Werepuppy and the Werepuppy on Holiday

by Jacqueline Wilson

  Wolfie went scampering across the kitchen and straight out the door.

  ‘Come back!’ Micky shouted, picking himself up and starting to run.

  Wolfie stayed. There was a sudden savage growl and a heavy thud as Wolfie pounced on something.

  ‘Oh goodness,’ said Micky, charging into the living-room.

  Wolfie was violently attacking a large sheep, going straight for its throat. He growled excitedly but the sheep didn’t even emit one baa. Micky blinked and realised it was only the furry hearth-rug. He breathed a shuddering sigh of relief – and then gasped again as Wolfie ripped the rug into ribbons.

  ‘No! Stop it, you awful animal! That’s Mum’s and she’ll be so cross. She’ll send you back to that shelter, you silly dog. Oh please, Wolfie, do try to see sense.’

  The moon suddenly went behind the clouds again. Wolfie couldn’t see anything, let alone sense. He coughed in a confused manner. Micky felt his way to the wall and switched on the light. The hearth-rug was in shreds. Wolfie whimpered amongst the strands of wool, furry balls caught in his sharp little claws. His fur was dark grey again, although covered in a positive cardi of white wool. His eyes had lost their golden glint. They were a clear amber and they clouded with fear as Micky marched up to him.

  ‘Yes, you’ve been very very bad,’ said Micky. ‘But don’t look so worried. I know you couldn’t help it. Not really, anyway. But you’re going to have to learn somehow or other. Now, how about helping me clear up some of this mess, eh?’

  Wolfle trotted about as helpfully as he could, but he simply trod milk and sugar all over the carpet and spread the woolly balls back into the kitchen. Micky wasn’tmuch more successful either, though he did as much mopping and sweeping as he could. He was tired out by the time he’d finished trying to set the rooms to rights.

  ‘It’s bedtime now. You in your bed here. Me in mine upstairs,’ said Micky.

  Wolfie shook his head determinedly. He leant against Micky, whimpering winningly.

  ‘You can’t come upstairs with me. Mum’s going to kill me as it is,’ said Micky. ‘So it looks as if I’ll have to snuggle up somehow with you, Wolfie, doesn’t it?’

  Micky climbed resolutely inside the cardboard box, hunching up on the blanket, his knees digging into his chin. Wolfie jumped in readily enough, panting happily.

  ‘Don’tbreathe rightin my face, Wolfie, it tickles,’ said Micky.

  Wolfie licked instead.

  ‘Old slobbery! Now come on, we’ve got to go to sleep,’ said Micky, glancing up at the window, hoping the moon stayed well hidden. He put his arms firmly round Wolfie and they both shut their eyes and went to sleep at last.

  7…

  They were woken by Mum’s screams in the living-room when she came downstairs in the morning and saw the shredded state of her hearth-rug.

  Micky crawled out of the cardboard box. Wolfie bounced out, not in the least concerned.

  ‘Micky!’ Mum shrieked.

  ‘We’re in here, Mum,’ Micky mumbled.

  Mum came rushing into the kitchen. She pulled up short when she saw the state it was in. She went as white as the spilled milk.

  ‘I’m dreaming,’ she croaked. ‘Please let me be dreaming. First my lovely hearth-rug — ’

  ‘Perhaps we could sew it together again?’ Micky suggested in a small voice.

  ‘Ha! And now look at this chaos! Tell me this is all a terrible nightmare and any minute I’m going to wake up and find we never took that wicked grey mutt into our house. Take him out of my sight, Micky, before I lose all control and shove him in a saucepan and serve scrambled dog for breakfast.’

  ‘Yes, Mum. Sorry, Mum. And Wolfie’s sorry too,’ said Micky, trying to grab hold of him.

  ‘Oh yes, he looks sorry, doesn’t he? He’s running around with a great grin on his face,’ said Mum. ‘Micky? Why are you all bent over? What’s happened to your back and your legs? Micky, I think I’d better call the doctor.’ Mum’s voice was starting to get shrill.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. I’m just a bit stiff. I spent the night curled up with Wolfie, you see.’

  ‘I told you not to take him into your bed!’ Mum shouted, her concern congealing.

  ‘I didn’t!’ said Micky indignantly, lumbering about. ‘I slept in Wolfie’s bed. You didn’t ever forbid me to do that. So it seemed like a good idea. At the time.’

  ‘Oh, Micky. You silly litde boy. You slept the entire night in a cardboard box?’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, some of the time I was awake.’

  ‘Micky! Go and have a hot bath this minute. That’ll ease some of the stiffness. And you’d better bath that bad puppy too, look at him, he’s rolling in the milk! Go on, both of you. Shoo!’

  The bent-over boy and the milkshake puppy disappeared. They returned in half an hour, upright and thoroughly scrubbed, surrounded by several aggravated sisters.

  ‘Mum, it’snotfair, itwas my turn in the bathroom and Micky hogged it, and then when they came out at last Meryl jumped in front of me!’

  ‘And I wish I hadn’t because there were foul grey dog hairs all over the bath. Mum, he mustn’t ever take that puppy in the bath like that, it’s positively disgusting and we’ll probably all end up with rabies.’

  ‘I think I’ve got rabies already. My bite’s still ever so sore. I think that stupid puppy should be put to sleep.’

  ‘I wish he’d slept a bit last night. All that scrabbling and howling! Couldn’t you shut him up, Micky?’

  ‘You can all shut up for the moment and eat some breakfast,’ said Mum. ‘Come on, you’re all going to be late for school.’

  Dad was rushing round too, in his suit and his socks. He was holding one shoe in his hand and he looked distracted.

  ‘Why don’t you put your shoes on, dear?’ said Mum.

  ‘How can I put my wretched shoes on when that daft dog’s chewed this one to a pulp?’ Dad shouted. ‘What are you playing at, Micky? I thought you could keep him under control?’

  ‘Sorry, Dad. I think he’s teething.’

  ‘Well, I hope he’s not getting any more teeth,’ said Dad. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Um. He was here just a minute ago,’ said Micky.

  ‘You’ve got to keep your eye on him!’ said Dad.

  Micky heard a proud little woof out in the hall. He ran to investigate. The morning paper was on the doormat. And Wolfie had performed right on top of it.

  ‘My paper!’ Dad bellowed.

  ‘Well, you told him what to do, Dad. He’s only trying to do as he’s told. He’s not to know it’s the newspaper that you haven’t read yet,’ said Micky.

  ‘Don’t you take that tone of voice with me, Mr Smarty-Pants,’ said Dad, and he brandished the chewed shoe as if he was going to use it to spank Micky.

  Wolfie growled. Micky caught his breath. But then he looked Dad straight in the eyes and saw he wasn’t being serious. Micky laughed, a little too loudly. Wolfie barked. And Dad gave them both a pat on the head and went off to work in his chewed shoe, minus his newspaper.

  Meryl and Mandy and Mona went to school, some of them still unwashed. And Mum took Micky and Marigold to school.

  ‘ButwhataboutWolfie?’ Micky said. ‘Oh, Mum, I don’t think I can go to school. Not just yet. Not till Wolfie’s a bit bigger.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Micky. I’ll lookafter him foryou.’

  ‘Actually, Mum, I don’t feel very well. I still feel stiff. Ever so. I don’t think I’ll be able to put my head up to see the blackboard. Maybe I’d better stay home just for today,’ said Micky, contorting himself into a weird hunch.

  ‘Micky! Stop playing up. Run into school now. Don’t forget your moon picture for Miss Monk.’

  Micky gave Wolfie many passionate hugs and kisses. Wolfie nuzzled him pathetically, whimpering.

  ‘Oh, Mum! I can’t go. Wolfie needs me!’

  Micky found that he needed Wolfie too. He felt so little and lost without him. He kept reaching out for Wolfie and then finding he was patti
ng thin air. Darren and his gang were at school early, swaggering about the playground. Micky dodged behind a clump of little kids, but they spotted him.

  ‘Ooh, what’s that Micky Mouse has got in his lily-white little hand?’ Darren shouted. ‘A pretty picture for Old Monkey Face, eh?’

  ‘Miss Monk,’ said Micky. He hated that stupid nickname. Miss Monk had a positively beautiful face anyway.

  ‘Ooooh, it’s Miss Monk, is it,’ said Darren, imitating Micky’s voice, making him sound niminy piminy and prim.

  ‘You shut up,’ said Micky, in a very small voice.

  Darren burst out laughing. He swaggered up to Micky, curled his fingers up, and flicked his finger hard against Micky’s nose.

  ‘You going to make me shut up, eh?’ said Darren.

  Micky blinked. His nose stung badly. He hoped his eyes weren’t going to water.

  Darren’s gang were all circling round, flicking at him too. Someone’s hard finger prodded his back. Someone’s nail scratched his neck. Micky whirled round, ducking and dodging. Darren snatched his picture from his flailing hand.

  ‘What a load of rubbish,’ he said, and he rolled the picture up into a tube and hit Micky on the head with it.

  Micky gave a little squeak. Darren and his gang laughed. One of them gave him a push. Then another. Micky staggered a bit. It looked as if there might be a fight. And Micky certainly wasn’t going to win.

  ‘What are you boys up to?’

  It was Miss Monk, scurrying across the playground, her long black hair bobbing about her shoulders, the skirts of her flowery blue frock flying out.

  ‘Nothing, miss,’ said Darren quickly.

  ‘What’s going on, Micky?’ said Miss Monk.

  ‘Nothing, miss,’ said Micky too. He wasn’t daft enough to tell tales, or Darren and his gang would tear his head off his shoulders after school.

  ‘It looked like Something to me, not Nothing,’ said Miss Monk. She reached for the rolled up picture, and swiftly tapped Darren on the head with it.

  ‘Silly little boy,’ she said scathingly.

  Darren went red, and some of the children in the playground nudged each other and giggled.

  ‘Now go and stand in line. The bell’s going to go any minute,’ said Miss Monk. She unrolled the picture, and stood looking at it.

  ‘We’ll get you for this,’ Darren whispered to Micky, and then he ran off with his gang.

  Micky’s stomach squeezed into a tight little ball. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t told on them. What were they going to do to him? Oh help.

  ‘This is a wonderful picture, Micky,’ said Miss Monk, smiling at him.

  Micky smiled back tentatively, almost forgetting about Darren.

  ‘It got a bit mucked up, miss,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I think it looks lovely. I particularly like the moon craters,’ said Miss Monk, and she pointed to the pawprints. ‘And this shading is very effective to show the uneven surface.’

  ‘It’s more slurp than shading, miss,’ said Micky.

  ‘A slurp?’ said Miss Monk, laughing. ‘So who was licking your picture, Micky? Your little sister Marigold?’

  ‘No, miss,’ said Micky, giggling. ‘No, it’s my new puppy, Wolfie.’

  ‘You’ve got a puppy! Oh, that’s lovely for you. I am glad. You’ve called him Wolfie? That sounds a bit savage! He’s not a baby werewolf, is he?’

  ‘Well…’said Micky.

  Miss Monk mistook his hesitation.

  ‘Micky, you do know there’s really no such thing as werewolves, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not so sure, miss,’ said Micky.

  ‘I know I said the other day that I was a bit frightened of werewolves – but I was really just joking,’ said Miss Monk.

  ‘Oh, I know, miss. It’s OK I’m not a bitfrightened of werewolves now,’ said Micky, smiling up at her.

  Then the bell rang and they had to go into school. Miss Monk pinned Micky’s picture up on the wall, which pleased Micky a lot. Lessons weren’t too bad either, and Micky might have relaxed and enjoyed himself if it hadn’t been for Darren and his gang. They kept giving him meaningful glares. Micky started to dread the thought of lunch-time, when they might Get Him.

  He scooted out ahead of the.others and tried lurking by the steps, where the girls played. Marigold and her awful little friends were there, galloping up and down the steps pretending to be My Litde Ponies, prancing and tossing their manes and pointing their hooves, but even their company was preferable to Darren and his gang.

  Marigold didn’t bother to greet Micky, but several of her friends giggled and did a quick change from pony to dog. ‘Woofy-woofy-woof,’ they chanted, paws up, barking in Micky’s face.

  ‘Silly twits,’ said Micky, and he bared his teeth. ‘Bitey-bitey-bite,’ he said, snapping at Marigold’s sore finger.

  Marigold went red. The other girls giggled uncertainly, looking baffled.

  ‘We don’t want to play with my boring old brother,’ said Marigold. ‘Come on, we’re all ponies and we’ve got to go in our stables now.’

  They all galloped off towards the girls’ toilets.

  ‘Barmy lot,’ said one of the girls in the top class.

  ‘Not half,’ said Micky.

  She had a pocket chess set and started playing a game with one of the top class big boys. They didn’t seem to mind Micky hanging around. The big boy was called Stuart and he had glasses and a lot of freckles. Micky was on his side, and he was pleased when he won. They began another game, and this time Stuart started telling Micky the names of all the chess pieces and showing him the moves they could make.

  ‘Look, I can capture the White Queen now,’ said Stuart.

  ‘Well done,’ said Micky, clapping Stuart on the back. Then he looked up and saw Darren and his gang approaching rapidly.

  ‘There he is!’ they shouted.

  Micky swallowed. It looked like the Pink Boy’s turn to be captured.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he gabbled to Stuart.

  ‘OK. See you tomorrow lunchtime, eh? I’ll teach you how to play properly if you like,’ said Stuart.

  ‘Great,’ said Micky, and then he was up and running, with Darren and die gang baying at his heels.

  He dodged round the little clumps of children, making for the toilets, hoping he could get inside a cubicle and lock himself in. He collided with Marigold and her friends trotting out of the girls’ toilets.

  ‘There’s Woofy-woofy-woof,’ said one of them half-heartedly.

  ‘Woofy-woofy-woof?’ said Darren. ‘Why do you keep calling him that?’

  ‘Because he’s scared of dogs,’ she said.

  ‘Scared of dogs!’ said Darren, and he roared delightedly. ‘Hear that, gang? Old Micky Mouse is scared of dogs.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ said Micky.

  ‘Scared of little doggie-woggies?’ said Darren, and he started growling and showing his teeth. ‘Woofy-woofy-woof,’ he went, copying the little girls.

  ‘I’m not scared,’ said Micky desperately.

  ‘Cowardy little wimp. What sort of dogs you scared of, eh? Bet you’re even scared of poxy old poodles and pekes. My dad’s got a pit bull terrier and I’m not even scared of that, see,’ said Darren. ‘I’m not scared of anything.’

  ‘I am,’ said Micky. ‘But not dogs.’

  ‘Liar,’ said Darren, and he caught hold of Micky and flicked his nose again. ‘Let’s get him, gang.’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Marigold’s friends.

  But Marigold stayed where she was. ‘You leave my brother alone, you big bully,’ she shouted. ‘He’s not scared of dogs, not any more.’

  ‘Shut your face, Curly-nob,’ said Darren, and he pushed Marigold out of the way.

  It was a hard push and Marigold was still poised on tip-toe, being a pony. She was knocked off balance and fell back onto her bottom.

  There was a roaring sound inside Micky’s h
ead. He prickled all over. He clenched his teeth.

  ‘Don’t push my sister around,’ he said, and he punched Darren right in the nose.

  It was only a very feeble punch, but Darren narrowed his eyes in fury and took aim. Micky saw Darren’s huge bunched fist flying through the air towards him. But then there was a great howl and a growl and Wolfie came jumping right over the playground fence, rushing towards them, ears back, eyes gleaming, teeth snapping.

  Darren’sfistfroze in mid-air. His mouth opened.

  ‘Help!’ he squeaked. ‘He’s coming for me!’

  Darren was right Wolfie practically flew through the air, snapping and slathering, aimed like a great grey dart at Darren’s thick throat.

  ‘A mad dog!’

  ‘Get help!’

  ‘It’s going to get Darren!’

  Darren burst into tears like a big baby.

  ‘Help me, help me, help me,’ he burbled.

  ‘OK,’ said Micky. ‘Here, Wolfie. Good boy. Come here, pal.’

  He snapped his fingers – and Wolfie swerved at the last minute and leapt up at Micky instead. He jumped into Micky’s arms and licked his face lovingly, growling gruffly at this great game.

  All the children in the playground stared, eyes wide, mouths gaping.

  ‘I told you I’m not scared of dogs,’ said Micky, giving Wolfie a big hug.

  ‘Fancy Micky…!’

  ‘Isn’t he brave.’

  ‘And it was frothing at the mouth!’

  ‘It nearly got Darren.’

  ‘Look, Darren’s still blubbing.’

  ‘My brother Micky saved Darren.’

  ‘Is it only a puppy? It looked so much bigger when it was running up to him.’

  ‘What sort of dog is it, then?’

  ‘They’re all talking about us, Wolfie,’ Micky whispered, nuzzling into him. ‘So what are you doing here, boy?’

  Mum came running into the playground, looking hot and flustered.

  ‘Oh there he is! I thought I’d take him for a walk, but he suddenly bristled all over and went flying off… I simply couldn’t stop him. Bring him over here, Micky. What’s he been up to? I’ve never known a dog get into so many scrapes.’