Sergeant Smugg struggled out, flailing his arms like a hyperactive windmill in a futile bid to keep Streaker at bay. I threw a glance at Tina and noted that she looked just like I felt – nerve-numbingly horrified. It was definitely going to be prison this time.
The end-result of all this was that Tina and I paid yet another visit to the police station, only we had to wait until a second police car came, and a breakdown truck too. Sergeant Smugg insisted on arresting Streaker, and the skateboard and the dog bowl. ‘It’s all evidence for the prosecution,’ he scowled.
‘You’ve got a meaty chunk stuck behind your ear, sarge,’ one of the constables pointed out, winking at me. That made me feel a bit better: not a lot, of course, but it was as if someone was on my side.
Dad had to come and get us again. I thought he’d be furious with me, but in fact he aimed most of his anger straight at Sergeant Smugg, who stood there drying
his hair after having a shower and changing his clothes. Dad pointed out that:
1. He was getting fed up with collecting us from the police station and –
2. It was not against the law to tow a dog bowl behind a bicycle and –
3. It was all Mr Smugg’s fault anyway – if he hadn’t shouted and set off his siren Tina wouldn’t have swerved.
‘My name is Sergeant Smugg, not Mister!’ roared the sergeant. ‘Your dog has just wrecked my car! She tried to eat my head! If you can’t keep her under control I shall order her to be destroyed.’
‘You can’t do that,’ snapped Dad. ‘If anyone ought to be put down, it’s you!’
‘Really?’ bellowed Sergeant Smugg. ‘I’m not the mad one around here. I reckon your dog’s got rabies. She’s totally crazy – and so is your family. Roller skates? Mobile phones? Skateboards and dog bowls? You’re all loopy. One more episode like this – just one more – and I’ll have your dog destroyed before you can say “Goodbye, Streaker.” And you can thank your lucky stars that I don’t have the rest of you put down with her. Now get her out of here!’
TEN
It was weird. Now that Streaker was under sentence of death everyone became very fond and protective of her. She had always been a pain, but she was also so bouncy and cheerful and, well… mad, and we loved her for it really We didn’t want to lose her. Mum and Dad spoke to her nicely and her predicament united us as a family. We fumed about the unfairness of it all and I wondered if there was a European Court of Doggy Rights. Dad even gave her extra meals. It didn’t change the way she behaved, of course. She was still pandemonium with four legs, a tail, and a woof attached.
We were all very worried about her. I was scared to take her outside. I thought that Sergeant Smugg, or Charlie, or their Alsatians might pounce on us at any moment. Tina and I both felt pretty depressed. The holiday was almost over and it seemed inevitable that we would either get arrested or shoved in a bath full of frog-spawn and other assorted gunge. We couldn’t win. However, Streaker had to go out sometimes and we went slinking up to the field in the evenings, hoping to avoid the Smuggs.
Then, two days before the end of the holiday, I discovered a ray of hope in the field. Actually, it wasn’t exactly a ray of hope, it was a small heap of junk that somebody had dumped at the edge of the field. There was some old stair-carpet, bits of wood and some metal cylinders. I’ve no idea what the cylinders had been used for, but as soon as I saw them I got the most AMAZINGLY BRILLIANT idea ever. I grabbed Tina by the shoulders and stopped her.
‘It’s OK!’ I shouted. ‘We shall never have to walk Streaker again!’
‘Has it got anything to do with mobile phones?’ asked Tina. (She has so little faith in me.)
‘No,’ I said, seizing a couple of metal rollers. ‘We’re going to build a dog-exercising machine.’
‘A what?’
‘A dog-exercising machine, for exercising the dog.’
‘Yes, I know what a dog-exercising machine is, Trevor. How do you plan to make one out of stair-carpet?’
‘First of all, you have to say “You’re clever, Trevor”.’
‘You’re very clever, Trevor. You’re the most clever Trevor ever.’
‘I know. Listen, we put these metal rollers at each end of these wooden planks. The planks will hold the rollers in place. We loop the stair-carpet round the rollers. We make the stair-carpet move round and round. We put Streaker on the carpet and it makes her walk, and we don’t even have to leave the house.’
I have to admit that there are times when I astonish myself. I’m not big-headed or anything (at least I don’t think I am), but the more I considered this idea of mine the more I realized that it was mega-fantastic. Not only would Streaker get exercised, it would all take place indoors, where the Smuggs couldn’t get her and where she was safe. There was no dog food involved, no mobile phones… even my parents would be impressed – possibly – although I decided I wouldn’t tell them right away.
(Have you ever noticed how your brain plays tricks on you? I mean, you’d think that by this time I would have known that none of our ideas had worked the way we had expected and we had spent most of our time at the local police station as a result.)
Tina didn’t exactly look overwhelmed. There was obviously a snag as far as she was concerned. ‘How do we make the carpet go round?’ she asked. I grinned and felt all warm inside. This was the most mind-blowing bit of the entire plan.
‘Easy. We use my mum’s exercise-bike.’
‘You what?’
‘We use my mum’s exer-cycle. All we have to do is connect the back wheel to one of the metal rollers, get on the bike and pedal.’
Tina whistled. I knew the idea would bowl her over. It was so beautifully simple.
‘That’s really clever, Trevor,’ she admitted. ‘Won’t your mum mind?’
‘She won’t know. She’s gone to aerobics. Then she does circuit training. She won’t be back until the next millennium. Dad’s up at the golf club. By the time they get back it will all be working like a dream.’
We collected all the bits we needed and hurried back to my house. Streaker carried the roll of stair-carpet in her mouth. If only she knew what we were going to do with it!
The first bit was easy. We fixed the
rollers at either end of the two wooden planks. Putting the carpet round was a bit more awkward. I cut it to the right length and we both sat there and stitched the two ends together to make a continuous loop.
Connecting Mum’s exer-cycle to one of the rollers was not simple. We tried using string, but that kept breaking. Then I had an idea. (I told you I’m an Ideas Man.) I had been in the car with Mum once when the fan-belt broke. Mum did this really clever thing. She took off her tights and used them to make a replacement fan-belt. It worked well enough to get us to the nearest garage.
Tina didn’t think my mum would be too happy about me using her tights. ‘She’s got hundreds of pairs,’ I said. ‘She could put them on a giant centipede and still have lots left over. You hold this while I tie a knot.’
And that was that. We had finished. We stood back and admired our machine. It looked a little odd, what with Mum’s tights driving the roller and a platform made from stair-carpet with lovely flowers printed all over it. Tina climbed on to the exer-cycle and began to pedal. The carpet started to roll.
‘It works! Brilliant! It works! Quick, where’s Streaker?’
The unsuspecting dog was fast asleep in an armchair. (That was pretty astonishing too. She must have worn herself out in the field.) I pounced on Streaker, carried her through to the dog-exercising machine and put her on the roller-track. She jumped off. I grabbed her and put her back on. She jumped off again.
‘It’s no good. She won’t stay there. Look, you get the track rolling and I’ll put her on when you’ve got some speed up. She’ll soon get the idea.’
Tina began pedalling and shortly the rollers were whirling and the stair-carpet was clattering round and round. I hovered over the track, holding Streaker, waiting for the right mome
nt.
‘A bit faster!’ I yelled.
Tina crouched over the handlebars and began to pedal as if she was in a Tour de France time-trial. The carpet became a brown blur as it trundled round faster and faster.
The moment had come.
ELEVEN
‘W alkies!’ I cried and dropped Streaker on to the whirring track.
There was a startled yelp as Streaker was caught by the carpet and hurled backwards at high speed. She shot off the rear of the track, whizzed out through the door, rocketed across the kitchen, and ended up with her backside rammed in the open front of the washing-machine – which luckily wasn’t switched on.
Streaker fixed me with a bewildered gaze as if to say, ‘How on earth did I get into this position?’ Her front paws were firmly on the ground, but the back half of her was even more firmly wedged in the washing machine. I ran over and tried to pull her out as gently as I could, but Streaker was jammed there like King Arthur’s sword in the stone.
‘Now what?’ Tina gave me a silent shrug.
‘She can’t move,’ I went on. ‘We’ve got to get her out. We need help.’
Tina shrugged again. ‘What kind of help?’ she said. ‘Who do we ask? Plumbers? A garage? Fire brigade?’
‘Fire brigade!’ I leaped to the telephone. They get cats out of trees and things, don’t they? Maybe they get dogs out of washing machines.’
It seemed the logical answer to me. The fire brigade could toddle around and they’d have Streaker out in a jiffy However, this was where we hit our next little problem. I wanted to ring the fire station and have a friendly chat about stuck dogs, but you can’t ring the fire station without dialling 999. The telephone was answered immediately and I kept saying, ‘Look, this isn’t an emergency, but…’
The next thing we heard was DEEE-DOOOO DEEE-DOOOO DEEE-DOOOO!! Talk about embarrassing! Two fire engines screeched to a halt outside and moments later the house was full of firemen racing around uncoiling hoses and dashing upstairs waving axes, ready to break down any doors.
‘Where’s the fire, lad?’ asked the Chief Fire Officer.
‘It’s not exactly a fire,’ I murmured. ‘It’s more like a dog stuck in a washing machine,’ and I pointed out Streaker. The Chief Fire Officer was very good and he sized up the situation at once.
‘Right, lads,’ he bellowed, ‘we need cutting-gear, and the pliers, and the grease – on the double. Got a bit of a doggy problem here. Take care – don’t hurt her.’
Tina peeped through the front window. ‘You’ve got lots of nosy neighbours, haven’t you, Trevor?’ It was true. The street was lined with about fifty people – all ages, all colours, all sizes, and all staring at us very hard and muttering among themselves.
In the middle of this Mum arrived home. Two fire engines were blocking the road in front of her home, with their orange and blue lights flashing furiously. Hoses dangled from every window and firemen were running in and out of her front door. She came rushing in, making even more noise than the fire sirens. ‘Where’s the fire? My house is going up in flames! Is everyone safe?’
The Chief Fire Officer tried to calm her and helped her to an armchair. ‘Don’t worry, madam, there’s no fire, but your dog’s stuck in your washing machine.’
‘Streaker!’ cried Mum, leaping up at once. ‘She’s being tumble-washed – she’ll drown! Oh, the poor dog! Get her out!’
‘It’s all right,’ explained the Chief Fire Officer, calming her again. ‘She’s going to
be fine. The machine isn’t on. She just has a stuck bottom. It won’t take long.’
At that moment one of the firemen shouted, ‘She’s out, Chief – no problem!’ and Streaker went whizzing round everyone, barking with delight, jumping up and trying to lick their faces and generally looking remarkably cheerful and unhurt by her little adventure. The firemen all had a good laugh about it and Streaker probably got more pats than she’d had since she was born. Mum made them all a cup of tea. After that they climbed back into their glorious machines and tootled back to the station.
Mum waved them goodbye, all smiles, then came back inside and shut the front door with an ominous bang. She glared at her exer-cycle, her tights and the old stair-carpet. I could tell she knew there must be a connection between this weird contraption in the front room and Streaker getting jammed in the washing machine.
‘Right, then,’ she hissed. ‘Let’s hear it, Trevor, and it had better be good.’ My heart sank, rather like the Titanic, only a lot faster and with no survivors.
‘It was my idea, Mrs Larkey,’ said Tina, looking Mum straight in the eyes.
‘Really?’ Mum sounded as surprised as I was. What was Tina up to? I knew better than to own up at this point. It was best to let Tina get on with it.
‘I suggested we build a dog-exercising machine.’
Mum glared at the stair-carpet. ‘A dog-exercising machine?’ she repeated. ‘Using my best tights, I see?’
Tina nodded. ‘I pedalled a bit too fast and Streaker fell off and got stuck.’
‘We couldn’t get her out,’ I butted in. ‘We were worried about her, so we…’
‘Called the fire brigade.’ Mum finished off for us. For several moments she just stared at the contraption we had built. She took a deep, deep breath and sighed. ‘I think you have both been very silly. Still, at least it wasn’t the police this time. Now, clear up and get my exer-cycle put back the right way. You owe me for a pair of tights, Trevor Larkey.’ She went huffing off upstairs to get changed.
I looked at Tina with relief. ‘Phew! That was close. Why did you tell her it was your idea?’
She gave a little shrug. ‘How many friends have you got?’ she asked. I was a bit taken aback.
‘Friends? I don’t know. I’ve never counted. Not all that many I suppose.’
‘How many?’ she insisted. I thought for a few moments.
‘I know quite a few people,’ I stalled. I didn’t want to say any more. It was too embarrassing.
Tina folded her arms. I could feel her eyes drilling into me. ‘I don’t mean people you know. They don’t count. How many friends?’
‘Boys or girls?’ I asked, still stalling as much as possible.
‘Either – both,’ Tina answered nonchalantly. My face was burning. It must have been bright red.
‘One,’ I admitted.
‘Me?’ asked Tina.
‘Of course,’ I snapped. She gave me a quick sideways glance.
‘That’s all right then,’ she said quietly. What was all right? What was she going on about?
‘Anyhow, parents are never nearly so cross with other people’s children,’ she continued matter-of-factly. ‘It’s something I’ve noticed. Your mum would have gone on shouting for ages if she thought it was your idea. As soon as I said it was mine, she calmed down and went away.’
I sat there, stunned. Why had I never noticed things like that? I think it’s because Tina’s a girl. Girls notice things like that. (Well, that’s what I think anyway, and it’s the only explanation I can think of.) Mind you, I was just about to be more stunned than at any time in my life, before or since.
TWELVE
‘We’d better take the dog out,’ Tina reminded me. ‘She hasn’t actually had any exercise yet.’ I fetched the dog-lead.
‘Come on, Streaker – time for walkies.’
Streaker leaped to her feet, trotted straight over, plonked her bottom on the floor and waited for me to clip the lead to her collar. Were we astonished? No, that’s
not the word – flabbergasted. That sounds better. We were flabbergasted. Streaker looked up at me with eyes that seemed to say ‘All right, I’ll do anything, but don’t jam my bum in the washing machine again!’
‘Pinch me, I’m dreaming,’ murmured Tina. ‘Take her up to the field and see if she still obeys you.’
All the way to the field Streaker was as good as gold, trotting quietly by my side. When we got there I let her off the lead. She went speeding off at onc
e and I thought that was it, but as soon as I shouted ‘Walkies!’ Streaker came hurtling straight back again.
Tina couldn’t stop laughing. ‘That was what you said to her when you put her on the exercising machine – “Walkies!” For some reason it makes her come straight back to you. It’s brilliant, Trev! Streaker’s been trained!’
It took several seconds for this to sink in properly. Tina was right. Streaker was trained. That meant we hadn’t lost the bet and she could come off Death Row! Everything was going to be all right. We stared at each other with enormous grins inside ourselves. I almost hugged Tina. (Almost, I said!)
Tina and I were still celebrating this when something even more unexpected happened. Streaker was charging round the woods, doing her normal everyday impression of a cruise missile, when we heard startled cries and Charlie Smugg suddenly appeared on the path. He wasn’t alone. Sharon Blenkinsop was with him, and THEY WERE HOLDING HANDS!!!!!
They stared at us in horror. I wish you could have seen Charlie’s face. He was furious, he was scared, he was worried, he was embarrassed, he wanted to die – and all at the same time. He hurriedly let go of Sharon’s hand, but it was too late. We had seen everything.
‘Hi, Charlie,’ said Tina, ever-so-sweetly. ‘Got yourself a girlfriend?’
‘No, I haven’t!’ His face was getting very red.
‘Charlie!’ cried Sharon, punching his shoulder. ‘You said!’
Tina and I had to bite our lips to stop ourselves from laughing out loud.
Charlie’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. ‘If you breathe a word to anyone, I’ll kill you both,’ he threatened. ‘It was your pesky dog’s fault. My dad says she should be put down. She’s uncontrollable.’
Just at that moment Streaker went whizzing past. ‘Walkies!’ I shouted, and she came racing back, skidded on all fours and sat obediently by my side. ‘She’s no trouble,’ I said. ‘I’ve trained her.’ Charlie’s face turned white.
The Hundred-Mile-an-Hour Dog Page 4
