by Duncan Ball
“This reptile cage must be fixed at once,” Mrs Trifle said to Postie Paterson, Bogusville’s postman, amateur actor and keeper of reptiles at the Bogusville Zoo. “It’s simply not fit for any sort of animal — not even a snake.”
“But who will look after Bazza the boa constrictor while I fix the cage?” Postie asked.
“I will,” said Mrs Trifle. “Put him in a box and bring him round to my house this afternoon. Make it early though because Dr Trifle and I have to go out at about three.”
Just before three o’clock Postie Paterson arrived at the Trifles’ house with a big box and put it down on the carpet next to where Selby lay, pretending to sleep.
“Bazza loves opera,” Postie told Mrs Trifle. “He was born in the trunk of a touring opera company, The Western Plains Bel Canto, and they used him in an opera when he was little.”
“Not a singing part, I trust,” Mrs Trifle said to be funny, knowing that animals couldn’t sing — but not knowing that Selby could not only talk, he could sing the complete opera Cleopatra and the Asp, which he used to play on the stereo when the Trifles were out of the house.
“No, of course he didn’t sing. He was just a prop. He was in an opera called Cleopatra and the Asp,” Postie Paterson said, not seeing Selby’s ears shoot up. “You see, Cleopatra committed suicide by having a poisonous snake bite her. In the opera the soprano used to pick Bazza up, pretend he bit her and then sing to him for half an hour as she died. Of course boa constrictors aren’t poisonous so they could use the same soprano night after night. Even now when I play Cleopatra and the Asp Bazza goes limp all over and I swear there are tears of joy in his eyes.”
“So how did a talented snake like this end up in the Bogusville Zoo?” Mrs Trifle asked.
“He outgrew the part,” Postie said. “He got so heavy that even the baritone couldn’t lift him. The opera company was touring out here at the time so they just had to leave him.”
“Speaking of leaving,” Mrs Trifle said, “we have to go right away. I hope Bazza will be safe there in his box.”
“Perfectly,” Postie said. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll get back to the zoo and fix the cage. I’ll pick up Bazza tomorrow.”
“Snakes,” Selby said, peering in the air holes in the top of Bazza’s box when Postie Paterson and the Trifles had left the house. “Sheeeeeeeesh! They give me the creeps. But,” he added, “Bazza must be special to have played lead snake in Cleopatra and the Asp.“
And Selby would have left it at that if he hadn’t suddenly thought of the last episode of his favourite TV nature show, Go and Grab ‘Em, with Flash Finlay, who could outrun most wild animals and trick the rest into letting him catch them. In that show, Flash Finlay was covered from head to toe in carpet snakes.
“If snakes were warm and had fur,” he had said at the end of his program, “people would forget about keeping cats and dogs as pets and keep a snake instead. So until next week let me leave you with this suggestion: snuggle a snake tonight.”
“Want to hear some music?” Selby said, putting the first record of Cleopatra and the Asp on the stereo and then peering down the air holes in the box again to see if there were tears of joy in Bazza’s eyes but not seeing any. “Blimey,” Selby added as his own eyes got a little watery. “Such a small box for a big snake. No wonder you’re not having much fun.”
Selby opened the top of the box and looked straight into Bazza’s sad eyes.
“Oh, Baz,” Selby said, “don’t look at me like that. You’re breaking my heart. Come on out of there you big sausage,” he added, tipping Bazza out onto the carpet like so many metres of rope.
Selby lay back listening to the heavenly strains of Cleopatra and the Asp and thinking how proud Flash Finlay would have been if he knew that one of Go and Grab ‘Em’s greatest fans had taken his advice and was snuggling a snake. All of which might have been perfectly okay if there hadn’t been a cold wind blowing under the door.
“I’ll tell you what, Baz,” Selby said, still looking for tears of joy in the snake’s eyes but still not seeing any, “how about doing something useful like blocking that draught.”
Selby struggled to lift Bazza with his front paws without success. He then put his head under the snake and started to lift and push him in the direction of the door.
“Phew!” Selby said, struggling to push the great limp Bazza to where the draught was blowing in. “No (puff) wonder you had to (puff puff) retire. You weigh a (puff) tonne.”
Suddenly the record finished and the stereo turned off and just as suddenly the now-not-so-limp Bazza wound himself slowly around Selby’s neck with his other end winding around Selby’s legs.
“Ah — er — Bazza,” Selby said, trying to unwind the snake but finding that he was winding even faster, “would you mind stopping that?”
Selby flipped his head around and untangled Bazza from his neck, only to find that the snake’s other end had taken two turns around his middle.
“If (gasp) I can only (gasp) get to the stereo and put on the next (gasp) record,” said Selby, gripped by snake and panic.
But Bazza was too heavy and Selby was stopped dead in his tracks next to the telephone.
“I’ve got it!” Selby said, snatching the phone and dialling the Go and Grab ‘Em show.
“Go and Grab ‘Em,” the voice on the other end of the phone said. “Flash Finlay speaking.”
“I took your advice, Flash,” Selby said, “and snuggled a snake.”
“Good for you,” Flash Finlay said cheerily, “that’s the spirit. Thank you for calling —”
“Wait!” Selby interrupted. “I’ve got a bit of a problem.”
“And haven’t we all these days,” Flash said.
“Well my problem’s a bit (gasp) different from most,” Selby said as Bazza took another turn around his waist. “You see, the snake I (gasp) chose to snuggle is a boa constrictor and he’s squeezing me.”
“No, no, no,” Flash said. “He’s not squeezing you —
“He blinkin’ well is, you know —” Selby said.
“No, he’s constricting. That’s what boa constrictors are all about”
“Squeezing, constricting, what’s the difference?” Selby said. “He’s wrapped himself around my waist and he won’t let go.”
“Do you realise that a full-grown boa constrictor is capable of reducing a medium-size mammal to one large mouthful?” Flash said. “Why, I was on an expedition to the westernmost reaches of the Amazon a couple of years ago and I had with me my favourite tracker-dog. Next thing I knew the dog had strayed from the path and —”
“All right! All right!” Selby screamed.
“Don’t you want to hear what happened to my dog?”
“No! Just … tell me … how to get this … monster off me,” Selby said, just barely able to choke out his words.
“I don’t know,” Flash said. “That’s not my department. I suppose you could try grabbing him with both hands and unwinding him.”
“And what if I don’t have … (growk) … any (screek) … (glug),” Selby said as Bazza squeezed his throat. Now all Selby could do was make a bubbling, scraping sound and a high-pitched scream followed by another scream and another.
Slowly Bazza began to relax his grip, and Selby realised that his screams sounded just like the song of the dying soprano in Cleopatra and the Asp. He kept screaming and singing till the snake had let go and lay limp at his feet on the carpet — this time with real tears of joy in his eyes.
“Hello! Hello!” said Flash Finlay’s voice on the dangling telephone as Selby picked it up again. “Are you all right there?”
“Quite good, wouldn’t you say,” Selby said, calmly pushing Bazza back into his box, “considering I haven’t sung that part of Cleopatra and the Asp for over a month.”
Wild West Willy Rides Again
The day of the Greater Bogusville Easter Egg Rolling Contest was a day that Selby feared and hated more than any other day of the year. It was the day
when all the children of Bogusville came to the Trifles’ house to roll Easter eggs across the front lawn with their noses. It was also the day that Aunt Jetty’s dreadful son Willy came to make Selby’s life a living hell.
“Here he is, Selby!” Mrs Trifle said as her sister’s truck pulled up and Willy jumped out dressed in his cowboy outfit and twirling a lasso over his head. “And he wants to play with you before the egg rolling contest.”
“Crikey!” Selby thought, jumping to his feet. “I overslept. I’d better nip out through the back door and make myself scarce for the day.”
It had all started a few years before when Willy had taken one look at Selby and jumped on him, digging his heels into Selby’s ribs and yelling: “Ride ‘em cowboy! Wild West Willy’s come to town!” Poor Selby couldn’t walk for a week.
Every year since then Selby had tried to escape from Willy. But every year he was caught and ridden around the house like a wild bull at a rodeo.
“This year,” Selby said, slipping out the back door and heading full-speed for the bush, “is going to be different. Wild West Willy won’t see me for dust.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Willy’s lasso caught him around the neck and brought him down like a stray calf.
“Got you, Horsey!” Willy yelled and a chill went through Selby’s scalp that didn’t finish till it reached the tip of his tail. “Now get up! We’re going to play cowboys!”
For the next hour Selby was chased, ridden, lassoed and tied up until he was so exhausted that he had to stand perfectly still with his legs apart just to stay on his feet.
“Hold it right there, Horsey! I like it when you stand still like that,” Willy said as he hurtled through the air and landed squarely on Selby’s back, sending him crashing to the ground. “Whooooooooppppeeeeeeee!” Willy yelled.
“Crumbs,” Selby sighed as Wild West Willy wrapped a rope round and round his legs. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”
“And now I’ll try out my new branding iron,” Willy said, pulling a red hot poker with three “W"s on the end out of the barbecue.
“Heaven help me!” Selby thought. “The kid’s actually going to brand me! If that thing touches me I’m a goner!”
Selby was just about to scream out, “Stop it, you idiot!” in plain English when Aunt Jetty came bounding round the corner.
“Willy!” she yelled. “Stop that this instant! You’ll miss the beginning of the egg rolling contest! The children are all waiting at the start.Hurry!”
“Oh, boy. Oh, boy,” Willy said, dropping the branding iron and breaking into a run. “I’m going to win! I’m going to win the egg rolling contest again!”
“You always win, dear,” Aunt Jetty said, unwinding the rope from Selby’s legs. “Hmmmmmmmm,” she said, giving him a puzzled look. “There’s something strange about you. I seem to remember something … yes, now I remember. You talked. That was it! I had a dream that you talked in plain English. Isn’t that a riot? Ha!”
“Some day I’ll show you a riot, you big nit,” Selby thought, struggling to his feet as Aunt Jetty dashed off to watch the start of the egg rolling contest.
“Remember the rules,” Mrs Trifle said to the line of children who waited on their hands and knees on the wet grass. “You must push your egg straight across the lawn with your nose. No hands. And mind the puddles. The first one across the finish line wins the pavlova.”
“Oh, boy,” Willy said, pushing his way into the middle of the starting line. “I won last year and the year before and I’m going to win again this year. So everybody out of my way or else!”
Selby stumbled around the corner just as the bell rang and the girls and boys started off across the lawn.
“Clear off!” Willy said as he knocked three boys over and made his way to the middle of the pack.
“That’s the way, Willy!” Aunt Jetty cheered, jumping up and down on the sidelines. “You’re faster than them! You can beat them!”
“Get out of here!” Willy said in a low voice to another boy and pushed past, until he was just behind the leader, Sally Rudge.
“Out of my way, Sally,” Willy said savagely. “I’m coming through.”
“You are not,” Sally said, nudging her egg quickly forward with her nose. “I’m faster than you and I’m going to win.”
“I’m warning you,” Willy said. “You win, and you’re going to be sorry. If you win — you’ll lose. So out of the way!”
A silence fell over the crowd, except for the screams of “Get her, Willy! Get her!” from Aunt Jetty. No one but his mother wanted to see Willy win the race — and now there was only Sally and a few metres of ground between him and the finish line.
Willy closed in on Sally and then accidentally-on-purpose fell on her legs. Sally crashed down on her egg, smashing it.
“You ruined my egg!” Sally screamed as Willy passed. “That’s not fair!”
“I didn’t touch your silly egg,” Willy said. “Don’t be a spoilsport.”
Now, with nothing between Willy and victory, Selby’s anger finally got the best of him. He raced to the starting line and began pushing a spare Easter egg across the lawn at a speed that only a short, angry dog could manage.
“I’ll beat that kid!” Selby said, digging his paws into the wet ground. “I’ve got to beat him!”
A cheer went up from the sidelines as he closed in on the cowboy. He dodged the puddles Iike a slalom skier dodging flags, but soon there was silence again, for although he had passed everyone else Willy was just centimetres from the finish line.
As he came up behind Willy, Selby whispered in a tone that only Willy could hear: “Hey, brat! Look behind you. There’s a wild stallion on your heels!”
Willy was so startled that he turned around and Selby bumped against him and knocked him head first into the biggest, muddiest puddle on the lawn and then shot by and crossed the finish line.
“That’s not fair!” Willy yelled, standing up and looking like a huge chocolate icecream cone. “Horsey cheated. He talked to me. I won the race. I want the pavlova.”
Fortunately for Selby, no one — not even Aunt Jetty — believed Willy when he said that Selby had talked to him. Unfortunately, when it came to giving out the prize, Mrs Trifle gave it to Willy.
“Selby won the race,” she said. “But we can’t very well give a dog a pavlova. It would only make him sick.”
“I’d eat every blinking piece of it,” Selby thought, “just to keep that brat from getting it.”
With this Selby jumped up on the table where the pavlova was and stood over it, perfectly still. Willy saw him out of the corner of his eye and suddenly the sight of Selby standing still like a brahman bull in a chute ready to be ridden made something in him snap.
“Hold still, Horsey!” Wild West Willy yelled, forgetting about the pavlova and jumping towards Selby’s waiting back. “Ride ‘em cowboy! Yaaaaaaaahhhhoooooooo!”
But before the “hoooooooo” was out of his mouth — while he was still hurtling through the air on a beeline for his victim — Selby stepped neatly out of the way and Willy landed smack in the middle of the pavlova.
“Oh, sorry, brat,” Selby whispered in Willy’s ear. “Better luck next year,” and off he went to watch The Lucky Millions Quiz Quest.
Selby’s Secret Hangs in the Balance
“Selby’s reading the newspaper!” screamed Barnstorm Billy, dreaded son of Aunt Jetty and brother of Selby’s old enemy Wild West Willy.
“Selby’s only a dog,” Dr Trifle said patiently, “and dogs can’t read.”
“He is reading!” Barnstorm Billy yelled. “I saw his eyes moving. Come quick!”
Selby lay on top of a copy of the Bogusville Banner, reading the ad for the Windy Scrub Roving Big Top Circus, which had just come to Bogusville. The ad said:
SEE THE FLYING FERGUSONS’ HIGHWIRE SPECTACULAR
FEATURING BARNEY THE BALANCING MIRACLE DOG
WITH HIS PAWS OF STEEL.
Also
See Our Lions, Tigers,
Elephants And Camels – One Hump And Two.
“Paws of steel,” Selby, who was always interested in talented dogs, muttered. “Wow! That really sends shivers up my spine. I’d love to see that act.
“Come quickly, uncle!” Barnstorm Billy yelled, dragging Dr Trifle into the lounge room. “He’s reading. Look!”
Selby lay perfectly still on the newspaper with his eyes closed and pretended to sleep.
“He’s not reading, Billy,” Dr Trifle said politely. “He’s only sleeping. He often sleeps on the newspaper.”
“But he was reading. I know a reading dog when I see one,” Billy protested. “And I saw One!”
“Nobody’s going to believe you, kid,” Selby thought. “And thank goodness for that.”
Selby pretended to sleep so well that soon he was really asleep. When he awoke it was evening and there was no one in the house.
“This is great,” Selby thought. “The Trifles are probably driving the brat back to Aunt Jetty’s house. I think I’ll just nip over to the Windy Scrub Circus to check out Barney the Balancing Miracle Dog.”
Selby waited behind the circus tent till he saw a trainer leading three elephants and two camels into the back entrance.
“I’ll just sneak in with this lot,” he thought as he trotted along into the darkness beside one of the elephants, “and no one will notice. There are times when it pays not to be human.”
Just then a strong pair of hands reached out and grabbed him.
“Hey, Eliot!” the voice said. “I’ve got the dog.”
“What dog is that, Ian?” another voice answered.
“The one from the agency. He’s replacing Barney the Balancing Miracle Dog.”
“What happened to Barney?”
“He fell off the wire. Broke all four legs. Luckily he hit a camel on the way down.”
“One hump or two?”
“Two, fortunately. One hump and he would have been history,” the man said. “Quick. Help me get him into this basket. He’s on right now.”
Before Selby could bite or scratch or even scream out in plain English, he found himself in an open basket being lifted by a rope to the very top of the gigantic tent. Music played and the crowd cheered as the basket reached the tiny platform at one end of the highwire. Then Fred Ferguson, of the Flying Fergusons, tipped him out of the basket. Selby took one look down and held tight to Fred as the crowd went quiet and a drum roll started.
