The Return of the Hundred-Mile-an-Hour Dog
Page 1
This is Trevor.
He’s looking for his dog.
There she is!
No, she’s over there!
It’s Streaker, the jet-propelled hurricane.
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 four cats and a flying cow.
Read more about Streaker’s adventures
THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG
RETURN OF THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG
WANTED! THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG
Are you feeling silly enough to read more?
MY DAD’S GOT AN ALLIGATOR!
MY GRANNY’S GREAT ESCAPE
MY MUM’S GOING TO EXPLODE!
MY BROTHER’S FAMOUS BOTTOM
BEWARE! KILLER TOMATOES
CHICKEN SCHOOL
KRAZY KOW SAVES THE WORLD – WELL, ALMOST
LAUGH YOUR SOCKS OFF WITH
Jeremy STRONG
Return Of the Hundred Mile-An-Hour Dog
Illustrated by
Rowan Clifford
PUFFIN
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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First published 2005
This edition published 2007
6
Text copyright © Jeremy Strong, 2005
Illustrations copyright © Rowan Clifford, 2005
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
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This is especially for Maria and Anna who, along with lots
of others, wanted to know if Charlie Smugg ever got into the
horse trough – and did Tina manage to get Trevor?
Now you can all find out.
In memory of Molly and Mabel, who both died in 2003,
and who were the original inspiration for Streaker.
Contents
1 Four-Legged Asteroids and Wet Dishcloths
2 An Angel Appears
3 The Boffington-Orrs
4 Best-Groomed Dog?
5 The Return of Charlie Smugg
6 What Kind of Noise Does a Squirrel Make?
7 The Knicker Nicker
8 You Can Trust Freckles
9 In Trouble Again
10 A Bit of Progress at Last
11 B-O Makes His Move
12 Show Time!
1 Four-Legged Asteroids and Wet Dishcloths
It wasn’t my idea. It was Tina’s, and don’t go thinking ‘Ooh, Trevor’s got a girlfriend!’ because I haven’t. I mean she isn’t. You know what people are like. They start being embarrassing and saying stupid things – like Mum. If Tina rings me and Mum answers she stands at the bottom of the stairs holding the phone at arm’s length and she shouts, so that everyone in the house (and Tina at the other end) can hear, ‘Trevor! It’s for you! It’s Mrs Trevor…’
Pathetic, isn’t it? That’s Mum’s sense of humour for you. Of course I do like Tina. She’s smart and funny and so organized, which is very useful since I’m about as organized as the inside of a Christmas pudding. She’s nice-looking too – but she’s my friend, not my girlfriend. So hopefully you’ve got that straight.
Anyhow, Tina and I were in the field at the top of my road walking our dogs. Tina’s dog is a giant St Bernard, with an enormous slobbery tongue. He doesn’t lick you – it’s more like being slapped about the face with a wet dishcloth. He’s called Mouse. That was one of Tina’s ideas, too.
Her dad thought she was bonkers. ‘You can’t call a dog that size Mouse. It’s ridiculous!’ Tina just smiled. That was the whole point. Tina thinks that most things are a bit ridiculous, and I guess she’s right, sometimes.
My dog’s TOTALLY ridiculous. We call her Streaker because she can run like the wind. Actually she runs more like a jet-propelled hurricane. When she’s up to full speed she looks like one of those cartoon dogs, with her legs just a blur of frantic activity, and her ears flapping back in the slipstream. I sometimes think she’s not actually a real dog at all and must have been built in a Ferrari factory. She could probably win a Grand Prix motor race if they let her take part. She’d have to wear a helmet though; a helmet with special holes for her ears. And they’d have to refuel her with dog food instead of petrol.
We used to have terrible trouble with Streaker. She didn’t understand what her name was. She didn’t know what was meant by ‘Sit!’ or ‘Stay!’ or ‘Come back!’ She’d just run and run and run. It was hopeless taking her for walks. For a start she didn’t know what walking was. She could do Run, Gallop, Full Charge Ahead, Fast Forward, Fast Reverse, Fast Sideways, Leaping Like Mad, Diving Like Mad, and generally being Madder than Mad – but walking? Oh no. If I let her off the lead I wouldn’t get her back for hours. She drove the whole family bonkers.
Then Tina decided we would have to train her properly. (This was all because of a crazy bet we had with the local gorilla, Charlie Smugg. More on that later.) We tried all sorts of things, mostly to do with food and bribery, but none of them worked. Then, I thought that maybe we could exercise Streaker indoors instead of having to take her outside and losing her. We used my mum’s exercise bike to build a dog-walking machine.
It sort of worked and sort of didn’t. What I mean is, we made the machine, got it working, I grabbed Streaker, shouted ‘Walkies!’ and popped her on the running platform. Unfortunately the platform was revolving so fast it catapulted Streaker backwards, right across the room and into the kitchen, where she got her bum jammed inside the washing machine. We had to get the fire brigade to come and rescue her.
The extra
ordinary thing was that after that dreadful experience, whenever I said ‘Walkies!’ to Streaker she came straight to my side and sat down very firmly, just in case I was planning to put her backside into the washer again. Perhaps she didn’t fancy a quick wash and spin-dry. So now I have the only dog in the world that responds to the command ‘Walkies!’ by coming back to me and sitting down. She still doesn’t know what ‘Sit!’ or ‘Stay!’ means, but at least she doesn’t give us terrible trouble any longer. Nowadays she’s only dreadful.
So – Tina and I were up at the field walking the dogs. It had been raining so it was a bit wet and muddy. Mouse was doing his usual thing of being very obedient and padding along quietly next to Tina, and Streaker was doing her usual thing of hurtling through the grass like an asteroid on four legs, crashing into anything and anyone she happened to come across. Sometimes there are other dog-walkers up at the field and when I let Streaker off the lead you can tell where she is because of all the shouts. ‘Oh!’, ‘Ow!’, ‘Gerroff!’ Every so often someone suddenly vanishes from sight altogether. That’s because Streaker has just crashed into them and knocked them flying.
Tina was telling me about a programme she’d seen on television. ‘This farmer was showing how good his dog was at herding sheep. The dog raced everywhere, keeping the sheep together in a tight herd. She drove all the sheep – a hundred of them – into a pen, just her and the farmer. A hundred sheep! Really clever.’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen stuff like that, too.’
Tina grinned. ‘And I thought: Streaker could do that.’
I stopped dead in my tracks and just gawped at her. ‘Streaker? Herd sheep? You’re crazy!’ I stared across the field and watched as poor Mrs Potter suddenly gave a startled yell and went over like a skittle in a bowling alley. I sighed deeply ‘Streaker couldn’t herd a leg of lamb,’ I muttered.
‘I bet she could,’ Tina went on. ‘We taught her how to come back, didn’t we?’
‘Oh sure we did. Just shout “Walkies!” and she comes back. That’s clever, that is.’
Tina punched my arm. ‘You’re such a pessimist, Trev. Why don’t we try? Streaker would be so good at it. The farmer on the programme said that all you needed was a dog that was intelligent…’
‘Big problem there, then,’ I moaned.
‘… obedient…’
‘Even bigger problem.’
‘… and very fast.’
‘That’s about the only bit Streaker can do.’
‘You give up so easily. We haven’t even started.’
‘Tina, we’re not going to start. What’s the point? Why teach Streaker how to herd sheep? Can you see any sheep around here for her to herd? No. There’s lots of grass, several abandoned shopping trolleys… hey, good idea, we could teach her to herd shopping trolleys!’
‘Trev…’
‘She could herd trolleys and drive them down the high street and back to the supermarket. That would be really useful.’
‘Trevor! You’re more out of control than your daft dog.’
‘Aha! So you admit she’s daft? That means she’s not intelligent enough to be a sheepdog then.’
Tina sighed and we walked on in silence for a bit. Eventually she decided to tell me the real reason for her mad suggestion. ‘It’s just that there’s a dog show coming up and I thought it would be fun to enter – you know, both of us.’
‘We’re not dogs,’ I pointed out.
‘You know what I mean. It’s a big show and there are lots of different competitions – herding, best-looking, most obedient, agility – something for everyone.’
‘Everyone except Streaker.’
‘You are such a grumblepot.’
‘No, I’m not. I know my dog’s limitations. She can’t do any of those things.’
‘OΚ, suit yourself, but Mouse and I are still going to take part.’
‘Yeah? Mouse is going to be the fattest, slowest sheepdog in the show, is he?’
‘No. I shall enter him for best-groomed dog.’
‘Best groomed! He’s a mess! He’s all wet fur and droolly jaws and slobbery tongue. He looks like an exploding laundry.’
‘He’s only a mess at the moment, Trevor, that’s all. By the time I’m finished with him he will look the business. I’ve got it all sorted and if you don’t want to take part I’ll do it on my own.
I’m going home now. There’s no point in stomping round a field with a grobbling grumblepot.’
‘No such word as grobbling’, I said.
‘No such thing as an exploding laundry,’ she snapped back, and off she went. Halfway across the field she shouted back at me, ‘The trouble with you, Trevor, is that you have no imagination.’
That’s what she thinks. In fact I have too much imagination. I know when it’s just not worth attempting something that is sure to end in failure.
2 An Angel Appears
I carried on wandering aimlessly round the field while Streaker continued her game of tenpin bowling with the dog-walkers. It had started drizzling but I was in a world of my own, staring at the ground and trying to imagine Streaker herding shopping trolleys stuffed with sheep.
‘Hey! Watch where you’re going!’
I looked up and – BAM!!
Right between the eyes. A vision, like an angel. A girl so beautiful I couldn’t take my eyes off her face.
‘You nearly walked straight into me,’ she said. I just stood there, staring at her, struck dumb. ‘Hello? Anyone in? You almost knocked me over.’
‘Sorry’
‘Yοιι looked as if you were in another world.’ She smiled and the sun came out. I don’t mean the real sun; it was still drizzling. It’s just an expression for the look on her face. I was wondering who this dazzling creature was, and where she had come from. She had a crash-tested dog on a lead. You know what I mean – one of those dogs that look as if they’ve just run into a brick wall at full speed and their face is all crumpled up.
‘This is Roxy’ smiled the girl. ‘She’s a pedigree.’
‘I’ve not seen you up here before,’ I began. In the distance I could see Streaker hurtling towards us like a bouncing bomb.
‘I haven’t been up here before,’ the girl answered. ‘I’ve only recently moved here. So what were you so deep in thought about?’
‘I think you ought to move,’ I said, my eyes on Streaker.
She gave me an odd look. ‘I have just moved. We only got into the new house last month.’
‘No, I mean now, this second, you ought to move…’
Streaker was rapidly getting closer and closer and bigger and bigger. Bounce, bounce, bounce…
You’re so weird,’ laughed the girl. ‘What do you… URRRFFF!!!’
Streaker cannoned straight into her back. She
was thrown off her feet and flung forwards. I reached out to stop her but her flying weight, with Streaker still attached, knocked me backwards and we all fell into the mud, with me underneath and the girl on top. Streaker happily jumped up and down on us a few times and then raced off to find some new victims.
The girl struggled to her feet.
‘Look at me! Look at the mess I’m in! Look at – oh no! My jeans. They’re all muddy!’
‘Jeans are supposed to get muddy’ After all, I was in even more of a mess.
The girl gave me a scathing, scorching glance. ‘Not designer jeans,’ she hissed. ‘These are Armani. My dad will be furious.’ She bent down and twisted round to brush mud off her jeans. That was when I noticed her back. It was covered with doggy footprints that said ‘Streaker was here – and here and here and here and HERE!!’
‘I think you should…’ I began and then thought better of it.
‘What?’ she snapped.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.
‘Streaker gets a bit too friendly sometimes.’
‘You mean that was your dog?!’
‘It’s nothing personal,’ I said. ‘She does it to everyone, including me.’
&nb
sp; ‘You should train her.’
‘She is trained. That’s the best we could do. You should have seen her before. Anyhow, I did tell you to move.’
‘That’s not good enough. You’re only making excuses.’
‘You sound like one of my teachers,’ I muttered.
‘Really? Are you as badly behaved as your dog then?’ She examined her jeans yet again.
I sighed. For goodness’ sake, they were only jeans!
‘And look at my trainers – they’re filthy! My dad’s going to be so angry. You’ll be hearing more about this. Do you know who he is?’
I shook my head and pointed out that I didn’t even know who she was.
‘Melinda,’ she scowled. ‘Melinda Boffington-Orr. And my dad is…’
‘… Mr Boffington-Orr?’ I suggested brightly.
‘Exactly. And you are?’
‘Trevor – but you can call me Trevor.’
Melinda screwed up her nose. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. It’s a joke.’
‘Funny kind of joke.’
I nodded. ‘Yep. That’s the best kind, I think – funny ones.’
‘Yours wasn’t. Now get out of my way. I’m going home.’
And off she went, squelch, squelch, squelch, Melinda Boffington-Orr, the girl of my dreams. I stood in the drizzle and watched. I still had no idea who Mr Boffington-Orr was, but I had a feeling I was going to find out pretty soon.
3 The Boffington-Orrs
Dad stood at the bottom of the stairs, peering into the hall mirror and fiddling with his shirt. ‘Get a move on, Trevor!’
‘Do I really have to wear a tie?’
‘Yes! We’re going to the Golf Club Dinner Dance, and you’re not allowed in without a tie.’
I hate wearing a tie. They’re just so, so – poxy I always feel like an idiot when I’ve got one on. (I feel like an idiot most of the time anyway, but now I was an idiot with a tie – yuk.) And I hate golf too, and the clubhouse.