No. Dazzy Donut Dog would never-ever-ever-in-a-million-years eat a dead mouse. So I didn’t either. Well, not for ten minutes anyway, but then my stomach groaned with hunger. I shut my eyes tight and said to myself: I am Dazzy Donut Dog pouncing on The Beast and eating it all up. And I went raargh-raargh and leaped on the mouse and sank my teeth into it and guess what? Cat jumped a billion miles into the sky because I’d missed the mouse and bitten his tail.
He was not impressed. In fact he swore at me. Yes, and very rude he was too. I didn’t think cats knew words like that. He hissed and he spat and he didn’t calm down until I’d said sorry about a trillion squillion times. Even then he went slinking off to a dark corner, jumped on to a rafter and slept up there, nursing his tail.
Which left me alone with the dead mouse. It was no good. I definitely could not eat a dead mouse. It was easy for Dazzy Donut Dog because she had special powers and could do ANYTHING, but I was just an ordinary doggy-type dog. I could not eat a dead mouse. Not even if I was as hungry as a hippopotamus.
My stomach lurched again. I wasn’t as hungry as a hippo any more. Now I was as hungry as an elephant, maybe even as hungry as a blue whale. I bet an elephant or a blue whale wouldn’t worry about eating a dead mouse. So I ate it — one bite and swallowed it whole. Gulp.
Then I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, with the rain drumming on the barn roof and dripping on to the floor. And I thought about my pups and Trevor and home. Oh yes, and pies. Mice taste horrible.
10 Dazzy Donut Dog Goes Surfing!
A wide river — and no bridge. That’s what we had come to. Cat and I stared at the fast-flowing water. He asked me if I could swim. I carefully explained, in woofs of one syllabark, that doggy paddle had been invented by dogs and that was why it was called doggy paddle. Cat took no notice of how witty I was being (which was VERY annoying of him) and carried on gazing at the rushing water.
‘Can you swim?’ I asked.
‘All cats can swim,’ muttered Cat. ‘Cats can do anything.’
‘OK then, let’s go!’ I shouted and we jumped in. I struck out for the opposite bank. From the corner of my eye I saw Cat swim rapidly downstream. He dived under. He reappeared. He dived under again. He came up. He went down. I thought maybe he had decided to go fishing, but he hadn’t. He had decided to go drowning instead.
Cat surfaced for the fourth time spouting fountains of water into the air and waving his paws frantically at me. I paddled over to where he had just disappeared for the fifth time, dived down, grabbed him by the tail and towed him to dry land. We were back where we’d started.
‘You said you could swim,’ I pointed out.
‘I was. I was swimming downwards.’
‘You were sinking.’
‘I was diving.’
‘Drowning.’
‘I can swim,’ Cat insisted. ‘It’s just that I haven’t been taught yet.’
‘That’s nonsense. Admit it — you can’t swim.’
‘Can.’
‘Can’t.’
‘I just need one or two lessons.’
‘It’s easy,’ I told him. ‘You just doggy paddle.’
‘I’m a cat,’ he pointed out a trifle heavily.
‘In that case you catty paddle.’ I thought it was funny, but Cat didn’t like me rolling about on the grass in hysterics and he walked off in a huff, holding his bedraggled tail very stiffly so it might dry more quickly in the breeze. I followed him and offered to give him a piggyback.
‘You can’t,’ he snapped back. ‘You’re not a pig. It would have to be a doggyback. Ha ha ha. Isn’t that the funniest thing ever?’
‘No,’ I answered. ‘And you’re not laughing either.’
Cat sighed, sat down and eyed me in silence for a few moments. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘I can’t swim. You’ll have to go on without me.’
I wasn’t having that. Go on without Cat?
No way! I needed him to read road signs and things. I needed him to tell me wonderful stories. I needed his company. He was my friend. Oh dear. A cat was my friend? I hope nobody finds out.
‘We’ll find a boat or something,’ I suggested.
‘Leave me. Go and find your puppies. I’ll be all right.’ Pause. ‘All on my own.’ Pause. ‘Alone.’
I hovered beside him. ‘All we need is a boat.’
Cat lifted his head and gazed around. ‘Oh yes. Let’s take one from the harbour.’
‘Harbour?’ I repeated.
‘How about that nice ocean-going yacht? Or would you prefer the luxury cruiser?’
I can be a bit slow sometimes, but the penny dropped at last. Cat was being CATTY. I decided to ignore it.
‘I do like the cabin cruiser,’ I said cheerfully, ‘but it’s a bit swanky. Maybe we can find a bit of plank or something.’
Good. That made Cat laugh and sit up. ‘A bit of plank? I would feel a good deal safer on a whole plank, but if we have to make do with a bit then so be it.’
We padded up and down the river bank, hunting. At one point Cat stopped and stared at some tracks in the mud. He sniffed at them. I took a look.
‘Big dog,’ I said, but Cat shook his head.
‘No claws.’ Cat carefully placed his paw alongside the big print and pressed down into the mud. He left an almost exact copy of the big print, but a lot smaller.
‘That’s a cat’s paw,’ I said. ‘But cats aren’t that big.’
‘The big ones are,’ said Cat.
‘There aren’t any big ones,’ I said.
‘No,’ Cat said slowly. ‘There aren’t supposed to be any big ones.’ He looked up at me. ‘That,’ he added, pointing at the track in the mud, ‘is the mark of The Beast.’
I shivered. ‘I think we’d better get across the river. As soon as possible. I’m beginning to think we’re being followed.’
Ten minutes later we found a bit of plank. It wasn’t all that long, but it was wide, and made a decent raft. We tried it out in the shallows first, just in case. Cat didn’t like the river swishing over it from time to time, but the important thing was that it didn’t sink, even when we both stood on it. We were ready to cross.
Cat stood at the front. I pushed forward and stepped on to the makeshift boat. We were instantly caught by the fast currents. We whirled and swirled, dipped, dashed and crashed through waves. Water surged across the plank and almost swept Cat away because he was lighter than me. His fur stood on end.
Our raft went hurtling down the river.
Sometimes we travelled forward, sometimes backwards, and sometimes we spun in wild circles, but at least we were on the move.
‘Get it to the other side!’ Cat yelled.
What did he think I could do? I had nothing to steer with. I dipped my tail into the water and tried to aim the boat at the opposite bank.
‘That way!’ Cat shouted. ‘Rocks ahead! Watch out! Idiot!’
I was starting to panic. What would Dazzy Donut Dog do? The answer came to me in a flash. Of course!
DAZZY DONUT DOG WAS SURF CHAMPION OF THE UNIVERSE!
Gulp-gulp-gulp. That was three Dazzy Donuts. (One donut wouldn’t be enough for this job!) ‘Get underneath me so all our weight is in the same spot,’ I yelled at Cat. He flicked me a startled look, but at least he did what I said. Maybe my board was just a badly dinged plank, but Dazzy Donut Dog could do anything. I cross-stepped, slipped into a tail slide off a small wave, carved a bottom turn and a moment later I’d pulled a fakie and we were whizzing backwards. Even the cows we passed were impressed.
‘Yee-hah!’ I woofed.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Cat as the board slammed through the waves. At that moment we were caught in an eddy, swirled round and round again. We hurtled towards the far bank and were in danger of crashing at top speed so I attempted a cutback and a moment later it was wipe-out. I opened my eyes underwater and saw Cat spinning round and down. I managed to grab him by a leg and after some pretty desperate doggy paddle, not helped by some very
feeble catty paddle, we cast up on a little beach.
We lay there panting, soaked all over again, but I was exploding with excitement.
‘Woo-hoo! We almost got mullered!’ I yelled at Cat. ‘But we made it! Did you see that fakie I did? Oh boy, I am SO stoked!’
Cat shook his soggy head. ‘You’ve swallowed too much river water. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Mullered? Fakie? Stoked? What are you on about?’
‘Surf talk, man! It’s surf talk. I thought cats knew everything.’
‘They know everything worth knowing,’ he said evenly, before closing his eyes and going to sleep.
I smiled to myself. I wish Trevor had seen me. He knows everything about surfing and he tells me when we’re out walking. I wish he’d seen, and my pups too. Dazzy Donut Dog had definitely saved the day, not to mention saving Cat’s life. Twice. And was he grateful? No. Next time I think I might just push him under.
11 More Monsters
We were worn out after the excitement and danger of the river ride. I kept trying to tell Cat how amazing it had been, but he didn’t understand.
‘All right, so you’re good at slurping…’ he began.
‘Surfing,’ I barked.
‘Whatever. Will you please stop going on about it? Anyone would think it was special.’
‘It was special. It saved your life.’
‘Brag, brag, brag. That’s all you ever do.’
Well! That was a bit rich, coming from Mr Cats-Can-Do-Everything. I shut up after that. I thought if he was going to be like that then there was no point in talking to him — Mr Cool-as-a-Cucumber. Actually, he was more like Mr Boring-as-a-Banana.
‘You’re sulking,’ Cat said, after ten minutes of silence between us.
‘Am not,’ I said, sounding so sulky I wanted to kick myself.
Cat snorted. That’s about as close to laughing as he gets. We bedded down in a wood and we slept like logs – which is just the way you should sleep if you’re in a wood.
When we woke we were pretty hungry and guess what? There was nothing to eat. I was getting fed up with this never-any-food business. It was no fun at all. I showed Cat my ribs.
‘Look. I’m starving. You’ll be able to see right through me soon.’
‘We’d better head for a town. We’re bound to find something lying around.’
‘Good idea, but we’d better be careful. Towns have dog wardens and dog wardens don’t like stray dogs. I’ve had some nasty experiences with dog wardens.’
‘You’re not a stray. You’re only lost. I’m the stray,’ Cat said.
‘I know that, but the dog wardens don’t. Besides, the dog warden in Trevor-Town has got it in for me. She’ll bang me up inside.’
‘Bang me up inside?’ repeated Cat. ‘What does that mean? You’re talking rubbish again.’
‘It means put me in doggy prison. Don’t you watch any television at all?’
‘No. I have better things to do with my time. Television is for two-legs who don’t get out enough and need to fill their brains with fluff.’
Cat was winding me up. I think he does it deliberately. That’s what cats are like. Luckily we didn’t have a chance to quarrel because at that moment we rounded a corner and there, standing right in front of us was a HORRIBLE HORROR THING with a bright red and blue nose, wild eyes and four very hairy arms.
We all screamed, including the Horrible Horror Thing — ‘AAARGH!’ — and we ran away in three different directions. Then we turned round and stared at each other. Cat did a belly crawl across to me. His fur stuck up like hedgehog quills.
‘What is it?’ he hissed at me.
‘Don’t know.’
‘It looks like a gorilla with make-up.’ Cat shuddered. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘Don’t know.’ I looked at the Horrible Horror Thing again. It didn’t have four hairy arms. Two of the arms were really legs. It was just that the two arms it did have were awfully long. And Cat was right. It did look like a gorilla with make-up. Now it had two large paws clamped over its eyes. It slowly parted the fingers on one paw and looked at us with one eye.
‘Don’t eat me,’ it whimpered. Then all of a sudden it threw both arms wide, leaped in the air, stuck out its tongue and went ‘SPLLLLLURRRGH!’
Cat and I fled.
‘Hey!’ it shouted after us cheerfully. ‘Come back. Just joking!’
We skidded to a halt and looked back. Horrible Horror Thing was trotting after us. Now I could see it had a long tall tail, whisking in the air. It stopped just short of us, sat down, picked up a stone, threw it casually at a fence and then picked its nose with a bit of twig.
‘Hi! Hoolie. That’s me. Hoolie Baboon — and not any old kind of baboon either. I’m a mandrill.’
‘Really,’ muttered Cat. I could tell he wasn’t impressed.
‘Yes. Mandrills are the bestest kind of baboon in the baboonery world.’ Hoolie was now cleaning his left ear with the twig. I wish I could do that.
‘Why?’ asked Cat.
Hoolie seemed very surprised by this. ‘Why? Why?’ he repeated several times. ‘We just are. The best. Definitely. Cos I said.’ Hoolie glanced round. ‘Seen any windscreen wipers lately?’
Cat and I exchanged looks again. Windscreen wipers? What was he on about? I shook my head.
‘Shame. They’re good fun. Never mind. There’s always another day, as my granny used to say. Though actually she didn’t, cos I didn’t have a granny, but I bet she would have said things like that, if I’d had one, cos grannies do.’
‘Are you always like this?’ Cat asked.
‘Like what?’
‘Bonkers,’ Cat said starkly.
Hoolie grinned at us, beat his chest with both fists, lifted his head and began to chant, getting louder and higher all the time.
‘Hoo-hoo-hoo-HOO-HOO-HOO-HOOLIE-BOO!’ he yelled, and did a back flip. His head suddenly darted forward and he fixed Cat with one eye. ‘Bonkers?’ he repeated. ‘No way!’
I think Hoolie eats special donuts.
12 Bad Behaviour
Hoolie’s wild grin slowly froze on his face. His eyes darted from one side to the other. He shuffled forward and whispered, ‘Have you seen… THE THING?’
‘What thing?’ I asked.
‘THE THING,’ repeated Hoolie. ‘Glowing eyes and slashing claws. It tried to bite my b-b-b–’
‘Back?’ I suggested.
‘No — my BUM!’
Hoolie whirled round to show his rear end. I had a sniff. Definitely not at all doggy, but it did remind me of that strange scent near the shopping centre.
‘The Thing wanted a bum sandwich,’ cried Hoolie. ‘But I leaped out of the way and it ate my neighbour instead and I escaped.’
‘The Beast,’ I muttered, and Cat nodded.
‘No, no. It wasn’t The Beast. It was The Thing.’
‘Same thing,’ murmured Cat. ‘So where did you escape from?’
‘Safari Park. We were attacked by The Thing. Horrible. Slish-slash, blood, bodies, nightmare.’ It might seem odd, but all the time Hoolie was telling us this awful story he was trying to stand on his head, and repeatedly falling over.
‘So, where are we going?’ asked Hoolie, making his fifth attempt at a headstand.
‘Streaker and I are going home to her house,’ announced Cat stiffly.
‘I’ve got three pups,’ I announced. ‘And they are the cutest things ever. One’s got a teeny-tiny pink tongue that sticks out all the time, and one wags his tail so fast it’s just a blur, and the other has —’
‘I’m coming with you,’ announced Hoolie cheerfully as he crumpled into a heap yet again.
‘OK,’ I said.
‘OK?’ hissed Cat. ‘OK? You want a bonkers baboon to come with us?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Give me one good reason,’ Cat demanded.
‘Safety in numbers.’
‘Yes,’ Hoolie butted in and he banged his chest with pride. ‘And I am an
expert in ba-ba-ba-boom.’
‘Ba-ba-ba-boom?’ Cat echoed.
‘The ancient baboon art of fighting without getting hurt.’
‘I know I shall kick myself for asking this question,’ said Cat. ‘But how does that work?’
‘We make a loud noise like this — BA-BA-BA-BOOM! And then we run away as fast as we can before they get over their surprise.’
But Cat and I had already flung ourselves under a bush to escape his wild yell.
‘See?’ said Hoolie, triumphantly. ‘It works best if you fling your arms about a lot at the same time. It’s pretty wild.’
Cat shook his head in disbelief. Finally he beamed a wide, false smile at Hoolie and said: ‘You are most welcome to join our wonderful little party. Please feel free to snack upon the tasty morsels we don’t have and share in the delight of our journey to nowhere in particular.’
‘Ignore him,’ I advised the baboon.
So we continued our trek and Hoolie didn’t stop yackety-yacking the whole time. I thought his jaw would fall off, he opened and shut it so often. Blah blah blah blah blah blah. He didn’t stop until we reached the edge of a town and he saw a row of parked cars outside a fish and chip shop.
Hoolie stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth fell open and stayed that way until drool began dribbling over his fat, hairy, red lips. His eyes glazed over and he began to mutter to himself.
‘Boing! Twang! Ping! Poyoing! I am in baboon heaven.’ Suddenly he took off, at top speed, bounding down the road until he hurled himself straight on top of the first car.
Before we could stop him he was bouncing on the roofs, ripping off aerials, wrenching off the windscreen wipers and battering the side mirrors until they fell off or just dangled uselessly at the side.
Cat and I hurried over. ‘What are you DOING?’
Lost! The Hundred-Mile-An-Hour Dog Page 4