For Tim and Sarah ~ D R
For Mark and Sarah – wishing you a long and happy married life together! ~ A M
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
1 Rats!
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
2 Runner!
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
3 Dog Food!
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
Collect all the Dirty Bertie books!
Copyright
“Did you know rats eat their own poo?” asked Bertie, over breakfast.
Suzy pulled a face. “MUM! Bertie’s being disgusting!” she moaned.
“I’m not,” said Bertie. “I saw it on TV. Rats are amazing. You can flush them down the toilet and they still survive!”
“We don’t want to know, Bertie,” sighed Mum.
Bertie poured Puffo Pops into his bowl. He didn’t see why no one liked rats. Actually they were a whole lot cleaner than humans. You didn’t see humans picking fleas off each other.
“You’re dropping cereal everywhere,” said Suzy.
Bertie looked down to see a trail of Puffo Pops on the table.
“It’s not my fault,” he said. “There’s a hole in this box.” Mum took it from him. It looked like the cornerof the box had been nibbled away.
“Did you do this, Bertie?” asked Mum.
“No – why do I always get the blame?” asked Bertie.
Mum frowned. Getting down on her knees she poked her head into the cupboard.
“Oh no!” she groaned. “MICE!”
“Where?” cried Bertie.
“There,” said Mum. “Those are mouse droppings!”
“EWWW!” cried Suzy, putting down her spoon.
Bertie went over to look. He had never seen mouse droppings before. They were small brown pellets, a bit like hamster or rat droppings.
“Don’t touch them!” warned Mum. “They’re covered in germs – you’ll catch something!”
Dad came in as they were taking all the tins out of the cupboard. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“We’ve got mice,” said Mum.
“You’re joking!”
“No,” said Bertie. “They’ve left tiny poos in the cupboard. Have a look!”
“No thanks,” said Dad. “Are you sure it’s mice?”
“It could be rats,” said Bertie, hopefully.
“It’s definitely mice,’ said Mum, standing up. “The question is, what do we do about it?”
“I like mice,” said Bertie. “Can I keep one?”
“NO!” shouted Mum and Dad at once.
“Why not?”
“Because mice are pests,” said Mum. “They nest in the walls.”
“Once they move in they start having babies,” warned Dad.
“REALLY?” said Bertie.
This sounded brilliant. He would have liked a rat but a mouse was the next best thing – and baby mice would be even better! He could train them to play mouse football or to juggle lumps of cheese.
“Right,” said Dad. “I’ll get some poison.”
“POISON!” howled Bertie.
“That’s cruel!” said Suzy.
“And dangerous too,” said Mum. “What if Whiffer eats it?”
Dad hadn’t thought of that. Whiffer ate anything he found on the floor.
“Okay. Then I’ll buy a mousetrap,” said Dad.
“What for?” moaned Bertie. “I said I’ll look after them!”
“How many times do I have to tell you – mice are not pets!” said Mum.
“They are, Trevor’s got one,” Bertie argued.
“I don’t care,” said Mum. “We are NOT having mice in the house.”
“They’re disgusting,” said Dad. “They eat all the food and leave their mess everywhere.”
Bertie didn’t see why everyone was making such a big fuss. Mice had to poo somewhere. Besides, if he had a pet mouse he’d make sure it was house-trained. He would make it a teeny-weeny toilet the size of a matchbox.
“Please!” he begged. “Just one little mouse.”
“NO!” said Mum firmly. “No mice and that’s the end of the matter.”
When Dad got home from work he had something to show them.
“There we are, one mousetrap,” he said, putting it on the table.
Bertie stared. He’d never seen a mousetrap before. It was a flat wooden block with a metal handle on a spring. It came with instructions.
“What does it mean, ‘snap’?” Bertie wanted to know.
“That’s how it works,” said Dad. “I’ll show you.” He pulled the metal handle back until it clicked. “The mouse comes sniffing around and smells the bait,” he explained. “Sooner or later he hops up here to take a nibble and…”
SNAP! The metal handle flew back as he poked it with a pencil.
Bertie stared. “But that’s horrible! You’ll kill it!” he argued.
“I certainly hope so,” said Mum.
“That’s the point. It’s a mousetrap,” said Dad.
“But can’t you just catch it, then let it go outside?” Bertie pleaded.
Mum shook her head. “We don’t want it coming back, we want to get rid of it once and for all.”
Bertie scowled at the mousetrap. “Well, I think it’s murder,” he said. “And don’t blame me if a ghost mouse comes back to haunt you.”
Upstairs Bertie lay on his bed, thinking. It wasn’t fair – what had the mouse ever done to them? If it was up to him he’d think of a way to catch the mouse alive. Bertie sat up suddenly. Yes, why not? He could make his own mousetrap. He went to his wardrobe and pulled out an old shoebox from under his clothes.
Twenty minutes later he put down the scissors and admired his work.
Bertie had it all planned. He’d wait till everyone was asleep and then sneak down to the kitchen. Dad’s nasty old mousetrap could go in the bin and the Super-Safe Mouse Catcher would take its place.
Bertie would have to get up early tomorrow morning to find out if his plan had worked. It was probably better not to mention anything to Mum and Dad. The mouse could live under his bed – at least until he had house-trained it, anyway.
Bertie woke up. Light was spilling through his bedroom curtains. What time was it? Oh no! He shot out of bed – he had to get down to the kitchen before anyone else.
Downstairs the Super-Safe Mouse Catcher was still where he’d left it. Bertie tiptoed closer and kneeled down. Holding his breath, he listened for mousey squeaks. Nothing. He lay on his belly and peeped through the tiny doorway. The lump of cheese had vanished. But there, asleep in a heap of tissue paper, was something small, brown and furry.
Bertie could hardly believe it. His mouse catcher had actually worked! Wait till he told Darren and Eugene about this! Carefully he lifted the shoebox and scooped up the sleepy little mouse. It twitched in his hand. Just then he heard footsteps on the stairs. Someone was coming! Quickly he replaced the mouse, jammed on the lid and hid the box behind his back.
“Oh Bertie! You’re up early,” said Mum.
“Yes, I was just um … getting a drink,” said Bertie. “I’m going back to bed now.”
Mum frowned. “What’s that?” she said.
“What?”
“That thing you’re hiding behind your back.”
“Oh this,” said Bertie, bringing out the shoebox. “It’s, you know … just a box.”
Mum folded her arms. “What’s in it?”
“Nothing!” said Bertie.
The lid moved. The mouse must have woken up. Mum was staring at the box.
“
Open it,” she said.
Bertie sighed. It was no use arguing, he’d been rumbled. He removed the lid.
Mum peeped inside. “EEEEK!”
“SHH! You’ll scare him!” said Bertie. “He’s only just woken up.”
“It’s a mouse!” said Mum. “Where did you get him?”
Bertie proudly explained how he’d made the Super-Safe Mouse Catcher where he’d found Monty asleep.
“Monty?” said Mum.
“That’s his name,” said Bertie. “Isn’t he cute? Look at his little paws!”
Mum shook her head. “I know what you’re after, Bertie, but you are not keeping him.”
“He’s tiny! He won’t be any trouble!” pleaded Bertie.
“NO!” said Mum. “He’s got to go.”
Bertie looked sadly at Monty, who was now sniffing around his box.
“I won’t let him out,” he promised. “He can stay in my bedroom!”
“Not a chance,” said Mum. “Take him outside and let him go. And don’t do it anywhere near the house!”
Bertie took the box to the back door. It wasn’t fair. He never got to keep any of his pets. Even when he tried to keep dog fleas his mum squashed them. He went outside. Mum had said to release Monty away from the house, but where exactly? If the mouse got next door, the Nicelys’ mean old cat might catch him.
Bertie looked round the garden. Where would be safest? The flower beds? The vegetable patch? No, of course, the shed! It wasn’t near the house and better still it was filled with piles of junk. Nobody would notice a tiny little mouse house hidden under a blanket. If he was careful he could visit Monty every day!
Next morning, after breakfast, Bertie sneaked out to the shed. He’d saved Monty some peanut butter on toast.
“Monty! Monty?” he called.
He lifted up an old blanket to uncover the shoebox.
“You stay here, Monty,” he explained, feeding him bits of toast. “I’ve got to go to school, but I’ll see you later.”
He watched the mouse nibble his breakfast. It seemed a pity to leave him all alone. Then Bertie had an interesting thought. He looked down at his school bag. The shoebox would just about fit inside. He could cover it with his PE kit and Miss Boot would never suspect a thing.
On the way to school Bertie met up with Darren and Eugene.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve got in my bag,” he said, grinning.
“What?” said Eugene.
Bertie took off his backpack and pulled out the shoebox. Carefully he lifted the lid.
Darren and Eugene peered inside.
Monty blinked up at them.
“A mouse!” gasped Darren. “Where’d you get him?”
“I caught him,” said Bertie, proudly. “We found mouse droppings in our kitchen so I made my own mouse catcher. He’s called Monty.”
“Cool,” said Eugene. “What are you going to do with him?”
“Keep him,” said Bertie. “He’s coming to school.”
Eugene stared. “Miss Boot will go bonkers. Have you forgotten she’s terrified of rats?”
“So what? He’s a mouse,” said Bertie.
“Same thing,” said Darren. “She’ll go nuts if she sees him.”
“She won’t,” said Bertie, closing the lid. “He can stay in here and we’ll take him out at break to play with him.”
Later that morning Miss Boot was droning on about living in Tudor times. Bertie thought she was probably old enough to remember them. He hadn’t checked on Monty for at least ten minutes. Reaching into his bag, he brought out the shoebox and took off the lid.
YIKES! Where was Monty?
Bertie emptied the contents of his bag on to the floor. Lunch box, pencils, socks, mouse droppings … but no mouse.
“What’s up?” hissed Darren.
“He’s escaped!” said Bertie.
“Who has?”
“Monty, you dumbo! He’s not in his box.”
They passed the message to Eugene and the three of them searched under their desks. No luck. Darren nudged Bertie and pointed to the front.
“What?” hissed Bertie.
“There! On Miss Boot’s desk,” said Darren.
Bertie stared in horror. A neat trail of mouse droppings led across Miss Boot’s desk to Monty, who sat there nibbling the register. Bertie had to do something before it was too late. He jumped to his feet.
“MISS!”
Miss Boot glared at him. “What is it now, Bertie?”
“I’ve lost my … er … my pen!” said Bertie.
“Well, borrow one from someone else,” sighed Miss Boot.
“But it’s my best pen, I need to look for it,” begged Bertie.
“SIT DOWN!” thundered Miss Boot.
Bertie sat down. Monty had vanished from the teacher’s desk. Where had he got to now? Bertie caught sight of something streaking across the floor.
“Now,” said Miss Boot. “I want you to write down this— AARGHHH!”
She gave a yelp. Something was tickling her ankle. The ticklish feeling crept up the back of her leg. She tried to ignore it…
“I want you to write this— OOOH … HEE-HAA!” she squawked.
The class stood up to get a better view. Their teacher was dancing around as if her pants were on fire. Something brown and furry shot up her skirt.
“AARGGHHH! A RAT!” she screamed.
Bertie wouldn’t have believed that Miss Boot could move so fast. One moment she was hopping around like a jumping bean – the next she had leapt on to her desk.
“A RAT! A RAT!” she shrieked.
“DO SOMETHING!”
This was Bertie’s chance. He grabbed the shoebox and leaped into action. A mad chase broke out as Bertie scrambled under chairs and tables and Monty tried to escape.
At last he managed to get Monty back in the box.
“It’s okay, Miss, I’ve got him,” Bertie panted. “He can’t get away.”
Slowly Miss Boot climbed down off her desk and smoothed out her skirt. She shuddered.
“I hate rats!” she said.
“But he’s not a rat, he’s a mouse,” said Bertie. “His name’s Monty.”
Miss Boot turned her head. She gave Bertie a long hard look.
“And how exactly do you know his name?” she demanded.
Bertie gulped. Ooops! Now he really was in trouble.
Bertie sat down and pulled off his trainers with a groan. He thought PE was meant to be fun. Somebody should tell Miss Boot that. She’d just put them through an hour of star jumps, squats and sit-ups.
“It is obvious that many of you are not fit,” she said. “Too many crisps and too much TV. What you need is fresh air – that’s why this Friday we are going to be doing cross-country.”
Bertie rolled his eyes. What new form of torture was this?
“Who can tell me what cross-country is?” asked Miss Boot.
Know-All Nick was bouncing up and down as if he might burst. “Miss, Miss I know!” he panted. “Is it like a race?”
“Very good, Nicholas,” said Miss Boot. “Cross-country is a race run over fields and paths. Who’d like to try it?”
Class 3 looked at the floor.
“I see,” said Miss Boot. “And who’d rather stay inside and practise one hundred spellings?”
No one spoke.
“Good, then remember to bring your PE kit on Friday. What do you need on Friday, Bertie?”
“Um … sandwiches?” said Bertie.
“PE KIT!” thundered Miss Boot. “Do NOT forget! Next month it’s the County Cross-Country Trials and we will be taking part. I want four good runners for the team.”
Bertie didn’t know where Miss Boot was going to find them. Most of the class were slower than a tortoise with a limp. Trevor Trembleton usually brought a note when it came to PE and Know-All Nick was weedier than a stick insect. Nick was the only boy Bertie knew who could play football without getting mud on his kit.
At break time Bertie and hi
s friends leaned against the railings.
“Cross-country,” sighed Eugene. “Isn’t that really tough?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Bertie. “Why can’t we do something fun like beach volleyball?”
Bertie had seen beach volleyball on TV. It looked brilliant, but the school didn’t have a beach – or a volleyball, for that matter.
“Anyway,” said Darren. “At least we won’t be in the cross-country team. Miss Boot will pick the fastest runners.”
“I don’t know, I’m pretty speedy,” said Bertie.
“Pretty weedy, you mean,” said a voice.
Bertie looked round to see his old enemy, Know-All Nick. Didn’t he have anything better to do than listen in on other people’s conversations?
“Mind your own business,” said Bertie.
Nick took no notice. “Since when were you a fast runner?” he sneered.
Bertie stuck out his chin. “I’m faster than you.”
“Really? Who was first back to the coach after swimming last time?” said Nick. “Oh yes, it was me!”
“Only because you cheated,” said Bertie. “I’d like to see you do cross-country. You couldn’t cross the road.”
“Actually, I’m probably the fittest in the class,” boasted Nick. “Because I eat all my vegetables!”
“You look like a vegetable,” said Bertie.
“You smell like one,” replied Nick. “Anyway, I bet I could beat you.”
“No chance,” said Bertie.
“Want to bet?” said Nick. “First one to cross the finish line wins.”
“You’re on,” said Bertie, shaking hands.
“And the loser…” Nick thought for a minute. “The loser has to kiss Miss Boot!”
Bertie almost choked. Kiss Miss Boot? He’d rather kiss Angela Nicely! Come to that, he’d rather kiss Darren!
Rats! Page 1
