Dog Stories

by Various Authors

  When I’m done, I go inside and curl up in my bed by the back door. I’m just dozing off when I hear a scraping and scratching sound.

  I get up and take a peek out the window. I can just see the outline of a tree. My eyes follow the tree up to its branches. It’s gigantic. I mean, some trees are big, but this one is more than big. I crane my neck but can’t actually make out the top.

  So what? you ask.

  The thing is, I know that tree. It’s the one I piddled on earlier – the dainty one with Mum’s wind chimes tied to the branch. I know because now I can hear the chimes tinkling.

  Suddenly, the tree swoops down and gives the window a huge wallop.

  I scamper back to my bed and cover my eyes with my paws.

  When I wake up the next morning, I convince myself that I dreamt the whole thing. Mum comes downstairs and lets me out the front door and, with much relief, I take my morning piddle on Little Lil’s bright green tricycle.

  We hop into the car and are on our way to drop Blake off at school when I hear a high-pitched ringing. I ignore it. I’m too engrossed in how Blake is trying to swap Little Lil’s shoes around so that she’s got her left foot in the right shoe and her right foot in her left. But then the ringing sounds again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I look out of the window and see a ginormous mass of fluoro green whizzing down the road after us. It’s a tricycle. Little Lil’s bright green tricycle. And its handlebars are turned down into the shape of angry, wicked eyes.

  I let out a frightened yap, and the tricycle seat swivels around, giving an evil sneer.

  I refuse to look out the window for the rest of the car ride. It’s a very good choice because I manage to convince myself that I’d imagined the evil tricycle. In fact, it seems like a very, very good choice because Mum soon drops me home so she can take Little Lil to baby ballet and I’m left by myself in the backyard. I don’t see a gigantic tree trying to scratch at me with its pointy twig claws or a nasty tricycle trying to run me down. I see nothing unusual at all.

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  But seconds after Mum’s car retreats down the drive, I hear a deep ker-plunk ker-plunk ker-plunk and an eerie squeak squeak squeak as the tree and the tricycle round the corner.

  I’m scared. No, I’m terrified. What do these monstrous things want from me? In my fright I do the worst thing I can possibly do.

  I let out a little bit of wee.

  Why is this the worst thing I could possibly do? you ask.

  Well, by this time I’ve noticed a pattern. I’ve noticed that, since my visit to Mr K’s, the only things I’ve piddled on are the tree and the tricycle. Mr K’s furious voice echoes inside my head. This will stop you from wanting to fertilise anything ever again!

  I snap back to what’s going on now. The yellow garden hose that I happened to be standing over when I let out that little bit of magic piddle has started twitching. Before my very eyes it grows and grows, getting bigger and bigger, until it’s the size of a massive Burmese python. It whirls around, making the fearsome sounds of a whip at a cattle show, and I realise I’m cornered in the backyard, ambushed by a massive tree, an angry green tricycle and a python-like garden hose. They’re coming closer by the second and there’s no way to escape.

  That’s when I hear Mum’s car coming up the drive. I race in through the doggy door and scramble down the hallway to meet her. I’m saved!

  ‘Forgot ballet shoes,’ Mum mumbles to herself.

  ‘There’s a giant evil tree, a giant evil tricycle and a giant evil garden hose trying to get me!’ I yell at her.

  ‘Baxter!’ she yells. ‘Stop barking! Get outside!’

  I run up the stairs. If she won’t listen to me, I’ll just have to hide. I sneak into Blake’s room.

  ‘Baxter!’ Mum peers under the bed. ‘I don’t have time for this! Out! Now!’

  She reaches under the bed and pulls me out. My claws catch at the carpet. She takes me down the stairs but I manage to break free. I race out the front door and into the car.

  ‘Baxter!’ Mum’s right behind me. ‘Fine! If you’re going to come then come. But I’m locking you in with Lil. I don’t know what’s got into you, but I can’t have you running all over the place while I’m driving.’

  She sits me on top of Lil, who’s strapped into her special seat, and ties us both down with the special buckle. Then she hops into the driver’s seat and reverses down the drive.

  And that’s when I notice the tickling, the tingling, the burning. I realise that I still need to piddle. Badly. And I know I’m not going to be able to hold it.

  I wonder how Blake will like the new giant, evil Lil?

  THE DOG WHO FORGOT

  BY RAE MURDIE

  One day Bosley woke up feeling slightly askew. From the moment he opened his eyes, he knew something wasn’t quite right.

  The feeling followed him around all day.

  It hovered by the whiskers on his chin as he munched on his morning biscuits.

  It wrapped around his nubby tail as he performed his chores.

  It whispered into his left ear as he sat down to write a letter.

  But never being one to be bothered for long, Bosley decided to get on with his day. You see, even the most unshakeable of shaky feelings can be shrugged aside. For a little while, at least.

  Bosley finished his letter and posted it, but not without barking at the postman.

  He filed his nails as he stared out the window.

  He hung up his laundry and baked a date loaf.

  He thought about inviting his friends around for a slice or two, but then dug a hole and buried the loaf for later.

  It wasn’t long before Bosley felt as though heavy rain clouds had gathered right above his head. He felt so cloudy he couldn’t think.

  He growled at his shadow.

  He barked once, twice, but his heart just wasn’t in it.

  He circled a patch on the floor, then placed his head between his paws and took a long nap.

  That afternoon, Bosley awoke to find his slightly askew feeling dangling in front of his nose. He looked at it sleepily. But never one to be deterred for long, he sneezed and decided to go for a walk. A walk was usually a step in the right direction towards fixing seemingly unfixable things.

  Bosley trotted out of his house and sniffed his way down the street.

  He passed his twelve favourite trees and nodded hello to the doberman across the way.

  He ignored not a single thing but the feeling that was now hugging his shadow.

  As he turned into the park, Bosley felt his spirits lift ever so slightly. His whole body quivered with excitement. He breathed in the smells. The park always made him feel better.

  Then he did what all dogs do when they go to the park. He paused, lowered his bottom to the ground and …

  … blushed.

  Bosley stared into the middle distance, his nubby tail a still arrow. The mystery feeling that had followed him around all day had finally revealed itself.

  Bosley, it seemed, had forgotten how to poo.

  Bosley lay on his back and listened to the raindrops that fell on the tin roof of his cottage. He drew pictures on the misty window as he wondered what to do. He watched them disappear.

  Why couldn’t he poo?

  He tried to nap but couldn’t get comfortable. He tried to bake but ran out of flour. He tried to read a book but his mind kept wandering.

  A day went by and nothing changed.

  Two days …

  Three days …

  Four, five, six days …

  The rain cleared but the same couldn’t be said for Bosley’s predicament.

  Never one to make a fuss, Bosley decided it was time to do something.

  He had a shower and cleaned the house.

  He put fresh flowers in each room, including the bathroom.

  He dug up the date loaf and placed it on a plate.

  Then he invited his friends aroun
d for tea.

  None of Bosley’s friends had heard of a dog that couldn’t poo before.

  They’d heard of dogs that pooed too much.

  Or dogs who pooed at the wrong time.

  Or dogs who pooed things that were not poo, such as string and underwear.

  Because they were his friends, they didn’t wrinkle their noses or titter with displeasure. They tried to think very hard about how to help Bosley. They came up with all sorts of ideas that Bosley had not thought of. They made a list and did each one of the items together.

  First, they drank plenty of water. That was easy.

  Then they went to the store and bought some prune juice. They gulped it down while holding their noses.

  They tried yoga. Some were better than others. That made Bosley smile.

  They roasted pork and ate all the trimmings. That also made Bosley smile.

  They ran around the block three times. Or walked, quickly. (This was not Bosley’s favourite.)

  They jumped on the spot for five minutes. (Also not Bosley’s favourite.)

  Someone suggested Zumba, but everyone else pretended not to hear.

  They ate poutine instead.

  They told stories and laughed and danced into the night.

  The next day, Bosley woke up expecting to feel slightly askew. Instead, a somewhat better feeling was waiting for him. He yawned and nuzzled it before getting up.

  He trotted to the kitchen and ate his morning biscuits.

  He read the paper and sighed happily, thinking about last night.

  He watered the garden, admiring the flowers.

  He snorted, remembering one of his friends’ stories.

  Then he paused, lowered his bottom to the ground and …

  It was perfect in every way.

  HOT DIGGITY DOG

  BY ALEESAH DARLISON

  ‘Jordan! Off the screen,’ Mum says. ‘That’s enough for today.’

  It’s the third time she’s said it, but I’m trying to block her out. I’m up to Level 7 of Hot Diggity Dog, this new game I’m totally addicted to.

  Jelly-like monsters called ‘garoobas’ chase you through the countryside. You have to make Hot Diggity Dog dig up exploding bones and throw them at the garoobas to destroy them. It’s such a cool game.

  ‘Jordan!’ Mum’s voice is louder this time. ‘Pack it up.’

  ‘But, Mum,’ I protest, ‘Hot Diggity Dog only has four more garoobas to destroy before I reach the next level.’

  Mum marches into the lounge room. ‘Hand it over or you’re banned for the rest of the week.’

  With a sigh, I close the app and say goodbye to all my hard work.

  ‘Speaking of dogs,’ Mum says, as she sits my iPad mini on the counter, ‘why don’t you take some notice of Milo, your real dog? He needs a walk.’

  As soon as Milo hears the word ‘walk’ he starts yapping.

  ‘But, Mum –’

  ‘Off you go.’

  Grumbling and muttering, I slouch into the garage to find Milo’s lead. Milo follows, still yapping.

  Milo is a Jack Russell, so he has lots of energy and always needs to be walked. Otherwise, he gets bored and digs up Mum’s garden.

  Still, Milo is good fun and he sure can chase frisbees.

  And cats.

  And dead leaves falling from trees.

  Anything that moves, really.

  I sneakily grab my iPad mini off the counter and slip it into my pocket while Mum isn’t looking, then head out with Milo. When we reach the park, I let him off the lead.

  Huge mistake.

  Milo chases after a duck waddling on the grass. The duck flaps its wings and flies off over the lake, where it lands with a plop and starts swimming around.

  Milo doesn’t care. He races straight into the lake and paddles after the duck.

  ‘No, Milo!’ I yell. ‘You stupid dog.’

  Milo’s paws are slapping. His head is bobbing. And he’s still yapping.

  Until, suddenly, he disappears.

  Terrified he might drown, I dive into the lake and swim to where I last saw him.

  I can’t lose Milo. Sure he’s annoying, but I still love him. If I find him, I promise never to complain about picking up his poop again.

  I’m halfway across the lake when Milo resurfaces, tongue flapping and mouth wide like he’s grinning.

  Agh!

  Muttering and grumbling, I grab Milo and carry him to shore. I drag him out of the water and we collapse together on the rocks.

  It’s then that I remember my iPad mini.

  ‘Oh no!’

  I pull it out of my pocket and press the home button.

  The screen is all shuddery. The machine makes scratchy, scritchy noises. Milo jumps up to see what I’m doing, his paws pressing several apps at once.

  There’s a flash of light and a sound like whiz-am!

  The next thing I know, I hear yapping. It’s Milo and he’s going nuts.

  I open my eyes.

  Everything is so bright, it hurts to look. As I gaze around, trying to work out where I am, I hear noisy munching sounds. And stomping sounds. And roaring sounds.

  I squint into the distance.

  Is that …? No, it can’t be.

  The figure in the distance looms larger and larger. The stomping grows louder. So does the roaring.

  It’s a garooba!

  WWWWWHHHHHAAAAATTTTT?

  We must be in Hot Diggity Dog!

  ‘Run!’ I shout at Milo. ‘Run, boy, run!’

  For once in his life, Milo does what he’s told.

  He runs.

  We both run.

  The only way to defeat a garooba is to dig holes to find the bones and throw them at the monsters. That’s what Hot Diggity Dog does. But there’s no sign of him here. There’s only Milo and me and the garooba.

  We are going to have to dig for the bones.

  ‘Dig, Milo,’ I say. ‘Dig.’

  Milo tips his head to the side and looks at me. He’s always been told not to dig. I guess he doesn’t want to get in trouble.

  I drop onto my hands and knees and show Milo how it’s done. He catches on and soon we’re both digging for the bone. Digging for our lives.

  Milo’s claws scratch bone. I pick it up and toss it. The garooba opens its mouth and swallows the bone whole.

  ‘Get down!’ I grab Milo and we hit the deck. The garooba explodes. Gunky yellow bits of exploded garooba drop from the sky, covering us.

  I don’t stop to worry about it because I know other garoobas will be along soon. We have to find lots more bones if we’re going to make it out of here alive.

  Hole after hole, we dig up bones.

  Garooba after garooba we destroy.

  Eventually, we make it to Level 10, the last level in the game. We’re also down to our last hole and three garoobas are closing in on us. Milo and I are exhausted, but we can’t give up now.

  We dig deeper than we’ve ever dug before until …

  ‘There!’ I scream.

  I wait for the garoobas to get close enough for me to blow them all up with one bone.

  ‘I sure hope this is going to work.’

  Seeing that we’re outnumbered, Milo glances my way.

  ‘No, boy. Don’t do it,’ I warn him.

  Too late.

  Milo darts forward and attacks the purple garooba. I run after him, still clutching the bone. The pink garooba grabs me, lifts me up and opens its mouth. Instead of eating bones, it’s going to eat boy.

  Right at that moment, Milo bites its pink, wobbly ankle. The garooba screeches in pain and drops me.

  Milo saved my life!

  I notice something white at the bottom of the hole. In my rush to pick up the bone, I didn’t see it before. At first, I think the white thing might be a second bone, but when I look again, I see it’s something else altogether.

  It’s a gap, or space, in the dirt and the white thing I’m seeing is actually light.

  I realise this might
be a way out. The gap is only narrow and it’s swirling and shrinking and getting smaller by the second.

  I chase after Milo, trying to grab him as the garoobas roar and swipe at us. I duck just in time, then crawl between the blue garooba’s legs and come face to face with Milo.

  ‘Come on, boy. Let’s get out of here.’

  I grab my dog, toss the bone at the garoobas and leap into the hole. I hear the disappointed howls of the garoobas, followed by a loud explosion. Everything becomes muffled as we spin and slide down a long white tube before coming to land with a thud on the grass.

  I look around. We’re not in Hot Diggity Dog anymore. We’re home!

  Crying and laughing at the same time, I hug Milo as he yaps and wriggles and licks my face. I know he’s happy to be out of Hot Diggity Dog too.

  Together we run all the way home. I can’t help checking over my shoulder every so often to make sure we’re not being chased by garoobas. It will be many months before I lose that dreadful feeling of being chased.

  I’d like to delete the Hot Diggity Dog app, but I’m afraid I might get sucked into the game again. Instead, I take my iPad mini and shove it to the bottom of the laundry basket. No one will ever find it there.

  Then Milo and I run into the safe, garooba-free backyard, where we play frisbee until Mum calls us in for dinner.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ‘A Doggy Tale’ by Nick Falk first published by Random House Australia in 2016. Text copyright © Nick Falk 2016.

  ‘Bad Buster’ by Sofie Laguna first published by Penguin Books Australia in 2003. Text copyright © Sofie Laguna 2003.

  ‘The Dog Kisser’ from My Life and Other Stuff I Made Up by Tristan Bancks first published by Random House Australia in 2011. Text copyright © Tristan Bancks 2011.

  ‘The Case of the Missing Homework’ from Friday Barnes: Girl Detective by R.A. Spratt first published by Random House Australia in 2014. Text copyright © R.A. Spratt 2014.