My Dog Made Me Write This Book

by Elizabeth Fensham

  Milly said that to get the best ideas we needed to ask at least ten people, and they had to come from a range of different grades. Hugh said we needed only one question, and he told us to ask it like this:

  Pretend you have a dog (even if you don’t) who doesn’t like you; what would you do to get your dog to like you?

  Hugh neatly printed our question at the top of the page. Then we set the rest of the page out with Name, Grade, Age, and Answer sections. We took turns asking and writing. We got all the research done in one lunch hour:

  Miles Bucknell. Grade One. Seven years old:

  “I’d throw the dog a bone. In fact, I’d throw it a lot of bones.”

  Emily Wright. Grade One. Seven years old:

  “Let it smell my hand. Be gentle so it’ll think I’m nice and friendly.”

  Merri Spalding. Grade Two. Eight years old.

  “Get it another puppy to play with.”

  Eden Hogg. Grade Five. Eleven years old:

  “I’d play with her.”

  Liam Smith. Grade Four. Ten years old:

  “I’d pet her and spend more time with her.”

  Callum England. Grade Two. Eight years old:

  “I’d buy her some dog toys.”

  Angus Fletcher. Grade One. Seven years old:

  “Walk him on a leash.”

  Poppy Giles-Kaye. Grade Four. Nine years old:

  “Give it treats.”

  Skye Denbigh. Grade One. Seven years old:

  “Throw him a ball and tickle and scratch his tummy.”

  Alara Güleçoglu-Park. Grade Six. Twelve years old:

  “I’d hypnotize the dog.”

  Aiden Starbuck. Grade Three. Eight years old:

  “Make a dog club so he has some friends.”

  William Segala. Grade Six. Eleven years old:

  “Put on your mother’s clothes and put on a wig that looks like your mom’s hair and even wear her perfume so your dog thinks it’s her.”

  Tilly de Lacy. Grade Five. Eleven years old:

  “Get a goldfish instead.”

  Sarah Gloor. Grade Five. Eleven years old:

  “Dress him up to make him popular.”

  Oliver Barlass. Grade Six. Twelve years old:

  “The owner should dress up like a juicy dog bone.”

  Travis Petropoulos. Grade Six. Twelve years old:

  “Dogs like milk. Give him milk.”

  Cornelius Chang. Grade Six. Eleven years old:

  “Never shout or call him bad names, but sing to him.”

  The bell rang just as we’d written down Cornelius’s answer.

  “We’ll meet under our tree tomorrow at lunchtime,” said Hugh as we lined up outside class.

  “We need to analyze the data,” I said.

  “Data?” asked Hugh.

  “The data is all the information we’ve gathered,” explained Milly. “And sorting through it and discussing it is analyzing.”

  “You’re on,” said Hugh.

  By the time I climbed into bed, I felt a lot happier. Sharing my problems with Hugh and Milly was a sensible thing to do.

  8

  I couldn’t wait to get to school today. Milly, Hugh, and I analyzed yesterday’s research. Hugh had a clever way of sorting through the kids’ answers.

  “First off, we should get rid of ideas that you’ve tried and that haven’t worked,” said Hugh.

  “Yes, it’s a good idea to eliminate them,” I said, “but I can tell you now, I’m pretty sure I’ve tried every sensible idea to get a dog to like you that a person can think of. For starters, you can cross off dressing a dog up.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Milly. “There’ll still be some leftover ideas you can try out.”

  Hugh, Milly, and I were back under our pepper tree. Milly pointed to Angus Fletcher’s idea about walking the dog.

  “I’ve tried that, but Ugly just about rips my arm off.” Milly took a red pen and slashed a line through Angus’s dog-walking idea.

  “What about Aiden’s idea about a dog club, or Merri’s idea about getting another puppy? Maybe Ugly is lonely,” said Hugh.

  “No way. At the moment I couldn’t control Ugly if he was in a dog club, and Mom wouldn’t stand us having another dog. Anyway, Ugly would probably just be friends with the puppy and like me even less.”

  Milly slashed two red lines across the page. “Well, what about bone throwing?” asked Hugh.

  “Give Miles’s idea a check mark,” I said. “I haven’t tried bones yet.”

  “That’s pretty much the same idea Poppy had when she talked about treats and Travis’s idea about milk,” said Hugh.

  “Yeah, it is,” I agreed. “But a good bone is an enormous, delicious treat—sort of like Christmas dinner.”

  “Then again, giving treats is a type of bribing,” said Milly, “and my dad says people should do the right thing without having to be bribed.”

  “Ugly isn’t a person. He’s a dog,” I said. “If bribes work, I’ll be glad.”

  Milly gave a big red check mark to bone throwing.

  “Well, next is Emily’s idea about letting the dog smell your hand and acting gentle around it.”

  I knew all about that. Grandpa had told me before we went to the dog shelter. “That’s the right thing to do when you meet any dog,” I said, “but after that first introduction, you have to live with your dog every day of its life. The same goes for Skye’s idea. Ugly likes being tickled and scratched, but you can’t keep doing that all day.”

  Milly crossed off Emily’s and Skye’s ideas. “Dog toys?” asked Hugh.

  “Ugly’s a spoiled brat,” I said. “He’s got tons of toys, but he gets bored with them and sneaks off and chews up things that belong to us, like my Parthenon project.”

  “Dressing yourself up as a dog bone?” asked Milly.

  “You’d have to be bonkers,” I said. “A dog might eat you! And cross off the idea about dressing in Mom’s clothes. No way.”

  “What about singing to a dog?” asked Hugh.

  “He doesn’t seem to like singing. He barks viciously when Gretchen plays her heavy metal CDs, and he howls like he’s at a funeral when Mom plays her opera CDs,” I said.

  “Okay,” said Hugh, “then we can bundle up some of these other ideas, like throwing a ball and playing and spending time with him.”

  “Is he like a neglected child?” asked Milly. “Just wanting more attention from you?”

  I thought about the times I had tried to play ball with Ugly but he had run off with the ball and chewed it to pieces. “I’m the neglected one,” I said.

  “I’ll put a red line through the ideas about playing and spending time with him,” said Milly, “but I really think you could try harder at playing.”

  “Well, the bone-throwing will be a type of playing,” I said. “A game with food. You can’t go wrong. It’s got to be a big hit with Ugly.”

  9

  It seemed a stroke of luck that when I walked into the house that afternoon, I had the place to myself. Mom, Dad, and Gretchen were still at work, and Grandpa was snoring away on his bed. Even Ugly was sharing Grandpa’s afternoon sleep. He was lying on his side in a pool of sunlight next to Grandpa’s bed. When he saw me out of one squinty eye, he thumped his tail on the floor, shut his eye, and went on sleeping. I opened the fridge door to see what I could raid.

  There was some freshly-squeezed orange juice and leftover pasta from last night’s dinner, which I hungrily scarfed down. I decided to give the contents of the fridge one more inspection. What should I find at the bottom but a big leg of lamb covered with a tea towel! Mom was obviously going to roast it tonight.

  I thought of the research Hugh, Milly, and I had discussed. Underneath all that meat there was a huge bone. My family would
n’t be needing it. All I had to do was cut off the meat so Mom could cook that—and here was a bone for me to throw to Ugly.

  It was hard work slicing off the meat from the lamb bone, but I got off as much as I could. I neatly laid the meat on a plate and put it back in the fridge with the tea towel over it. Then I quietly returned to the living room and waved the bone at Ugly, who had opened one eye again. He scrambled to his feet and followed me to the kitchen. His eyes gleamed, and he was grinning and thumping his tail against the table.

  Without even having to speak, I walked out the back door and down the steps with Ugly following close by me. On the lawn, I held the bone high above my head and told Ugly to sit. I didn’t even have to push his butt down. He sat right away and woofed.

  I threw the bone with as much strength as I could. It flew over the kennel and across to the far side of the backyard. Ugly took off after it, quickly reaching it and pouncing on it like a lion attacking its prey.

  “Okay. Come, Ugly. Bring it back here!” I called.

  What a fool I’d been. Why had I expected Ugly to come back with a meaty bone when he wouldn’t even come back with a tennis ball?

  I yelled and stamped my foot, but he just picked up his bone and hid behind Grandpa’s toolshed, up next to Mrs. Manchester’s fence.

  I was so angry that I left Ugly in the yard and stomped back up to the kitchen. But I wasn’t as angry as Mom was when she came home from work and went to take the roast out of the fridge to put it in the oven. I tried to explain that we didn’t need the lamb bone, but Mom couldn’t see my point. Dad, Gretchen, and Grandpa couldn’t, either. I have to agree that those pieces of meat on the plate didn’t look like very much. I’d left more meat on Ugly’s bone than I realized.

  Mom decided to make shepherd’s pie with the leftover slices of lamb and a lot of chopped vegetables. Gretchen stared into the baking dish and said, “There’s not enough meat in there for two people, let alone five. Eccle should have bread and water, like a convict.”

  “We’ll make do,” Mom said in a grumpy voice.

  “You’re too soft on that boy. You were never like that with me. At least make him eat an egg,” Gretchen whined.

  “Give me an egg, then,” I said. “See if I care.”

  “Okay, you asked for it,” said Mom.

  Mom had just put the casserole dish in the oven when we heard a long, loud yell from the back garden. Grandpa had gone out to water his vegetables, but we could hear him marching up the steps. He burst into the kitchen.

  “Eric!” he bellowed. “Your dog has dug a gigantic hole in my carrot bed! If your mother ever wanted her lamb bone back, it’s now buried.”

  Before I could finish saying sorry, Grandpa said, “And that’s not all! You’d better get out there and give the dog a good wash.”

  “What’s happened?” asked Dad.

  “As well as destroying my carrots, he’s gotten into the compost pile, eaten those old fish heads we threw out the other day, and rolled in all that dirt as well.”

  “Out you go, Eric, and don’t come back till that dog smells as sweet as a newborn baby,” ordered Dad. I’m not so sure a newborn baby smells sweet, but I wasn’t about to argue with Dad. By the time I was in the back garden with Ugly’s leash, a bucket, dog shampoo, and a towel, Ugly had escaped under the house. Grandpa’s yells must have sent him hiding.

  I had to commando crawl under the house, attach Ugly’s leash to his collar, and drag him out. He smelled like something that had been dead for a year.

  • • •

  Because Ugly hates being washed, I had to tie him to the lemon tree so he couldn’t run away. I hosed him, shampooed him, hosed him, shampooed him again (because he still stank), and then hosed him a third time. By the end, especially after Ugly had given himself a huge shake, I was as wet as Ugly was. I toweled him dry, and Mom let him inside for his dinner.

  When we sat down for dinner, I kept as quiet as possible. Ugly lay under the table, his nose resting on Mom’s feet and his butt up near my feet. Nothing had changed. He’d been happy to take a huge lamb bone from me, bury it in Grandpa’s carrot patch, eat compost and roll in it, and then watch me get into trouble. Mom was still the one he loved.

  I was just dipping my toast into my boiled egg when Gretchen, who was sitting next to me, made a face and said, “Eccle, you smell disgusting!”

  “Does he?” asked Mom.

  “He’s farted,” said Gretchen.

  “I have not!”

  “Phew,” said Dad, swatting at the air in front of his nose. “Something’s powerful in here.”

  “Own up, Eccle. I know a fart when I smell one,” said Gretchen, leaning away from me.

  “Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.” Grandpa got up to open a window.

  By now, I could smell it too. I’ve been to the local garbage dump with Dad and Grandpa, and here, in this room, was a thick and putrid smell that reminded me of the garbage dump in a heat wave.

  “It’s you, Eccle!” said Gretchen again. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Abandon ship!” called Grandpa. He grabbed his dinner plate and left the room. Mom, Dad, and Gretchen did the same.

  “It’s Eccle’s very own chemical warfare,” said Gretchen as she slammed the door shut.

  I stayed behind, staring at my boiled egg in its eggcup. After a few moments, a fresh wave of stink swept around me. I lifted the tablecloth. The stink poured up at me. It was coming straight from Ugly’s butt. You can’t eat old fish heads and other rotting food and get away with it.

  I can’t say Ugly farted on purpose, but it’s just another example of how I get blamed for everything Ugly does. I’m seriously wondering if I should tell my family to give Ugly away.

  10

  “The compost and fish heads would have definitely made the farting worse,” said Milly.

  It was lunchtime the next day. Hugh, Milly, and I were under our pepper tree again. I’d been telling them about the night before and what Gretchen now called the “Emergency Evacuation.”

  “How come fish heads make it worse?” asked Hugh.

  “A completely meat diet added to stinky fish heads and old food scraps makes the foulest stink in the universe,” said Milly.

  “I wonder if a vegetarian fart would smell better?” I said.

  “Probably,” said Milly. “My uncle is a vegetarian. He says meat takes longer to digest. It rots in your body.”

  “Anyway, the bone-throwing method is now definitely ruled out,” I said.

  Milly crossed bone-throwing off our list. “Okay, don’t give up hope, Ec. We’ve still got hypnosis.”

  “Hypnosis is where you put someone to sleep and then talk them into believing what you want, right?” I asked.

  “Something like that,” said Milly.

  “It’s all about controlling the mind,” said Hugh. “I heard my big sister talking about it. The most successful people on Earth have mind control over themselves and other people.”

  “And dogs?” I asked.

  “Why not?” said Hugh.

  “How do you control a dog’s mind?” I asked.

  “Same as with a person. You get them relaxed and concentrating, and then you make positive suggestions to them,” said Hugh. “Deep, deep down, the person is listening and believing. Like you might say to someone who’s a smoker, Your lungs are black and disgusting and you’ll probably die by coughing up blood, so you’d better give up smoking and start exercising, and then they go and do what you say. With Ugly, you’d probably say, Obey me. Obey me. I’m your lord and master.”

  “But how exactly do you relax the person and make her concentrate?”

  “Well, a well-known way is to use a man’s pocket watch. Do you know what that is?”

  I did know. Grandpa had inherited his dad’s pocket watch. He kept it on his
bedside table. On special occasions, he would let me hold it. It was the size of a large, round sink plug, made out of shiny silver with fancy patterns carved into it. A long, silver chain was attached to the little knob on the top. If you wanted to know the time, you just pressed the little knob and the shiny front would click open. Under the cover was a clock. In the olden days, a man kept his watch in his waistcoat pocket, and the long chain would be attached to a button so he didn’t lose his precious watch.

  I loved being allowed to touch my great-grandfather’s pocket watch, but it didn’t make sense how such an old-fashioned thing would be used to hypnotize someone.

  “Do you make someone listen to the ticking?” asked Milly.

  “No,” said Hugh. “You hold the chain and swing the watch sideways, back and forth, back and forth, in front of the person’s face. You tell them to concentrate and you speak to them really calmly. You just do the same thing to Ugly. Easy as pie.”

  “Why is pie easy?” Milly asked.

  “Darned if know,” replied Hugh.

  “I think it might be an idiom,” I said. “It probably means that eating a pie is easy. But I’m not so sure that hypnotizing a dog will be as easy as you think.”

  11

  Step one to hypnotizing Ugly was getting Grandpa’s permission to use his watch for a while. It turned out to be surprisingly easy. I was allowed to play with it for half an hour on the condition that I didn’t take it out of the house.

  Next, I had to get Ugly into my bedroom. I couldn’t risk distractions like people barging in and out of a room. When I managed to get Ugly in there, I closed the door so he couldn’t escape.

  I thought the third step of my plan was clever. I put on calming music, but with no singing. It was a CD that Mom used for relaxation, one with sea and wind sounds to harp and flute music. I also gave Ugly some dog biscuits. I thought that if I needed food to think, Ugly probably needed food to concentrate too. After that, I gave Ugly a brush-down with a grooming brush. He liked that, except for the part on his tummy, near his back legs. When I brushed there, his back legs started moving. I think he was ticklish.