Wanted! The Hundred-Mile-An-Hour Dog

by Jeremy Strong

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t invite you inside because you’re both rather wet,’ he pointed out, as if they didn’t already know. ‘It can’t possibly have been Streaker. She’s been here with us. She was about to undergo treatment from a Dog-Behaviour Specialist but Mr Whiffle is a bit, er, well, he’s had a bit of a shock. He’ll be all right shortly.’

  Boffington-Orr ground his teeth. ‘I’ll swear it was your dog,’ he growled.

  ‘We don’t allow swearing in our house,’ said Mum. ‘Not even on the doorstep. I know you think Streaker is responsible for every crime committed in this town, Chief Superintendent, but whatever it is you think she did, she didn’t.’

  ‘It was your dog,’ insisted Sergeant Smugg.

  ‘Can’t have been,’ Dad repeated. ‘She was here with us. Streaker has an alibi and I find her not guilty. Case dismissed. Goodbye, gentlemen.’

  Oh boy, were my parents cool! Boffington-Orr pointed an angry finger at Dad but he couldn’t think of anything further to say. He swung round and squelched off down the path with Sergeant Smugg, muttering grimly. As they reached the gate B-O turned back and snarled at Dad. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this!’

  Dad waved cheerfully and whispered through gritted teeth at me. ‘I don’t suppose we have, not for one minute.’

  By the time we got back to Mr Whiffle Mum was making the poor man a cup of coffee. I thought his hair had been spiky before but now it really was electrified. He sat bolt upright in an armchair, his spectacles hanging from one ear.

  ‘I feel rather, rather, rather odd,’ he pronounced, his head jerking several times, like a robot with a malfunction. ‘What happened?’

  Mum looked at him sternly. ‘You were going to give Streaker an electric shock, Mr Whiffle, but you gave it to yourself instead and I’m glad you did. I dread to think what might have happened to Streaker. Does anyone know where she is?’

  A good question. Where was Streaker? I hunted high and low. I called her again and again. It was habit, more than anything else. I mean, she’s never responded to her name, not once, but I called anyhow, just in case. Mum says I’m an optimist and she reckons that’s a good thing to be in our house.

  Streaker was in my bed. She’d crept deep down beneath the covers and was huddled up right at the bottom where my feet would have been. As I lifted the duvet she looked at me accusingly with dark, soulful eyes that said: You were going to electrocute me. Me! Your own little doggy!

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I explained, stroking her head. ‘I wasn’t going to let them do it, honest.’ Streaker poked out a long, hot, pink tongue and licked my face. ‘What are we going to do with you, eh? You can’t go on like this. You’ve got to stop stealing food – and could you stop trying to eat my nose for a moment? Look at that podgy tum of yours. You’ll turn into a podgy-pie if you’re not careful.’

  I left her there to recover and went back downstairs. ‘Streaker’s very upset,’ I told everyone. ‘She says she needs trauma counselling.’

  Dad shook his head. ‘No. I’m not having any more specialists in this house. Mr Whiffle has been quite enough.’ He turned to the Behaviour Specialist. ‘How many dogs have you treated like this?’

  ‘You were my first. I’d only just built the equipment. I didn’t realize it would pack quite such a charge. I think I shall go back to my old job.’

  ‘What was that?’ Mum asked.

  ‘I worked for a stuffed-toy maker. I had to stick the eyes on teddy bears and monkeys and the like, but I got bored. I’d always wanted to work with real animals.’

  ‘I think you should find a better job than this. Why don’t you try asking at the local boarding kennels, or something like that?’

  Mr Whiffle looked at Mum gratefully. ‘I never thought of that,’ he said.

  ‘It would be better than trying to electrocute them,’ Dad added, seeing him to the door. Mr Whiffle glanced back at his crushed equipment.

  ‘Could you pop that in the dustbin for me?’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’

  As he left I breathed a sigh of relief, but that proved to be a little bit too soon because Mum had one or two questions for me.

  ‘So, Trevor,’ she began, with a tight smile. ‘Would you like to explain why we had two sopping wet policemen pounding on our front door?’

  I told them everything. They went through the usual parent routine – rolling eyes, sighing, grunting, eyebrows going up and down, lots of frowning, etc. It was like filling in a tick sheet. Eyeball rotation? Tick. Huffing? Tick. If only they knew how they looked.

  ‘Streaker is going to have to stop stealing food.’

  ‘I know, Dad.’

  ‘She’s going to land herself in such big trouble.’

  ‘I know, Mum.’

  ‘You realize there’s a dog warden out there now?’

  ‘Yes, Dad, I know.’

  ‘Not to mention the police.’

  ‘Mum, I did notice.’

  ‘They’ll be watching out for her.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ they chorused.

  ‘Disguise her?’ I suggested. That answer came from out of the blue. It was meant to be a joke, but the more I thought about it the more I reckoned it might work. Mum and Dad were looking at me as if I was mad, but then they often looked at me like that. Maybe they were right.

  It had been a very long day. An awful lot had happened and most of what had happened had been awful – the Dog Warden, B-O and Smugg, Mr Whiffle – I was exhausted. When I crawled into bed Streaker was still there, although she had been brave enough to surface from the depths and curl up on my pillow.

  We lay in bed and I studied her carefully. Disguise her. That’s what I’d said I’d do. And how was I going to do that? Disguise her as what? Put wheels on her feet and pretend she was a push-along toy dog? Stick fake whiskers on her nose and pretend she was a cat? If only I had a cloak of invisibility. But of course I didn’t. But I did have a large cardboard box full of computer games and equipment in the corner of my bedroom. Interesting.

  ‘‘I have an idea,’ I told Streaker. She opened her eyes and looked at me. I was sure I could see right into her brain at that moment, and her brain was asking: It doesn’t have anything to do with car batteries, does it? I told her it didn’t and gazed deeper and deeper into the black, wet whirlpools of her eyes. What was she thinking about? I stared in and all at once I could see exactly what she was seeing … sausages and sandwiches, chickens and chips, pies and pizzas and pancakes. I sighed.

  ‘Oh, Streaker, what are we going to do with you?’

  5 Boxing Clever

  When I got up next morning the first thing I did was empty the cardboard box. I piled the contents in a big heap in one corner of my room. Mum was bound to make a fuss if she saw them lying about like that so I pushed the whole lot beneath my bed.

  I got Streaker and put the cardboard box over her. It was a perfect fit, apart from her ears, which were a bit too tall, and her tail, which was a bit too long. However, a pair of big scissors would soon sort that problem.

  NO! HOW COULD YOU THINK SUCH A THING? OF COURSE I DIDN’T CUT OFF HER EARS AND TAIL. WHAT KIND OF MONSTER DO YOU THINK I AM?

  I cut four holes in the box. There were two small holes on top, near the front. There was one hole at the back, near the top edge, and last of all I cut out a long wide letter-box shape in the front panel. After that I slipped the box back over Streaker.

  Brilliant! She stuck her nose straight through the letter box and peered out. I’m sure she was grinning. I reached under the box, found the end of her tail and stuffed it through the hole at the back.

  Then I stuck my fingers through the two holes on top and pulled out her ears. Nobody would be able to recognize her now. Fantastic!

  Streaker seemed pretty pleased too and she went racing round my room bumping into everything. That gave me another idea – I could customize the box. I got some fat felt-tip pens and drew go-faster stripes down the sides
of the box. On the back, beneath the tail, I drew a small skull and crossbones and under that I wrote:

  It was time to show her off to the general public. We went downstairs. At least I went downstairs; Streaker found it rather more awkward because she was still wearing the box. She kind of slid, crashed and flipped most of the way, before finishing with a spectacular cartwheel – quite impressive for a dog in a box.

  I took her into the kitchen, where Dad was peeling some potatoes. He fell about laughing so much he missed the potato and managed to peel part of his thumb instead. Served him right.

  Mum was on her running machine. You’d think she would have learned not to laugh and run at the same time by now, wouldn’t you? You remember what happened last time? Well, Mum decided to do a repeat.

  SKRANNGGG-SKRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-FFUDDD!

  ‘I don’t understand what’s so funny,’ I muttered. ‘This could save Streaker’s life.’ As if she agreed, Streaker gave a little ‘woof’ through the letter box.

  ‘Now I’ve seen everything,’ declared Mum as her tracksuit legs got longer and longer. The rollers were swallowing them whole and Mum was left frantically clinging on to the waistband before they were pulled right off her. I switched off the machine and put her out of her misery.

  ‘You’re mad. Both of you,’ said Mum, examining the chewed ends of her tracksuit.

  ‘I’m taking her out for a walk,’ I answered with as much dignity as possible. I had to make another little hole to push the dog lead through and then we were ready for the big wide world.

  I have to admit it made people stare. Some even made comments. I bumped into the twins from my class at school, Curtis and Alysha.

  ‘What kind of dog is that?’ asked Curtis.

  ‘It’s a cuboid,’ Alysha said smartly. She’d always been good at maths.

  ‘Actually, she’s a boxer,’ I quipped.

  ‘Is it Streaker?’

  I was a bit disappointed that Streaker had been recognized but I didn’t let on. ‘Yes, but don’t tell anyone. She’s in disguise.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Alysha.

  ‘Autograph hunters,’ I explained.

  ‘Right,’ said Curtis. I looked at him to see if he was joking, but no, he meant it. He really thought autograph hunters were after Streaker’s signature. What kind of autograph does a dog make anyway? Probably best not to even think about it.

  Anyhow, my mind was soon taken off the subject when we reached the market. I’d forgotten it was market day. The street fills with all these different stalls – clothes and shoes, electrical stuff, toys, bedding, books, you name it, it’s all there. And, of course, Streaker’s favourite – food.

  If I’d remembered, I would never have gone anywhere near the market, but it was too late. Streaker was off, with me being dragged behind. I just about managed to keep up with all her twists and turns but eventually she ran beneath a stall. There was no way I could follow and I had to let go of the lead.

  Streaker continued her crazy journey around the market. I followed her progress by listening to the growing chorus of shouts and yells from the people she knocked over. Occasionally I would glimpse her, charging about like some miniature tank. The box was still there, although it was looking increasingly battered.

  Mum’s favourite stopping place in the market is the cheese stall. They have every possible kind of cheese there is – enormous, round, wheel-sized cheeses; big, fat, soft, gooey cheeses; cheeses shaped like volcanoes; big tubs of slippy-sloppy cheeses; and, of course, the stinky cheeses. The stinky cheeses were on a shelf all of their own and they sat there, like hibernating mini trolls covered in black and blue warts. You could almost see the smell wafting from them.

  Streaker was on the cheese trail. I didn’t even know she liked cheese, but she had their scent up her nose and she was homing in on that cheese stall as if she were a cruise missile with target locked.

  DESTINATION: Cheeseville.

  E.T.A.: Three seconds.

  DETONATION CHARGE: Set for Maximum Impact.

  The cheese stall didn’t stand a chance. Leaving dozens of shoppers tumbling in her wake, Streaker hit the stall at approximately Mach 2. Over went the front table, spilling cheese every which way. It crashed back into the big, upright cheese cabinet behind. It wobbled. It toppled forward. Several wheel-sized cheeses went trundling away on a magical mystery tour. Tubs went spinning into the air, sending great gobbets of slippy-sloppy stuff all over the place. Several customers and stallholders were beginning to struggle to their knees, covered from head to foot in various cheese products.

  Streaker, her tank disguise completely shredded by now, stepped from the box, clamped her jaws round the biggest cheese wheel she could find and vanished almost as quickly as she’d arrived. I have to admit I was impressed. Fat she might be, but she could still outgun a Ferrari any day.

  I decided I had better quietly vanish too. I knew there’d be problems. Too many people knew Streaker. Her fame was spreading, except it wasn’t fame – it was notoriety. She had become a common criminal.

  On the way home I passed the twins again. Curtis was sitting on the pavement picking bits of cottage cheese out of his hair, so I knew Streaker had passed the same way. Alysha seemed to have a large amount of stinky Stilton attached to her sit-upon. I didn’t want to appear rude so I didn’t ask.

  ‘She went that way,’ mumbled Alysha, a trifle crossly I thought.

  Mum wasn’t impressed either when I reached the house.

  ‘There’ll be trouble,’ said Mum, quite unnecessarily. Why do parents insist on telling you what you already know? Mum’s always saying things like: ‘If that fork goes in your eye it’s going to hurt so much.’ Durr?! Or how about this one from Dad: ‘You’ve got your new trainers on.’ Really? I thought I was wearing diving boots.

  ‘Has Streaker come back?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, and she brought half a cheese shop with her,’ said Mum. ‘I expect they’ll come round asking for it back. They’ll probably ask for Streaker too. I don’t suppose they’ll want to thank her for finding it for them. I reckon that dog must have a death wish. She attracts trouble like a magnet. Your poor dad’s out there hosing her down. She came in stinking to high heaven.’

  ‘It’s not her fault, Mum. She doesn’t know it’s wrong and she’s never done anything as bad as this before. There must be some reason for it.’

  Mum shook her head. ‘Dogs don’t need a reason to do what they do. They just, well, DO things, because they’re dogs, I suppose. And something is going to have to be done about Streaker soon.’

  ‘I will think of something. I will,’ I promised.

  I went to bed full of hope, trying to think of a brilliant idea, but I fell asleep without having come up with anything at all. Heaven alone knows what time it was when I woke but I do know what woke me.

  There was a horrendous banging and smashing and yelling from downstairs. It sounded as if an entire army had come bursting into the house. My heart was pounding fit to burst and I knew at once that something terrible was happening.

  6 Wanted!

  ‘Spread out men! Get that blasted beast!’

  I recognized the voice in an instant. It was none other than Chief Superintendent Boffington-Orr, Black Belt Tae Kwon Do and Blue Peter Badge Holder (Twice). And I knew what he was after. My blood ran cold.

  At the first sound of splintering wood and raised voices Streaker came tearing into my room and zoomed beneath my covers. (What a brave dog, always ready to save her young master! Mind you, sometimes I think it’s a lot better to be sensible than brave, so maybe she was doing the right thing.)

  I threw back the covers and grabbed her. I tipped the rubbish from my waste-paper bin and practically rammed Streaker into it. I tied string – it was all I could find – to the bin handle and opened the window. Streaker took one look over the edge at the ground far below and immediately tried to clamber out. I pushed her back in. The noises from downstairs were getting louder and closer.


  ‘Please, please, please, Streaker, listen to me.

  I’m going to lower you down. Then you can get out. Don’t get out until you’re safely down to the ground. Then go straight to Tina’s, OK?’ Streaker gazed up at me. Did she understand? I looked deep into her eyes and saw … pizzas and pies and pancakes.

  Bang, bang, bang from downstairs, and lots more yelling, with B-O’s voice booming away as he barged round the house. I could hear Mum and Dad shouting back. There was no time to lose.

  I lowered the bin, praying the string wouldn’t break. Down it went, with Streaker struggling, shaking the bin so badly I was sure she’d tip herself out but then, miracle of miracles, the bin touched down and Streaker was out and on her feet.

  I hauled the bin back up and shouted to her. ‘Go, Streaker! Go!’ I shut the window, raced across the room, hurled myself back into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. A moment later the door burst open and five policemen came tumbling in, led by Sergeant Smugg. (Might have known he’d be involved!)

  ‘Search the kid!’ yelled Smugg.

  ????? ! ! ! ! !

  Search me? Even the four policemen looked nonplussed. I was a boy, a boy in pyjamas. Where on earth did Smugg expect me to be hiding Streaker? In my belly button? The cops began ransacking the cupboards and chest of drawers instead, pulling out my clothes and throwing them all over the place. One of them managed to discover my Spiderman T-shirt, which I’d been trying to find for weeks. That was useful. I even thanked him.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ smiled the policeman.

  ‘Dog’s not here, sir!’ barked one of the men. He glanced outside. ‘There, in the garden! Dog in garden, sir!’

  Sergeant Smugg rushed to the window. ‘That’s her!’ he screamed, almost beside himself. ‘Come on! Downstairs! Charge!’