Paul Jenning's Weirdest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  Derek and I smiled at each other. What a man he was. Always so calm.

  ‘You’re the greatest, Dad,’ said Derek. He looked at me to see if I was going to disagree. I didn’t.

  When we got to the volleyball stadium my own dad was not calm.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he growled. ‘The game’s over. I thought you must have been in an accident. I was just about to call the police.’

  ‘Calm down, old boy,’ said Derek’s dad. ‘We’ve got quite a story to tell you.’

  Dad listened to the whole thing in silence. He didn’t seem impressed.

  ‘Mongolian Rat Catcher,’ he said grumpily. ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘Know about dogs, do you?’ said Derek’s dad. ‘Work with animals, do you?’

  Dad looked annoyed. He opened his mouth to tell them what he does but I got in first. ‘Er, we’d better be going,’ I said.

  Dad drove back down the mountain. Fast. He asked me a lot of questions about Jason and the dog breeder and the old man. But he didn’t say much. He was in a grumpy mood. Why couldn’t he be cool? Like Derek’s dad.

  ‘It’s up here,’ I said. ‘The place where we hit the dog. Just round the bend.’

  Dad dropped down a gear and planted his foot. He roared round the corner really fast. Boy, he was in a bad mood.

  THUMP.

  ‘Aaagh,’ I screamed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve run over a dog.’

  Dad looked in the mirror and pulled the truck over to the side of the road. The two of us jumped out and started walking back to the small, still bundle in the middle of the road.

  My heart jumped up into my mouth. I felt faint. I felt sick. Dad had run over Jason’s new dog. And killed it. I just couldn’t believe it. The same thing had happened. Twice. In the same night. But now it was Dad who had killed the dog.

  And there was no way he was going to be able to fix things up. He didn’t have a thousand dollars. And anyway, there were no more Mongolian Rat Catchers left. We couldn’t pull the same trick again.

  Dad bent over and looked at the dead dog carefully.

  Before he could move, a trembling voice filtered through the trees. ‘Tinker, Tinker. Come here, boy. Where are you?’

  The little old man with the wispy hair stumbled onto the road. ‘Have you seen – ’ he started to say. His gaze fell on the small dog lying on the road. ‘Tinker?’ He said. He fell to his knees with a sob and started to feel all over the dog. His fingers felt for a pulse.

  ‘Gone,’ he said looking up at us as if we were murderers. Then his eyes opened wide as he recognised me. ‘You’ve killed two dogs in the same night,’ he gasped.

  The old man clasped the dog to his chest as if it was a baby. Then he stumbled off towards the nearby farmhouse without another word. Just like he’d done before.

  ‘Hey,’ shouted Dad. ‘Come back here.’

  Why couldn’t my dad be more kind and generous? Like Derek’s dad. My dad didn’t even seem sorry for what he had done. The little man stopped and Dad went towards him.

  ‘Go back to the truck,’ Dad growled at me.

  I did. I was glad to go back to the truck. I didn’t want to see that look in the old man’s eyes. I didn’t want to hear Jason start crying when he saw the dead dog.

  After about ten minutes Dad came back to the truck. He had the dead dog with him. He threw the body onto the back of the truck and started up the engine. ‘Show me how to get to the dog kennels,’ he said.

  ‘It’s no good,’ I yelled. ‘There are no more Mongolian Rat Catchers left. It was the last one.’

  ‘Just show me the way,’ said Dad.

  We drove in silence. Except for when I had to point out which way to turn. Why wouldn’t Dad listen to me? Why did he have to go back to the dog breeder’s place? It was crazy.

  6

  Finally, we reached the dog kennels. The dogs started up howling and barking just like before. Dad didn’t even wait for the dog breeder to come out. He jumped out of the truck and ran up to the door.

  I saw it open and Dad disappeared inside.

  There was a lot of yelling and shouting. What was going on? Should I go and help? Just then the door flew open and Dad came out. He angrily shoved his wallet into his pocket and strode across to our old truck.

  Dad didn’t have a new dog for little Jason. He didn’t even have the dead dog. He was dogless. And he wasn’t in the mood for talking.

  Neither was I. Why couldn’t my dad be calm and cool and rich? Why couldn’t my dad have a wallet full of money to buy a new dog for Jason? Why did we have to drive around in a beat-up old truck and not a Mercedes? Why, why, why?

  After a long drive we got back to town. Dad stopped outside the front gate.

  Of Derek’s house.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ I said. ‘They’re probably in bed.’

  Dad gave me a big smile. He ruffled my hair in a friendly way. ‘Come on, Ned,’ he said. ‘I don’t think they’ll mind.’

  Derek’s dad threw open the front door and stared at us. So did Derek.

  ‘Hello, old boy,’ said Derek’s dad. ‘What’s up?’

  Dad took out his wallet.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I thought. ‘He’s going to ask Derek’s dad for money.’

  But he didn’t. Dad took out a great wad of notes. ‘Here’s your thousand dollars back,’ he said.

  I stared. Derek stared. We all stared.

  Dad smiled. ‘Tinker was dead all right,’ he said. ‘A stuffed dead dog. With glass eyes. The little man threw it under every car that passed. Then he sent the guilty driver off to buy the other dog. That dog breeder has sold his Mongolian Rat Catcher to at least fifty suckers.’

  Derek’s dad took his money back and stood there with his jaw hanging open. ‘How did you know?’ he stammered.

  I looked at Derek and decided to answer the question myself. I was so happy.

  ‘He’s a taxidermist,’ I said proudly.

  Okay, okay, okay. So you don’t believe me. Take a look at the picture then. Can you see Spot, the dog? Yeah. See I told ya.

  That proves it. It really happened. Spot is real. Not a vision. Not a dream. Not a nightmare. A real-life, barking, peeing dog. So were all the others.

  What do you mean you can’t see it? And you don’t believe me? Look, I’ll go over it again.

  1

  It is Saturday and I have woken up feeling good. The Sharks are playing in the grand final and I am going to the footy to watch them win.

  ‘No you’re not,’ says Mum. ‘You are sick. Remember?’

  ‘That was yesterday,’ I say. ‘Now I am better.’

  Mum puts a hand on my forehead. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I think you have a temperature. You had better stay in bed to be on the safe side.’

  I think Mum is on to me. I think she knows that I faked it yesterday so that I didn’t have to go to school. But she can’t prove it. If you say you have a stomach-ache no one can prove you don’t. So yesterday she let me stay home. But now she is making me suffer by forcing me to stay in bed on Saturday. To teach me not to fake it again.

  This is serious. I have to do something to get out of here. I know. I will start whingeing. Sometimes parents get so sick of you grizzling and groaning that they will let you out just to get rid of you for a bit.

  ‘I’m bored,’ I say. ‘There is nothing to do.’

  Mum goes into the lounge and brings back a picture. She puts it into my hand.

  ‘It’s quite good, Mum,’ I say.

  It is too. Mum is an artist. She draws pictures of places in our town, Warrnambool. Then she sells them at the Sunday market. This one is like all the others. She draws all the best bits of the town and puts them in the same picture. There is the town hall and Lake Pertobe. You can see the surf beach and the breakwater. There are Norfolk Island pine trees and the railway station.

  ‘There are no people in the picture,’ I say.

  ‘You know I can’t draw faces,’ says Mum.


  ‘I’m bored,’ I say again. ‘It is a good picture but I am still bored.’

  Mum gives me a big smile. ‘Spot the dog,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Spot the dog,’ she says. ‘I have hidden four dogs in the drawing. See if you can find them.’

  I groan. ‘That’s for little kids,’ I say.

  ‘No,’ says Mum. ‘Try it. They are hard to find.’ She walks out of the room with a laugh.

  This is no good. I have to get out of here. I have to get to the footy. I don’t want to look for stupid dogs in a picture. And anyway, my head feels funny.

  ‘I can’t find any Spot dogs,’ I yell.

  ‘Try harder,’ says Mum’s voice from the kitchen.

  I wait for a bit. ‘There are no dogs in the picture,’ I say. ‘You are tricking.’

  Mum storms into the room. She is grumpy. I can see I am starting to wear her down.

  ‘Listen, Tony,’ she says in a low voice. ‘I have drawn Spot the dog in that picture four times. If you can find just one of them I will let you get out of bed.’

  I grin. ‘And go to the footy?’ I say.

  ‘Okay,’ says Mum. ‘But you don’t say one more word about going out until you find a dog.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ I yell. This is going to be a cinch.

  I start to search through the picture, looking for Spot the dog. I turn the picture upside down. I turn it sideways. I look in the trees. I look in the train. I look under the water. And down the drains.

  But there is no Spot. Not one silly dog.

  My head starts to ache. I get a pain behind the eyes. Maybe there are no dogs in the picture. Maybe it is a trick. Maybe she is getting me back for faking it yesterday.

  I can’t say anything. If I start to whinge she will not let me out. I have to find at least one drawing of stupid Spot the dog.

  Where is it, where is it, where is it? Where, where, where?

  I look and look and look. I stare into the pine-tree branches. I examine the wheels of the train. I even look inside the public toilets. But no dog.

  I start to get mad. Mum has got me fooled. If I say anything she will never let me out. And if I can’t find a dog I can’t go either.

  My head is thumping. I feel hot all over. My eyes are going to pop out if this goes on any longer.

  I climb out of bed and get dressed. Quietly. Then I climb out of the window.

  For some reason I take the picture with me.

  2

  It is good to be out in the fresh air. Okay, I will cop it when I get back. I will probably be grounded for about ten years. But I will get to see the Sharks play in the grand final. It will be worth it.

  The streets are very quiet. It must be earlier than I think.

  I have to say that the whole world seems a little odd. I can’t quite work it out. It is sort of like looking at a movie. You see it but it isn’t quite the same as normal.

  I walk on for a bit and try to cheer myself up. Imagine if the Sharks win. They have never won a final before. There will be a big celebration. And on Monday I will brag about it at school. I will really give it to the kids who barrack for South Warrnambool.

  Everything is quiet. Too quiet. There is no shouting. There is no conversation. There is no squealing of tyres. Nothing.

  Except.

  What is that? A noise. A sad little noise.

  Yip, yip, yip.

  A dog. I can hear a dog. It is in trouble. It is sort of half barking, half squealing. Like a rabbit in a trap.

  ‘Where are you, fellah?’ I say. ‘I’m coming.’

  But I can’t see the dog anywhere. I can’t tell where the whimpering is coming from. I look under a car. And another car. I search in the long grass. I look over a brick wall. I peer along the alley next to Stiffy Jones’ Funeral Parlor.

  No dog. Nowhere.

  I know. It is rubbish bin morning. There are bins all along the street. Maybe some ratbag has put a poor little dog into the bin. I start to search through the bins. Oh yuck. Every bin seems to be full of filthy stuff. Cold spaghetti. Fish heads. Scrapings from plates. Urgh.

  I will never find the poor little dog. ‘Spot,’ I say. ‘Where are you?’

  Yip, yip, yip. He is here somewhere. I must find him before he suffocates.

  Spot? Did I say Spot? I don’t know this dog’s name. I don’t even know what it looks like.

  I stare at Mum’s picture which is still in my hand. I have got Spot on the brain. I am probably feeling guilty about nicking off. Or pretending to be sick. Or not keeping the deal about finding Spot in Mum’s picture. I take a quick look at it again.

  That’s funny. Mum has drawn rubbish bins. You can see inside them. She draws houses and trains and things so that you can see inside. Sort of like X-rays. You can even see inside the whales in the ocean.

  Yes, how weird. I can see into the bins in Mum’s painting. And there in the video-shop garbage is a drawing of a little dog. Spot. I have spotted him.

  I feel stupid. Crazy. But I rush over to the bin and put my ear to it.

  Yip, yip, yip. The yelping is coming from inside. I open the top and look into the bin. There he is. A real, live Jack Russell terrier. He is white with black spots. One ear is white and the other is black. Oh, he is cute. The poor little thing. Who would put a dog like that in the rubbish?

  I gently lift him out. He licks my face.

  ‘Hello, Spot,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, I will look after you.’

  But I don’t have to look after him. Spot jumps out of my arms with a happy yap. Then he scampers off and disappears around the corner. Gone home probably. How weird. The dog in the real world was in the same place as the dog in Mum’s picture. I check it out again. What? There is no dog in the bin in the picture.

  It is gone. Just like the real one.

  3

  To be perfectly honest I am not feeling too good. This is crazy. But I can’t go home. I will never get to see the footy finals if I do.

  I continue on along the main street past the shops. They are all shut. I look at my watch. Ten thirty a.m. That’s funny. The shops should be open by now. Maybe my watch is wrong. Maybe it is six o’clock in the morning. I decide to walk down to the T & G Building and look at their clock. But before I get time to take another step I hear it again.

  Yip, yip, yip.

  Another dog in trouble. Or is it the same little dog? A poor, pathetic yelping fills the air. Oh, it touches my heart. I hate to hear an animal suffering. Where is it?

  ‘I’m coming, Spot,’ I say.

  I rush around looking for the dog. I scatter a pile of leaves and search through a heap of boxes. I even peer through the slot in a letterbox.

  ‘Spot,’ I say, ‘are you in there?’

  Spot is not in there. I feel silly talking to a letterbox. I hope no one is watching. They will think I am weird. Maybe I am weird.

  I snatch a glance along the street. That’s a bit of luck. No one is watching. There is not a soul in sight.

  Yip, yip, yip.

  Where is he? The yipping is pitiful. It sounds as if Spot is growing weak. I picture him in my mind, slowly dying.

  Picture him? That’s it. I look at Mum’s drawing. Then I stare around me. I am outside Collins bookshop. Yes, it is in the picture. And you can see under the street. There is Spot hidden in the drain. You would never have seen him if you didn’t know where to look. In the picture he is swimming. Maybe he is drowning. I’d better hurry.

  I rush over to the gutter and put my nose against the steel drain cover. It is dark down there.

  Yip, yip, yip.

  I can see two small points of light. Spot’s eyes. There is the sound of splashing. He is swimming in the drain. Just managing to keep his head above water.

  ‘Hang on, Spot,’ I say. ‘I’m coming.’

  I bend over and put my fingers through the steel bars of the drain cover. Oh boy, it is heavy. I strain and struggle. It is too heavy. I look around for someone to give me a ha
nd.

  ‘Help, help,’ I yell. ‘There is a dog down the drain.’

  But there is no one there. Not a soul.

  Yip, yip, yip.

  I will have to do it on my own.

  ‘Pull, pull, pull,’ I say to myself. Oh, my aching back. Oh, my fingers. They feel as if they are going to fall off. Yes, yes. It’s moving. Slowly, slowly, I start to drag the steel grate to one side.

  Yip, yip, gurgle. Oh no, he’s drowning.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ I pull back the grate and reach down. Spot is swimming weakly. The water is rushing by. I grab him by the scruff of the neck and start to lift him. Mum told me that it doesn’t hurt dogs if you pick them up by the back of the neck. That’s how female dogs carry their puppies. I hope it is true because Spot is squealing.

  Got him. I put the wet dog on the footpath and he shakes like crazy. Water goes all over me. He is a white dog with black spots. One black ear and one white ear. Exactly the same as before.

  ‘Come here, boy,’ I say when he has dried himself off.

  But Spot does not come here. He runs happily down the street and vanishes around the corner.

  I glance at Mum’s painting. Sure enough. Just like before, Spot has disappeared. There is no Spot down the drain in the drawing. His image has vanished just as if someone has rubbed it out. This is weird. I start to feel nervous.

  I sit down on the edge of the gutter and wonder about this. Am I going to spend the whole morning rescuing Spot? Will I hear whimpering and yipping everywhere I go?

  I think I will go home. Things are not quite right in the world. Why aren’t there any people in the streets? What is going on?

  But then if I go home Mum will keep me in bed.

  I stare at the picture carefully. Where is the next Spot going to pop up?

  There were four Spots in the drawing. If I can find them all maybe the world will come back to normal. My eyes search the painting. Yes, there he is. The little devil. Hiding in the public toilets. Upside down behind one of the bowls. He looks as if his neck is stuck. Maybe he is choking. Oh shoot, I have to hurry.