by Duncan Ball
Suddenly Selby was aware of two little eyes staring back at him.
‘You want to play, don’t you?’ Selby said and then, ‘Yowch!’ In a flash, the kitten leapt up and dug its tiny claws into Selby’s nose, raking them along until they stuck fast.
‘Stop it!’ Selby squealed, pulling the kitten’s claws out of his nose.
Before Selby knew what was happening, the kitten ran up the side of the lounge, did a flip in the air and sank his tiny teeth into Selby’s leg.
‘Stop that, you tiny little terror!’ Selby cried. ‘It hurts!’
The kitten scampered round and round in circles in front of Selby, scratching at Selby’s legs, head and tail as he went.
‘I’m not playing with you — you’re too rough!’ Selby said. ‘Your teeth and claws are like razors!’
The kitten looked at Selby for a minute, yawned and then curled up and went to sleep again.
‘That’s more like it. You’re cute when you’re asleep,’ Selby thought, looking back to Dr Trifle’s painting again and suddenly realising what was wrong with it. ‘I know. Dr Trifle forgot to paint your whiskers! A kitten isn’t a kitten without whiskers. I’ll paint them in for him. A few little white lines and the painting will be perfect. Dr Trifle is so absent-minded that he’ll think that he painted them.’
Selby squeezed some white paint onto a tiny brush and began delicately painting the whiskers on the kitten’s face.
‘That’s great!’ he said. ‘I’m already getting that warm feeling that Dr Trifle was talking about.’
Selby was just painting in the last whisker when suddenly a small blob of fur flew through the air and landed smack on his painting paw.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Selby yelled, shaking the kitten off and looking at the wide white stripe that ran down the middle of the painting. ‘You’ve ruined it! Uh-oh, the mower’s stopped. Dr Trifle will be in here in a second! Oh, no! Here he comes. And Mrs Trifle too!’
Selby put down the paintbrush and curled up on the carpet as Dr Trifle and Mrs Trifle came in and studied the painting.
‘That’s much better,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘Now I think it has that warmth you wanted.’
‘So it does,’ Dr Trifle agreed. ‘Your idea about putting in the kitten was a good one.’
‘I don’t think so. I think it’s that big white ray of sunlight that made the difference.’
‘The ray, yes, that ray gives it warmth,’ Dr Trifle said, trying to remember when he’d painted it. ‘Come to think of it, Ray would be a good name for the kitten.’
‘Why yes!’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘It reminds me of Sunny because of a ray of sunlight. It’s a warm and friendly name. It really suits the little dear. Postie will love it!’
‘That kitten’s about as warm and friendly as a chainsaw,’ Selby thought as he licked his sore paw and glanced down at the kitten. ‘What Ray reminds me of is those raz or-sharp teeth and claws!’
SELBY BITES BACK
It was an innocent mistake.
Mrs Trifle’s dreadful sister, Aunt Jetty, was staying at the Trifles’ house — fortunately without her even more dreadful sons, Willy and Billy. Yes, it was true that Selby didn’t like her. You could even say that he hated her. But he never—not in a million years — intended to bite her. Even if he had wanted to bite her, he certainly wouldn’t have bitten her on that part of her body!
It all happened one day when Selby was secretly re-reading a part of The Art of the Private Investigator about how to use dogs to catch burglars. The book lay open on the floor of the study and Selby was curled up in the chair above it, pretending to sleep — but secretly reading through squinting eyes.
It was such an interesting chapter that Selby didn’t see Aunt Jetty come into the room. Then, Aunt Jetty — not looking carefully and thinking that Selby was just a big fluffy pillow in the chair she was about to sit in — started to sit down.
In that last fraction of a second before the quivering bulk of Aunt Jetty’s bottom came down on top of him, Selby suddenly realised that something was wrong and looked up. Selby’s jaw dropped open and he froze in terror, but there was no time to move.
‘Ooooooooooowwwwwwwwww!’ Aunt Jetty screamed, leaping to her feet again and rubbing her bottom. ‘Come quickly! That savage dog has just bitten me on the posterior!’
‘On the what?’ asked Mrs Trifle, coming into the study.
‘He chomped me,’ Aunt Jetty exclaimed, ‘on my hindmost part!’
‘He did what to your what?’
‘Don’t you understand? He bit me on the old sit-down. On me bot-bot. On the back bumper bar, the dum-de-dum.’
‘I still don’t follow you.’
‘Well that’s exactly it — the part that follows me! Heavens, woman, he’s just nipped me on the part of me that’s facing south when I’m travelling north.’
‘Oh, you mean he bit you on the bum.’
‘You don’t have to be crude about it.’
‘But he’s never bitten anyone in his life — not on the posterior or the bot-bot or on anything,’ Mrs Trifle said, patting Selby’s head. ‘I wonder what’s got into him.’
‘All I know is that my bottom is riddled with teeth marks and it hurts like blue blazes!’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Mrs Trifle said.
‘And now I want you to ring the police,’ Aunt Jetty said. ‘I insist he be put down like any other ill-mannered menace.’
‘Put down!’ Mrs Trifle gasped, covering Selby’s ears when she said it. ‘Don’t you ever use that sort of language in this house! It’s just lucky that he can’t understand you or his feelings would be mightily hurt. No one — nothing — in this house is going to be put down, do you hear?’
Selby was about to say, in plain English, ‘Ahem, excuse me, but I’d like to tell my version of events: I was just lying there innocently reading when this great galumph mistook me for a cushion,’ but he thought better of it.
‘If you won’t ring the police then I think I’ll ring them myself,’ Aunt Jetty said.
‘You’d better think again,’ Mrs Trifle said, ‘because if you do, you will have to leave this house and never come back ever again!’
‘Well,’ Aunt Jetty said, thinking again, ‘it’s either that or I insist you take old what’s-his-name to obedience classes to learn some proper doggy manners before he murders some poor helpless innocent person like myself.’
‘I’ll poor innocent her,’ Selby thought as he wobbled his sore jaw back and forth. ‘What a nerve! First she sits on me and then she wants to have me put down. She’s the one who needs obedience classes!’
‘What obedience classes?’ Mrs Trifle asked her sister.
‘This very afternoon, Sergeant Stiffjaw of the Federal Police Dog Squad is at Bogusville Reserve giving free dog obedience lessons. I suggest that you take this savage little beast there and see if it’s possible to civilise him.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Mrs Trifle, who wasn’t about to be pushed around by her sister but who thought that a dog obedience lesson might be interesting to watch.
* * *
And so it was that Mrs Trifle took Selby to the park and found twenty other dog owners and their dogs watching as Sergeant Stiffjaw put his police dog, Biff, through his paces.
‘Walk!’ he screamed. ‘Stop! Heel! Fetch! Sit! Shake hands!’ and Biff did just what he said, and stood as stiff as a statue between commands.
‘Biff has to be the dumbest dog I’ve ever seen,’ thought Selby. ‘Why does he take it? Sergeant Stiffjaw has the poor thing acting like a robot. Who would want a robot for a pet?’
‘If you decide to enrol your dog in my classes,’ Sergeant Stiffjaw said, ‘I’ll also give them a special attack dog course as a bonus.’
‘Goodness!’ said Mrs Trifle. ‘Why would anyone want to turn a loving pet into an attack dog?’
‘Very simple,’ said Sergeant Stiffjaw. ‘To keep burglars from burgling. Even peaceful country towns like Bogusville have th
eir burglars.’
‘He’s probably right there,’ Selby thought.
‘Let me give you a demonstration,’ said Sergeant Stiffjaw. ‘Okay, I’m going to be a burglar and you’ll see what Biff does.’
Sergeant Stiffjaw buckled some padding to his arm and put a black ski-mask over his head. Already Biff was beginning to growl and bare his teeth.
‘Okay, Biff,’ he said, his eyes peering out through the mask. ‘Attack!’
Biff barked ferociously and tore at his trainer with muscles rippling and fangs dripping saliva. He jumped into the air and knocked Sergeant Stiffjaw to the ground, growling and tearing at his sleeve. By now all the dogs except Selby were barking with excitement and pulling on their leads. Then the trainer took the hood off and yelled, ‘Stop! Sit!’ and Biff stopped immediately.
‘Gosh! That was scary!’ Selby thought. ‘But there’s no way I’d ever attack a real live burglar! A dog could get hurt!’
Selby’s heart was still beating quickly from the attack demonstration when he noticed something moving next to a house at the side of the park. He could barely make out a dark figure creeping slowly through the bushes.
‘A burglar!’ he thought.
Selby saw Biff stiffen as he, too, noticed the hiding figure.
‘He’s about to break into that house!’ Selby thought. ‘If only I could tell Sergeant Stiffjaw; he’d have Biff attack him! But I can’t tell him or I’ll give away my secret! And I can’t attack the guy myself because I’m just not an attacking sort of dog. Oh, no! What am I going to do? I think this is a case for some dog ventriloquism,’ he added, putting a paw over his mouth.
No one was quite sure what happened next. It started with a mysterious voice yelling, ‘Attack!’. Suddenly Biff was dashing towards the bushes followed by a pack of dogs. And in less than a second, Aunt Jetty — who had sneaked into the bushes to make sure that her sister had taken Selby to the obedience class — was scrambling up a tree with a dozen dogs tearing at her trousers.
‘Jetty!’ Mrs Trifle cried. ‘What were you doing lurking in the bushes?’
‘Call them off!’ Aunt Jetty screamed as she dangled from a branch. ‘This is all your fault! If that dead-head dog of yours hadn’t savaged me, none of this would have happened! It is all his doing!’
‘Dead-head dog,’ Selby thought as he smirked a secret little smirk and barely kept from giggling. ‘Oh, bite your bum. Hey, what am I saying? That’s how all this started in the first place.’
PEGLEG PEGGY’S TREASURE
‘Look at this! An old map of an island!’ Dr Trifle exclaimed.
Selby looked up from where he was lying to see Dr Trifle pull a piece of crumbly paper from the chair he was fixing.
‘Are you sure, dear?’ Mrs Trifle asked.
‘Well, I know a map when I see one. Hmmm, where did we get this chair?’
‘It’s been in the family for years. It once belonged to my great, great, great, great, great, great-grandmother,’ Mrs Trifle said, wondering if she’d said the right number of ‘greats'. ‘Peggy Prescott was her name. She was an actor from Perth.’
‘You don’t mean Pegleg Peggy from Perth, do you?’
‘Have you heard of her?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘Your great, great, great, great, great, great, whatever-she-was was very famous.’
‘I have lots of famous ancestors,’ Mrs Trifle said proudly.
‘But she wasn’t famous for being an actor,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘She was famous for being a pirate.’
‘It’s only a rumour.’ Mrs Trifle blushed a little blush. ‘There’s no proof of it.’
‘So maybe this map was hers,’ Dr Trifle said.
Selby suddenly remembered the story he’d read about Pegleg Peggy, the pirate from Perth. She was such a terrible actor that finally they booed her off the stage and she went to sea and became a pirate. For years, she and her terrible crew of cut-throats looted ships all around the South Seas, stealing jewellery.
‘They say she used to capture other actors,’ Mrs Trifle explained. ‘She’d take them back to her secret island and make them act in plays with her. Of course she always made herself the star.’
Dr Trifle and Mrs Trifle put the map on the floor and studied it as Selby secretly peered over their shoulders.
‘I do believe it’s a treasure map,’ Dr Trifle said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, it has all these directions that say things like, “Turn right at the big rock and walk ten paces and then turn left". Besides, it says “Treasure Map” here in the corner.’
‘So it does,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘Do you suppose there’s actual real live treasure buried on this island?’
‘Well, you never know.’
‘Treasure!’ Selby thought as visions of trunks filled with jewellery flooded his brain. ‘That would be great! We could be rich, rich, rich! Oh, how I’d love to be rich! How I love treasure!’
‘The island doesn’t have a name,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘It could be anywhere in the world. What good is a treasure map if you can’t find the island in the first place?’
Suddenly Dr Trifle remembered the Island Finder program in his computer. He dashed into the study and scanned the map into the computer. After a couple of bings and a pip and a boop, the answer came up on the screen.
‘It’s a tiny little island on the Barrier Reef called Traffic Island next to another island called Refuge Island,’ he said. ‘Traffic Island, hmmm. There are no roads or people on it, so how can there be traffic? Very strange.’
‘I say we head for the Barrier Reef this weekend,’ Mrs Trifle said, ‘and do some digging. It’ll be a good little adventure.’
The next day the Trifles caught a flight to an airport near the Barrier Reef. Selby was stuck in a tiny cage in the cargo section but, for once, he didn’t mind.
‘Rich, rich, rich! We’re about to be filthy rich,’ he squealed. ‘I don’t care if they’ve crammed me in this horrible box because soon they’ll be buying me emerald-studded collars and gold and silver flea combs. I’ll be the richest pet in the world! We’ll live in a mansion with lots and lots of servants. And finally I’ll be able to tell the Trifles my secret! It won’t matter because they’ll have so many servants that they won’t have to put me to work! And I’ll be able to sit in a normal aeroplane seat — a normal first class seat, of course.’
And so it was that the Trifles and Selby found themselves waiting on a pier at a place called Information Bay. In a few minutes a boat pulled in captained by none other than Captain Slick Slipway, the near-sighted former bus driver.
‘Oh, not him again,’ Selby thought. ‘This guy is such a pain.’
‘The bus is leaving in two minutes. Watch your step,’ Captain Slipway said as the Trifles climbed on board the captain’s very bus-like boat, the Golden Dddrum. ‘Move to the rear, please.’
‘We’re going to Traffic Island,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘Do you know where it is?’
‘Know where it is?’ the captain cried, pulling the cord that went ding ding as he pulled away from the pier. ‘When I gave up driving the number 275 bus and took to the sea, that sandy little blob didn’t even have a name. I’m the one who named it Traffic Island. And I named the one next to it Refuge Island.’
‘I thought it was a very bus driver kind of name,’ Mrs Trifle said.
Two hours later, the Golden Doldrum was passing Traffic Island when Mrs Trifle suddenly cried, ‘Hey! This is our stop.’
‘You didn’t ding the dinger,’ the captain said as he pulled up to the beach. ‘I’m not a mind-reader, you know.’
Selby and the Trifles scrambled ashore. By the time the boat disappeared into the distance, Dr and Mrs Trifle were standing next to the big rock and beginning to walk sixteen paces to the right, ten paces straight ahead, and then eight paces to the left.
‘X marks the spot!’ Mrs Trifle cried, plunging her shovel into the sand. ‘Buried treasure, here we come!’
; Selby sat back against a coconut palm having a daydream about buried treasure. In it Selby and the Trifles were dancing on the beach, throwing fistfuls of treasure into the air.
‘Why do people always throw treasure up in the air instead of putting it in their pockets?’ he wondered. ‘They must get so excited they just can’t help themselves.’
For the next hour Dr and Mrs Trifle dug the hole deeper and deeper and wider and wider and longer and longer, until it was big enough to bury the number 275 bus and the Golden Doldrum.
As the day wore on, Selby’s visions of treasure began to disappear and he lay on the beach knowing that he’d now have to keep his secret forever.
‘I give up,’ Mrs Trifle said finally. ‘I don’t think there ever was any treasure. Let’s go back to the mainland.’
‘The bus — I mean, the boat — isn’t due till tomorrow morning,’ Dr Trifle said, looking at the schedule. ‘We’ll have to camp here for the night.’
That night Selby curled up next to the campfire as the Trifles lay in their sleeping bags.
‘Life is so cruel,’ he thought. ‘I was just about to be a free dog — a free rich dog — and now I never will be. Oh, woe woe woe.’
‘I suspect that my great, great, great, great, great, great-grandmother wasn’t a pirate after all,’ Mrs Trifle said.
‘It’s true that actors are very impractical and unreliable people,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘They don’t even know their left from their right. Pegleg Peggy might have even made up this whole treasure business.’
‘He’s right,’ Selby thought. ‘Actors don’t know their left from their right.’
Selby remembered a play rehearsal he’d seen. Every time the director told the actors to turn to the right, they turned to the left. And every time the director said, ‘Go left,’ they went to the right.
Selby thought for a minute and then thought for another minute. By the time a third thinking minute came around, he’d jumped to his feet.
‘But hold the show!’ he thought. ‘Stage left and stage right are just the opposite to audience left and audience right. When actors go to the left, they go to the audience’s right. Maybe that’s why Peggy’s directions are wrong — they’re all backwards!’