Rats!

by Alan MacDonald

  “What’s the matter – backing out, scaredy cat?” jeered Nick.

  “Course not,” said Bertie.

  “Good, then I’ll see you Friday. Better get in some practice, kissy lips!”

  Bertie glared after him.

  “Yikes!” said Eugene. “You wouldn’t really?”

  “What?” said Bertie.

  “Kiss Miss Boot?”

  “No way,” said Bertie. “But I won’t have to cos I’m going to win.”

  “But say you lost,” said Darren. “You’d actually have to kiss her. I mean, Miss Boot!”

  “Okay, stop going on about it!” said Bertie. He was starting to feel sick. “Anyway, it’s only Know-All Nick. He may be the class brainiac but he runs like a penguin. There’s no way he’ll beat me at cross-country.”

  Bertie folded his arms. He was almost looking forward to Friday. This time Nick had picked the wrong bet. He’d never been sporty. If you threw him a ball he practically screamed. Five minutes of cross-country and he’d be begging to stop.

  Bertie couldn’t wait to see Nick try to kiss Miss Boot. She’d probably flatten him with her handbag.

  On Friday morning Bertie wolfed down his breakfast. As usual he was late for school.

  “Oh, I need my PE kit today,” he said.

  Mum rolled her eyes. “Why didn’t you say so last night?”

  “I forgot,” said Bertie. “We’re doing cross-country with Miss Boot.”

  Suzy looked up. “You can’t be serious!” she said.

  “Why not?” said Bertie.

  “Do you actually know what cross-country is?” asked Suzy.

  “Course I do, it’s a sort of race,” said Bertie.

  “Yes, a race that lasts for HOURS,” said Suzy.

  “I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” said Mum. “These socks are filthy, Bertie!”

  “I’m telling you, cross-country is murder,” said Suzy. “It should be against the law.”

  “How do you know so much?” asked Bertie.

  “Because we did it last year. I almost died,” said Suzy. “Bella was off sick for a week!”

  Bertie glanced out of the window at the grey sky. Maybe Miss Boot would put off cross-country till another day? Anyway, it was too late to back out now – he had to beat Know-All Nick and win the bet.

  Bertie stood on the starting line with the rest of Class 3. A biting wind swept across Deadwood Country Park. The sky had turned black and the first drops of rain were falling. Bertie shivered in his T-shirt and shorts.

  “Can’t we run somewhere else?” he asked. “Like indoors?”

  “Don’t be silly,” snapped Miss Boot. “It’s cross-country, not tiddlywinks.”

  “But it’s raining, Miss,” moaned Eugene.

  “And muddy!” grumbled Darren.

  “A bit of mud never hurt anyone,” said Miss Boot. “When I was at school we used to run when we were up to our knees in snow – and we enjoyed it. Now listen, follow the yellow arrows and you can’t get lost.”

  Bertie looked down the hill. “How far is it?” he asked.

  “Not far – three kilometres,” said Miss Boot.

  THREE KILOMETRES? Had Miss Boot lost her mind? On Sports Day they raced sixty metres and Bertie was out of breath. They’d never make it back… They’d die! Where was the ambulance crew standing by with stretchers?

  Know-All Nick pushed in beside Bertie. His PE kit shone whiter than his legs and he was wearing mittens.

  “Ready for this, Bertie?” he smirked. “I hope you haven’t forgotten our little bet. Last one back has to kiss Miss Boot.”

  “Good luck with that,” said Bertie.

  He pulled up his shorts, which were flapping in the wind. Nick wouldn’t last long. He hated getting cold and dirty, so beating him shouldn’t be difficult. Bertie would set off fast and open up a big lead. Then he could take his time and still cross the line first.

  Miss Boot raised her arm. “On your marks, get set … GO!”

  Class 3 set off down the hill, bunched together like sardines.

  “RUN!” roared Miss Boot. “GET A MOVE ON!”

  Bertie looked round for Nick. He was tucked in just behind him. They splashed downhill.

  At the bottom, the track curved left beside a muddy duck pond. Nick put on a burst of speed to draw level with Bertie. There was barely room for two of them on the path.

  Nick pointed. “Look, a crocodile!” he cried.

  “Where?” said Bertie, turning his head.

  SPLASH!

  Nick gave him a violent shove so that he toppled into the pond. The ducks swam round him, quacking in protest.

  Bertie clambered out of the pond, dripping wet. He would get Nick for this.

  SPLODGE, SPLODGE, SPLODGE!

  It took Bertie a while to catch up. His trainers were full of water. He could see his enemy ahead, climbing a steep hill. Nick paused and hung on to a low branch, panting heavily.

  “Get a move on, slow coach!” he called.

  Bertie hurried up the hill. Nick waited until he drew close, then let go of the branch he was holding.

  THWACK! It sprang back, whacking Bertie in the face.

  “ARGH!” He slipped and rolled back down the hill.

  “HA! HA! No time to lie down, Bertie!” jeered Nick.

  Bertie picked himself up. He was now soaked through and muddy as a pig. He would catch up with that two-faced sneak if it killed him. He staggered back up the hill.

  Bertie splodged on through the mud. How much further? It felt like he’d been running for days.

  Call this sport? thought Bertie. More like torture. He bet none of his teachers did cross-country. The nearest Miss Boot got to exercise was reaching for another biscuit.

  He’d lost sight of the other runners. They were probably somewhere up ahead. But where was Know-All Nick? He couldn’t be that far ahead could he? What if he was out of the woods – or even close to the finish! Bertie staggered on. If he lost he’d have to KISS Miss Boot – in front of everyone! No, it was too ghastly to imagine.

  Wait, there was Nick! He was dragging himself along, looking fit to collapse.

  Bertie caught up with him. “Getting tired, Nickerless?” he grinned.

  “Never!” panted Nick. “I’m … just … getting … started.”

  The track led through the woods beside a field. There was a large sign on the fence:

  PRIVATE PROPERTY – NO ENTRY – KEEP OUT!

  Bertie glanced round. He could take a shortcut across the field. The finish line was at the top of the hill. In a few minutes he could be there. Wouldn’t Nick turn green when he realized he’d lost? Bertie climbed the fence.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” wailed Nick. “That’s not the right way!”

  “It’s the way I’m going,” said Bertie. “First to the finish – that was the bet. No one said anything about keeping to the course.”

  Nick looked round. He didn’t want to get into trouble but he couldn’t let Bertie win. Besides, a shortcut meant the race would be over quicker.

  “Hey! Wait for me!” he yelled.

  Bertie jogged across the field, skipping over cowpats. This was easy. Once he saw the finish line he’d sprint, leaving Nick way behind. No contest.

  “What is this field anyway?” asked Nick.

  Bertie shrugged. “Just a cow field. But luckily there aren’ t any … oh.” He gulped. A large herd of cows stood blocking their way. Up close, cows were much bigger than you’d think – and these ones didn’t look pleased to see them.

  Nick grabbed Bertie’s arm. “Let’s go back.”

  “They’re only cows,” said Bertie. “They’re probably scared of us.”

  “They don’t look scared,” said Nick. “That one’s got horns.”

  “Which one?” said Bertie.

  “That black one there.”

  Bertie’s eyes grew wide. “That isn’t a cow,” he said. “RUN FOR IT!”

  They tore across the field. Bertie loo
ked behind him. The bull – it was definitely a bull – was charging after them with its head down. The ground shook as it thundered closer.

  “Help! Mummy!” wailed Nick.

  “Make for the fence!” panted Bertie.

  Bertie got there first and dived over, landing in a puddle.

  A moment later Nick crashed on top of him.

  “ARGH! OWW!”

  They didn’t stop to look back. They kept running until they passed between two white posts. Bertie crossed the finish line just in front.

  Miss Boot stepped out to greet them, beaming happily.

  “Well done, Bertie! Third place,” she said. “And you were a close fourth, Nicholas.”

  “Third?” wheezed Bertie.

  “Yes, which means you’ll both be running for the school cross-country team,” said Miss Boot.

  Bertie groaned. More cross-country? More cold and rain and slogging through miles of mud? Could anything be worse? Well, actually, come to think of it, there was one thing.

  “Oh Nickerless, remember our little bet?” said Bertie. “I won. Isn’t there something you’d like to give Miss Boot?”

  “Oh? What’s that?” demanded Miss Boot.

  Nick had gone red. He backed away in horror, then turned and fled. Bertie grinned. Actually, Nick could run pretty fast when he wanted to.

  Bertie waited anxiously for the vet to finish his examination. Mr Cage and Whiffer were old enemies. But today Whiffer hadn’t whined or even tried to bolt out of the door.

  “You say he doesn’t like going for walks?” asked Mr Cage.

  “Not really,” said Bertie. “Half the time he just stops and sits down. I think he expects me to carry him.”

  “I see,” said the vet. “And he’s not off his food?”

  “Not a bit,” answered Dad.

  “He eats everything – chips are his favourite,” said Bertie.

  Mr Cage stood up. “Well there’s your problem,” he said. “He’s too fat.”

  “FAT?” said Bertie.

  “You probably haven’t noticed,” said Mr Cage. “People often don’t when their dogs put on weight.”

  Dad sighed. “So he’s not actually sick or anything?” he said.

  “Oh no,” replied Mr Cage. “He just eats too much.”

  Bertie looked relieved.

  Fat – was that all?

  Bertie had been worried that Whiffer was ill, with something like measles, chicken pox or maybe doggy pox. But it turned out he’d just put on weight. Come to think of it, Whiffer did spend hours dozing in front of the TV.

  But so what? Loads of pets were a bit porky. Angela Nicely’s cat could hardly squeeze through the cat flap.

  “So what should we do about it?” Dad asked.

  “Put him on a strict diet,” said the vet. “Two light meals a day and plenty of healthy walks. Cut out the snacking too.”

  “Hear that Bertie? No more chips,” said Dad.

  Bertie nodded. It wasn’t always chips anyway – sometimes it was pepperoni pizza.

  They set off home. Whiffer trailed behind, panting as if he’d just run a marathon. Eventually he sat down and refused to budge.

  “Come on!” moaned Bertie, pulling at the lead.

  “See?” said Dad. “He’s a big lazy lump.”

  “Don’t say that! He’ll hear you!” said Bertie.

  “Well it’s true – and it’s our fault,” sighed Dad. “Yours especially.”

  “ME? What did I do?” cried Bertie.

  “He’s your dog. You should take care of him,” said Dad.

  “I do!” argued Bertie. “I’m the one that feeds him!”

  “Yes, and he eats too much,” said Dad. “From tomorrow he starts his diet.”

  Bertie rolled his eyes. It was all very well saying it, but getting Whiffer to cut down was another matter. He loved eating and he didn’t love exercise.

  “Come on boy, let’s go home,” said Bertie.

  Whiffer raised a paw and scratched his ear.

  “That won’t work, you have to order him,” said Dad.

  “COME ON, WHIFFER! GET A MOVE ON!” Bertie pulled hard on the dog lead. Whiffer got up, walked as far as the next lamp post, then sat down again.

  “Hmm,” said Bertie. “It might be quicker to carry him.”

  “Supper’s READY!”

  Bertie skidded into the kitchen and landed on a chair. “Yum! Sausages and mash!” he said.

  “Sit up straight and take your elbows off the table,” ordered Mum.

  Bertie sighed. He couldn’t even sit down without getting in trouble. One day he was going to open a restaurant where table manners would be banned.

  “So how is Whiffer’s diet going?” asked Dad.

  “Fine,” said Bertie. “Except he’s always hungry.”

  “You’ve got to be firm with him,” said Mum.

  “I am firm,” insisted Bertie.

  Something warm was pressing against his leg. He looked down to discover Whiffer hiding under the table.

  “Where is he anyway?” asked Mum.

  “Who?” asked Bertie.

  “Whiffer.”

  Bertie glanced down. “In the garden probably.” Since the diet began Whiffer wasn’t allowed in the kitchen at mealtimes.

  “Anyway I think he’s lost weight,” Bertie said.

  Suzy laughed. “I doubt it,” she said.

  “But he looks thinner – especially when he’s lying down,” argued Bertie.

  Whiffer was gazing up at him with big sad eyes. He could smell freshly cooked sausages – his second favourite food after chips.

  “He’s got to learn to cut down,” said Dad.

  “He is,” said Bertie. “I hardly put anything in his bowl.”

  No one was looking. He speared a sausage on his fork and lowered it under the table. Whiffer saw it and licked his lips…

  “What are you doing?”

  Uh oh – Suzy was staring at him.

  “Nothing!” said Bertie.

  “You are, you’ve got something under the table,” said Suzy.

  Mum leaned down, just in time to see Whiffer wolfing down the last of the sausage.

  “BERTIE!” she groaned. “What did we say about feeding him at the table?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” said Bertie. “He was begging me!”

  Dad took Whiffer by the collar and led him out. He closed the door behind the dog.

  Mum shook her head. “You’re not helping him, Bertie,” she said. “Do you want him to be overweight?”

  “No! But he’s hungry,” said Bertie.

  “Greedy more like,” said Dad. “He has to stick to his diet.”

  Bertie sighed heavily. Whiffer had only been on his diet for two days but already it seemed like a year. Whenever Bertie got back from school Whiffer was waiting by his dog bowl. He followed Bertie all round the house – even to the toilet. It was driving him up the wall.

  “By the way, the Nicelys are coming to supper tomorrow,” said Mum.

  Suzy groaned. Bertie almost choked on his food.

  “What for?” he moaned.

  “I invited them,” said Mum. “I thought we should get to know them better.”

  Bertie thought he’d rather get to know the Nicelys less. It was bad enough that they lived next door! Besides, they’d probably bring Angela, who’d want him to play mummies and daddies. He’d just have to keep out of the way till they’d gone.

  “Can I eat in my room?” he asked.

  “Of course not! You’ll eat with us,” said Mum.

  “It won’t kill you,” said Dad.

  “You’d better mind your manners too,” warned Mum. “And keep Whiffer out of the way – you know how Mrs Nicely feels about dogs.”

  Bertie slumped back in his seat. A meal with adoring Angela and her boring parents – could anything be worse?

  Bertie looked at the clock. The Nicelys would be here in half an hour. There had to be some way to get out of it. Maybe he could pretend
to have toothache? No, last time he tried that Mum booked him an appointment with the dentist. Wait a minute – hadn’t she told him to keep Whiffer out of the way? That was it! He rushed down to the kitchen, where Mum was busy making supper.

  “I just remembered,” he said. “Whiffer hasn’t had a walk.”

  “It’s too late now,” said Mum.

  “Can’t I just take him round the block?” begged Bertie. “The vet said he needs to go everyday.”

  “You should have done it earlier,” said Mum. “Now go and get changed, and take Whiffer with you. I don’t want him in here while there’s food around.”

  Bertie dragged himself upstairs. There was no escape. At least Mum was cooking one of his favourite meals – shepherd’s pie. He had seen it on the side, ready to go in the oven.

  Once he had changed, Bertie settled on the lounge sofa to watch TV. Whiffer hung around, looking pathetic. He’d finished the food in his bowl and wanted more. Bertie ignored him – he’d give up eventually. But ten minutes into the programme, he looked around. Uh oh – where was that dopey dog?

  Bertie dashed into the kitchen. Whiffer had his paws on the worktop and was guzzling something with loud slurps.

  “NO! GET DOWN!” cried Bertie, pulling him off. He looked at the dish.

  AARGHHH! MUM’S SHEPHERD’S PIE! The one they were having for supper!

  Whiffer looked pleased with himself. He had gravy round his mouth and a blob of mashed potato on his nose.

  “Bad boy!” said Bertie, wagging a finger. “GO ON! OUT!”

  Whiffer ran off. Bertie examined the shepherd’s pie. It was a disaster. There was a gaping hole in the middle where Whiffer had been nosing. The smooth mash topping looked like a bomb crater. Bertie put a hand to his head. What on earth was he going to do? Any minute now the Nicelys would arrive and there’d be nothing to give them.