she’s into the habit now. That’s the third roast chicken she’s had, and then there was the pizza she brought home and that poor kid’s burger bun. She’s turned into a hundred-mile-an-hour burger-burglar.’
That’s my mum for you, always exaggerating. Even so, she had a point. Streaker had never behaved like this before. If she carried on the way she was at present, she’d end up looking more like a pig than a dog.
‘You’d better do something about her, and quickly,’ Mum grumbled before pulling the window shut with a bang. Typical. The dog misbehaves and I get the blame. I’m just a kid! I’m the one who’s supposed to be looked after. I’m supposed to be loved and cherished, but instead of giving me more pocket money (as they should) they give me responsibility for a dog that they both know is untrainable. It’s not fair.
‘Taking responsibility is part of growing up,’ Dad told me only last week, as we stood in the garden gazing at Streaker as she stood guard over a small mountain of stolen sausages.
‘Why don’t you take responsibility, Dad? You’re already grown up so it should be a lot easier for you.’
Dad took a deep breath while he considered this. Then he took another one. ‘Do they teach you to argue like that at school?’ he said at length, and before I could answer he went on: ‘Streaker is your dog. It’s your job.’
‘She wasn’t mine to start with,’ I pointed out. ‘You only handed her over when she got difficult.’
Dad put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Trevor, we are a family and we share things. I am sharing my responsibility for Streaker with you, because I know how sensible you are …’
‘You didn’t say I was sensible when I broke the shed window by mistake,’ I butted in.
‘… I know how sensible you are,’ Dad insisted, his voice strangely hard. ‘I’m sure you can sort Streaker out, and now I have a game of golf that I need to sort out.’
‘We all have our responsibilities,’ I called after him as he walked off, grinning.
And that’s about the size of it. I am the smallest, youngest member of our family but I am given the biggest burden of all – Streaker. Don’t get me wrong, I love her to bits. The trouble is she does just as she wants and that is hardly ever what anyone else wants. She runs like she’s swallowed a rocket, she doesn’t know her name or what ‘Stop!’ means, and now she’s taken to Grand Food Theft.
There was only one thing for it. I would have to go and consult Tina. In other words, more problems. I like Tina, but unfortunately she likes me too and I don’t mean ‘likes me’ as in you like someone – I mean she ‘likes me’ as in – you know! Yuk. Thingy – the ‘L’ word. I like her too and I even gave her a bracelet, but now it’s like she thinks we’re married or something! She always goes a bit too far.
However, Tina is smart, I’ll give her that, which is one reason why I like her. As they say, great minds think alike. Tina’s got a dog called Mouse. This is meant to be a joke, because Mouse is a St Bernard; you know, one of those dogs that’s as big as a hippo but a lot hairier.
Tina always has good ideas and if she doesn’t have one, she often makes me think of one. We make a good team. At school they call us The Two Ts. At least most of them do. Charlie Smugg calls us The Poo Pees, which he thinks is incredibly funny but then he’s about as bright as a no-brain brontosaurus, so what can one expect?
Tina sat cross-legged on her bed and patted the space beside her. ‘You can sit here,’ she said. I stood by the window, where it was safer, and gazed outside.
‘Somewhere out there is a mad dog, hunting for food,’ I murmured.
‘What’s got into Streaker lately?’
‘tolen food mostly,’ I quipped. ‘Don’t ask me, but it’s causing big problems. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Keep her locked up.’
‘Tina, you are talking about the dog that has chewed through her collar and dug more tunnels under the garden fence than they had in The Great Escape.’
‘Hmmm.’ Tina looked thoughtful. ‘Did you know there’s a dog catcher in town?’
‘What?!’ I spun round.
Tina nodded. ‘There’s a dog warden. It was in the local paper yesterday. The police said there were too many complaints about loose dogs on the street, so the council have appointed a dog catcher to round up strays.’
‘Streaker’s not a stray!’
‘Any dog on the loose is a stray. That’s what the Dog Warden says. The stray is kept for a week and then put to sleep.’
‘But we’d claim Streaker back, if she was caught.’
‘The council can decide not to release the dog, if it’s been declared a nuisance.’
This was a real bombshell. ‘If the police were involved then it’s bound to be something to do with Sergeant Smugg or Boffington-Orr,’ I muttered grimly.
‘Definitely. There was a photo of B-O right beside the article.’
Chief Superintendent Boffington-Orr (usually known as B-O to me and Tina) and Sergeant Smugg had been waging a battle against Streaker ever since they first met her. It was only out of spite. Streaker hadn’t done anything to hurt them. Well, not much, anyhow. OK, so she tried to eat Sergeant Smugg’s head once, but that’s not exactly a criminal offence, is it? It wasn’t her fault he had dog food spilled all over his big, bald bonce. (It was mine!)
‘But Streaker could be in real danger. We’ve got to do something, and fast,’ I said with a dreadful feeling of impending doom. What Streaker needed was training, and training was most definitely Streaker’s worst subject. Eating? Ten out of ten. Running? Eleven out of ten. But training? That would have to be less than zero.
I was astonished to see Tina beaming happily at me. She tapped her nose. ‘Fear not, little flower …’
‘I’m not a little flower.’
‘Fear not, little weed then. I have the answer you need – we hypnotize her.’
2 The Terminator
Hypnotize her – that’s what Tina said.
Hypnotize a dog. As you do. I gave a rather long sigh and folded my arms across my chest.
/> ‘I love it when you do that,’ smiled Tina.
‘Do what?’
‘Look mean and moody.’
‘I am not looking mean and moody. I’m fed up.’
Tina shook her head. ‘Definitely mean and moody. That scowl suits you.’ I quickly shifted my expression. This was annoying. ‘Now you look dark and handsome and … no, that’s just a stupid face you’re pulling. And now you look brain-dead.’
‘How do you hypnotize a dog, and since when have you been an expert on dog hypnosis?’
Tina shrugged. ‘I’ve seen programmes on television. It’s simple. I bet I could do it.’
‘Tina, you couldn’t hypnotize a – a breadstick.’
‘Trevor, I wouldn’t want to hypnotize a breadstick. What on earth would be the point? I bet I could hypnotize you.’
‘No way!’ I cried.
‘Are you scared I might succeed?’
‘No!’
‘You are, aren’t you?
You’re afraid I might succeed and you’ll end up in my power and I could make you do anything I want!’ She waggled her fingers at me. ‘Doo doo doo doo doo, look into my eyes, doo doo doo doo doo …’
‘Tina, stop it,’ I muttered, trying to stare out of the window, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I had to watch her face, had to watch her, had to waaaaa …
SNAP!!
‘What?’
Tina smirked. ‘I just had you hypnotized for ten minutes.’
‘No way!’
Tina grinned even more. I could feel myself turning red. Supposing she had? How would I know? How do you know you’ve been hypnotized? I forced a laugh.
‘You didn’t. You couldn’t have. Prove it.
What did I do?’
Tina fluttered her eyelashes at me. ‘I couldn’t possibly tell. It might embarrass you.’
‘What did I do?’ I yelled.
‘You were very sweet,’ she said. ‘And charming.’
Wanted! The Hundred-Mile-An-Hour Dog Page 1