The Dog that Dumped on my Doona

by Barry Jonsberg

  So I figured that if there was one person in the whole world who’d listen to my story and take it seriously, it would be Dylan. Maybe he could suggest what tablets I could take. Not that he took the ones he was supposed to take. According to Dylan, they made him feel like a shadow.

  ‘Wow,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘That is about the coolest thing I’ve ever heard. Can I meet him?’

  ‘You don’t get it, Dylan,’ I said. ‘It’s not a real talking dog, ya moron. It’s all in my head.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, reaching for his third can of cola that recess. Dylan doesn’t eat, as far as I can tell. He just drinks cola. At any given moment he must be eighty per cent pure sugar. A teacher once told him to drink water and Dylan said he never drank water because fish pee in it. ‘But what if, hey? What if? What if the dog can talk to you and it really is from God who does live in a pet shop because, after all, they say that God is everywhere and if He is everywhere then why can’t He be in a pet shop as well as a church or in a meat pie or something and the big guy must be pretty busy all the time what with having, like, the whole universe to deal with so it might be right that He needs a bit of help from time to time, so He puts out feelers to find someone He can trust to do some of the small stuff while He concentrates on the big things like tidal waves and earthquakes and making new civilisations up in space which, let’s be honest, must be a pretty big project and take up huge amounts of His spare time, so it’s not impossible.’

  Sometimes it’s very tiring having a simple conversation with Dylan. Not that this was a simple conversation.

  Dylan finished his cola and tossed the empty can over his shoulder. It hit the teacher on yard duty smack on the head. She had her back to us and the two hundred other kids who were sitting on benches around the canteen area. But, when she turned around, she was in no doubt about who’d done it.

  ‘Dylan. Principal’s office. Now!’

  I was going to protest. How could she know it was Dylan, when there were hundreds of suspects all around? But I didn’t get the chance.

  ‘Good shot, eh, Miss?’ said Dylan. It was clear he was pleased with himself. Sometimes he is his own worst enemy. Most of the time, actually.

  The dog was still sitting on the footpath after school. In exactly the same spot.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Dylan, all excited. Part of me was relieved he could see it as well. But that proves nothing, I thought. There’s nothing unusual about a dog. It’s a dog’s ability to speak that makes it stand out from the crowd. And if it did speak, would Dylan hear it as well? I felt as if my entire mental health rested on what would happen during the next few minutes. We walked over and stood next to the dog. The three of us gazed at each other for a few moments.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘What did it say, what did it say?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘Nothing, ya drongo,’ I replied. ‘Give it a chance, willya?’

  But the dog didn’t say anything at all. It stared, but there wasn’t much interest there.

  ‘Ugly piece of work, isn’t it?’ said Dylan after a while.

  ‘Oi, ya twonk! Who you calling ugly? You should look in the mirror, mate.’

  ‘Did you hear it? Did you … ’

  Twonk?

  ‘… hear it?’ I yelled.

  Dylan looked blank.

  ‘You didn’t hear it, did you?’ I said. He shook his head.

  It was then that the dog gave a low growl. Dylan and I stared. The dog’s hairs were standing up around his neck and it crouched slightly, in the promise of a spring. Its pink-rimmed eyes were fixed on Dylan, its loose lips curled back in a snarl. Slimy yellow teeth dripping with saliva were bared in a grim grin.

  Dylan backed away a few paces. The dog followed, the growl getting deeper. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. If I’d had time to check out Dylan’s neck I’m sure I would’ve seen that his had done the same. So, there were the three of us, all with hair standing to attention.

  And then the dog leapt forward.

  I have never seen Dylan move so quickly.

  He was a blur.

  Within point oh-one-six of a second, he had disappeared around a corner. And that must have been a hundred metres away. You could feel the air being sucked behind him. Branches of trees bent in the wind he made. The bitumen was smoking. Gone. So much for friendship, I thought. Leave me to be chewed to a bloody pulp, I thought. Look after yourself, I thought.

  The dog hadn’t budged from where it had landed. It sat on its dirty-white bum and scratched behind an ear. Its hairs had flattened.

  ‘Got rid of that dropkick,’ the voice in my head said. ‘God is waiting, boyo.’

  Boyo?

  Look, I don’t know how you’d behave, but at that moment I came to a decision. Maybe there was no point fighting against insanity. Maybe it was better to give in, go with the flow, enjoy the ride. Plus, I had a horrible feeling that it wouldn’t be a good idea to keep God waiting.

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  We went and sat in a deserted play area, me on a peeling bench and the dog laid out at my feet. Having given in to insanity, I decided I might as well try to be friendly, despite the poo on my doona.

  ‘Shall I scratch your belly?’ I said.

  ‘Only if you want to lose your fingers,’ said the dog.

  So much for friendliness.

  ‘Listen,’ it continued. ‘Shut your trap and pin back your ears. I have important things to tell you and frankly I’ve got better things to do with my time than spend days chewing the fat with you.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked. I was curious. What important things did dogs have to do?

  ‘Chasing cats,’ it said. ‘Chewing up shoes, sniffing other dogs’ bums. None of your damn business, mate. And I told you to shut up.’

  I shut up.

  ‘I’ll make this quick,’ it continued. ‘You are a rare human being. So rare, in fact, that you are one in roughly five million people. Don’t get superior about it, by the way. It’s just an accident, all right? The way you were born. In every other respect, you are typically human. Below average intelligence, actually, which is a terrifying thing in its own right. But you were born with the ability to hear some animals, to communicate in a way that very few can. I am also unusual in that I can talk to you. Us animals are, of course, more intelligent and more highly developed than you, so the ability to communicate is limited to one in a million for us. The odds, therefore, against you ever being able to talk to an animal are …’

  ‘Big?’ I said.

  ‘Bigger than big.’

  ‘Huge?’

  ‘Huger than huge.’

  ‘Colossal?’

  ‘Let’s not get bogged down in complicated statistical mathematics,’ said the dog. ‘Accept that our meeting is very, very unlikely. In fact, it couldn’t have happened by chance. I have been searching for you. And now I’ve found you.’

  ‘Because you are on a mission from God?’

  ‘Exactly. And it is my job to pass that mission on to you. Any questions before we start?’

  I did have one, actually.

  ‘Did you fart?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure did.’

  ‘It’s foul.’

  ‘You’re lucky. My sense of smell is ten thousand times more sensitive than yours.’

  There is nothing very interesting to see down a toilet bowl, I thought, staring at the water gently rippling a few centimetres from my eyes. It beat me why Dylan thought it might be a fun thing to do.

  ‘Say you’re sorry and I won’t flush,’ said Rose.

  It was all my fault. I should have been more careful. But I was still thinking about the amazing story the dog had told me and the incredible mission I’d been entrusted with. So when I came home, I did what I always did. Dropped my bag in the middle of the kitchen floor, searched the fridge for something to eat and headed straight for the toilet. I was just about to unzip when I heard the door of the laundry cupboard open behind me. There was no time to
do anything. Rose jumped out, grabbed me by the hair and stuffed my head straight down into the bowl.

  On the plus side, I hadn’t had time to pee.

  ‘C’mon Mucus,’ she said. ‘Say you’re sorry.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered.

  ‘Can’t hear you, Mucus!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said as loud as I could.

  ‘Sorry for what, Mucus? What are you sorry for?’

  ‘For saying “Up yours” this morning. I am very, very sorry indeed.’

  I know. Trust me, I know exactly how big a wuss I am. And I would dearly love to have been able to stand up for myself, maybe wrench my head from Rose’s grip, twist around so that she was the one peering at lapping water and a couple of faint, disturbing stains on the porcelain. But she was just too strong. I put it down to alien genes.

  Anyway, you’d reasonably expect that this cringing apology would do the trick. But you don’t know my sister.

  She flushed anyway.

  This isn’t finished, I thought as I dried my hair. Not by a long chalk. If Rose wanted a battle, she could have one. I could be patient. When you are faced with superior physical strength, you have to rely on cunning.

  Dylan announced his presence by throwing stones at my bedroom window.

  It would have been easier just to knock since we live in a single-storey house, but Dylan likes throwing stones. I opened the window and he slid into the room. This happens most afternoons. Mum has banned Dylan from the house. Ever since he wondered what would happen if you tried to dry a small pile of wet washing by stuffing it in our microwave for half an hour. The Fire Brigade didn’t find it funny either.

  ‘Wassup, Marc?’ he said, slipping a can of cola from his back pocket and opening it. Jumping in through the window had shaken up the contents, so it fizzed all over the carpet. He rubbed the foam in with one dirty shoe and sipped the froth at the mouth of the can. ‘What’s that smell?’ he added, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘Blacky’s calling card,’ I said. ‘The gift that keeps on giving.’

  Dylan sat on my bed and started fishing for stuff in his nose. He does that a lot. Sometimes he mines so deep I worry his head is going to cave in.

  ‘What you talking about, mate?’

  ‘The dog. That’s his name. Blacky. And the smell is what he left on my carpet last night.’ Then I remembered the reason I was mad at Dylan. ‘Oh, and thanks by the way.’

  Dylan looked puzzled.

  ‘For helping me out when the dog turned nasty,’ I added. ‘You know, throwing yourself in front of me, taking the full force of its attack just so I would be spared. You’re a hero, mate. You should get a medal.’

  Sarcasm goes straight over Dylan’s head. Doesn’t even ruffle his hair.

  ‘’s what friends are for,’ he said.

  Or maybe his short-term memory is so stuffed he simply can’t remember.

  ‘Dylan,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I am going mad after all. I had a long talk with Blacky and he explained everything to me. It’s weird, true. In fact, it’s downright crazy, but I believe I can communicate with animals. Some, at least. What’s more, I have a duty to help someone in deep trouble. Blacky told me a sad story today. A really sad story. And I think we are the only people who can do anything about it. I say “we” because you are my mate and I know you will do anything for me.’ Apart from tackling a growling dog, I added silently. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Why’s he called Blacky?’ asked Dylan. ‘When he’s white. Sort of white, at least. More white than black, that’s for sure.’

  Maybe I’m old-fashioned. Or maybe I’m just normal. But if I had been told what I’d just told Dylan, I think my first question might have been slightly more … relevant, I suppose. I sighed.

  ‘It’s not his real name,’ I said. ‘He wouldn’t tell me his real name. But Blacky is what he was called when he lived with a human for a while. He said the human called him that because he had this problem with his guts. The dog, I mean. So he was dropping smells all over the place and they were foul. And the human would yell at him and threaten him with a frying pan, so the dog would make a bolt for the door. That’s when he called him Blacksmith, Blacky for short. Geddit? Made a bolt for the door? Blacksmith? Geddit?’

  ‘No,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘The important thing is, will you help me?’

  ‘What have we got to do?’

  ‘Simple,’ I said. ‘We have to kidnap God.’

  I couldn’t get to sleep that night. It seemed to me that snatching God was something that was going to take planning and research. I was also hoping Blacky would show up but he didn’t. That was a pity. I still had about ten million questions to ask him. And not just about the practical stuff that would help me fulfil my mission. He’d started me thinking about the bigger picture, the world and what we were doing to it.

  For some reason, Rose’s comment about the butterfly effect fluttered around in my head.

  Saturday morning and it was raining.

  This was no surprise, since on Saturday morning I play soccer for the local under-thirteens. I wasn’t in the mood, partly because I was keen to get on with the God mission but mainly because I’m never in the mood. Dad, however, forces me. He was a goalkeeper when he was young, far back in the mists of time, and I think he likes to relive former glories through me.

  Not that there is much glory involved in my play.

  I am a hopeless goalkeeper.

  It doesn’t help that I am short for my age. It doesn’t help that most of the other players are two years older than me and built like road trains. If they kick the ball just a little off the ground it goes over my head. The only reason I get picked for the team is that no one else wants to be goalkeeper.

  There’s a reason for that.

  It’s dangerous.

  At every game you risk becoming eligible for the next Paralympics.

  So I stood in front of the goal, soaking wet, taking up very little space and sizing up the opposition. They were big. And mean. You could see it in their eyes, which glowed red when the light struck them just right. Their very first attack was a one-on-one. A giant charged towards me. I could feel the ground shake. But I didn’t have a choice. I had to advance, narrow down the angles. As it turned out I didn’t get near him, which, to be honest, was a relief. It would have been like getting in the way of a tank. He belted the ball from about twenty metres and it fizzed past me into the roof of the net. Lucky I wasn’t in the way. The net would have bulged twice. Once with the ball, once with my head.

  As I picked the ball out, I noticed Blacky sitting by the touchline, looking amused.

  ‘Your balance is all wrong,’ he said. ‘If you’d had your feet planted right, you could have got to that.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Now you’re a football coach?’

  ‘I am a student of the game,’ he replied in this snotty voice.

  I kicked the ball back towards the centre circle. It isn’t a good idea, I thought, to be seen talking to a dog on the sidelines. It was this kind of behaviour that earned you the reputation of a fruitcake. I already had the reputation of a short goalkeeping disaster area and didn’t need any others.

  A soccer game lasts ninety minutes. This one seemed to take three days. Every time I picked the ball out of the net – which was often – Blacky would point out exactly where I went wrong.

  ‘You are not dominating the area.’

  The ball whizzed past my head again.

  ‘You are not communicating with your defence.’

  Bang. There went another one.

  ‘Close in on the striker. That way, he has less room to get the ball past you.’

  Yet another ball rocketed into the net.

  ‘You’re going to ground too early.’

  By the twelfth goal, I’d had enough.

  ‘Oi,’ I said. ‘Give it a break, willya? You are not helping me here.’

  ‘You want help?’ he said. ‘I’ll give you help,
tosh.’

  And he did. In the next attack the lumbering giant was through again and heading straight for me. It was like being in the path of a very large meteor. The guy was a human eclipse. And it was obvious he was going to take me out. Probably for good. I could see it in his eyes, so I closed mine and waited for the pain. But when the scream came, it wasn’t mine.

  I felt the ball bump gently against my ankles. When I opened my eyes I saw the big kid rolling around in agony. Not surprising, since he had a small, dirty-white dog attached to the front of his shorts. I winced. After that it was mayhem, with players, officials and fans (actually, my dad and a couple of other losers) trying to separate Blacky from the guy’s groin. Blacky, in the meantime, was trying to separate the guy from his groin.

  They had to abandon the game and call it a draw because the ref turned out to be the kid’s dad and he had to take him to hospital. The other team wasn’t pleased, especially as they were 12-0 up and it wasn’t even halftime.

  But officially, I had kept a clean sheet. First time and, I dare say, the last.

  Blacky trotted up to me as I got my towel from the back of the goal.

  ‘That’s the way to tackle,’ he said.

  ‘You’re suggesting I bite attackers in the you-know-where?’

  He tilted his head to one side.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It certainly slows them down.’

  One advantage of the game finishing early was that I could start on my mission earlier than expected. Dad had shopping to do in the town centre, so he left me outside the pet shop while he braved the crowds in the supermarket. He’d be at least an hour, so I rang Dylan who lived fairly close. He said he’d get there in ten.

  There was a bunch of people milling in the street, stopping passers-by and giving them leaflets. I picked one up when some guy just dropped it on the road after glancing at it. It was about the mineral mines in the Queensland bush. It asked people to write to the Premier, expressing their opposition. I folded the leaflet and put it in my pocket.

  I examined the contents of the pet shop’s windows while I waited for Dylan. I was waiting for Blacky as well. I’d been forced to leave him at the football ground. It was unlikely Dad would be thrilled to have the crotch-gnawing dog in the car with him.