This story is dedicated to Molly and Mabel, who between them taught Streaker everything she knows, and a bit more besides.
PUFFIN MODERN CLASSICS
Jeremy Strong once worked in a bakery, putting the jam into three thousand doughnuts every night. Now he puts the jam in stories instead, which he finds much more exciting. At the age of three, he fell out of a first-floor bedroom window and landed on his head. His mother says that this damaged him for the rest of his life and refuses to take any responsibility. He loves writing stories because he says it is ‘the only time you alone have complete control and can make anything happen’. His ambition is to make you laugh (or at least snuffle). Jeremy Strong lives near Bath with his wife, Gillie, four cats and a flying cow.
Adventures of the Hundred-Mile-An-Hour Dog by Jeremy Strong
The Hundred-Mile-An-Hour Dog
Return of the Hundred-Mile-An-Hour Dog
Lost! The Hundred-Mile-An-Hour Dog
Wanted! The Hundred-Mile-An-Hour Dog
Christmas Chaos for the Hundred-Mile-An-Hour Dog
JEREMY STRONG
Illustrated by
Nick Sharratt
PUFFIN
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First published by Viking 1996
Published in Puffin Books 1998
Published in Puffin Modern Classics 2004
This edition reissued 2010
Text copyright © Jeremy Strong, 1996
Illustrations copyright © Nick Sharratt, 1996
Introduction copyright © Julia Eccleshare, 2004
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-141-96666-3
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
INTRODUCTION
BY JULIA ECCLESHARE, SERIES EDITOR
A dotty dog story, the brilliance of The Hundred-Mile-an-Hour Dog is that it is so gloriously ridiculous. Although it is firmly rooted in families, friends – and enemies – it effortlessly takes off into hilarious fantasy with the reader attached to the story as surely as Trevor is to Streaker.
Trevor knows that he’s taking on an impossible job when he agrees to walk Streaker for the holidays. But a job’s a job and the money is nice and, anyway, sometimes you just can’t say no to Mum. He knows that he is on to a loser but there isn’t much he can do about it. What happens next is as headlong as the title suggests, with more things going wrong for Trevor than even he had bargained for.
That’s partly his own fault. Teaming up with his best friend, Tina, to help seems like a good idea, but making a bet with the odious Charlie Smugg is definitely NOT. And some of Trevor’s ideas are completely barmy. What makes them funny is that he and Tina take them so seriously. Imagine thinking that you could communicate with a dog through a mobile phone strapped to your ear. Or that you could make a dog-walking machine by hitching a carpet belt to the back of an exercise bike. Crazy schemes, which get Trevor into one disastrous scrape after another.
Whether you’re a dog lover or hater, it is impossible not to be completely absorbed into this story of a madcap but lovable dog and his equally lovable – and possibly almost as madcap – reluctant dog walker, Trevor (and, of course, his almost girlfriend, Tina…).
ONE
Streaker is a mixed-up kind of dog. You can see from her thin body and powerful legs that she’s got a lot of greyhound blood in her, along with quite a bit of Ferrari and a large chunk of whirlwind.
Nobody in our family likes walking her and this is hardly surprising. Streaker can out-accelerate a torpedo. She can do 0 to 100 mph in the blink of an eye. She’s usually vanished over the far horizon long before you have time to yell – ‘Streaker!’
Dad refuses to walk her, point-blank. ‘I’ve got backache,’ is his usual excuse, though how this stops him from walking I really haven’t a clue.
I tried something similar once myself. ‘I’ve got front-ache,’ I said. Mum gave me a chilly glare and handed me the dog-lead. She’ll do anything to get out of walking Streaker too, and that is how the whole thing started. I ended up having the craziest Easter holiday you can imagine.
‘Trevor…’ said Mum one morning at the beginning of the holiday, and she gave me one of her really big, innocent smiles. ‘Trevor…’ (I should have guessed she was up to something); ‘Trevor – I’ll give you thirty pounds if you walk Streaker every day this holiday’
Thirty pounds! As you can imagine, my eyes boggled a bit. I just about had to shove them back in their sockets. I was so astonished I never twigged that what my mother was actually suggesting was MAJOR BRIBERY.
‘It’s the Easter holiday,’ she continued, climbing on to her exercise-bike and pulling a pink sweat band round her forehead. ‘You’ve nothing better to do.’
‘Thirty pounds?’ I repeated. ‘Walk her
every day for two weeks?’ Mum nodded and began to pedal. I sat down to have a think. Thirty pounds was a lot of money. I could do loads of things with that.
On the other hand – and this was the big crunch – I would have to walk Streaker.
Now, if someone came up to you in the street and said, ‘Hey! What’s the worst torture you can think of?’, you might suggest boiling in oil, or having to watch golf on TV with your dad, or even the nine times table – which is one of my own personal nightmares. But without doubt I would have to say – walking Streaker. This was going to be a big decision for me.
I reckoned there had to be some way of controlling Streaker. After all, she was only a dog. Humans are cleverer than animals. Humans have bigger brains. Humans rule the animal kingdom.
I seem to remember that just as I was thinking this, Streaker came hurtling in from the kitchen and landed on my lap like a mini-meteorite. We both crashed to the floor, where she sat on my chest looking very pleased with herself.
Mum carried on quietly pedalling all this time. She must have known I’d give in. ‘I’ll do it,’ I said. Mum gave a strange squeak
and one of her feet slipped off a pedal. For some reason she looked even more pleased with herself than Streaker did.
‘Can I have some money now?’ I asked. (See? I’m not stupid.)
‘Of course not.’ (Mum’s not stupid either.)
‘How about half now and half when I finish?’
Mum free-wheeled. ‘At the end of the holiday, when the job is finished, I’ll give you the money.’ So that was that. I had agreed to walk the dog every day for two weeks, and that turned out to be only one of my problems that Easter. I must have been totally mad.
TWO
I watched this film about a tank battle once. There were all these invincible armour-plated tanks. They were even bazooka-proof. The heroes were losing (of course), until Colonel Clever-Clogs (I forget his real name) came up with his BRILLIANT PLAN. ‘We must use the tank’s own strength against itself,’ he said. ‘If it’s impossible for a shell to get through all that armour plate, it must be impossible for a shell to get out. We shall blow them up from the inside.’
And that’s exactly what they did – brilliant film! Dad didn’t like it of course. He doesn’t like noisy action films with lots of explosions. He prefers watching golf, but have you ever seen an exciting golf match? I reckon golf would be a lot more fun if there were a couple of tanks playing and a few explosions. It would be quite interesting to see a nice big tank rumble across the green, square up on the tee, lift its powerful barrel and shoot golf balls right across the golf course.
So, what has all this got to do with Streaker? Well, I spent ages trying to work out the best way of dealing with the dog. I asked myself: what does Streaker do best?
There were several answers to this:
1. Make a pig of herself.
2. Dig huge holes in the lawn.
3. Smell.
But I reckoned that the one thing she really shone at was speed. Streaker was a rocket on four legs. Maybe I could use her fantastic speed to my own ends. And that was when I remembered my roller-skates.
I hadn’t used them for months. (I hadn’t seen them for months.) All I had to do was hang on to Streaker’s lead and that way she would get exercised and I’d get a free ride. You’ve got to admit it was a pretty jammy idea. Mum and Dad didn’t think much of it though.
Mum sat at the lunch table in silence, eating her 99 per cent fat-free yoghurt that tasted like washing-up water. She obviously wasn’t impressed. (She didn’t think much of the yoghurt either.)
‘I know your clever ideas, Trevor,’ said Dad. ‘They never work.’
‘Yes they do,’ I protested.
‘Look what happened when you tried to build an assault course in your bedroom.’
Parents have this amazing way of bringing your most spectacular failures into general conversation, don’t they? I could feel myself turning bright red.
‘That wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know that fixing a squiddly bit of rope to the ceiling would bring all the plaster down.’ Dad grunted and Mum pushed the remains of her yoghurt across the table.
‘Would you like to finish it for me?’ she asked.
‘Why do you keep trying to poison me?’ I wanted to know. Mum gave me a wan smile and chewed the end of a celery stick.
I was determined to prove them wrong. I launched a major expeditionary search into the bowels of my wardrobe and eventually managed to find both roller-skates. I spun the wheels and they gave off a very satisfying whsssssh. How could this plan fail?
I kept Streaker tied to the gatepost while I put on my skates. Then I carefully unwound the lead from the gate, wrapped it round one wrist and crouched low behind her. ‘OK, Streaker – lift-off!’
She hardly needed any encouragement. Her front paws churned away just like they do in cartoons and we were off, with Streaker’s ears streaming out behind her like jet-trails. I was amazed by her strength and speed. Even pulling me didn’t prevent her from quickly reaching something that felt like Mach one. Her legs pounded the pavement and she barked happily as we flew along. She loved it. I simply held on to the lead and felt the wind racing through my hair.
We skidded round the corner in great style and Streaker headed up the main road towards the street market. I reckoned it was time to slow down a bit, but of course I didn’t have any brakes, and neither did the dog. Anyhow, by this time Streaker had switched to turbo-boost and there was no stopping her.
We hit the market at maximum speed, scattering shoppers in every direction. I held on for dear life as we zigzagged through the startled crowd, careering wildly from one side to the other. It was all I could do to stay upright.
Streaker suddenly swerved violently to one side to avoid a mesmerized old lady. I had to fling out one arm as a counterbalance and somehow I managed to get her handbag stuck on it.
‘Help! I’ve been robbed! Stop that boy! He’s taken my bag!’
In no time at all the whole market seemed to be after me, but there was no way I could stop and explain. Streaker was really enjoying herself. There’s nothing she likes more than a good chase. She doesn’t even care if she’s chasing or being chased. We went screaming round corners so fast that my skates started to smoke. We lurched into stalls, sending them tumbling over and spilling their contents every which way, crashed into people and bounced off them, and all the time the crowd behind was getting bigger and bigger and noisier and noisier.
‘Stop that boy!’
‘He’s stolen an old bag’s lady – I mean an old lady’s bag!’
‘Get the bag-snatcher!’
Streaker whizzed round the next corner so fast that she rolled over and over, and of course I just carried straight on and smashed headlong into a rack of dresses. Before I knew it I was hauled to my feet by a very angry mob. Not only was I still clutching the old lady’s handbag, but I had a rather stunning flower-print sun-dress draped fetchingly over one shoulder.
To cut a long story short, I was carted off to the police station, along with Streaker. She sat attentively in the corner and looked completely innocent while I was almost arrested. Just to make matters worse, the policeman on desk-duty was Sergeant Smugg. He lives just up the road from us and he’s got three Alsatians. (Personally speaking, I think half an Alsatian is a bit too much, but three!)
Sergeant Smugg rang home and Dad had to come and get us. He wasn’t very pleased, and not just because he had been dragged away from a nice kip on the sofa. Dad caught Sergeant Smugg cheating in a golf match last summer and they have been at war with each other ever since. I explained that it was all an accident. It was Streaker’s fault.
Sergeant Smugg looked at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. ‘Of course,’ he said heavily. ‘I should have known. The dog did it. The dog stole the handbag.’
‘That isn’t what I meant,’ I said, and I tried to explain about the roller-skates and being towed and everything. Sergeant Smugg started laughing silently – you know, a sort of ‘ha ha ha do you really expect me to believe that!’ kind of laugh.
Dad was getting more and more annoyed at having his time wasted. ‘It’s quite obvious that Trevor is telling the truth, Mr Smugg,’ he snapped. ‘He’s
hardly likely to make up such a story. It was the dog’s fault. She’s like it all the time.’
The policeman looked across at Streaker, who was still sitting there angelically. ‘Sergeant Smugg, if you don’t mind, not Mister,’ he insisted. ‘And you can hardly blame the poor dog for all this.’
At that point the ‘poor dog’ suddenly came to life. Streaker leaped up, raced across the room, launched herself across the sergeant’s desk (scattering everything on it to the four winds) and threw herself cheerfully into Dad’s lap, despite the fact that he was standing up. They both fell in a heap on the floor and Streaker proceeded to give Dad’s ears a good clean-out.
‘What did she do that for?’ demanded Sergeant Smugg.
‘No idea at all,’ Dad answered from floor-level. ‘I told you – she’s like this all the time.’
Sergeant Smugg frown
ed and shook his head. ‘Your dog’s loopy. She needs to see a dog-psychiatrist.’ And he let us go home.
I won’t bore you with all the things Dad said on the way back, but most of them carried threats of instant death. So, my first plan had proved spectacularly unsuccessful. Maybe it was time to call in reinforcements. I decided to go and see my best friend, Tina.
THREE
I know what you’re thinking. HIS BEST FRIEND’S A GIRL! I’ve got used to the jokes. ‘Trevor’s got a girlfriend.’ ‘Trevor’s in love.’ ‘When are you getting married, Trev?’ I’ve heard them all.
It used to annoy me, but Dad pointed out that since it wasn’t true it didn’t matter, and that people only made fun of things when they were too stupid to understand – or just plain jealous.
Tina and I got to be friends when we first started school and discovered our birthdays were on the same day. We even shared a birthday party once. Tina’s taller than me. I’m a bit small and weedy, I suppose. My legs are really thin and bony. Sometimes I look at them in the bath and wonder how they manage to hold me up all day. Tina is taller and stockier. We had an Indian-wrestling competition once. I won’t tell you who won. She’s got loads of freckles, which she doesn’t like. Don’t ask me why.
Tina’s got a dog too. He’s called Mouse. This is meant to be a joke because Mouse is a St Bernard – you know, one of those dogs that looks like a Shetland pony that’s run head first into a brick wall and got all its front squashed in.
Mouse is very well trained. When Tina says ‘Sit!’, he sits. When Tina says ‘Fetch!’, he sits. When Tina says ‘Run!’, he sits. In fact, if Tina shouted ‘Ninety-nine per cent fat-free yoghurt’, Mouse would sit. Compared to Streaker, he is super-intelligent. I thought Tina might be able to help, so I decided to take Streaker over to her place.
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