‘Not yet,’ said Ben.
Other countries tried to keep their guns.
‘Hey,’ yelled a reporter to Ben. ‘Egypt has banned all pictures of shot and blown-up people on their TV. Any comment?’
Ben knew he wasn’t meant to answer journalists who yelled at him through the lounge room window. But Mum was in the bathroom and he couldn’t resist.
‘If I was an Egyptian kid,’ he yelled back, ‘I’d draw a picture in coloured crayons of what happens when a toddler gets hit by a machine gun bullet and I’d stick the picture on my parents’ TV screen.’
Two days later, the same journalist was yelling at Ben again.
‘Two million Egyptian kids followed your suggestion,’ he shouted. ‘Any comment?’
‘See what you’ve done now, Ben,’ said Mum in an exasperated voice as she pulled the curtains. ‘I told you not to talk to the media.’
The next country to get rid of its guns was Taiwan.
‘Good on you, Taiwan,’ said Dad as he turned up the sound on the TV.
Mum glanced at Ben’s plate.
Ben pretended not to notice.
‘We’re doing it for our economy,’ said the Taiwanese president, standing next to a brand new recycling plant for ferrous and non-ferrous metals. ‘Melting down these guns will allow us to make many more MP3 players.’
‘And are you also doing it,’ said a journalist, ‘so the young people of Taiwan will get out of bed and start buying MP3 players again?’
‘Yes,’ said the Taiwanese president. ‘That as well.’
Ben helped Dad find Taiwan in the atlas.
‘It’s next to China,’ said Mum.
Dad put a big tick with a marker pen on the map of Taiwan.
‘Two down,’ said Dad, studying the list of countries in the front of the atlas. ‘A hundred and twenty-three to go.’
‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ said Mum, staring wearily at the huge pile of uneaten veggies on Ben’s plate.
When China saw that Taiwan didn’t have any guns, they decided to invade.
Millions of Chinese children lay down in front of the war planes and tanks. The Chinese authorities arrested the parents of every child involved. And the aunties, and the uncles, and the people who weren’t really relatives but helped out with child-minding after school.
‘Any comment?’ yelled the reporters in Ben’s front yard.
Ben didn’t have any comment.
Not to the reporters.
Silently he worried that things might be getting a bit out of control, and that it was all his fault.
‘I’ll send an email to the Chinese embassy,’ said Claire. ‘Remind them they’ve got the Olympics coming up.’
Soon the Chinese authorities started releasing people from jail.
Chinese children stayed on strike.
China started getting rid of its weapons.
‘They had to,’ said Claire to Ben. ‘Most of their athletes are under eighteen. Plus who’ll vacuum the Olympic stadiums if all the adults are in jail?’
‘Thanks, Claire,’ said Ben. ‘I’m glad you’re on our side.’
When the other countries saw China had got rid of its weapons, they did too.
America was last.
They made excuses and broke promises and pretended they didn’t have enough recycling depots.
‘That’s bull,’ said Mum indignantly. ‘They can turn all their gun shops and missile silos into recycling depots.’
Ben grinned. Trust an office manager to get things organised.
Finally the US Congress persuaded the president to sign the disarmament bill by explaining the terrible damage that would be done to the US economy if American kids continued not to eat McDonald’s.
‘Come on, Ben,’ said Mum. ‘You’ve got no excuses now. Eat your veggies.’
Ben knew it was Mum from her voice. He couldn’t actually see her because of the mountain of vegetables on the serving platter in front of him.
She sounded tired.
Ben wasn’t surprised.
They were all tired after weeks of living in the media spotlight. Thank goodness the footy season had started and a couple of coaches had been sacked and the media had all gone to their front yards.
‘Look,’ said Claire, pointing to the TV screen.
Ben peered around his veggies.
On the TV news, the last gun from the last warship in the world was being melted down in San Diego.
‘You heard your mother, Ben,’ said Dad. ‘You’ve got your own way, you’ve brought peace to the entire planet, now you have to keep your side of the bargain. Eat those veggies.’
Ben looked at Dad’s proud grin and the relieved expression on Mum’s face.
World peace felt good.
He stuck his fork into a big lump of much-microwaved broccoli, put it into his mouth and started chewing.
All next day at school, even while people were saying how nice it was to have him back, Ben couldn’t stop thinking about how long it was going to take him to eat that pile of veggies.
About a year, probably.
Longer if he kept getting sick of their fridge-taste as quickly as he had last night.
But later, when Ben sat down at the dinner table, he stared in surprise.
The mountain of veggies had been divided into four smaller piles. Mum, Dad and Claire each had a pile on their plate. They were eating the veggies as fast as they could.
‘Thanks,’ said Ben.
What a generous family.
‘We’re not doing it for you,’ said Claire through a mouthful of spinach.
She pointed to the TV screen.
Ben stared. The news report was describing how two hours ago America had invaded Iran. On the screen, American warplanes and bombers hurtled over Tehran.
‘But they haven’t got any guns or bombs,’ said Ben. ‘How can they declare war?’
‘Veggies,’ said Dad grimly.
At first Ben didn’t understand. Then he saw what the bombers were dropping from high altitude onto the panicked Iranian people.
Cauliflower.
Pumpkin.
Mashed potato with really big lumps in it.
‘That is disgusting,’ said Mum. ‘Targeting kids like that.’
On the TV a fighter plane roared low over a block of flats. Every window exploded into shards of glass under a hail of frozen brussel sprouts and sweetcorn.
Ben stared in horror.
‘Don’t just sit there gawking,’ said Claire. ‘Eat your veggies.’
‘The more we can eat,’ said Mum through a mouthful of carrot, ‘the less there’ll be to injure innocent civilians.’
Ben nodded.
He looked at his family, all doing their bit to make the world a better place.
Then he stuffed a big forkful of peas into his mouth and chewed as fast as he could.
Good Dog
Veronica looks horrified when I arrive at her party.
She stands at the front door, her mouth open. The fluffy balls on her party dress wobble with alarm. The fake jewels on her tiara tremble with panic.
‘Happy birthday,’ I say.
She’s not even looking at me, she’s staring at Anthony.
‘Woof,’ says Anthony.
‘A dog?’ squeaks Veronica. ‘Ginger, why did you bring a dog? My dad’s not good with dogs.’
‘I couldn’t afford a present,’ I explain. ‘So I brought Anthony. You’ve been saying all week you hope your party will be a success. Well, Anthony’s here to help. He’s a party dog.’
Veronica gives a little whimper.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I know Anthony’s big, but he’s friendly. He won’t hurt your dog.’
Veronica glances nervously over my shoulder.
‘Our dog isn’t here,’ she says. ‘My dad’s in the park, training it.’
She doesn’t have to tell me. I can hear Mr Pobjoy’s angry voice drifting over from the park across the road.
‘Bad dog,’ he’s yell
ing. ‘Bad dog.’
I swap a look with Anthony.
Mr Pobjoy should be in the army. We live two streets away and most evenings I can hear him roaring at that poor dog even over the noise of Mum and Dad’s music in the kitchen.
Anthony hates hearing another dog being treated like that. Usually he sticks his head under one of our cats so he doesn’t have to listen to it.
Now he just wants to get inside.
‘Stop,’ says Veronica to Anthony. ‘Come back.’
Anthony has squeezed past her into the house.
‘Party dogs hate having to wait outside,’ I explain. ‘They want to get in and start partying.’
We hurry inside after Anthony.
The party is in the family room. About ten kids are on leather chairs in front of a huge TV. The boys are fighting and the girls are complaining and they’re all throwing party food at each other.
‘Good grief,’ says Veronica’s mum when she sees Anthony. ‘That’s all I need.’
Mrs Pobjoy is very stressed. Her fashionable clothes have got quite a lot of marshmallow dip on them. Her very fashionable hair, which Mum reckons would cost more to have done than some countries spend on food, is looking a bit sweat-affected.
‘Is that your dog?’ Mrs Pobjoy says to me.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘His name’s Anthony. I’m Ginger. I sit next to Veronica in class.’
I hold out my hand to shake Mrs Pobjoy’s. She doesn’t see it.
‘Pets were not invited,’ she says to Veronica.
‘I didn’t invite it,’ says Veronica miserably. ‘She just arrived with it.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say to Mrs Pobjoy. ‘Anthony’s here to help.’
Mrs Pobjoy still looks stressed.
I explain to her how Anthony was already a party expert when I got him. How when I first saw him in the pound he was playing What’s The Time Mr Wolf with all the other dogs. Letting them creep up behind him, then turning and chasing them till they nearly wet themselves with excitement.
‘That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,’ says Mrs Pobjoy crossly.
‘It’s not,’ I say. ‘Anthony’s a mixture of wolfhound and English sheepdog. Wolfhounds are very fun-loving and English sheepdogs have to organise a lot of party games out in the fields to keep the sheep warm in winter.’
‘Get it out of here,’ says Mrs Pobjoy.
‘Look,’ says Veronica, pointing.
Anthony is already rounding up the kids for the first game, nudging and nuzzling them off the couch. When someone doesn’t want to move, Anthony grabs a corner of their party frock or best shirt between his teeth and gently drags them.
Some of the kids are screaming and trying to run away. Others are trying to hide under the chairs. This always happens when Anthony arrives at a party. Kids get over-excited.
‘The first game’s Hide And Seek,’ I say to the screamers and runners. ‘It’s fun. Do what the others are doing. Hide somewhere you don’t think Anthony will find you.’
Kids hurl themselves into cupboards and clamber up onto shelves.
Soon everyone is hidden. Except for Mrs Pobjoy, who is outside in the barbeque area, glowering at Anthony and talking very fast into her mobile.
Anthony starts finding everyone.
Some people are so worked up they almost faint when Anthony sticks his big head into the laundry basket or nest of tables they’re hiding in. He does have very big teeth, which can be a bit of a problem for a party organiser.
But when he licks your face, which is his way of saying good hiding place, but I found you, you know he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not even an over-excited fly who’s had way too many lollies.
By the end of the game, some kids are grinning. Even Veronica isn’t looking so upset, probably because she won by hiding in her dad’s wine cellar.
‘Good on you,’ I whisper to Anthony.
He made sure he found Veronica last. That’s the advantage of being a mixture of breeds. You get to be not only clever, but also kind on birthdays.
‘What’s next?’ someone yells.
Anthony is already organising the next game, wagging his big tail and herding everybody into a line.
‘Musical Chairs,’ I say, grabbing the dining chairs and putting them into a line too.
Anthony starts singing. Well, howling really. He can sort of do some of Mum and Dad’s Rod Stewart tunes. Well, bits of them.
A few of the kids look like they want to go back to playing Hide And Seek.
I know why. When Anthony sings, he does spray quite a lot of saliva around. It’s the one other problem he has as a party organiser.
But his timing’s great. He waits for me to whisk another chair away, then stops howling at really unexpected moments. Each time he does, kids are laughing and falling over each other to get their bums on a seat.
Veronica is laughing too. She can see her party’s going really well.
Then a loud voice booms out.
‘Whoa. What’s going on here?’
The room goes quiet. We all turn and see a man in a business suit standing in the doorway. He’s got a mobile phone in one hand and a very small white dog in the other.
‘It’s OK, Dad,’ pleads Veronica. ‘We’re having a really good time. Anthony’s a really good party org…’
Her voice trails off. Mr Pobjoy is glaring at her.
‘Bad girl,’ he says.
Veronica tries to shrink inside her party dress.
Mr Pobjoy points at Anthony.
‘What are you thinking, Veronica,’ he says, ‘bringing a brute like that in here? It could tear Flossy Evangeline Diamante to pieces. Good grief, you know how much we paid for Flossy.’
Veronica is close to tears.
‘Two thousand dollars,’ she says in a tiny voice.
The rest of us stare at the little white dog in amazement. That must work out at more than a thousand dollars a kilo. Even Anthony is looking stunned.
‘Poor little Flossy,’ says Mr Pobjoy. ‘Look at her. She’s trembling. She’s terrified.’
No she’s not. She’s curled up contentedly and looking down at Anthony with keen interest. Veronica’s the one who’s trembling and upset.
Suddenly Flossy jumps down from Mr Pobjoy’s hand, trots over to Anthony and starts sniffing his bottom. Well, sniffing his legs, because there’s no way she can reach his bottom without a small ladder.
‘Flossy,’ snaps Mr Pobjoy. ‘Come back here.’
Flossy ignores him.
‘Bad dog,’ he yells at her. ‘Bad dog.’
Flossy still ignores him.
Anthony gives her a sniff because that’s the polite thing to do. And also, I can tell, because he feels a bit protective. She’s a small dog being yelled at by a big man.
‘Bad dog,’ roars Mr Pobjoy again.
Anthony tilts his head down next to Flossy’s and gently licks her ear a few times. It’s almost like he’s whispering to her.
Suddenly Flossy trots back over to Mr Pobjoy, who gives an angry but satisfied nod.
Flossy stops right next to his feet and pees on his shoes.
‘Bad dog,’ yells Mr Pobjoy, jumping back and trying to shake the pee off his feet, his voice going squeaky with outrage.
The rest of us are trying not to laugh. Several of the kids aren’t managing it very well. I see Anthony looking at me with his big brown eyes and something in his expression gives me an idea. I speak up before Veronica’s dad sends us all home.
‘Mr Pobjoy,’ I say. ‘I’m quite experienced with dogs and I know how hard it can be to train them. One thing that’s worked really well for me is a party game called Good Dog Bad Dog.’
Mr Pobjoy looks at me long and hard.
I can see that what he really wants to do is chuck us all out so he can yell at Flossy and Veronica in private. But he’s been trying to train Flossy for weeks. Underneath his expensive suit and his hair transplant, I’m guessing he’s desperate.
‘Please, Dad,’ says Veroni
ca. ‘Give it a go.’
‘Good Dog Bad Dog?’ mutters Mr Pobjoy, not sounding convinced.
Mrs Pobjoy has been off and changed her clothes and she’s looking a bit less stressed.
‘You might as well give it a go, Vince,’ she says wearily to her husband. ‘You’ve said yourself Flossy is a difficult dog.’
Mr Pobjoy frowns suspiciously.
‘How does this game work?’ he says.
‘It’s simple,’ I say. ‘For the next five minutes, all we’re allowed to say is either good dog or bad dog.’
Mr Pobjoy looks doubtful.
Please, I urge him silently. Give it a go.
My plan is dead simple. To show Mr Pobjoy that kindness gets better results than yelling. Though you’d think a top business manager like him would already know that.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Let’s start.’
I look at Anthony to make sure he understands what we’re doing. I can tell from the way he looks at me that he does.
I’m going to say good dog to him lots of times and he’s going to do lots of clever tricks and obedient things to show Mr Pobjoy that good dog always works better than bad dog.
Flossy is sniffing Anthony’s leg again. Anthony starts licking Flossy’s ear again in a murmuring sort of way.
Before I can get my first good dog out, Mr Pobjoy, whose shoes are still wet, turns to Anthony.
‘Bad dog,’ he snaps.
Anthony looks at him for a moment, then does something that isn’t really what you’d expect from a good dog.
He leans forward, opens his huge jaws, places them around Flossy, and closes them.
Flossy disappears.
Inside Anthony’s mouth.
Veronica screams.
So do the other kids.
Mrs Pobjoy clutches the pool table.
I feel faint. I can hear the distant echo of something a dog-hater once said to me. That you can never trust pound dogs. That sooner or later they always turn vicious.
Then I see Anthony is looking at me. He isn’t chewing or swallowing, just looking at me patiently. The bulge in his mouth is still moving.
Suddenly I know what he’s doing.
He isn’t turning vicious, he’s just playing Good Dog Bad Dog his way.
‘No,’ howls Mr Pobjoy. ‘Flossy. That brute has eaten Flossy.’
Give Peas a Chance Page 8
