by Duncan Ball
On the day of the garden party, Selby climbed into a bush in the backyard to listen to Jetty’s talk.
“This is the moment I’ve been waiting for,” he thought, “the moment when — for the first time in her life — Aunt Jetty doesn’t get what she wants. Oh boy! I can’t wait!”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Friends of Furry and Fishy Animals,” Aunt Jetty began. “Let’s be frank. I want money for an expedition to collect animals but you think I’m not able to brave the hardships of the African bush. That’s a big load of rubbish!”
There was a murmur from the audience followed by a lot of whispering.
“I want to tell you,” Jetty boomed, slamming her walking-stick on the table so hard that the table broke in two, “that I’m as fit as I was when I was twenty — and when I was twenty I could wrestle a five metre croc and come away smiling.”
Suddenly Selby heard a distant sound that was something like whump-whizzang! followed by a long whistling noise.
“My goodness,” he thought. “That sounds curiously like the sound of an airborne snail.”
The snail bounced on the ground and Mrs Trifle jumped out of her chair and hid it before Aunt Jetty could see it. Just then there was another whump-whizzang! followed by a whole bunch of whumps! and dozens of whizzangs! and Mrs Trifle raced around the yard frantically gathering up falling snails and hiding them in her handbag.
“Excuse me, dear,” she whispered to Dr Trifle, “but what did you do with the other Snail Slingers you made? The ones you were going to give to the neighbours to test out.”
“I gave them to all the neighbours to test out,” Dr Trifle said, ducking another flying snail. “Ooooops! I can see now that that may have been a bit of a mistake.”
All at once the air was filled with whump-whizzangs! and the sound of whizzing snails raining down on the Friends of Furry and Fishy Animals like gooey hailstones.
“What is going on here?” Aunt Jetty said, looking up and seeing that the sky was black with snails."What are those —?”
Suddenly something in Aunt Jetty snapped.
“Head hunters!” she screamed, grabbing a man who tried to run past her and knocking him to the ground with her walking-stick. “I’m surrounded by head hunters!”
“She’s flipped her wig!” Selby thought as Aunt Jetty waded into the crowd, picking people up at random and throwing them around like so many rag dolls. “She’s done her lolly! And, furthermore, she’s ruined her chances of getting money out of this mob! This is great!”
In a few minutes the snail-rain had slowed to a trickle and the ladies and gentlemen of the FFFA who hadn’t followed the Trifles into the house lay groaning on the ground.
“What happened?” Jetty asked as she staggered around in a circle, slowly coming to her senses. “Have I beaten back the attack?”
“Don’t hit me!” cried the president of the Friends of Furry and Fishy Animals through two black eyes. “You proved your point! Here!” he said, quickly scribbling out a cheque. “Take the money and go off to Africa. Don’t wait till morning, go now!”
“I’m not sure that you’d call that charming them,” Selby thought as he scurried out from under the bush and into the garage. “Dr Trifle was certainly right when he said she had other methods of persuasion.”
SELBY’S SELLING SPREE
“Selby’s been chosen to do that TV commercial!” Mrs Trifle said, reading the letter that had just arrived.
“I wonder why they chose Selby out of all those pedigree dogs they saw?” Dr Trifle asked.
“Maybe because I was the smartest, handsomest dog of them all,” Selby thought as he grabbed a Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuit from his bowl and remembered how impressed they were when he stood on his hind legs, barked, jumped through a hoop and did all the other silly things they asked him to do.
“They say they chose him because he looks so average,” Mrs Trifle answered. “Sort of a dog-next-door kind of mongrel.”
“'Dog-next-door?’ Charming,” Selby thought as he gagged on the dog biscuit. “I guess I’ll have to show them a thing or two. When I finish with that ad it’s going to be so great that they’ll sell squillions of dollars of whatever it is they’re advertising. Hmmmmmm, I wonder what the ad is for.”
The next day Mrs Trifle drove to the studio in the city with Selby. Inside the huge room was a set that looked just like a kitchen. There were bright lights, TV cameras and people dashing everywhere.
“Thank goodness you’re here, we’re ready to go,” the director said to Mrs Trifle, patting Selby on the head as if he was bouncing a basketball. “And aren’t you a perfect little doggie. You’re just the sort of homely mutt we need. I only hope he likes Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits because that’s what the ad is for.”
“Oh, no!” Selby thought. “Of all the products in the world, why does it have to be Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits! I want to do an ad for super-expensive soap. I could lie in one of those enormous bathtubs with a telephone next to it. I could brush my teeth till they sparkle. Why can’t I drive a car over rocky mountain roads? Why can’t I fly on Happytime Airlines and have a friendly stewardess fluff up my pillow and give me one of those cute little airline meals? Why oh why does it have to be an ad for Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits?!”
“He loves them,” Mrs Trifle said. “He eats them all the time at home.”
“And will he come when he’s called?” the director asked.
“Will I come when I’m called?” Selby thought. “The man thinks I’m a mental midget.”
“I think so,” Mrs Trifle answered. “If you’re polite about it, that is.”
“Well it doesn’t matter. If he can’t handle it, we’ve got another dog in the wings we can use,” the director said. “Sort of an understudy — or should I say an underdog.“
“Very funny,” Selby thought."I can handle it. Now stop batting your gums and let’s get the show on the road.”
“The only person in the ad is the actor, Tim Trembly,” the director said. “I’m sure you know him from his films. As a matter of fact,” he said, lowering his voice, “we’re a bit worried about Tim. He hasn’t acted for many years and he’s a bit nervous. He’d like to get back into acting and he knows if this ad comes out well he’ll be offered lots of acting work. It’s very important to him.”
“I remember his films from when I was a girl,” Mrs Trifle said. “He had such a beautiful voice. All my friends were secretly in love with him.”
“Tim!” the director called out, motioning to the silver-haired actor who stood nervously holding a cup of tea. “Come and meet Mrs Trifle, Tim!”
“Tim Trembly! What a wonderful actor!” Selby thought as he watched the old actor walk across the studio floor, tripping on cables as he went. “He hasn’t acted since that film that everyone hated, A Dry Month at Dog Bay. I thought it was okay.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the director said to Tim. “First you open the door and call out, Here boy! Then the dog comes racing into the kitchen and starts eating the biscuits. You kneel down and pat him and say, My dog knows good dog biscuits when he sees them. If he could talk he’d say, Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits are for me. Got it?”
“I think so,” Tim Trembly said. “It’s just that I’m a little n-n-nervous. So please be patient with me.”
“You’ll be right,” the director said. “Now let’s get rolling.”
Mrs Trifle led Selby out the back door to the kitchen as the camera operators moved the cameras. There was silence for a moment and then …
“Here, boy!” Tim called out.
“Wow! How exciting!” Selby thought, as he pranced in the open door. “Now to show them some real acting.”
Selby walked towards the bowl of dog biscuits, stopping for a fraction of a second, looking around casually and then turning his head slightly to let the camera see his better side. Then, with a flick of his eyes towards the camera he reached down and started delicately chewing the corner of a dog biscuit.
“My goo
dness!” he heard the director whisper. “It almost looks like he’s acting! He’s perfect!”
“If he could talk,” Tim went on, “he’d say …
The camera moved in on Selby’s face and everyone waited anxiously for Tim Trembly to finish his line.
“Cut!” the director yelled finally. “What’s wrong? Just say, Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits are for me.“
“I remembered the line,” Tim said. “But I just couldn’t say it. It sort of stuck in my throat, if you know what I mean. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Again and again Selby pranced into the kitchen and Tim Trembly began speaking his lines in his beautiful flowing voice. And again and again Tim stopped dead just before his final line.
“Poor Tim,” Selby thought as he glanced up and saw the actor’s trembling face. “If only they knew I could talk, I could say his last line myself.”
“Cut!” the director yelled. “Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits are for me. It’s simple. Just say it, Tim. We haven’t much time left.”
“I’m sorry,"Tim Trembly said, close to tears. “I’ll try it again.”
This time Selby gave it everything he could. He even grabbed a biscuit in his lips and then threw it in the air, catching it squarely in his mouth. But again the old actor got to the last line and stopped.
“I know what’s wrong!” Selby thought. “He’ll never be able to say that line. Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits are for me sounds too much like the name of his disastrous movie, A Dry Month at Dog Bay. The film was such a terrible experience for him that now he’s got a mental block and he can’t say anything that even sounds like the title.”
Suddenly, as Selby chewed his way through another biscuit, a devilish thought crossed his mind. Then, just when Tim came to his line and struggled to say the words, just when the director was about to yell, Cut!, there came a clear flowing Tim Trembly-like voice that said: “Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits are for me.“
“Fantastic!” yelled the director. “It’s a wrap! Tim, you were great! When they see this ad the world will beat a path to your door — and we’ll sell a million dog biscuits. I knew you could do it!”
“That was odd,” the camera operator said. “Tim’s voice was great but his lips hardly moved at all.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the director said. “No one will notice. The camera was on the dog.”
“But — but — but,” the bewildered actor said."I don’t think I said anything.”
“Either you said it or that dog’s a ventriloquist,” the director laughed.
“And quite a good one too,” Selby thought as he grabbed the pay packet that Mrs Trifle had forgetfully left on the counter and followed her to the car.
HIGH TIME
“That dog talks,"Aunt Jetty’s dreadful son, Willy, announced, pointing at Selby who was curled up on a newspaper, secretly reading it. “He talked to me last year and he tricked me into jumping into a pavlova.”
“Very interesting,” said Mrs Trifle, not believing a word of it and putting the pavlova she’d just made on the kitchen bench.
“I’ll get him back for that,” Willy said, shaking his fist.
“Now, now, Willy,” Mrs Trifle said, picking up the keys to her car. “You be good to Selby while I’m out at the shops. And don’t touch this pavlova. I made it for the school fete tomorrow. Just play with your toys and I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“My toys!” Willy said, emptying his suitcase on the carpet. “Look at this, Aunty! I have my Chief Silver Arrow bow and arrow set and my Top Cop hitting-people stick and handcuffs and my Jungle James lion net and my people-shooter catapult! I shot my brother Billy over the house and into the swimming pool with the catapult. It was really fun. Not much fun for Billy, but …” Willy said. “There wasn’t any water in the pool. Ha ha ha ha ha!”
“You be good,” Mrs Trifle said firmly as she closed the door behind her.
“That kid has more weapons than the army,” Selby thought as he ran for the back door. “Luckily his tiny brain is no match for the superior brain of a thinking, feeling dog — namely mine.”
Selby slowed down for a fraction of a second and in that instant an arrow with a wire attached swished in front of him and stuck in the wall. Selby leaped forward but the wire caught him in the throat and he bounced back gasping for breath.
“Not so fast, doggie,” Willy said as he closed and locked the back door. “I’m gonna make you talk.”
Selby jumped to his feet and ran down the hallway towards the open bedroom window but just before he rounded the corner, Willy’s lion net caught him and he crashed to the floor in a terrible tangle.
“Now then,” Willy said as he clamped the handcuffs on Selby’s paws and carried him back to the lounge room, “talk to Willy.”
“I wouldn’t talk to you if you were the last brat in the world,” Selby thought. “You can even torture me and I won’t talk. Gulp. Torture? What am I saying?”
“If you don’t talk,” Willy said. “I’m going to shoot you out the window with my catapult.”
Selby watched as Willy put together the catapult, twisting together pieces of steel pipe and bolting it all to a wooden frame.
“The kid’s a maniac!” Selby thought as he struggled to get his paws out of the handcuffs. “That thing could kill me!”
“Oh, goody goody,” Willy squealed as he cranked back the giant spring. “I’ve always wanted to see a flying dog!”
Selby worked his paws back and forth in the handcuffs as the seat on the launching arm of the catapult came way down until it touched the floor.
“Now I’m gonna open the window,” Willy said, jumping up on the kitchen bench and almost landing in Mrs Trifle’s pavlova as he opened the kitchen window, “and plonk you onto the seat. Then all I have to do is pull the lever and whissssh!”
“Mrs Trifle should be back by now!” Selby thought as he wiggled his paws halfway out of the handcuffs."Where is she?”
“Okay doggie,” Willy said, standing between Selby and the catapult. “Last chance: talk or fly. Ha ha ha he he.”
Selby’s whole life flashed in front of him. He remembered when he was an ordinary little barking dog, playing on the Trifle’s carpet. He remembered the moment he realised he could understand people-talk. And he remembered the day he knew he had to keep his talking a secret even if it killed him. Even if it killed him?
“No, no, not that!” he thought. “My paws are almost free. My only chance is to stall him for a second …”
Willy lifted Selby towards the seat.
“Okay, okay, I can talk!” Selby blurted out. “Now let me go!”
“Yiiiipppppeeeeee!” Willy screamed. “I’ll let you go — right out the window!”
“But you promised you wouldn’t!” Selby shouted.
“I had my fingers crossed,” Willy giggled. “The joke’s on you!”
Somewhere back in Selby’s throat a rumbling grew to a gurgle and then a burble and a croak. His face reddened and his mouth opened and out came a blood-curdling scream that sounded something like aaaaaaaarrrrrgggggg!
Willy threw his arms up in the air at the sight of the screaming dog and fell backwards on the seat of the catapult.
What happened next is uncertain. Did Selby knock against the firing lever of the catapult as he fell? Or did he reach out and pull it when he hit the ground? Even he doesn’t know. What is sure is that in one fleeting second, just as Mrs Trifle came in the door, Willy, with terror in his eyes, flew through the air and landed just short of the kitchen window — smack in the pavlova.
“I can’t believe it!” Mrs Trifle screamed. “The kid jumped into another pavlova!”
“It’s all Selby’s fault,” Willy bawled, wiping the pavlova out of his eyes. “He screamed at me!”
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs Trifle said. “Dogs can’t scream.”
“He did! — and he talked too!"Willy cried.
“Sorry, brat,” Selby thought as he got his paws out of the handcuffs and headed off for
his afternoon walk, “but nobody’s ever going to believe a story like that.”
BOMBS AWAY!
Slowly, as Selby watched the thirteenth and final episode of the TV show, Inspector Quigley’s Casebook on video, he felt himself change. Now he was Inspector Selby, the super-cool detective, the quiet investigator who could tell everything about a person just from looking at their shoes, the dog who could solve the toughest crime in his tea-break.Then a faint noise woke him from his daydream.
“I do deduce,” Selby said, wagging his paw in the air the way Inspector Quigley wagged his finger when he deduced something, “that that splonk sound was the postman — none other than Postie Paterson — leaving an article of mail on our doorstep. I further deduce,” Selby went on, using his favourite Quigley-type words, “that it is a parcel for Mrs Trifle. Even without seeing it I judge the contents of said parcel to be cheesecloth for straining apples to make apple jelly. How do you know this?” he asked himself. “Simple, my dear Selby. The other day I was privy to a telephone conversation between Mrs Trifle and Healthnut Mail Order Supplies in which she ordered the cloth. I remember it well because she had to shout due to a bad telephone connection. And now I shall see if my deductive reasoning was on target,” Selby said, dashing to the door and picking up a package addressed to Mrs Trifle. “Spot on,” he said, feeling very proud of himself. “Hmmmmmm. It certainly is heavy for a piece of cheesecloth. And there’s something else that’s strange — it’s ticking.”
Selby put the package back on the step and calmly closed the door.
“Hmmmmmm. Ticking, eh?” he said, scratching his chin the way Inspector Quigley did. “Very curious.”
Then he remembered the package that mysteriously appeared in the episode of Inspector Quigley’s Casebook called, The Case of the Mail Order Massacre.
