“What? Quick, tell me!” yapped Dog, dribbling now.
Cat lowered her leg, pointing her foot. “The human digs them up and eats them.”
Cat and Dog stared at each other.
“Amazing!” wuffed Dog. “Totally miraculous!”
Dog raced round and round the garden. He couldn’t stop himself. The pet human straightened up and looked at him.
“You’re a mad dog, you are. I’m just going out to get some compost for the seeds. I won’t be long.” He put down his spade and picked up his jacket, then he·left them.
Dog and Cat lay in the shade but Dog couldn’t keep still. He was thinking. Very soon he had a cunning plan.
He said to Cat, as casually as possible, “I’ll just bury this teeny weeny bone.” He got up, stretched, picked up the bone and trotted down the garden path. He looked around quickly to check Cat was not watching. He didn’t want Cat seeing his thoughts.
Very carefully and thoroughly, Dog dug a huge hole in the soil where the seeds were planted. He gently planted his teeny weeny bone at the bottom of the hole. Now I’ll pat the soil and stroke it, he thought. He raked the soil back over the bone with his big paws. Soil was flung everywhere. And I’ll just water it a tiny bit, he thought. He stood, with his eyes closed, on three legs, while he watered the bone.
He waggled back up the path to where Cat was lying in the sun with her eyes shut. He stretched out beside her, his eyes wide open. “I’ll just lie here quietly and watch that huge hill I’ve made,” he said.
They both pretended to sleep. After twenty seconds, Dog leaped up. “Do you think my bone’s growing yet, Cat?”
“No! It takes weeks, sometimes months. You have to be patient.”
Dog howled. Then he ran round the garden once more.
I can be patient. I can be patient, he panted. I’ll have a sleep.
Much later, their pet human returned. He opened the garden gate and smiled at the two sleeping animals.
“Hello, pets. How are you lovely — WHAT IS THAT HUGE HILL IN THE GARDEN? WHAT HAS BEEN GOING ON?” Human roared with anger.
Dog looked confused, his head on one side. Cat slunk away into the shade. The pet human grabbed the spade and dug into the hill Dog had made in his vegetable garden. He dug and dug until he pulled out the teeny weeny bone.
Dog whimpered.
“Dog!” yelled Human, “I am very cross with you. I bought you a big bone at the shop but I won’t give it to you now. You don’t deserve it.”
Human picked up the grocery bag and disappeared into his huge house. Dog crawled into his tiny kennel. He was totally miserable. Then his nose whiffled. He smelt his teeny weeny bone. It was lying where the pet human had thrown it. Dog trotted out to collect it.
On the way back he passed Cat, stretched out on the garden seat, pretending to be asleep. “Humans are just so impatient,” whined Dog. “No wonder they have to buy bones at the shop instead of growing their own.”
‘Bone Growing’ was first published by Random House New Zealand in Claws & Jaws: 30 New Zealand Animal Stories in October 2004.
Mrs Black and the Maths Attack
Pat Quinn
Mrs Black first noticed it on the way home from school. She’d just rounded the corner into her street, when old Mr Green shuffled past. Mrs Black, her arms weighted down by the box of maths books she was carrying, nodded to Mr Green.
“Lovely day, isn’t it!” she began loudly. Mr Green was a bit deaf. He gave her a puzzled look, and Mrs Black jumped. The words had come out all wrong. They had sounded more like “Take away fifty-six.”
Mrs Black tried again. “Nice time for a walk!” she bellowed.
Mr Green frowned and adjusted his hearing aid. “Five times four what?”
Mrs Black felt a hot embarrassment creep up her neck. She tried to smile, and shrugged her shoulders in a “never mind” sort of way. The box of books tilted dangerously. Mr Green muttered to himself and shuffled on.
“Circle paper,” she called, and the hot sweaty feeling turned to a cold shiver. She’d wanted to say, “See you later.”
Mrs Black coughed to clear her throat. Maybe she was coming down with the flu.
She reached her gate as the paper girl cycled up. Mrs Black listened for the girl’s proud cry of, “Here is your newspaper girl!” but the words she heard were: “Equal to part of the whole!”
Mrs Black shook her head. It didn’t help. There was an ominous pattering in her ears like the distant tread of numbers, and her tongue felt thick and heavy. She unlatched the gate and walked up the path.
Mr Black opened the door and smiled. “Thirty metre rule?” he asked.
Mrs Black nodded. It was, indeed, thirsty work at school, and she supposed that’s what he had said. The marching thump of numbers echoed through her head.
She dropped the box of books on the floor and wilted into a chair. Mr Black brought in a pot of tea and teacups on a tray. He opened his mouth to speak.
Mrs Black flapped her hands in agitation. She tried to say, “Something’s upset me.”
“Subtract sixty-three?” repeated Mr Black.
Mrs Black shook her head. She wasn’t feeling at all well. “Arithmetic,” she said miserably, rubbing her stomach.
She pointed to a cup of tea and said, “Divide by three.” A shiny tear trickled down her cheek.
Mr Black picked up the cup and looked at it. “Subtract sixty-three, arithmetic, divide by three,” he muttered. He leaned forward and peered into Mrs Black’s eyes. Then he checked her tongue.
“Mmmm-ha,” said Mr Black. He reached into the box of maths books, took out a pencil and pad, and wrote: I THINK YOU ARE HAVING A MATHS ATTACK. He shook Mrs Black’s shoulder and showed her what he’d written.
Mrs Black raised one eyebrow. It sank again to join the drooping lines on her face.
Mr Black wrote: YOU NEED SHOCK TREATMENT.
Mrs Black’s eyes opened wide and she shook her head, but Mr Black took a deep breath.
“Addition!” he shouted.
Mrs Black sprang to attention, in a sitting position.
“Thirty-three plus twenty-five,” cried Mr Black.
“Fifty-eight!” she answered.
“Multiply! Four times twelve!” Mr Black commanded.
Mrs Black saluted and snapped out, “Forty-eight!” and smiled.
“Division!” ordered Mr Black. “Eighteen by three.”
Mrs Black began to laugh. “The answer’s six!” she giggled.
Mr Black narrowed his eyes and summoned up a line of numbers: “Nineteen minus three plus seventeen minus eight?”
Mrs Black struck them down. “Twenty-five!” she cried.
“How are you feeling now?” he asked.
“Fine!” his wife replied. “I really do feel great.”
“I think you’re cured,” said Mr Black. “Now drink your tea.”
“Tea!” groaned Mrs Black. “I forgot to get anything for dinner!”
“You need a rest,” said Mr Black. “I’ll get dinner.”
“Ahh,” said Mrs Black. “That would be nice. What are we having?”
Mr Black disappeared into the kitchen and returned looking thoughtful. “What would you say,” he said, “to a circle of pizza, divided into eight equivalent parts? Add to that — lettuce leaves, quartered tomatoes and triangles of toast, followed by a rectangle of ice-cream dotted with spheres of hundreds and thousands?”
Mrs Black stretched back in her chair and smiled contentedly. “I’d give it ten out of ten,” she said.
‘Mrs Black and the Maths Attack’ was first published by Random House New Zealand in 30 Weird & Wonderful New Zealand Stories in October 2003.
Trick or Treat
James Norcliffe
Everybody in the street was scared of Mr Withershins, although this was weird because hardly anybody had ever seen him.
He lived at number thirty-nine in an old house which crouched behind a high fence with a high wooden gate which was never op
ened. Above the fence you could see bits of Mr Withershins’ garden, and it was all spikes and pointy things like flax spears and lancewood trees, and while a lot of people in our street had cats and dogs Mr Withershins kept strange animals which made odd howls and squeals like the sound you get when you let the air slowly out of a balloon by stretching its neck.
“Banshees,” said Sam knowingly.
“What are banshees?” I asked.
Sam was my older brother and knew a lot of odd words.
“Banshees are what old Withershins has in his garden.”
“Yeah, but what are they?” I asked.
“Banshees,” said Sam and that was the end of it.
When November came around with Halloween Sam and Amy Leith dressed up as witches with black pointy hats and black cloaks and ghastly lilac make-up. They looked very scary. Sam held an old pillowcase which he hoped to fill with sweets and goodies. They said I could go with them if I didn’t get in the way, but that I couldn’t expect to get many of the sweets because I had a pathetic costume. I did too. Just an old black jersey of Mum’s which hung to my ankles and her old straw gardening hat.
On the night though, I had to do all the dirty work because Sam and Amy were such wimps and wusses. I had to bang on the door and do all the talking while they stood behind looking scary and Amy holding out her hands and Sam holding out the pillowcase.
When we came to old man Withershins’ place I was sick of it. All the spears and spikes in the garden were black in the gloomy light and from somewhere behind the tall fence I could hear the weird squealing cry.
“Not going in there,” I said.
“Wimp!” said Sam.
“Wuss!” said Amy.
“I am not!” I said. “You two are the wimps and wusses. Who had to bang on the doors? Who had to do the talking?”
They had the decency to look ashamed and they hung their ghastly lilac faces.
But I was angry. “Dare you!” I said.
Sam and Amy looked at each other and went even more lilac. But there was nothing for it. I had dared them.
The gate creaked open and they crept around its edge. I followed. I was already sorry I’d made them do it.
The path to the front door bent around an old tree. Standing right on the bend was a big bird and even in the gloom its blue was brilliant and it had a great fanned tail with a hundred eyes. It squealed when it saw us and ran off with big awkward steps.
“Peacock!” said Sam.
“I thought you said it was a banshee?”
“No, a peacock,” said Sam and he sounded braver.
When Mr Withershins opened the door he looked almost normal apart from his white hair and white beard.
“Trick or treat!” cried Sam nervously.
Mr Withershins looked thoughtful.
“I think I’ll have a treat,” he said.
Sam shook his head. “No, that’s wrong. You’re supposed to give us the treat or we play a trick on you.”
Mr Withershins shook his head. “Uh uh. You give me the treat or I’ll play a trick on you.”
That seemed so funny to Sam, he laughed. Big mistake.
“Trick, then,” said Mr Withershins. He pointed and there was a blue flash like a hundred flashbulbs and there instead of Sam stood a very surprised looking peacock.
“Aagh!” screamed Amy Leith and turned to run away.
“Trick?” cried Mr Withershins.
He pointed at her disappearing back and there was another flash and all at once instead of Amy there was a peahen scampering around the bend by the twisty tree.
I was really scared but on the ground near the surprised peacock I saw the pillowcase full of sweets. Sam had dropped them when his arms had turned into wings. I snatched them up and before Mr Withershins could point to me I quickly asked, “Treat?”
“Why, thank you,” said Mr Withershins, taking the whole bagful. “I’m much obliged …”
He gave me a friendly smile and I felt braver. “Would you do a trick for me?” I asked. It was a big risk but I had to try.
“I might,” he said, stroking his white beard and smiling.
“Would you turn my brother and Amy back?” I asked. “Please?”
Mr Withershins didn’t reply. Instead he pointed at me and the two big birds and there was another blue flash like a hundred flashbulbs. All at once we were standing on the footpath outside number thirty-nine again. From somewhere behind the tall fence I could hear the weird squealing cry.
“Not going in there,” I said.
“Wimp!” said Sam.
“Wuss!” said Amy.
I looked at them. It was as though nothing had happened. They couldn’t remember.
“I am too,” I said. “I’m going home.”
“Hey!” cried Sam. “Where’s the pillowcase and all the sweets?”
“I gave them to Mr Withershins,” I said.
“Don’t be such a smartypants,” said Sam. “Where are they?”
“I told you,” I said.
And I ran home as fast as I could.
‘Trick or Treat’ was first published by Random House New Zealand in 30 Weird & Wonderful New Zealand Stories in October 2003.
The Reading Room
Joy Cowley
Oh, no — Mum’s finished on the telephone. Any minute now she’ll be finding a job for me. I sneak out of the kitchen and down the hall. I lock the door and put the seat down. I have to finish this book. It’s about a boy called Mark who gets lost in a snowstorm. If someone doesn’t find him, he’ll die.
My sister Kathy bangs on the door. “Lisa!” she yells. “Hurry up in there.”
“I won’t be long,” I tell her.
Mark can’t see anything through the whirling snowflakes. His hands are numb. His feet feel like ice. Suddenly, he slips and falls over a cliff. Oh, no!
“Lisa!” calls Kathy. “I have to have a shower!”
Mark lands on a ledge. Thank goodness for that! But he thinks his leg is broken. He is in pain and very cold.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Kathy is hammering on the door.
“Lisa, get out of there this minute. I’m going to the movies and I have to wash my hair!”
“I’m hurrying as fast as I can,” I reply.
The snow has stopped falling, and the sky is blue. A helicopter flies over the cliff. Mark waves, but the pilot doesn’t see him.
Kathy yells, “Mum says you have to come out right now.”
“I can’t!” I say.
“You have to! You’ve been in there for ages.”
The helicopter returns because the pilot wants to have one last look. Mark is too weak to wave, but the pilot sees his red jacket on the white snow. The helicopter lands on the top of the cliff, and someone goes down with a rope and a stretcher. Awesome! Mark is alive! He’s going to be OK!
I tuck the book under my sweatshirt and unlock the door.
“All yours,” I say to Kathy.
She glares at me. “You didn’t flush!” Then she yells, “Mum! Lisa didn’t …”
“I didn’t need to,” I tell her quickly. “I didn’t go.”
Kathy’s eyes grow as big as doughnuts. She forgets her shower and the movies and goes running into the kitchen, yelling “Mum! Mu-u-um!”
I think I’ll run down to the library.
‘The Reading Room’ was first published by Random House New Zealand in 30 New Zealand Stories for Children in October 2000.
Pass It On
David Hill
It was a quiet morning on Ridge Street. Most of the humans were at work or at school. Most of the dogs were asleep.
At Number 7 Ridge Street, Baldy the Beagle lay on the front porch, in the sun. Suddenly his eyes blinked open. He’d heard something. What? Where? Who? Baldy lifted his head. There it was again — a noise down on the footpath.
Miaoww! Miaoww! A tiny grey cat was trying to duck down the street.
Baldy jumped off the porch. ZOOOM! He tore down the path. SPROING! He slid into
the wire front gate.
“Woof! Woof!” barked Baldy. “A tiny grey cat is trying to duck down the street. Pass it on! Woof! Woof!”
Along the road at Number 9 Ridge Street, Raja the Rottweiler heard Baldy barking. Raja leaped up in her kennel. THWACK! She hit her head on the kennel doorway.
“Aarrff! Aarrff!” bellowed Raja. “A message from Baldy. A tiny grey RAT is trying to duck down the street. Pass it on! Aarrff! Aarrff!”
Further along the road at Number 11 Ridge Street, Garbage Guts the Mongrel heard Raja bellowing. Garbage Guts jumped out of the rubbish bin he was searching through. KRANGGG! He knocked the rubbish bin over.
“Rruff! Rruff!” yelled Garbage Guts. “A message from Raja. A MIGHTY grey RAT is trying to duck down the street. Pass it on! Rruff! Rruff!”
Still further along the road at Number 13, Buttercup the Bulldog heard Garbage Guts yelling. She jerked up and fell off her chair. SPLASH! She landed on her water bowl.
“Grrr! Grrr!” grunted Buttercup. “A message from Garbage Guts. A MIGHTY GREAT RAT is trying to duck down the street. Pass it on! Grrr! Grrr!”
Across the road at Number 12 Ridge Street, Fang the Poodle heard Buttercup grunting. Fang sprang up from the carpet. CLACK! He knocked his owner’s morning cup of tea onto the cushions.
“Yip! Yip!” yapped Fang. “A message from Buttercup. A MIGHTY GREAT RAT IS DRIVING a duck down the street. Pass it on! Yip! Yip!”
Back further along the road at Number 8 Ridge Street, Duchess the Doberman heard Fang yapping. Duchess sprang to her feet, gripping her breakfast bone in her mouth. WHIZZ! She sent the bone flying. SMACK! The bone hit her owner and almost knocked him flying.
“Bayy! Bayy!” boomed Duchess. “A message from Fang. A MIGHTY GREAT RAT IS DRIVING A TRUCK down the street. Pass it on! Bayy! Bayy!”
Straight across from Number 8 Ridge Street was Number 7. Number 7 Ridge Street, where Baldy the Beagle had seen a tiny grey cat trying to duck down the street.
Baldy was just trotting back to lie down on his sunny front porch again. Then he heard Duchess booming.
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