“That’s over a year!” said Mr Pickles.
“To eat one day of thingummy…” He slumped back into his armchair in despair.
Just then Miss Busby called in from the outer office, “I have Sergeant Saddle on the line. Shall I put him through?”
“Oh no,” groaned Mr Pickles. “Tell him I’m busy”
Miss Ingleby picked up the metal wastepaper bin—complete with burping beetles and dung—and tiptoed out of the room.
Chapter Six
Half an hour later Miss Ingleby returned with a Second World War gas mask which her grandfather had used as a soldier. She handed it to Mr Pickles and suggested they did a tour of the zoo. She thought it best that they saw how bad—or smelly—things had got.
“Let’s go and see if any of the other keepers are doing any better,” she hissed.
Mr Pickles struggled to strap on the gas mask. It was made out of heavy green rubber with two glass portholes to look out of and a long round sticky-out snout where the nose should be.
“Thank-oo,” said Mr Pickles after he had finally stretched it over his head. The gas mask made him sound as if he had a heavy cold and made him look like an alien.
“Shall we go and see how the keepers are getting on?” said Miss Ingleby.
“Goo’…idea,” snuffled Mr Pickles, who was beginning to feel like a Martian.
“I think it might be a good idea to do the smelliest first.”
“Mmmm,” mumbled Mr Pickles, as sweat began to trickle down the inside of his mask.
Miss Ingleby, who was an expert in all types of animals, consulted a list she had drawn up and led Mr Pickles to the porcupines.
They were twenty metres away from the Porcupine House when the smell hit them. Or rather, hit Miss Ingleby. Mr Pickles was struggling for breath a little, but even through his Second World War gas mask he picked up on the unbelievable stench wafting across the grass from the building they were approaching.
“A combination of pee, poo and scent,” said Miss Ingleby briskly, pinching her nose with her left hand.
“Ah,” gurgled Mr Pickles.
“The males pee on the females. They both squirt scent from their bottoms. Glands near their bottoms to be precise. And—”
“Charming,” said Mr Pickles, who had learned quite enough about porcupines for one day.
“Er, well, how about the wolves?” asked Miss Ingieby, leading her boss to the next building.
As they got close they walked into a wall of pong like a cross between a week-old nappy and a month-old rotting fish.
“Phwoooar,” groaned Miss Ingieby, who until now had been a model of composure. “I think they must be spraying scent around to disguise the smell of all that—”
“Thingummy,” interrupted Mr Pickles.
“Er, yes, thingummy,” agreed Miss Ingleby.
“Shall we move on?” asked Mr Pickles.
“Yes,” said Miss Ingleby quickly, relieved not to have to get any nearer the wolves. “What about the turkey vultures?”
“If we must,” sighed Mr Pickles, who now felt as if his head was about to burst inside the confounded gas mask.
“I’m afraid these might be very whiffy indeed,” warned Miss Ingleby. “Turkey vultures pee and poo on themselves…”
“They do WHAT?” shrieked Mr Pickles.
“Pee and poo on themselves,” repeated Miss Ingleby. “And they also vomit all over other animals if they feel threatened.”
“Ah,” said Mr Pickles.
“Apparently the vomit smells particularly disgusting,” said Miss Ingleby helpfully.
“Er, why don’t we give the vultures a miss?” said Mr Pickles, who was now feeling sick, not to mention steaming hot and extremely bothered.
And so it went on. Miss Ingleby started scribbling a list of all the animals they visited.
Hyenas, wrote Miss Ingleby. Smearing stinky paste all around their cages.
Skunks, she scribbled. Saw Mr Pickles coming and squirted him with thick oil spray. Dis…GUST.…ing!
Dingoes, she wrote next. Have been rolling in their own poo all morning. Uuuugh!
Polecats
nay revvvvvv-OL-ting! Camels…burping all the time. Gross. Cows…farting all the time. Really gross. Mongooses…
But before they could manage any more Mr Pickles threw up at Miss Ingleby’s feet.
One of the mongooses looked up at the two zoo keepers in disgust. Humans were just BEYOND GROSS.
Chapter Seven
It was now Saturday afternoon and as Mr Pickles lay in the bath at the zoo with his yellow rubber duck, trying to recover from the morning’s events, he realized the crisis had now been going on for twenty-four hours. Which meant—if Miss Ingleby’s figures were correct—that there was now approximately three tonnes of whatsit lying around in his zoo. Three tonnes!
He leaped out of the bath and, as soon as he’d dragged some new clothes on—thoughtfully fetched from his home by Miss Busby—he called a meeting of all the keepers.
While they assembled, he nipped out of the front door of the zoo and walked round to Copplethorpe Road to see how Sergeant Saddle was getting on with the stuck bus.
He was greeted by an extremely hot and bothered Sergeant Saddle, waving his arms at a giant bulldozer which was pulling at a long rope without, it seemed, much success.
“How are you getting on, Sergeant?” asked Mr Pickles. “Only I’ve got three tonnes of thingummy still piling up and, well, it’s jolly pongy.”
“What’s thingummy?” asked a mystified Sergeant Saddle.
“Whatsit,” said Mr Pickles. “Whatcha-macallit. Who-jermaflip.”
Sergeant Saddle looked blank.
“Number Twos!” said Mr Pickles, blushing.
“Number Twos,” said Sergeant Saddle crossly, “are your problem. My problem is Number Seventeens. In other words, getting this ‘ere bus out of this ‘ere hole.”
And, with that, he went back to waving his arms at the bulldozer and Mr Pickles slunk back to his office, where all the keepers were waiting.
“Now then,” he began briskly, “I’ve been talking to Sergeant Saddle, and he’s doing his best to pull the bus out of the hole. But that might take a little while, so we just need to sort out our emergency plan. Any ideas?”
Mr Leaf, the lion keeper, spoke up first. “Why don’t we drain the Penguin Pool and put all the poo there?”
Mr Pomfrey, the penguin keeper, was outraged. “Why pick on the penguins?” he said. “What’s wrong with the Lion House?”
“Why don’t we just call the bin men and ask them to take it away?” asked Miss Ingleby.
“Health and safety,” said Mr Pickles gravely None of the keepers knew what that meant, but it sounded impressive.
“Why don’t we bag it up and sell it at the front door?” said Mrs Crumble brightly. “Top-rate manure at bargain-basement prices! Mr Crumble put it on his vegetables.” She added: “After he’d finished trying to eat it.”
The other keepers all looked rather disturbed at this revelation. Mind you, they—like the croc—also thought Mrs Crumble was a little strange at times.
“We are a zoo, not a garden centre,” said Mr Pickles severely. “And anyway, I don’t think our neighbours would thank us for lining up hundreds of bags of you-know-what all the way up and down the street.”
The keepers all fell silent.
“Can I make a suggestion?” asked Mr Emblem, the elephant keeper. “The real problem is outside the zoo, not inside.”
“Very helpful, I’m sure,” said Mr Pickles sarcastically.
“I just meant…” said Mr Emblem. “Well, I just meant, why don’t we help pull the bus out of the hole?”
“I suppose you had three Weetabix for breakfast,” said Mr Pomfrey.
“Not me,” said an exasperated Mr Emblem, “the elephants!”
There was a moment of stunned silence. And then all the other keepers began clapping.
“Brilliant!” said Mr Pickles, looking ve
ry relieved. “Absolutely brilliant!”
“What about the rhinos?” said Mr Raja.
“The more the merrier!” said Mr Pickles.
“What about the chimps?” asked Mr Chisel.
“Not that merry!” said Mr Pickles very firmly.
Chapter Eight
An hour later, Mr Pickles led a slow procession of zoo keepers and very large animals out through Melton Meadow Zoo’s main gates as the traffic came to a standstill.
A crowd of neighbours had just begun gathering in the road, with large banners.
One read: NO MORE SMELLS!
Another said: STOP TUE P0VC7!
And another read:
In Copplethorpe Road Sergeant Saddle had taken a brief break from waving at the struggling bulldozer. He sat down in the hot sun, laid his head against a tree and began to daydream.
He imagined himself lying on a lilo in a swimming pool in the Caribbean. The cool water was lapping his feet…and he was sipping from a refreshing fruit cocktail…Towards him came giant elephants, enormous rhinos and Mr Pickles…
Mr Pickles?
Mr Pickles!
There he was—in the flesh, not in a dream—standing right over him, as he struggled to put his helmet back on.
“Ah, Sergeant Saddle,” said Mr Pickles smugly. “Surprised you can find time for a snooze at a time like this.”
Sergeant Saddle’s face—which was always quite red—flushed beetroot with embarrassment.
“It’s been a long day,” he muttered. And then, as his eyes began to refocus on the scene around him, he saw to his astonishment that he was surrounded by elephants and rhinos, all on long ropes held by chuckling keepers. “Wha…what are th—they doing here?” he stammered.
“Oh, just thought we might give you a hand,” said Mr Pickles cheerily.
“Well, if they escape…”
“They won’t escape,” said Mr Pickles. “Now, where shall we tie the ropes?”
By now a huge crowd had gathered in Copplethorpe Road as the keepers tied their ropes to the disappearing bus and Seargent Saddle directed everyone into position.
When everyone was ready he held his big white hanky in the air and shouted “PULL!”
The bulldozer roared into life, sending giant balloons of smoke into the air. The bus trembled a little, but wouldn’t budge.
“PULL!” shouted Mr Pickles at the top of his voice.
At this signal four elephants and four rhinos began to trudge slowly away from the bus, one deliberate lumbering step at a time. The ropes tightened and groaned.
The bus shuddered. And wobbled. And grated and screeched. And then, inch by inch, it began to emerge from the chasm in Copplethorpe Road.
“PULL!” cried the crowd.
“PULL!” shouted Mr Pickles, who by now as quite hoarse.
“PULL!” shouted Sergeant Saddle, who was feeling a bit left out.
And so it was—after twenty minutes of heaving, shouting, cheering, sweating and groaning (and that was just Mr Pickles)—that the Number Seventeen bus was once again where it should have been: in the middle of Copplethorpe Road, rather than nose-down in a drain.
Mr Pickles beamed at the crowd, who had broken into applause. He was gratified to notice a banner held high.
Pong of, Pickles
had been crossed out and replaced with
PICKLES FOR PRESIDENT!
An hour later the crowd had gone home, the animals were back in the zoo, the keepers were busy with their high-pressure hose pipes and Mr Pickles and Sergeant Saddle were enjoying a well-earned cup of tea together…with just an eye on the Test Match in the corner of the room.
And a month later, Mr Crumble won first prize for the biggest cabbage the Melton Meadow Flower and Vegetable Show had ever seen.
EOF
2006 - The Smelliest Day at the Zoo Page 2