The Return of the Hundred-Mile-an-Hour Dog

by Return of the Hundred-Mile-an-Hour Dog (retail) (epub)

  He marched up and down. The dog marched up and down. He blew whistles, he shouted orders and the dog came and went and fetched and sat and jumped and lay down and stood and did exactly what he was supposed to. He got through to the last stage without gaining a single penalty. The last test was when one of the judges approached the dogs and held out a hand. Each dog was supposed to place a paw in the judge’s hand so that they could shake. It was a nice, silly end to the display.

  Well, along came the judge, stood in front of Sergeant Smugg’s Alsatian and held out a hand. The dog leaned forwards and grabbed the hand in his jaw. He wouldn’t let go. The judge squirmed in pain and Sergeant Smugg went very red.

  ‘He thinks you’re a burglar,’ explained the policeman.

  ‘I’m not! Tell him I’m not!’

  ‘I can’t speak dog,’ muttered the sergeant and the crowd started to laugh. ‘I’ve never had to tell him that before because once he’s got a burglar he’s trained not to let go.’

  The crowd guffawed.

  ‘Get him off me! He’s hurting!’

  But the dog growled and snarled and gripped the hand harder. Eventually all three had to leave the arena together. Not surprisingly Sergeant Smugg’s Number One Alsatian was disqualified. The winner was Ruby a Border Collie. (Real name: Hildebrand Ginwallah McDougall X. Blimey!) But the important thing was that having been disqualified, Number One Alsatian was automatically banned from taking part in any further events – in other words it was one less Alsatian for Streaker to beat.

  Number Two Alsatian was entered for Best Groomed, along with Mouse and several more. The dogs shone and sparkled as if they’d just been put through a car wash several times, which was pretty close to the truth I suppose. One by one they were called out and paraded in front of the crowd. They were stunning.

  ‘The next entrant is Mouse, a St Bernard,’ intoned a judge and Tina appeared.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Mouse was totally splendid, as neat and tidy as if he’d been at the hairdresser’s salon for a whole week. He was obviously enjoying his moment of glory and trotted with paws lifted high and his coat sparkling. He was wonderful. I clapped and cheered myself hoarse.

  ‘And the final entrant is from Charlie Smugg with his Alsatian, Number Two.’

  There was a long pause. All eyes were fixed on the entry tunnel but there was no sign of movement.

  ‘Would Charlie Smugg please bring his dog into the arena?’

  Another pause. What was going on? There came a gasp from the crowd as Charlie first stuck his head round the corner and then walked in, slowly – very slowly He sort of sidled in, keeping to the very edge of the arena, as if he didn’t wish to be seen. He pulled on the dog lead and at the other end appeared…

  … a dog? Was it really a dog? It certainly had four legs. But it was the weirdest creature I had ever seen. It was part green, part black, part brown, part red. The wet bits were all soggy and sloppy. The dry bits stuck up in thick, sticky clumps. The tail drooped between the legs and trailed on the ground. It was the most filthy, yukkiest, scum-ridden stinkpot of a dog you were ever likely to see. The crowd clearly thought some kind of joke was taking place because they began laughing and pointing and chuckling.

  Charlie scowled back and told the judge that he’d had an accident with the shampoo. ‘I think it had gone off,’ he said.

  ‘Oh dear,’ murmured the judge, holding her nose. ‘Yes, it is rather smelly, isn’t it? Would you mind awfully just taking it away and giving it a good bath?’

  So guess who the winner was? Mouse! Brilliant! I was so pleased for Tina and amazed that so far the two Alsatians had not gained a single point. I also had a sneaking suspicion that Tina might have had something to do with the appearance of Charlie’s stink bomb on legs.

  ‘All I did was give him a different shampoo,’ she whispered, all wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘It was foul! Where did it come from? It looked just like that revolting stuff in the…’ The penny dropped. ‘Tina! You never…?’ She nodded and grinned madly

  ‘Contestants for the agility trials please prepare your dogs,’ went the speakers. My heart instantly began beating wildly. This was it. The Moment of Truth. I raced backstage to collect Streaker. And that was when I saw the note. It was pinned to Streaker’s cage, where it fluttered slightly in the draught.

  This dog has been disqualified from taking part

  because of a restraining order placed upon it.

  By Order of Β. Boffington-Orr, Police Superintendent.

  S.W.G. (Chairman) T.K.D.

  (Black Belt) B.P.B.H. (Twice)

  How could he do that? Why? What was going on?

  Tina caught up with me, still buzzing with excitement from winning Best Groomed. She read the note and her jaw just about hit the ground.

  ‘He can’t do that! He’s just trying to get out of it!’

  ‘Get out of what?’ I asked tiredly. I stared at the note, reading it over and over again. Only moments before I had felt like a hot-air balloon in full, glorious flight. Now all the air was gone and I was just a flabby, useless heap.

  ‘Don’t you understand anything, Trev? There’s only the agility test to go and B-O can’t afford to let Streaker have any chance of doing better than the Smugg Alsatians. He doesn’t want to lose face. He’s scared, so he’s trying to disqualify Streaker.’

  Streaker gave a short bark and stuck out her tongue. That was how I felt about it too. I was angry and I was worried. I stared at the note, scouring my brain for an answer, but the more I searched the less I saw.

  ‘Not much we can do about it, is there? You can’t overrule the police superintendent. Streaker’s out of the show and that’s final. That means we lose big time.’

  I don’t think I have ever seen Tina looking so dangerously angry. She punched my arm, hard.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘You give up so easily, Trev. I’ve no idea why I want to go out with you.’

  ‘Out with me?’ I protested. ‘What are you on about?’

  But we were interrupted by the arrival of Boffington-Orr himself. He was walking rather stiffly, as if his backside was giving him some pain, which pleased me since he was such a pain in the backside himself. Even so he flashed a huge smile at the pair of us.

  ‘So sorry about your dog,’ he smirked. ‘But it had to be done. Can’t have dogs biting police officers, can we? I did it for everyone’s safety. Shame she can’t take part.’

  ‘But Streaker didn’t bite you!’ I cried. ‘It was one of Sergeant Smugg’s Alsatians!’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ said B-O, still smiling and shaking his head. ‘Not a policeman’s dog. Oh no. A policeman’s dog wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘One of Sergeant Smugg’s dogs has just bitten a judge,’ Tina pointed out icily.

  ‘A simple mistake. Anyhow, I’m afraid the order has been made and that’s that.’

  ‘You can’t do this!’ I yelled. ‘It’s not fair! It wasn’t Streaker!’

  ‘Prove it,’ chuckled the Chief of Police. ‘Go on, prove it.’

  I was stunned. I just couldn’t think what to say. B-O knew it wasn’t Streaker. He knew! Tina seemed pretty gobsmacked, too. An announcement crackled through the loudspeakers.

  ‘Would the owner of Mouse please report to the arena, where the prize-giving for Best-Groomed Dog will now take place.’

  ‘You’d better go,’ I muttered. ‘You mustn’t miss that. Go on, quick!’

  Tina didn’t want to leave things as they were, but the announcement came again and she ran off, almost in tears. I turned back to Streaker. She looked at me with her usual daft, lopsided grin. She had no idea that the sky had just fallen in on top of all of us.

  12 Show Time!

  I sank down to the ground, with my back against Streaker’s stand, and watched as B-O sauntered stiffly away My brain was numb. I was only vaguely aware of the noises from the arena, broadcast behind the scenes by the speaker system. The trophies for Best-Groomed Dog we
re being presented. There were cheers for third and second place and of course an enormous one for the winner, Tina.

  I felt ridiculously pleased and proud of her. At least Mouse had done something brilliant, but only because Tina had got her so well groomed. Tina was thanking the judges for the trophy.

  ‘It’s fantastic – almost the best day in my life,’ she said over the speakers. ‘But not quite, because right at this moment, backstage, a dreadful miscarriage of justice is going on. A dog back there, Streaker, has been disqualified from the agility trial for biting the police superintendent. I know, because I was there, that it was not Streaker that bit the Super. It was a policeman’s dog that did it – one of Sergeant Smugg’s Alsatians.’

  There was a snigger or two from the crowd, but Tina calmly continued.

  ‘Mr Boffington-Orr has told me to prove it. Well, I can. Streaker is a lot smaller than a police Alsatian. Her jaw is narrower and her teeth are closer together. If there is a vet here all we have to do is measure Streaker’s bite and compare it to the teethmarks on Mr Boffington-Orr’s bottom.’

  The audience just hooted. They thought it was so funny, and brave of Tina to speak out. They began shouting for a vet and soon one made himself known. They called for the superintendent and there was nothing he could do about it. He went to a private spot with the vet. Then there was a long wait as various measurements were made and, well, you’ve probably guessed what happened. Streaker was cleared! B-O could not do anything except admit that he’d been wrong and that it was a police dog that had bitten him.

  The crowd yelled. They went mad. Backstage, I was going mad, too! I grabbed Streaker and the agility trials began.

  Streaker did better than I thought. She whizzed up and down that see-saw. She flew through the hoop and the tunnel. OK, so she flew through both of them the wrong way round and got some penalty points, but I was pretty amazed that she’d negotiated them at all. She stopped dead at the Wall of Death and it wasn’t until Tina started making squirrel noises from the side of the arena that Streaker finally got the message and went up in one gigantic leap. The crowd cheered at that point and I felt pretty good. They obviously liked a dog that tried hard.

  Then came the slalom. Oh dear. Eight traffic cones stood in a straight line, and all Streaker had to do was weave between them. Well, you remember what happened the first time Streaker practised this, back at the old football ground, with the tyres that Tina and I had put out for her. Do you remember what she did?

  This was more or less a repeat performance. Streaker raced for the first cone, knocked it flying, chased it around for a while and bit it a few times. She did the same to the second cone. She jumped on the third cone and squashed it flat. She tried to head the fourth into an imaginary goal. She widdled on the fifth, which sent the crowd into hysterics and then sat down and washed herself. Game over.

  I can’t remember how many penalty points she got for that, and anyhow I hardly had time to think about it because the next contestant was Sergeant Smugg with Alsatian Number Three.

  That dog was perfect. He was a policeman’s dog, highly trained, and boy, did it show! He ran and trotted and jumped as if he had done nothing else for years. He didn’t pick up a single penalty point. I stood at the side of the ring with Streaker and the other contestants and I watched this faultless performance and my heart sank and sank and sank, deep into that horse trough. There was no way Tina and I were going to avoid it now. Smugg and Boffy the Mongrel Slayer had won.

  Alsatian Number Three only had the slalom left to do.

  Sergeant Smugg slipped his hand from the dog’s collar and off he went, whizzing round each cone in perfect style. One cone, two, three, four, five and then, suddenly, the dog skidded to a halt. He trotted back to the fifth cone and began sniffing suspiciously all round it.

  It was the one Streaker had peed on. You know what dogs are like! Number Three sniffed and sniffed and paced round and round and then, blow me down, cocked his leg and did a walloping wee right on top of Streaker’s! The crowd started laughing again, but instead of carrying on with the test Number Three was now staring around the arena. He knew Streaker was there somewhere. They spotted each other and the Alsatian was off like a rocket again, heading straight for Streaker, barking furiously.

  Streaker wasn’t going to hang around when there was an Alsatian tank chasing her. By this time of course you know that Streaker can run fast – very fast. And she can turn corners like a born rally driver. She just flew round that arena, with the Alsatian in hot pursuit – through the tunnel, over the wall, round the cones, up and down the see-saw, and every time they went round a few more dogs joined in.

  In a matter of seconds the entire arena appeared to be boiling over with dogs, barking and yapping and chasing each other, themselves, their owners, the judges. Several leaped into the front rows and sent people hastily clambering over each other for safety. There were a few bites here and there and a lot of loud yells and shouts from the poor victims and, all in all, it was about twenty minutes before calm was restored.

  The long and short of it was that Streaker had so many penalty points she came last. But Alsatian Number Three, who had caused all that trouble, was disqualified and led away in disgrace. Not only that but even as we were congratulating ourselves there was a further announcement, this time about the Police Motorcycle Display.

  ‘Unfortunately, due to the indisposition of one of the team, the display will not now take place.’ We burst out laughing. Indisposition? What they really meant was that a certain somebody had a very sore bum!

  So Sergeant Smugg was not a happy man. But I was, and so was my dad and so was Tina. (Well, obviously Tina wasn’t a happy man, but you know what I mean.)

  Charlie Smugg had lost that bet. B-O had been beaten. I could hardly believe it. Tina and I were over the moon, even though we knew that there was no way we would get Charlie anywhere near the horse trough, let alone into it. We were just happy that we didn’t have to take that gruesome bath ourselves. And the most brilliant thing of all was that Streaker was saved! Fantasti-funderful!

  A few days after the dog-show fiasco we saw Charlie up in the field, walking with Melinda, Roxy and the three Alsatians. They made a right little gang and as soon as the dogs saw Streaker they came after her. Streaker immediately set off at breakneck speed in the opposite direction. Charlie chuckled with pleasure as he watched four, big, snapping, yapping monsters pound after her.

  ‘Shame about the dog show,’ Tina said, all innocence. ‘You going to get in the tub then?’

  ‘No way You gonna make me?’ Charlie laughed. ‘You only won because our dog was disqualified.’ Melinda smiled and threaded her arm through his.

  ‘Badly trained,’ I said. ‘If you need some help with training Tina and I are quite good at it.’

  ‘Oh yeah, right,’ sneered Charlie. ‘You couldn’t train a dead mouse!’

  ‘Wanna bet?’ I said.

  Charlie didn’t answer this time. (Thank goodness!)

  We had reached the horse trough. It looked even more foul than before. Tina and I couldn’t help sniggering, knowing what had gone into Charlie’s dog shampoo.

  ‘What are you two laughing at?’ he demanded. ‘You laughing at me?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Charlie.’

  He stared at us very suspiciously. In the distance I saw a pair of flapping ears approaching fast. I heard the telltale bark-bark-bark of three Alsatians. They were after Streaker again, with Roxy puffing and panting in fourth place, and the whole doggy hurricane was heading straight for us.

  With a single cheerful yap Streaker took a flying leap – amazing – right over Charlie’s head and down on the far side of the horse trough and away into the field again. Then the Alsatians arrived, one, two, three, all leaping after her.

  ‘Hur, hur, hur,’ laughed Charlie. ‘They’ll give your dog what-for when they get her,’ he began, and then Roxy arrived. Roxy couldn’t jump as well as the others. She tried the leap but miss
ed. Instead she cannoned straight into Melinda. Melinda fell backwards, still clutching Charlie’s arm. She stumbled against the trough behind her…

  You get the picture, don’t you? Go on, just picture it in your mind in full glorious Technicolor detail. Run it past your inner eyes in slo-mo. Roxy arrives – the big, beefy, chunky boxer, Wisteria Wannabee Winstanley VIII, her full weight flying into Melinda’s chest. Melinda staggers back, stumbles against the lip of the trough and then she goes over, falling BACKWARDS, dragging Charlie with her. There’s an almighty SPLASH and PHWIIIISH of water as three bodies tumble into the horse trough.

  When they finally surface they are black from head to toe, and also brown, red, grey, green and soaked to the skin. Their clothes are filthy. Their skin is filthy, and boy, do they stink!

  Charlie was almost speechless. Almost. ‘You!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Wasn’t us, Charlie,’ Tina pointed out. ‘It was Roxy.’ And almost as if to prove it the three Alsatians arrived back and decided to join their owner in the delicious bath. One, two, three. Plip, plop, plap. Down beneath the surface went Charlie and Melinda again.

  They surfaced, struggling for breath, slipping in the gunge, falling over each other, disappearing under the surface yet again. Melinda, who was unrecognizable by this stage, was howling her head off.

  ‘My dad says you should never trust anyone who needs three Alsatians,’ I said.

  Tina and I laughed all the way home. We were still laughing when we reached my house.

  ‘That was just so brilliant,’ said Tina.

  ‘Yeah, it was.’ I looked at her. ‘Thanks. None of it would have happened if it hadn’t been for you.’

  Tina blushed. ‘It was both of us,’ she protested.

  ‘I know, that’s what I mean. I couldn’t have done it on my own. I’m sorry about Melinda and all that.