For Thomas Truong ~ D R
For Harry, Jack and Alfie – with whiffy wishes ~ A M
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
1 Pong!
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
2 Snore!
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
3 Smart!
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
It was Friday night and Bertie’s family were eating supper. Bertie loved Friday nights. The whole weekend lay ahead with nothing to spoil it.
“UGH! What’s that terrible smell?” said Dad, wrinkling his nose.
Everyone looked at Bertie. “What? It wasn’t me!” said Bertie. “It was Suzy!”
“IT WAS NOT!” cried Suzy, turning pink.
“Well, something smells,” said Dad, getting up from the table.
Mum sniffed the air. “Pooh! I can smell it too!”
Bertie went on eating his chips. What a lot of fuss over a little pong! Anyone would have thought he’d dropped a stink bomb or something.
Dad was hunting round the room, sniffing like a bloodhound. Suddenly he stopped and pulled a face.
“UGH! IT’S WHIFFER!”
Whiffer looked up from his cushion and lazily scratched his ear.
“EWW! He pongs! He reeks!” cried Suzy, holding her nose.
“Bertie, you’ll have to see to him,” said Mum.
“ME?” said Bertie. “Why me?”
“Because he’s your dog!”
“But I can’t help it if he smells a bit,” said Bertie. “Dogs are meant to smell.”
“Not like that,” said Dad. “It’s put me right off my dinner.”
“What’s he been doing?” demanded Mum.
“Nothing!” said Bertie. “I just took him to the park for a walk.”
This was partly true. Whiffer had zoomed around the park chasing birds and squirrels as usual. It was on the way home that things had started to get messy. They had passed the big cow-field and Whiffer had got overexcited. He’d squeezed through a hole under the fence, forcing Bertie to let go of his lead. Luckily, there were no cows, only a lot of cowpats. But Whiffer had raced around and come out ponging to high heaven.
“Well, whatever he’s been doing, he needs a bath,” said Mum.
BATH? Whiffer pricked up his ears.
“But why do I have to do it?” grumbled Bertie.
“Because you won’t get any pocket money until you do,” said Dad.
Bertie’s shoulders sagged. So much for a perfect weekend! Getting Whiffer to take a bath was impossible. He HATED baths! All that rubbing and scrubbing in soapy water! Bertie knew just how he felt. If he had his way, bath-time would be against the law.
“You can do it in the garden,” said Mum.
“What’s wrong with the bathroom?” asked Bertie.
“Oh no!” said Mum grimly. “Not after last time.”
Bertie remembered. Last time the bathroom had got a teeny bit messy. He sighed and got down from the table.
“Whiffer! Come on, boy!”
But Whiffer had disappeared. At the mention of the word “bath” he’d slipped upstairs to hide.
CHAPTER 2
Half an hour later, Bertie stood in the front garden, armed with a sponge and a bottle of Paddypaws Dog Shampoo. He wore a waterproof anorak, washing-up gloves and welly boots. When you were bathing Whiffer it was best to be prepared. A plastic bath of soapy water sat on the lawn untouched.
Whiffer was hiding in the bushes, refusing to come out. Bertie had already chased him round the back garden and in and out of the shed. But finally he had him cornered. The front gate was shut and there was no escape.
“Whiffer! Here, boy!” he called, whistling.
Whiffer didn’t budge. Bertie dug in his pocket and pulled out his secret weapon – a crunchy dog biscuit.
“Oh, Whiffer! Look what I’ve got!” Whiffer’s head peeped out above the bush. He loved dog biscuits, especially the crunchy ones. He slunk forward, wagging his tail.
“What’s this, eh?” cooed Bertie.
Whiffer hung back. He could see the soapy water and he knew what that meant. On the other hand, he wanted that dog biscuit. He crept closer, his tongue hanging out. Bertie waited till he was in arm’s reach.
“GOTCHA!” he cried, grabbing him by the collar.
“WOOF!” yelped Whiffer, trying to escape. Bertie pulled. Whiffer pulled back. One more heave and…
“ARGHHH!” SPLASH!
Bertie lost his grip and tumbled backwards.
“HA HA HA!” jeered a voice. “Having a nice bath, Bertie?”
Bertie wiped his eyes and looked up at a goofy face peering over the wall. It was Royston Rich, the biggest show-off in the school. He had a snooty-nosed dog with him that was as tall as he was.
“What do you want?” scowled Bertie.
“I was just passing,” said Royston. “This is Duke, by the way. He’s a pedigree Great Dane.”
Whiffer trotted over to get a closer look at the newcomer. He growled.
“My dad says pedigree dogs are the best,” Royston boasted. “Duke’s won hundreds of prizes. I’m entering him in the Pudsley Dog Show.”
“Bully for you,” yawned Bertie.
“You’re just jealous ’cos your dog would come last,” sneered Royston. “My dad says to keep Duke away from mongrels.”
“Huh, Whiffer’s cleverer than your dog,” said Bertie.
“Oh yeah?” said Royston. “Duke can do tricks. Give me a dog biscuit.”
Bertie reluctantly handed one over.
“Sit, Duke!” said Royston. Duke sat. Royston balanced the biscuit on the dog’s nose. Duke didn’t move. Whiffer’s tongue was hanging out.
“Wait, wait…” said Royston sternly.
“One, two, three … HUP!”
Duke flicked his head, catapulting the biscuit into the air. Suddenly, he leaped high, catching the treat in his mouth.
SNAP!
Whiffer whined pitifully.
“There!” crowed Royston. “What do you think of that?”
Bertie shrugged. “Any dog could do it.”
“Yours couldn’t!” jeered Royston. “My dad says Duke’s going to win Best in Show – that’s the top prize.”
“Huh!” scoffed Bertie. “I bet Whiffer could beat him.”
Royston stuck out his goofy teeth. “Then why don’t you enter him, smarty pants?”
“Who says I won’t?” said Bertie.
“Good,” said Royston. “See you on Sunday. Your dog will come last. Ha ha!”
Bertie watched as Royston flounced off with Duke, their noses in the air. What a show-off! he thought. Well, he would teach him a lesson. How hard could it be to win a dog show? Wait a minute though, did Royston say Sunday? This Sunday? That meant he only had one day to turn Whiffer into a prize-winning pooch!
CHAPTER 3
Sunday morning came, but Whiffer still hadn’t had a bath. Mum was losing patience. She said the stink was so bad she’d had to spray every room with air freshener. Desperate measures were needed – especially as the dog show was due to start at three o’clock. Bertie filled the bath to the brim and emptied in a bottle of bubble bath. He hurried downstairs, laying a trail of dog biscuits as he went. All he had to do now was hide in the bathroom and wait.
CRUNCH! CRUNCH!
His plan was working! Whiffer plodded up the stairs, stopping to munch the biscuits. A moment later, his head poked round the door. The final dog biscuit was lying on the bath mat.
“YAAAARGH!” Berti
e sprang from behind the door.
“WOOF!” barked Whiffer, as the two of them wrestled and fell backwards…
“ARGHH!” SPLASH!
Downstairs in the kitchen, Mum had just sat down with a cup of coffee.
PLOP! A drip of water landed on the table. She frowned and looked up.
PLOP!
A second drip hit her in the eye. What on earth…? Water was dripping from the ceiling!
She rushed upstairs to the bathroom. “BERTIE – ARE YOU …ARGHH!”
She skidded and went flying. There was water everywhere – on the floor and pouring over the bath! Bertie and Whiffer wrestled and fought in a mountain of bubbles.
Mum scrambled to her feet.
“BERTIE!” she screamed. “LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”
Bertie looked around. He gulped. The floor had got a tiny bit wet. Muddy towels lay in a soggy heap. Bubbles trickled over the side of the bath and floated round the toilet.
“Well, what have you got to say?” demanded Mum.
“Ooops!” said Bertie.
At half-past two, Bertie set off for Pudsley Hall. It had taken ages to mop up the bathroom floor. But at least Whiffer was clean. His coat was brushed and smelled sweetly of shampoo. Bertie thought he ought to at least win the Best Kept Dog prize. But as long as he beat Royston and his snooty pooch he didn’t care. Whiffer tugged at his lead. Uh oh, Bertie had forgotten they’d have to pass the cow-field. Cow-fields meant cowpats…
WOOF!
Whiffer was off, streaking towards the hole under the fence as Bertie tried to hang on.
“WHIFFER, NO! WAIT!”
CHAPTER 4
Twenty minutes later, Bertie arrived at the hall, hot and out of breath. The dog show had already started. Dogs of all kinds were parading round a ring with their owners. Bertie spotted Duke trotting beside Royston like a show pony. A woman in a big hat was inspecting the dogs as they went past. Bertie tapped her on the arm.
“Scuse me…”
The woman turned around. Help, it was Miss Bowser! Bertie hadn’t forgotten Whiffer’s dog-training classes last year. From the look on her face Miss Bowser hadn’t forgotten them either.
“YOU!” she glared. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m … um … here for the dog show,” said Bertie.
Miss Bowser pointed to rows of seats. “Spectators over there,” she snapped.
“I haven’t come to watch,” said Bertie. “Whiffer’s in the show.”
Miss Bowser turned pale. “Very well,” she sighed. “Hurry up and join the others. And I’m warning you, keep that dog under control!”
Bertie and Whiffer joined the others parading round the ring. After five minutes Miss Bowser told everyone to form a line with their dogs. Bertie stood on the end next to Royston, who wrinkled his nose.
“What’s that horrible stink?” he said.
“Dunno. Must be you,” replied Bertie.
Miss Bowser came along the line. She stopped at Duke and admired his glossy coat.
“Splendid!” she said. “First class!”
Royston shot Bertie a smug look. Next she came to Whiffer.
“What IS that awful smell?”
Bertie looked around. “I can’t smell anything,” he said.
“It’s horrible,” said Miss Bowser. “It smells like … like…”
The other dog owners could smell it too. They held their noses. The dogs pulled at their leads, wanting to sniff round Whiffer. Miss Bowser took out a hanky.
“Really!” she said. “It’s disgusting! Where’s it coming from?”
Royston raised his hand. “Please, Miss Bowser,” he said. “I think it’s Bertie’s dog.”
Miss Bowser bent down. She sniffed.
“UGH!” she cried. “This dog has trodden in something!”
“It’s only cow poo,” said Bertie.
“WHAT?”
“I got most of it off. Look – I used my hanky!”
Bertie produced a filthy brown tissue. Miss Bowser drew back as if it was the Black Death.
“Get away, you horrible child!” she snapped. “You are disqualified! Take your filthy dog and go!”
Bertie trudged from the ring in disgrace. It wasn’t fair. After all the trouble he’d been through getting Whiffer in the bath! It was all Royston’s fault. He’d get that sneaky telltale.
Bertie sat in the front row, watching gloomily. For some reason no one wanted to sit next to him and Whiffer. The dog show dragged on and on, but at last there were only three dogs left. A poodle, a bulldog and Duke – all up for the title of Best in Show.
Bertie sighed. No prizes for guessing who’ll win, he thought. Royston would be boasting about it for the next hundred years.
Whiffer was growing tired of sitting still. Bertie felt in his pocket. He only had one dog biscuit left. But maybe Whiffer ought to earn it? He sat him down, then placed the biscuit carefully on his nose. Whiffer went cross-eyed looking at it.
“Wait,” said Bertie sternly. “Wait… One, two, three … HUP!”
Whiffer jerked back his head. The dog biscuit spun high in the air. Up it went, landing with a soft plop in the ring. Uh oh, thought Bertie. The next moment, Whiffer had leaped over the barrier after the biscuit, barking excitedly.
WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!
Three dogs turned their heads. Duke had seen Whiffer and what’s more he’d spotted the dog biscuit. He growled. Whiffer stood over his prize, bristling.
“HEEL, BOY!” yelled Royston. But it was no use. Duke took off like a hurricane on four legs. The poodle and the bulldog gave chase. In no time, there was a scrum of snarling, yapping dogs, fighting over one biscuit. Miss Bowser had gone purple with rage. She saw Bertie climb over the barrier.
“YOU!” she thundered. “THIS IS YOUR DOING! WAIT TILL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU!”
“Crumbs!” gasped Bertie. It was time to make a quick exit.
At five o’clock the front door slammed. Bertie was back with Whiffer.
“Well, how did it go?” asked Mum.
“Oh … I … um, didn’t stay till the end,” said Bertie. “It was getting a bit boring.”
“I can imagine,” said Mum. “All those dogs showing off! So Whiffer didn’t get into the final?”
“Not exactly,” said Bertie. “I don’t think he’s that keen on dog shows.”
“No,” said Mum. “I don’t expect they’re very keen on him either.”
She watched Whiffer trot past her, heading for his dog bowl. As usual he’d trailed muddy paw prints all through the kitchen. She sniffed. Wait a minute… WHAT WAS THAT TERRIBLE SMELL?
CHAPTER 1
Bertie sat at the back of the coach as it set off. At last they were on their way! Four whole days at Barnswood Outdoor Centre! At Barnswood they had climbing walls, rope walks, go-karts, even archery. And best of all, Bertie would be sharing a room with Darren and Eugene. They could stay up late having midnight feasts without boring parents telling them to go to bed.
“Quiet! Everyone look this way!”
Bertie groaned. He’d forgotten Miss Boot was coming too. School trips would be so much more fun if they left the teachers behind.
Miss Boot stood at the front of the coach holding a clipboard. “Pay attention,” she barked. “I am going to read out the room list so everyone knows where they are sleeping.”
Bertie leaned forward eagerly. He hoped it was just the three of them – they didn’t want to share with anyone who actually wanted to sleep.
“Sophie, Donna, Lucy…” Miss Boot droned on, checking off the names. Finally she reached the ones that mattered.
“Room Seven: Darren, Eugene … and Nicholas.”
“WHAT?” cried Know-All Nick.
“WHAT?” gasped Bertie. He wasn’t sharing with his friends?
“But what about me?” he cried.
“I am coming to you,” said Miss Boot grimly. “Room Ten: Trevor, Warren … and Bertie. That’s everyone. Please remember your room number. I wo
n’t be telling you again.” She sat down.
Bertie sank slowly in his seat. This was a disaster!
“She’s split us up!” he moaned.
“I know!” said Eugene glumly. “I can’t believe it.”
“And we’ve got Know-All Nick,” grumbled Darren.
“At least you two are together,” said Bertie. “What about me? I’m with Trevor and Warren. It’ll be torture!”
“Perhaps it’s a mistake,” said Eugene.
“Yeah,” said Darren. “Go and ask her, Bertie.”
“Me?” said Bertie. “Why don’t you go and ask her?”
“I’m not the one who’s in the wrong room,” said Darren.
Bertie hesitated. Miss Boot didn’t like children bothering her with silly questions. Then again, if he didn’t do something he’d be stuck with Trevor and Warren. He’d rather share a room with Count Dracula.
He made his way down to the front where Miss Boot was sitting with Miss Darling.
“Um, Miss?” he said.
Miss Boot looked up. “What are you doing out of your seat? Go and sit down!”
“But Miss, it’s important,” said Bertie. “It’s about the rooms.”
Miss Boot groaned. “What about them?”
“Well, I asked to be with Darren and Eugene,” explained Bertie. “They were my first choice.”
“We can’t all have our first choice,” said Miss Boot.
Pong! Page 1
