Rover and the Big Fat Baby
Page 1
For Amy and Casey
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Baa – Sorry, Chapter Two
Chapter Three – Which Has Two Important Things . . . But No Baby
Chapter Four
Chapter Five The Tale of Messi’s Tail
Chapter Six
A VERY SHORT HISTORY OF THE MACK FAMILY
A NOT-AS-SHORT-AS-I-THOUGHT-IT-WOULD-BE HISTORY OF THE MACK FAMILY II
Chapter Seven What Is It about Babies?
Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight – Again
Chapter Nine Is a Bit Annoyed about Being Interrupted by a Cream Cracker, so We’ll Move Straight on to –
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven Back to the Gigglers
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
OTHER WELL-KEPT SECRETS
The Return of Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen Back by Popular Demand!
Chapter Fifteen A Very Short Little Chapter
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen . . . Isn’t Over Yet
Chapter Eighteen
The Last Bit of Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
IMPORTANT INFORMATION
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One Robbie Remembers
Chapter Twenty-Two Education
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four Every Short Cut Leads to Poo
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven Is Sponsored by Bunny Tunnels
A Very Short Chapter That Doesn’t Even Seem to Be Part of the Book But Is
Chapter Twenty-Eight Is Probably the Last Chapter
About the Author
About the Illustrator
BRILLIANT
Chapter One
Rover was asleep.
But, really, he was only pretending to be asleep. He closed his eyes and snored and farted.
Hey, pal!
Yes, Rover?
Too much information there.
OK. Sorry, Rover. I’ll start again.
Rover was asleep.
But, really, he was only pretending to be asleep. Rover was actually awake.
Wide awake.
Because Rover never slept.
He liked to be sure that if anything happened, he’d know all about it. Sometimes Rover knew about things even before they happened.
It was early in the morning and Rover had been up all night, delivering poo.
Rover was a business dog. Probably the most successful business dog in Ireland. He was quite old. In fact, Rover was very old. He was more than a hundred years old in dog years. And even older in wasp years. He’d been a leading business dog for almost twenty human years.
But the thing was – Rover’s brain wasn’t old. His legs and his tail had slowed down but his brain hadn’t. His brain was wide awake and working twenty-four hours a day. So, Rover was still Ireland’s most successful business dog. Although there was a dog in Wicklow called Cindy who was doing very well too.
Cindy chased sheepdogs away from the sheep, because the sheep paid her to do it. Wicklow is full of mountains and the mountains are covered in sheep. There are more sheep than people in Wicklow. And this is the big secret: sheep are more intelligent than people.
Really?
Is that you, Rover?
No, the reader.
Oh, someone’s reading the book! How exciting!
Yeah, but, like, are sheep really brainier than people?
Yes.
Then how come they just stand on the sides of mountains and go, like, ‘Baa’?
Good question. They stand on the sides of mountains and go ‘Baa’ because they want to.
But that’s stupid.
Not really. Humans love to stand on the sides of mountains too. They pay lots of money to go all over the world, to countries like Peru and Canada, so they can climb up the sides of mountains and stand there. One of Rover’s owners, Billie Jean Fleetwood-Mack, had climbed mountains in Argentina, Kenya and even a tiny mountain in Holland.
Yeah, but she didn’t go ‘Baa’.
That’s true. But she wanted to. Years later, Billie Jean wished she’d gone, like, ‘Baa’.
Back to the story.
Chapter Baa – Sorry, Chapter Two
Rover had been up all night, delivering poo. It was summertime and summer is always a busy time for the Gigglers.
Who are the Gigglers?
That’s a good question. The Gigglers are small, furry creatures who look after kids and make sure that the grown-ups always treat them properly. But they do it so quietly that hardly anybody has ever seen them. The Gigglers hide themselves so well that hardly anybody knows that they even exist.
‘Oh, look, there’s a Giggler!’
‘What’s a Giggler?’
‘Eh – I don’t know.’
‘Then how do you know that you saw one?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then you probably didn’t see one.’
‘OK.’
‘What was it you probably didn’t see, again?’
‘I can’t remember.’
But just because the Gigglers are hardly ever seen doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Because they are. Wherever there is a child, there is a Giggler somewhere very near, looking after the child.
If an adult is mean to a child, he or she will get the Giggler Treatment. The Giggler Treatment is usually dog poo on the grown-up’s shoe or, because it’s summer in this story, the grown-up’s sandal.
Or flip-flop.
The Gigglers keep giving the adult the Giggler Treatment – that is, poo on the flip-flop – until the adult stops being mean to the child. And summer is like the Gigglers’ Christmas. Because the kids are home from school and they drive their parents and guardians and minders and everybody over the age of twenty-five mad.
‘You’re driving me mad!’
Those were the most popular words spoken in Ireland during the months of July and August.
‘You’re driving me mad!’
They were music to the fluffy ears of the Gigglers. And Rover liked them too. When Rover heard those words – ‘You’re driving me mad!’ – he sat back and thought, ‘You’re making me rich.’
The Gigglers needed a steady supply of top-quality poo and, as everybody knows, if you’re looking for poo, a dog is your only man. It’s quite amazing how much poo comes out of a dog. All dog lovers know this.
‘Will you look at that poo!’
‘What a dog! Good boy, Bonzo.’
Dogs are walking poo factories and they never shut down for the holidays. If the Gigglers needed poo, the dogs of Dublin were there to deliver. Or, more exactly, one dog in Dublin was there to deliver. And that dog was Rover.
Most dogs are eejits. That’s why we love them.
‘Oh, look at the way Bonzo ran into that tree!’
‘He’s gas.’
But Bonzo isn’t gas at all. He’s just a dope. He produced the poo but he hadn’t a clue what to do with it. He just left it on the path or in the garden, and carried on chasing a wasp or a bee or the shadow of his own tail. He had no idea how valuable that poo was.
But Rover did.
Rover looked at dog poo and saw money. The Gigglers needed a supply of dog poo. They weren’t dogs themselves and their own poo wasn’t suitable. In fact, Giggler poo wasn’t really poo at all. Because the Gigglers poo flowers.
No way.
It’s true. The Gigglers poo flowers. The next time you’re at a wedding and you see the bride walking up the aisle, carrying
a lovely bright bouquet of—
Giggler poo?
Exactly. Not all cut flowers are Giggler poo but some of them are. The point is, Giggler poo isn’t suitable for the Giggler Treatment because no grown-up is going to step on flowers and think they are being punished. So, the Gigglers needed a much pooier kind of poo.
Dog poo.
Correct. The Gigglers needed a steady and a large supply of dog poo during the summer. The kids were at home, driving everyone mad.
‘You’re driving me mad!’
‘Me too!’
‘You’re driving us mad!”
‘Me too!’
‘You’re driving everyone mad!!’
‘Us too!’
There were mad adults all over Dublin being mean to children, and the Gigglers were run off their little feet trying to keep up.
‘A dad is just after throwing his son’s ice cream out the car window,’ said the smallest Giggler.
‘Why?’ said the biggest Giggler.
‘The son said it wasn’t white enough.’
‘That’s no reason to throw it out the window.’
‘Giggler Treatment?’ the smallest asked.
‘Giggler Treatment,’ the biggest Giggler agreed. ‘Text the order to Rover.’
She watched the smaller Giggler’s fingers and thumbs thumping out the text on her gigPhone.
What’s a gigPhone?
Use your imagination.
OK.
The smaller Giggler read out the text before she sent it.
‘Seventeen poos, please, Rover. ASAP. And no hard ones. X.’
‘Very good,’ said the biggest Giggler.
‘Activate?’
‘Activate.’
‘I love this bit,’ said the smaller Giggler, and she pressed the ‘send’ button.
All the Gigglers went, ‘Whoooosh!’
Excuse me . . .
Yes?
What does ASAP mean?
I don’t have time to answer. But I will – as soon as possible. But now we have to dash on to a new chapter, to explain two very important things.
Is the Big Fat Baby one of the very important things?
No.
Chapter Three – Which Has Two Important Things . . . But No Baby
The first important thing was the time of year. It was summer, and people who own dogs know what the summer does to dog poo. The sun dries the poo and makes it hard. Even in Ireland, where the sun spends most its time hiding behind the clouds, the poo’s only out of the dog a few minutes and it’s already hard as a stone.
This was Rover’s problem. He had to deliver fresh poo to the Gigglers. It had to be soft and horrible. It had to be very bad news for the grown-up who stood on it. But in the summer the poo wasn’t fresh for very long. The Gigglers had just ordered seventeen dog poos. It was the middle of summer. So Rover had to be fast.
Rover needed help.
And this was the second important thing. Rover had help. He had an assistant. Batman had Robin, Shrek had Donkey, Sherlock Holmes had Watson. And Rover had Messi.
Messi was Rover’s nephew.
Do dogs really have nephews?
Yes, they do – sometimes. Rover had a sister called Doris, and Doris had a lot of puppies.
How many?
A lot. Loads. A big number. Dublin was full of Rover’s nieces and nephews. Rover loved them all but Messi was his favourite.
Why?
Good question. Messi was a very small dog but he was packed with questions and ideas and energy. And Rover loved that.
Why?
Because Messi reminded Rover of what Rover had been like when he was a pup.
How?
You’re asking more questions than Messi. Are you Messi?
No.
Then stay quiet, please. I’ve a story to write and you have a story to read.
Now there’s a third very important thing that I have to tell you about but it will have wait until the next chapter.
Is it about the Big Fat Baby?
No.
Chapter Four
Rover took off his reading glasses and put his phone back in the secret place where he always hid it. He had just read the latest text from the Gigglers.
‘Seventeen poos,’ he said. ‘Come on, Messi.’
‘Why, Uncle Rover?’ asked Messi.
‘We’ve got work to do.’
‘OK, Uncle Rover,’ said Messi. ‘Just let me finish this.’
The two dogs were in the shed in the Macks’ back garden. Rover used to live in the house next door. But he’d spent so much time with the Mack children – years before, when the children were little kids – that he’d moved into the Macks’ shed. He’d become the Macks’ dog. The Macks gave a box of biscuits to the neighbours, and the neighbours gave Rover to the Macks. Everyone was happy.
Hey, pal.
Yes, Rover?
They were chocolate biscuits.
Thanks, Rover.
Top of the range.
Thank you, Rover.
There was an old rug in the shed, and Messi’s toys. The shed was also the centre of Rover’s business empire.
Messi loved working with his Uncle Rover. But one thing annoyed him.
Mess.
The rug annoyed him because it was messy. It would never stay straight. It was dark brown and there were red tassels, just like long pieces of red wool, along two of its sides. And the long pieces of wool wouldn’t stay in the right place for Messi. He spent hours trying to get all the wool bits to stay perfectly straight. He spent most of his life, all six months of it, running around the rug, trying to make crooked things behave like straight things. Because Messi was a very tidy pup.
‘Come on, Messi,’ said Rover. ‘We have to go.’
‘Nearly done, Uncle Rover,’ said Messi. ‘Oh, no.’
There were 502 tassels attached to the sides of the rug, and one of them – just one of them – was sticking up. But it shouldn’t have been sticking up. Wool wasn’t supposed to stick up in the air and annoy a little dog. But it did.
Messi fell over.
And that is the third important thing you need to know.
Messi had a tail.
Chapter Five
The Tale of Messi’s Tail
Messi’s tail was very—
Excuse me . . .
Yes?
Why did Rover hide his phone?
Good question – sort of. Have you ever seen a dog with a phone?
No.
And what would you do if you ever saw a dog talking into a phone?
I’d go, ‘Holy cow, there’s a dog with a better phone than mine, like.’
So, a dog using a phone is not something you would ever expect to see. If Rover was seen with his phone it would give the game away. Am I right?
Yes. I suppose so.
Can we move on with the story?
Yes, please.
Good – great. Off we go. Young Messi’s tail was very long and the rest of Messi was very small. Really, Messi’s tail was way too big for him. And nearly every time he wagged it, he fell over. Dogs wag their tails when they’re happy and excited, and Messi was a happy dog and he was often very excited, even when he was annoyed. Messi really loved being annoyed. So he fell over quite a lot.
Like now.
Messi fell over just when Rover was trying to get him out of the shed. It was a lovely day out there and the sun was baking the poo. If they didn’t hurry up, the poo would be so hard the Gigglers would claim that it wasn’t poo at all and that Rover was trying to sell them stones. The Gigglers paid a euro for every poo but only if they were happy that it really was poo and not rocks pretending to be poo.
Excuse me . . .
Yes?
I am a rock.
Oh.
And I have never pretended to be a poo. And I think I speak on behalf of all rocks when I say that no rock has ever claimed to be a poo. We demand an apology.
Sorry.
A written apol
ogy.
It is written.
Oh yes, so it is. Carry on with the story. But hurry up. Or I’ll throw myself through your granny’s kitchen window.
Rover was in a hurry.
Messi stood up – and fell over again.
‘Sorry, Uncle Rover.’
‘Ah now, Messi,’ said Rover.
Rover loved Messi. He loved teaching Messi all the tricks – how to be a top-class dog and how to become a top-secret business dog. One day soon, Messi was going to take over the business. But the kid’s tail was getting in the way. For such a tidy dog, Messi’s tail was very untidy.
Messi stood up – and stayed up.
‘Good man, Messi,’ said Rover. ‘Now. Are you a tail with a dog or a dog with a tail?’
Messi thought about this.
‘I’m a dog with a tail,’ said Messi.
‘Good man,’ said Rover. ‘And who’s in charge? You or the tail?’
‘Me,’ said Messi.
‘That’s the right answer,’ said Rover.
And Messi fell over. He always did when his Uncle Rover told him he was right.
‘So,’ said Rover. ‘How are we going to make that tail of yours behave?’
‘Don’t know, Uncle Rover. How?’
‘Well, here’s an idea,’ said Rover. ‘Whenever you know your tail is going to wag, think of something you don’t like. Does that make sense, Messi?’
‘Yes,’ said Messi. ‘That’s a great idea, Uncle Rover.’
Rover grabbed Messi’s tail, so Messi wouldn’t collapse.
‘So, what’ll you think about?’ asked Rover.
‘Messy things,’ said Messi. ‘I don’t like messy things.’
‘OK,’ said Rover. ‘Let’s give it try. Here we go. Ready?’
‘Yes,’ said Messi.
‘Good man,’ said Rover. ‘Let’s go, Messi! Time waits for no dog. Let’s go trap some poo!’
And Messi stayed upright. Rover watched Messi’s super-serious face as he thought about mess and stopped his tail from wagging. It was an impressive sight. All that effort – it made Rover tired just looking at him. Messi was still up on his four little legs. Now they could go to work.