That Dirty Dog and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls

by Christopher Milne

  That Dirty Dog

  and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls

  published in 2011 by

  Hardie Grant Egmont

  85 High Street

  Prahran, Victoria 3181, Australia

  www.hardiegrantegmont.com.au

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the publishers and copyright owner.

  A CiP record for this title is available from the National Library of Australia

  Text copyright © 2011 Christopher Milne

  Illustration and design copyright © 2011 Hardie Grant Egmont

  Illustration and design by Simon Swingler

  Typesetting by Ektavo

  Printed in Australia

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Other books by Christopher Milne

  The Day Our Teacher Went Mad and Other Naughty Stories

  The Bravest Kid I’ve Ever Known and Other Naughty Stories

  The Girl Who Blew Up Her Brother and Other Naughty Stories

  An Upside-Down Boy and Other Naughty Stories

  The Girl With Death Breath and Other Naughty Stories

  The Crazy Dentist and Other Naughty Stories

  The Toilet Rat of Terror and Other Naughty Stories

  Also available from www.christophermilne.com.au

  The Western Sydney Kid

  Little Johnnie and the Naughty Boat People

  TO PETE AND ROB

  Peter and Robert are my two sons and they provided the inspiration for most of my stories. They have always been a bit naughty in real life, but also brave, clever, decent and funny – and much-loved.

  Pete and Rob went to Nayook Primary School and many of these stories are loosely based on those wonderful years.

  contents

  That Dirty Dog

  The Boy Who Played Cricket for Australia

  The Smell from Hell

  The Brothers Who Couldn't Stop Fighting

  When Robert Clark's Dad Died

  The Girl Who Told Lies

  My dad's tough. Really tough. He drives a big Mack truck and he reckons he's never cried in his life.

  For breakfast, he has cornflakes, but always in a dirty bowl. And if he’s got a lot of heavy lifting to do that day, he sprinkles crushed bricks on top. Or that’s what he tells me, anyway – I’m usually asleep when he leaves.

  Except for Saturdays. Dad starts late on Saturdays and if I’ve been good, he lets me come with him on his trip to the brickworks. We always go along exactly the same road and each time we pass the park, we see a dog. The same dog, in exactly the same spot.

  ‘There’s that stupid dog again,’ said Dad one day. ‘What a useless, dirty-looking mutt. What a scumbag.’

  ‘Looks a bit hungry,’ I said.

  ‘So what?’ said Dad. ‘Should get off its lazy butt and rip into a couple of rubbish bins.’

  I wouldn’t have minded stopping to give it a cuddle, but I’d never say so, of course. Dad would call me a wuss. A big sooky-baby.

  Dad reckoned everyone was a wuss. Unless they drove a truck and drank beer like him.

  The next Saturday, that poor, dirty old dog was there again, with its big sad eyes, looking as hungry as any dog I’d ever seen.

  ‘What a filth bag!’ yelled Dad. ‘What a loser. Pity someone hasn’t run it over.’

  I didn’t say anything. Sometimes I didn’t like my dad very much.

  And so it was. Every Saturday, Jack – that’s what I decided to call him – would be sitting there, almost like he was waiting for us to come. Until one day, when he wasn’t there at all.

  I looked everywhere, my face pressed up against the window, but I found nothing.

  ‘Wonder where he is?’ I said as we kept driving.

  ‘Who cares?’ said Dad. ‘The mutt’s better off dead, anyway.’

  On the way back past the park that day, I asked, ‘Couldn’t I have a quick look?’

  ‘For that rotten mongrel?’ asked Dad. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Please, Dad,’ I said. ‘He might be lying hurt somewhere. I’ll clean the truck for you. All of it. I promise! Inside, too.’

  Now, it so happened that Dad’s footy team was playing on TV that night, and he knew that if he washed the truck himself he’d miss the first half.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ he said. ‘Make it quick or I’ll leave you here.’

  Sure enough, Jack was hurt. Badly. Hit by a car, probably. I found him lying behind a tree, bleeding from the mouth.

  ‘Dad!’ I screamed. ‘You’ve got to help me. Jack’s been hurt!’

  ‘Leave the useless thing to die,’ yelled Dad.

  I leant down to cuddle poor Jack and he tried to lick me. But he was too sore to move.

  I started to cry.

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ grumbled Dad. He’d come over to have a look by now. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a bloke crying. Get out of the way and give me a look.’

  Dad felt around Jack’s tummy and said, ‘Yep, he’s hurt all right. So now what?’

  I just looked up at Dad, trying not to cry again.

  Dad sighed, shook his head and said, ‘All right. Anything to stop your blubbering.’ And with that, Dad picked Jack up and put him in the back of the truck. ‘I’ll drop him at the vet, but if it’s going to cost anything to fix him, we’ll have to put him down.’

  ‘Put him down?’ I asked.

  ‘Yep. Knock him off. Put him to sleep. He’s probably going to cark it anyway.’

  Sure enough, the vet said Jack looked really bad. But he couldn’t be sure how bad until he’d taken an X-ray.

  As the vet carried him out, Jack looked up and his big sad eyes said, ‘I understand if you decide not to help me. Who’d want an old dog like me anyway?’

  Dad and I sat in the waiting room in silence. My mouth was dry and I had a sick feeling in my stomach. It would have helped so much if Dad had said something nice about Jack, or how sorry he felt for him, but instead he just stared at the wall.

  At last the vet came back.

  I could tell straight away from the look on the vet’s face that the news was bad. Broken ribs, and three hundred and sixty dollars to fix him.

  ‘Right,’ said Dad, ‘that’s all I need to know. You can put him down. Sooner the better, I say.’

  ‘No!’ I sobbed. ‘I’ll pay, somehow. Please, Dad!’

  Dad just shook his head. Suddenly, something inside me went funny. Something I’d never felt before.

  ‘I hate you!’ I shouted. ‘You reckon everyone else is a wuss, but you know what? I think you are. Because you’re too scared to do something nice!’ And with that I turned and ran.

  I’d never spoken to my dad like that before, and I expected him to chase me down and ground me for a year. But he didn’t.

  When he came out of the vet’s a few minutes later, I saw him wipe his eye with his sleeve.

  ‘Got some of that dog dirt in my eye,’ he muttered.

  On the way home, neither of us said anything. Nothing.

  That night, no-one said much either. Except for Mum, who asked Dad when his fishing trip was coming up this year.

  ‘Might not go,’ said Dad.

  ‘But you love it,’ said Mum.

  ‘Gets a bit boring,’ said Dad. ‘Anyway, we could use the money.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Mum. Dad didn’t answer. I didn’t even mention Jack after that. I’d told Dad I hated him for putting Jack down. What else was there to sa
y?

  Not that I didn’t think about poor Jack. I thought about nothing else. I reckon it’s the saddest I’ve ever felt.

  It was about a week later that Dad came home and said, ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  I guessed he had a new truck, so I walked outside for a look. And there, sitting in the front seat of Dad’s old Mack, was the nicest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Jack, with his fur all washed, his tail wagging and a great big bandage around his tummy.

  I raced over and gave Jack the most massive hug of his life. Then I turned and said, ‘I love you, Dad.’

  ‘And I love you too,’ said Dad. This time, he must have had dirt in both eyes.

  Jack goes everywhere with Dad now. When Dad does a job picking up sheep or cows, Jack helps round them up.

  ‘So he should,’ says Dad. ‘Rotten mongrel owes me heaps.’

  In the morning, Dad leans down and lets Jack lick his face. If that’s tough, I want to be just like my dad.

  Peter Wallace was mad about cricket. ‘Cricket-crazy,’ his dad said.

  It was cricket-this, cricket-that. Cricket before school. Cricket after school. If Pete didn’t have a bat or ball in his hand, his mum used to take his temperature.

  Peter wouldn’t let his dad or his little brother Robbie rest for a minute. Always wanting to have a hit in the backyard, always wanting to bat first, and never, ever going out LBW. Some nights Peter wore his pads to bed. And Rob reckoned that on windy, scary nights, he wore his protector as well.

  As Peter grew older, he started to play in the under-thirteens competition. His love of cricket became even greater. And people started noticing something. Peter was becoming a good little player.

  But Pete didn’t want to be just good. He wanted to play for Australia! It was something he’d heard on the radio that did it. A young Indian batsman was asked when he’d first wanted to play for India. ‘From the moment I picked up a bat,’ he answered.

  Yes, that’s me! Pete thought. I’m not crazy. I want to play for my country too!

  Pete’s dad said there was nothing wrong with aiming for the top, but that he shouldn’t forget cricket was just a game. ‘Play for fun and try your best,’ he said. ‘And everything else will take care of itself.’

  Sounds pretty wussy to me, thought Pete, but he just said, ‘Yes, Dad.’

  Pete’s dad was always coming out with mushy stuff. Must have been a bit of a loser when he was young, thought Pete. If you want to play for Australia, you’ve got to go for it!

  And then it happened. The most fantastic, unbelievable day of days.

  Pete had gone into a muesli bar cricket competition. And won! The prize was the first day at a test match with Australia playing against England. But the best part was a chance to go to the Australian team breakfast and then down to the change rooms before the game. Pete would get all the players’ autographs and watch them warm up and stuff.

  Pete was so excited that he thought he might have kittens.

  The game was at the most famous place in the world, the Melbourne Cricket Ground, and the newspapers said it would be packed. And so it was. Luckily Pete had arrived early.

  After waiting in a queue for what seemed like half of Pete’s life, he and his family finally reached the entrance to the Members’ Stand. Pete was dressed in his whites, carrying his bat in one hand and his muesli bar prize letter in the other.

  The man at the gate said, ‘We’ve been expecting you. Didn’t someone mention that you didn’t need to queue up? You could have come straight in. Unfortunately you’re a bit late for the breakfast, but I’m sure you’ll be well looked after.’

  On the other side of the gate were two men – one to take Pete’s family to their seats in the stand, the other to take Pete through to meet the players.

  Suddenly, there Pete was. Surrounded by the most important, fantastic, excellent people ever. The Australian cricket team. Ricky Ponting, Michael Clarke – they were all there. And Pete was introduced to every one of them. He was in heaven.

  Then Mr Ponting asked if Pete would like to stay with the team once the game had started. You can probably guess what Pete’s answer was.

  ‘Yes!’

  Well, the game had been going for an hour and Australia had started terribly. Three wickets down for only fifteen runs!

  But the real disaster had only just begun. Something even worse was happening in the change rooms. Something only Pete knew about.

  The next batsman, Michael Clarke, who was supposed to be padding up, was instead being terribly sick in the toilets. It must have been something he’d eaten for breakfast.

  Pete was trying to help by giving him wet towels and lemonade, but the batsman just got worse.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Pete from outside the toilet door.

  ‘I don’t know,’ croaked Clarkey (that’s what Pete calls him now that he knows him personally). ‘Do you think you could run up and tell Punter for me? He’s in the players’ room at the top of the stairs.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Pete.

  ‘And Pete,’ said Clarkey, ‘you’ve been a terrific help. Thanks. Maybe I can give you a hand one day when you play for Australia?’

  Pete smiled and ran off. And then he stopped.

  Those words, Play for Australia…

  And Pete started to think of something very, very naughty.

  Pete’s family were sitting in the grandstand and they groaned with the rest of the crowd as yet another wicket fell.

  Pete’s mum was the first to notice the new player marching out to bat. ‘Oh, no!’ she said.

  ‘It couldn’t be!’ said his dad.

  It was.

  Peter Wallace was marching out to bat.

  Mr Ponting waved madly and shouted at Pete to come back, but Pete kept walking.

  The crowd couldn’t believe it. ‘Who is he?’ they asked each other.

  ‘How could someone so short be sent out to bat?’

  ‘Why wasn’t the team change in this morning’s papers?’

  It was all too late. Pete was at the crease. And Stuart Broad was charging in to bowl.

  The first three balls whistled past somewhere near Pete’s nose. He knew that because he heard them. So he was pleased that he at least saw the fourth ball go past.

  But the fifth, that was the ball he was going to get. Pete had decided he would have a whack at it no matter what.

  ‘Cop this, Stuey-baby,’ said Pete, and bang! The ball rocketed off Pete’s bat, over the top of slips, and into the fence for four.

  The crowd went wild. But the sixth ball thundered into Pete’s pads.

  ‘How’s that!’ screamed the English team.

  ‘Not out,’ said Pete. He was so used to umpiring at home that the words just popped out.

  The umpire got such a shock that he didn’t say anything.

  And that was the end of the over. Unfortunately, it was also the end of Pete. The police had found him out by now and Pete was asked to leave the ground.

  ‘Can I stay a bit longer?’ Pete asked. Now that he had Broad beaten, he was ready to really cut loose! The policeman shook his head.

  So, Pete turned, thanked everyone for coming and proudly marched off the ground. The crowd cheered wildly and Pete lifted his bat in the air, like great batsmen do. Just because his magnificent innings had been cut short, that was no reason to disappoint the crowd.

  But that wasn’t the end of it. England suddenly realised they could force Australia to make Pete bat again in the second innings, because you’re not allowed to change the team halfway through the game. It was as if Australia now only had ten men in their side, or so they thought.

  And so it came to this. After five fantastic days of cricket, Pete – who had, of course, been held back until last in the hope that he wouldn’t have to bat again – was suddenly the last man, or boy, standing. Australia had made up a lot of ground, but they were still nine wickets down. They needed three runs to win!

  ‘Don
’t worry, Mr Ponting,’ said Pete. ‘I’m young, but I’m still an Aussie!’

  As Pete marched out to bat again, he lifted his bat to thank the crowd, who by now were making a thunderous roar.

  As Pete took block and looked around the field, the crowd fell silent. Everyone was sick with nerves. Stuart Broad charged in, raised himself up to maximum height and hurled down an absolutely wicked ball that was probably his fastest of the day.

  Now, when you’ve played cricket with your brother in the backyard, day after day, usually until it’s too dark to see, you get a sixth sense. You don’t even need to see the ball, you just know where it is. And so it was with Pete.

  He took a step forward, swung truly, and sweetly cracked a brilliant cover-drive straight to the fence.

  They say the roar from the crowd was heard in London.

  Janet Wong and Maria Gallus were chatting away one lunchtime when a terrible smell surrounded them.

  ‘Was that you?’ asked Janet.

  ‘No!’ replied Maria.

  ‘Have I stood in something?’ asked Janet, checking the soles of her shoes.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said Maria. ‘Maybe it’s my lunchbox. Mum’s probably given me egg sandwiches again.’

  But that wasn’t it either. Janet and Maria couldn’t work it out. They checked to see if there was a drain nearby, and then each other’s breath – even their armpits and sneakers. Nothing!

  The smell was getting worse. Other kids were looking around too. Everyone started holding their noses.

  Then things became serious. One boy fainted and others started retching.

  The smell was absolutely revolting. Think broken sewer pipes, mixed with garlic breath, mixed with rotten-egg gas, mixed with socks that have been worn for seven days in a row.

  Suddenly it all became clear. Standing nearby, wearing a huge grin, was Stinky Adams.

  Stinky had only arrived the day before, with a whole lot of other kids whose school was damaged by fire. Rumours had gone around about Stinky, though no-one really believed his smells could be that bad.

  But now everyone knew. Stinky Adams did smells that were sick-making.