by Andrew Cope
Spud, with yellow bullets, was second favourite. He was proud to be a spy pup with three successful missions under his belt. And, speaking of belts, he was the pup who needed one the most. Spud called it ‘puppy fat’ but everyone else knew it was just a weakness for Ben & Jerry’s. Spud was an expert gamer and was hoping to put his Xbox skills to good use in what he was calling ‘Mission Paintball’.
Star, his sister, was a sleek, black and white running machine. For this activity she was third favourite simply because she wasn’t as strong as her brother, her rifle weighing heavily with purple paint pellets. What Star lacked in strength she made up for in determination. She was an astute and quietly confident spy pup.
Shakespeare was the newest addition to the spy pets’ team, with a raggedy ear as evidence that he’d already been involved in a couple of missions. He was proud to represent the cat species. He was mostly ginger with white paws and a white underbelly. Shakespeare’s gleaming green eyes gave him the advantage of night-time vision, and his sharp claws allowed him to climb trees. So, although not as loud or aggressive as the dogs, he considered himself to be a ginger ninja, a superhero of the feline kind.
He knew he had a lot of catching up to do and had lately done away with catnaps, investing his time in surfing the internet and watching James Bond movies. Best of all, Professor Cortex had issued Shakespeare with a translating collar. He wore it proudly, its small red flashing light translating human language into cat language. As a result, he loved reading, and was halfway through the Harry Potter series. He’d checked his red paint bullets and slung the heavy rifle round his back. Nobody was expecting the cat to win. Mission Im-puss-i-ball was what they’d said.
He’d shrugged. The pressure’s off. I have nothing to lose.
Shakespeare swished his tail as he reflected on this morning’s paintballing adventure. I used my brain. Dogs have a better sense of smell, right? So, they stuck their noses to the ground and off they went. I knew the old man had twenty minutes’ head start but also that he wouldn’t have got very far. Sure enough, he’d craftily crossed a river to throw off the scent. And that’s when my tree climbing came into its own.
Shakespeare had peeled off from the dogs and used his feline advantage to climb the highest tree. The wannabe spy cat ran through the day’s events in his mind, wondering if his performance was up to scratch.
In the distance was a white-coated runner. I easily managed to get a couple of shots in so his coat was splattered with red – just so the dogs would know. As the old man came nearer he looked like he’d overdone it. But, hey, orders are orders. This was not a mercy mission. I was instructed to hunt the professor. Cat versus dogs. So that final head shot was justified. I pulled the trigger and bang …
When he’d enquired about the other rules he was told very bluntly that there was only one that mattered: the safety of the children …
Hence the cat was a little uncomfortable that Sophie’s mobile phone had a screensaver of her precious mog in a full-action pose.
It’s hardly blending into the background, he thought, whenever he watched Sophie scroll through the pictures with her school pals.
Sophie was so proud of Shakespeare. Her cat! ‘You actually outperformed the dogs!’ she clapped. She knew, and Shakespeare knew, that although he was officially the family’s pet, he really belonged to the little girl. His favourite place was a warm indentation in Sophie’s duvet and there was nothing he loved more than a lazy morning on Sophie’s lap while the little girl busied herself with drawing and painting. Sophie loved Lara and the pups but there was something special about the cat/girl bond. And this was even stronger since the cat actually saved Sophie’s life during a daring rescue in London. ‘My hero!’ she kept saying as she swept her hand across his ginger back.
For his part Shakespeare was proud to be part of the spy pets’ team. He couldn’t help purring every time Sophie called him a ‘hero’ or a ‘ginger ninja’. He had worked hard, putting in hours of extra learning in his own time to make sure he was up to scratch. While the family slept he’d prowled the streets, his special translating collar enabling him to read and understand. He’d tried to expand his comfort zone and do what the professor had said was ‘beyond an ordinary cat’, so he’d learnt to skateboard. He was handy with a barbecue, and he knew a thing or two about first aid.
And while he had settled into life as the family’s puss, he understood that this was no ordinary family. Lara and the pups were no ordinary pets. He was part of a super-elite team of special agents, ready to be called into action at any time.
The professor’s instructions were still ringing in his ears: Act normal. Blend in. Draw no attention to yourself. And never forget the golden rule: the safety of the children is your number-one priority.
The furry assassin was brought back to the here and now by the professor’s voice, his collar flashing in unison. ‘And now I’ve washed all that yucky red paint off, how about I reveal some of my latest inventions?’
6. Gone Walkies
You didn’t need to be a catwalk expert to know that the professor knew nothing at all about fashion. To him, clothes were more about keeping warm than staying cool.
‘I’m not sure about the baseball cap, Prof,’ winced Sophie, voicing everyone’s thoughts aloud. ‘You’re the world’s most amazing scientist and everything. So, white coat? Yes. Spectacles? Absolutely. Sandals and socks. Just about OK … for you, that is. But baseball cap? Probably not. And sideways? A definite no-no …’
‘It’s absolutely not a baseball cap!’ snapped the professor. ‘It’s my latest invention. It’s a thinking cap.’
‘Well, we’re thinking that you might be too old to wear it,’ chuckled Ben. ‘You look like you’re auditioning to be in the oldest boy band in the world. The Pensioners, perhaps?’
‘Or maybe The Nerds?’ suggested Ollie.
The professor pushed his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. He burped and looked flustered. ‘I’m not a pensioner and I’m not a nerd. I’m a geek,’ said the old man proudly. ‘And my hat is not a fashion statement,’ he added, although he twisted the cap round all the same. ‘It’s a science statement. This,’ he said, pointing to his headwear, ‘is possibly my best ever invention. GM451, please flick on the TV. Channel 1001.’
Lara hit the remote and a black screen crackled into life. After a couple of seconds large white words appeared on channel 1001.
‘Blast and damnation. Now, where are my pills?’ The professor flapped at his pockets.
‘Your pills are on the table,’ said Sophie.
The professor stared at the little girl for a moment; his lips were sealed, but words were mysteriously appearing on the TV. ‘Well, for heaven’s sake, get them for me before I pass out completely! Young people nowadays. Always so critical. No common sense whatsoever!’
The professor looked at the screen and removed his hat. ‘Erm … sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t really mean you to see those words. But it would be nice if you marvelled at my inventions instead of rubbishing them.’
Lara and the pups were wagging hard.
‘Ma,’ woofed Star, ‘is that what I think it is?’
‘My, ahem, thinking cap,’ said the professor, raising an eyebrow in the hope that the group might marvel at the clever name, ‘is a thought translator.’ He placed it on Ollie’s head and continued. ‘Everyone’s head is full of thoughts. In fact, you cannot not think,’ he beamed. ‘The hat contains a chip that absorbs those thoughts – well, a mixture of brain impulses and emotions actually. The trick is to make sure you capture the product of both the ganglia and amygdala. The hat causes the dendrites and synapses to fuse, creating a pulse of …’
Ollie yawned and fidgeted from one foot to the other. The words I’m bored appeared on the screen, followed by What on earth is the old bloke on about? and I need a wee.
The professor looked at the screen and paused. ‘I see. Yes, well, basically, the hat translates thoughts into words
. So whatever the wearer is thinking is revealed on the screen.’
Ollie took off the hat and dashed to the toilet.
Spud’s whole body was wagging. ‘Does it work on dogs?’ he yapped, snatching the hat and donning it backwards in what he was hoping might be a cool-dog look.
All eyes went to the TV screen where Spud answered his own question. The words doughnut, fries and milkshake revealed that the puppy really did have a one-track mind.
‘Snack time soon, Agent Pup,’ promised the scientist, snatching the cap off Spud and pulling it on to his own bald scalp. The pup’s tail immediately stopped wagging. Evidently the fast food was not coming fast enough.
‘Anything else, Prof?’ asked Ben excitedly.
‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘I have this rather thrilling work in progress.’ He marched into a walk-in cupboard and emerged with a small aeroplane. ‘It’s a model of one of those old Wright brothers’ biplanes,’ he said. ‘Remote control. And it flies,’ he said. ‘Obviously.’
‘A small remote-control plane is pretty cool,’ agreed Ben. ‘But I think you’ll find that it’s already been invented.’
The TV screen broke out in a series of complicated equations as the professor’s head began to warm up. ‘Not only does this one have a spy camera, so it can be used to fly into tricky situations and gather data –’
‘Except the baddies would hear it,’ interrupted Sophie, rolling her eyes.
‘And that’s where you’re utterly wrong,’ snapped the scientist. ‘This is a silent spy plane. I’ve invented a silent engine.’ The TV screen was exploding with numbers and letters forming complicated computations. ‘Traditional engines require fuel that is then internally combusted to produce forward thrust …’
The TV screen was ablaze with formulae and although the children’s eyes had glazed over, the professor continued. ‘Whereas this uses air. Fresh and freely available air! The small engine, here, is used to get the spy plane moving on the runway, but once it reaches optimum speed the engine cuts out and my special airo-engine –’ he looked up momentarily, but nobody was marvelling – ‘filters fresh air through these slits, where it is compressed to such a high pressure that it powers the propellers.’
He paused, eyebrows raised as the TV continued to pour out a stream of higgledy-piggledy numbers and letters in highbrow calculations.
‘A totally silent plane,’ Sophie marvelled, understanding the basic gist of what the professor had said (or thought).
‘As I said, a work in progress,’ beamed the scientist. ‘This one is being tested. The early signs are very promising. And then we simply apply the technology to passenger jets. And trains and cars. Totally silent travel,’ he smiled, hopping on the spot in what Sophie called the mad-professor dance. ‘And, of course, no petrol or diesel required. So totally green too. I mean, one doesn’t want to blow one’s own trumpet or anything, but I think I might have saved the planet!’ The words Sir Maximus Cortex, OBE. Services to science, saviour of the universe appeared on the screen until the professor sheepishly removed his thinking cap and muttered an apology.
Picking up the remote, he flicked to his favourite channel, BBC News 24. The TV was on silent, subtitles appearing below the news story of the day. Lara noticed it was about a dog. She motioned to the professor to turn up the volume. All eyes went to the TV, a worried news reporter looking earnestly into the camera. There were dogs everywhere.
‘And how did the thief get away with such a valuable animal?’ asked the lady in the studio.
The reporter put her hand to her ear to make sure she got the question. ‘There’s a terrific noise here at Crufts,’ she said. ‘As you know, this is the biggest dog show in the world. This year’s winner is a very rare Japanese Akita who, to the untrained eye, looks rather like a wolf and whose pedigree name is –’ she paused to look down at her notes – ‘Alfonzo Haruko Wasabi Fujomaki III. And it seems Alfonzo has simply disappeared. Gone walkies,’ she said, evidently pleased to have sneaked that phrase into a dognapping story.
‘Yes,’ said the TV anchor, ‘but how exactly can the rarest dog in the world just … disappear?’
‘That, Miranda, is a very good question. And at this moment in time, nobody at Crufts is able to provide us with an answer. All I can say is that the police are investigating and everyone at this most famous of dog shows is in total shock. This is the first ever dog theft from this prestigious puppy parade. A big reward has been offered to anyone who can find Alfonzo. Back to the studio.’
‘A big reward?’ wagged Spud, suddenly taking a keen interest. ‘Maybe that’s a lasagne, or something?’
Lara gave her son a disapproving glance. ‘Can you switch your one-track mind on to being a spy dog instead of a pie dog?’ she woofed.
The professor was looking worried. ‘That,’ he huffed, ‘is the final straw. I will not stand by and see these animals being kidnapped. Pet-pinched? Animal-ambushed? Whatever.’
‘What animals?’ asked Ollie, returning from the toilet.
The scientist strode over to the wall where he’d pinned a series of pictures and newspaper clippings. Ben, Sophie, Ollie and the spy animals gathered round, Shakespeare sitting on a table, swishing his tail and concentrating hard. ‘I’ve been tracking the news,’ said the professor. ‘I’ve worked with animals all my life.’ He looked at Lara. Nobody saw the words scrolling on the TV screen on the other side of the room. I love you, GM451. You are my most amazing invention. I am so proud … He swiped the thinking cap from his head and took a deep breath. ‘I love all animals. But I’m especially interested in special animals. Like these,’ he said, sweeping his hand across the board. ‘Top left is Red Drum, the Grand National winner. Disappeared into thin air three weeks ago. Horse-napped. Stolen. In broad daylight. Imagine … the nerve of these people!’
‘And the pandas?’ asked Sophie, pointing at the next picture. ‘I saw that story on the news. They were kidnapped from a zoo in Scotland.’
‘Panda-napped,’ corrected the professor. ‘In broad moonlight. But what you probably won’t have missed is this.’ He jabbed a finger at a picture of an elephant.
‘Cooool. How do you steal an elephant?’ marvelled Ollie, thinking there must be a joke there somewhere.
‘Spirited away from Whipsnade. As was this furry creature,’ continued the professor, looking serious and jabbing a finger at the tarantula at the bottom right of the board. ‘Spider-snatched. An elaborate web of deceit.’
Sophie shivered.
‘Exactly!’ nodded the prof. ‘Obviously, the government is trying to keep these thefts hush-hush. If the general public find out, there will be panic on the streets. Imagine if we told you there was a deadly spider or killer leopard on the loose?’
‘You just have,’ chirped Ollie.
‘Well, yes, and the Crufts winner has now gone walkies and I’m not sure where it’s all going to end. Don’t you see, all these animals are special in some way? Fastest horse, best dog, deadliest spider, longest snake, oldest elephant. And these are just the ones I know of. There may be dozens more that haven’t made the news.’
‘And your point?’ asked Ben.
‘Not a point. A plan. In fact, not even a plan, more of a mission,’ said the professor, raising his eyebrow towards Spy Dog. ‘The police have been useless. They can’t even stop the top dog being stolen from Crufts!’
Lara cleared her throat and glared at him, her doggie pride getting the better of her.
‘Er … the Crufts winner, not necessarily the top dog, but you know what I mean …’
Lara nodded. That’s better.
‘So,’ announced the professor, breathing deeply and sweeping his hand across the board once again. ‘We need to rescue these poor animals. And, great news, kiddie-winks, your favourite world-renowned, award-winning scientist has a cunning plan.’
The kiddie-winks exchanged glances. The world-renowned, award-winning scientist’s plans didn’t always … well – go to plan.
7. T
he Missing Link
‘And action!’ yelled Ben from behind the camcorder.
The professor was already sweating. The gorilla suit was heavy and it made every movement difficult. He’d had to remove his spectacles so his vision was very blurred. He sat like he thought a gorilla would sit, shoulders slightly slumped, nose twitching.
‘Here is Bob,’ announced Ben from behind the camera, ‘the world-famous artistic gorilla. He does gor-ffiti,’ announced Ben. ‘Which is like normal graffiti, but done by gorillas. What are you painting today, Bob?’
Ben zoomed in on the professor, marvelling at the realism of the gorilla suit. It was on loan from one of the TV studios that had recently made a series of blockbuster monkey movies.
The professor picked up a paintbrush in his primate hand and dabbed it at the blue pot. Ben wandered round to the canvas side and watched as the gorilla splashed paint on the paper. The professor wasn’t very good at art but, as gorillas go, the painting ended up being a rather impressive self-portrait.
Ben panned his camcorder around the room where Bob’s other paintings were displayed. ‘There’s no doubt,’ he said, ‘that this is the most marvellous monkey on the planet.’
Five minutes later, Ben had set up a Twitter account and was uploading the video to YouTube. As predicted, Bob’s video went viral. Within a day he had gained 200,000 followers and, as the professor had assured him, ‘In the modern world, once that happens, the rest will take care of itself.’
Archie never sat. He squatted on the leather chair, while Gus was spreadeagled on the leopard-skin sofa. They had just unloaded a stripeless zebra and a white rhino into their new safari park home and were enjoying some downtime.
‘And finally,’ said the newsreader, ‘how about this for a talented animal?’
Gus slapped his head in frustration. He knew what was coming and that spelt bad news – his night off was cancelled. The footage cut to Ben’s YouTube video and then an interview with Professor Cortex, who was still sweating after secretly easing himself out of the gorilla suit. ‘I’ve worked with animals all my life and I’m telling you, Bob is a very talented gorilla,’ said the scientist. ‘He’s the Picasso of the primate world. We’ve been working with him since he was a baby. He’s good at art and music.’ The film cut to the gorilla-suited professor clumsily playing some Beethoven. ‘We think he’s the most talented ape in history and he lives right here at 132 Ambleside Road, Manchester.’