Animal Tales

by Terry Jones

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM PAVILION CHILDREN'S BOOKS

  www.anovabooks.com

  Discover Pavilion Children's Books on Facebook

  Join Pavilion Children's Books on Twitter

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2011

  by Pavilion Children’s Books

  an imprint of Anova Books Group Ltd

  10 Southcombe Street

  London W14 0RA

  Layout copyright © Pavilion Children’s Books

  Text copyright © Terry Jones

  Illustrations © Michael Foreman

  First ebook publication 2013

  ISBN 9781843652724

  Also available in hardback

  ISBN 9781843651635

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  The print version of this book can be ordered directly from the publisher at

  www.anovabooks.com

  Contents

  The Good Doctor

  The Chicken Circus

  Tigerliness

  The Ambitious Crocodile

  The Golden Snail of Surbiton

  The Frog That Found A Fortune

  The Flying Badger

  The Elephant Who Had No Trousers

  The Skunk & The Bear

  Jack The Rabbit

  The Flea That Ran Saintsbury’s

  The Immortal Jellyfish

  The Rule of The Lion

  The Toad Road

  The Penguin Without A Name

  The Imaginary Dragon

  WONDERS OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM

  Electric Wombats

  The Transylvanian Limping Bat

  Money Salamanders

  The Fake Elk

  Bendy Giraffes

  Mongolian Deep-Fried Bat

  The Disarmadillo

  The South African Talking Toad

  Sweet and Sour Wallabies

  The Mahatma Stage Ant

  The Bottom-Feeding Warthog

  THE GOOD DOCTOR

  THERE WAS ONCE A HIGHLY QUALIFIED DOG, who also had a great bedside manner. All his patients adored him, and – what’s more – his treatments were more successful than any other doctor in town. As a result he had a waiting list that was the envy of the medical world.

  But then one day Janet, his secretary, received a letter in the post informing him that the General Medical Council did not recognize ‘Mrs. Barker’s Academy of Paw Relief’, nor ‘The Tail Massage Centre’ nor even ‘Woofson College, Cambridge’.

  “But I got a First in every subject I ever took!” exclaimed Scout.

  “They seem to be quite adamant,” said Janet. “They want you to close down your practice immediately.”

  “I can’t believe it, doctor!” said Mrs. Nugent, as Scout was taking her blood pressure. “Why would they want to close you down when you’re such a wonderful doctor?”

  “They say it’s not hygienic to keep a dog in the surgery,” sighed Scout.

  “But you’re always washing your paws!” exclaimed Mrs. Nugent.

  “Yes! And I never lick my patients, or jump up on them,” said Scout.

  “You’re very well-behaved,” said Mrs. Nugent.

  “And I always do my business in the street,” said Scout.

  “I wouldn’t make too much of a point of that,” said Janet. “Would you sign our petition, Mrs. Nugent?”

  “But of course, my dear,” said Mrs. Nugent.

  And within a couple of days every single one of Scout’s patients had signed the petition to allow Scout to continue practising as a doctor. Janet then sent it to the General Medical Council.

  Some days later, however, a man from the General Medical Council came to the surgery.

  “May I leave my bicycle in the waiting room?” he asked.

  “If you must,” said Janet, and then she showed him into Scout’s surgery.

  The man from the General Medical Council looked around the room critically, as he presented his card.

  “Do sit down, Mr. Catto,” said Scout. “Now what exactly is the problem?”

  “You,” said Mr. Catto. “You are the problem. We simply cannot allow a dog to continue to practise. What’s that bowl on the floor?”

  “My dinner,” said Scout.

  “See?” said the Man from the General Medical Council. “The whole thing is unsanitary!”

  “But you’ve seen my results,” replied Scout politely. “They are well above average.”

  “You are not registered with the General Medical Council. Full stop,” said Mr. Catto.

  “But what about my patients!”

  “They can go and find a proper doctor.”

  “But he is a proper doctor,” said Janet who had not left the room.

  “But look at him! He hasn’t even got hands – just paws. How can he treat anybody?”

  “But he’s brilliant with his paws,” said Janet. And Scout showed the Man from the General Medical Council how quickly he could tie a bandage round Janet’s head with the correct fastening and everything.

  “It doesn’t matter!” screamed the man from the General Medical Council. “You have to shut down this practice today!”

  At that moment there was another scream. This one came from the waiting room, and they all ran in to find one of Scout’s patients sprawled across the floor.

  “Aaargh! What a stupid place to leave a bicycle!” yelled the patient. “I think I’ve broken my ankle!”

  “Sorry!” mumbled the Man from the General Medical Council. “It’s just that it’ll get stolen if I leave it outside.”

  While the Man from the General Medical Council was picking up his bicycle, Scout examined the ankle, decided it was only sprained, and bound it in a splint.

  “Thank you, doctor,” said the patient. “You are the best doctor in town.”

  “I hope you’re listening,” said Janet to the Man from the General Medical Council.

  “He cannot practice unless he is registered with us,” snapped the Man, and he stormed out of the surgery.

  “Oh dear,” said Scout. “What are we going to do?”

  “Let’s blow up the General Medical Council!” said the patient.

  “I can’t do that,” replied Scout. “I have taken my dog’s oath not to injure any human beings apart from postmen.”

  “We could just blow up the Postal Department,” suggested the patient.

  That evening, all his patients gathered in the surgery.

  “Why can’t he carry on?” said a woman who was suffering from Paget’s disease (which, by the way, makes bones grow bigger). “I’ve never had a doctor who took so much interest in my case.”

  “We have complete faith in you, Scout,” said everybody at once.

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Janet.

  “Let’s hold a protest demonstration outside their offices,” suggested one little old lady.

  “No,” said Scout. “There’s only one thing for it. I am going to go round to the General Medical Council to reason with them.”

  And off he went the next day. He caught the No. 34 bus from outside his master’s house, and arrived, an hour later, at the offices of the General Medical Council just off the Euston Road.

  “I’ve come to reason with the General Medical Council,” he said to the man at the door. But the man at the door just said: “Clear off, Rover!”

  “My name is Scout,” said Scout, getting rather cross. “Dr. Scout.”

  “Scoot…Go on boy!” said the man at the door, trying to kick Scout.

  “Please!” exclaimed Scout. “I demand to be treated with
respect. I am highly qualified.”

  But the man just got a broom and started trying to hit Scout with it. This made Scout really mad. He growled and seized the broom in his teeth and pulled it and worried it, until he finally pulled it out of the man’s hands, and then he bit the man on the leg.

  “Ow!” screamed the man.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry!” exclaimed Scout. But it was too late. The man had disappeared inside and locked the door.

  “Mad dog!” he heard the man shouting.

  That evening, Scout didn’t even want to go for a walk.

  “What’s the matter, old fellow?” asked his Master kindly. It’s not like you to turn down a walk.”

  “I disgraced myself at the General Medical Council,” moaned Scout. “And now I’ll have to close down my doctor’s practice.”

  “Pity,” said his Master. “You were making good money.”

  “Yes,” said Scout. “I was hoping to be able to send you and the Mistress on holiday to the Bahamas.”

  “Don’t let it get you down,” said his Master. “You’re a clever dog. You can always take up architecture or structural engineering.”

  “But I love medicine,” said Scout miserably.

  The next day, Scout was clearing his things out of the surgery, when Janet ran in full of excitement.

  “Doctor!’ she exclaimed. “I’ve persuaded the GMC to hold an extraordinary meeting to discuss your case!”

  Scout was so pleased, he started running round in circles trying to bite his own tail. Then he licked Janet’s face.

  “Now stop that!” said Janet. “We’ve got to get the General Medical Council to take us seriously.”

  “Right!” said Scout.

  The next day, Scout and Janet appeared before the Council. Scout wore his best collar, and Janet did the talking. When she’d finished, the Chairwoman nodded.

  “Janet,” she said, “we respect your concern for Scout, and we appreciate that his patients are very fond of him. But rules are rules, and if we throw the Rule Book out we are no better than animals…er…If you’ll forgive the expression, Scout.”

  “Very well,” said Janet, gathering her papers together. “We shall abide strictly by what the Rule Book says, if you will do the same.”

  “That is indeed what we intend to do,” replied the Lady Chairman of the Council.

  “Then we shall expect to receive, at your earliest convenience,” said Janet, “the relevant pages from the Rule Book, where it states that a dog cannot register with the General Medical Council.”

  And with that she strode out of the room, and so did Scout.

  Well I would like to be able to tell you that the General Medical Council allowed Scout to register the next day, but I’m afraid that didn’t happen. In fact neither Scout nor Janet received any pages from the Rule Book that week nor the week after that nor the week after that.

  In the meantime, however, Scout’s patients kept coming to the surgery and Scout continued to be as busy as ever. And, strangely, the Man from the General Medical Council never paid another visit. Nor did Janet ever receive another letter nor hear another word from the Council.

  “I think they must have forgotten about me,” said Scout to Janet one morning.

  “Maybe,” replied Janet. “Or maybe they just don’t want to rewrite the Rule Book.”

  THE CHICKEN CIRCUS

  THERE WAS ONCE A FOX CALLED FERNANDO, who would go out of a night and steal chickens. Well, you might say, there’s nothing so peculiar about that, because that’s what foxes do, if they get half the chance. But what was odd about Fernando was what he did with the chickens that he stole. Most foxes would have eaten them, but not Fernando. No, Fernando trained them.

  “I am going to create the most spectacular, fabulous and wonderful Chicken Circus!” he told his father.

  “Can’t you just eat the chickens like any normal fox?” asked his father.

  “No way!” exclaimed Fernando. “These hens are highly trained! I’ve spent months getting them fit and teaching them circus tricks and gymnastics. You wouldn’t believe how fat some of these chickens were when I got them…”

  (Here Father Fox closed his eyes and licked his lips).

  “I had to get them doing cross country runs to lose weight,” Fernando went on. “They’ve all had to go on diets and undergo a strict regime of physical training. As a result these are now some of the fittest hens in the world!” He beamed proudly at his father, and blew a whistle. Immediately twenty hens piled out of the old disused hen-house that Fernando had found for them to live in, and lined up for inspection.

  “This is Flossie,” said Fernando. “She is our star acrobat!”

  And Flossie the hen did a few cartwheels, and then went into a routine of aerial back-flips and springs that was quite breath-taking.

  “And allow me to introduce Gertrude,” Fernando went on. “Gertrude is our tight-rope specialist. She hasn’t quite mastered the technique as yet, but we’re hoping to get her up onto the High Wire next week. This is Jemima, one of our clowns, and Roberta, our lion-tamer…”

  “Lion-tamer!” exclaimed Fernando’s Father.

  “Er…yes…” replied Fernando, looking a little uneasy. “At the moment she’s practising with some field-mice and a couple of voles, but we’re hoping to get her some lions any day.”

  Fernando’s Father shook his head.

  “My son,” he said. “It is a wonderful dream of yours, this Chicken Circus, but I fear it is not a practical one. How will you ever get Gertrude up on the High Wire or get Roberta training lions?”

  “Father!” said Fernando. “What is life without a dream? If we have no goal, what drives us on? And if we have a dream, if we have a goal, what can stand in our way?”

  Well, Fernando went on training his chickens and teaching them tricks and circus skills, until he was confident he had the best troupe of performing chickens in the World.

  “All we need now,” he announced one day, “is a Big Top to perform in, some costumes and – of course – an audience.”

  So the chickens all got together to run up some costumes. Enid the Bantam (who was the most artistic) designed some posters, featuring Gertrude on the Flying Trapeze, and Rosie, the Rhode Island Red, and the speckled hen called Abigail went round the forest putting the posters up on trees and all round town.

  Meanwhile Fernando had heard of a circus that was disbanding and wanted to find a home for their big tent.

  “You can pay for it once you start making money,” the old circus owner told him. “It’s hard to find anyone who wants a big circus tent these days. I’m just glad to see it still being used. It would be a shame for it to be packed away and forgotten about.”

  So the day of the Grand Opening eventually arrived. The chickens were all in a state of great excitement, and Fernando had a hard job trying to calm them down. Roberta the Lion-Tamer was particularly nervous.

  “My nerves are shot to pieces!” she confessed to Flossie, the star acrobat. “I don’t think my Lion-Tamer’s uniform fits me properly!”

  “You look great in it,” said Flossie.

  “But shouldn’t the hat have more gold braid on it?” asked Roberta.

  “I’ll put some more on for you,” said Flossie.

  “Where are the sheets of music for tonight?” cried Elsie, the Band-Leader. “I put them out on the music stands and now they’ve disappeared! Did Gordon The Golden Goat eat them?!”

  “I’ve got them here,” said Fernando. “I wanted to keep them safe.”

  And so it went on all day, with the chickens cackling and clucking with nervous excitement.

  Then the audience started to arrive. There were plenty of forest creatures, as well as the bigger farmyard animals, and even a lot of people from the nearby town. All had come to see the opening of The Grand Chicken Circus.

  When everyone was in the Big Top, Elsie’s band started playing and the Chicken Clowns ran out into the ring to keep the audience amused, while t
he star attractions made their final adjustments and applied their last dabs of grease-paint.

  But something was wrong. There was a lot of squawking, and suddenly the Speckled Hen rushed into Fernando’s caravan. Her face was ashen and she was hopping from one foot to the other in agitation.

  “It’s Gertrude!” exclaimed the Speckled Hen. “She’s gone broody!”

  “Oh no!” cried Fernando. “Not today of all days!”

  He hurried round to Gertrude’s trailer, where he found her sitting on three eggs.

  “Gertrude!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing?!”

  “I’m keeping my eggs nice and warm so my little chicks inside will turn into fine strong birds and peck their way out of their shells and scamper around after me.”

  “But it’s the Opening Night of the Chicken Circus!” exclaimed Fernando.

  “I’ve always dreamed of having chicks of my own, and now my dream is about to come true!” said Gertrude with a far-away look in her eyes.

  “But all those months of training and practice! You’ve got the High-Wire technique perfected! You even conquered your vertigo! You can’t throw all that away!”

  “Oh I won’t throw it away!” exclaimed Gertrude. “I’ll teach my chicks everything I know.”

  “But think of the show!” cried Fernando. “You’re on all the posters as the main attraction! The Daring Young Hen On The Flying Trapeze!”

  “I’m sorry, Fernando, I must turn my eggs over, would you mind going away?” said Gertrude calmly.

  Fernando realized there was nothing he could say. He traipsed back through the mud with his head down, and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “It’s no good,” he told the assembled performers. “We’ll have to cancel the show. Our star attraction has gone broody.”

  There was a lot of sympathetic murmuring amongst the hens.

  “You just can’t help it once you go broody,” explained Rosie the Rhode Island Red. “Hatching those eggs is the only thing you can think about.”

  “It’s built into us,” added Roberta the Lion-Tamer (who was now feeling much better now, since Flossie had sewed yet another gold braid onto her hat).