by Duncan Ball
‘Fred?’ Penny asked.
‘And Steve and Arthur and Bob and —’
‘Paw Paw isn’t his real name. It’s a made-up name.’
‘Then how do you know he lives in Bogusville? Maybe he made that up, too.’
‘He told these wonderful stories and he changed names and everything, but he gave too much away.’
‘What exactly did he give away?’ Selby asked.
‘Little things,’ Penny explained. ‘He said that it rained on March fourteenth. Well, I’m no dummy, so I went to the library and checked the weather maps in the newspapers.’
‘And?’
‘And the only rain in the whole country was in a long line across the middle of Australia.’
‘So he could be anywhere across Australia,’ Selby said.
‘Yes, but in another story he said that the sun set at eight fourteen on Christmas Day. So again I looked at the newspapers for Christmas Day. By then I knew he must live around here.’
‘There are other towns in this area,’ Selby pointed out.
‘But none of them has a zoo or a rhino or a tower on a hill. He told a story about how Ibbles kept a principal from blowing up the local primary school. I read through a whole year of Bogusville Banners until I found a story about that librarian going round the twist. Do you want to know more?’
‘How did you know that our name is Trifle?’ Selby asked.
‘That was easy. Paw Paw said that the owners of this dog were Mr and Mrs Elfirt — that’s Trifle spelled backwards. I just looked in the phone book and found Dr and Mrs Trifle at this address,’ Penny said. ‘Maybe I should let you read the stories —’
‘That won’t be necessary!’ Selby said, still in his high-pitched voice.
‘But Mrs Trifle, I’m in love with him and I must find him.’
‘He probably doesn’t want you to find him.’
‘Of course he does,’ Penny said. ‘Or he wouldn’t have left all those hints. Then again, he might be just plain stupid —’
‘Now, now,’ Selby said. ‘Don’t go insulting him if you don’t even know who he is.’
‘Well, one thing I do know is that he loves me too,’ Penny said.
‘He does?’
‘Yes, but he’ll need some convincing. I know the sort of man he is,’ Penny said. ‘He’s one of those tough, hard country men with a marshmallow core. He’s rugged but shy and sensitive. That’s why I fell in love with him.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine who he might be,’ Selby said, feeling a bit sorry for her. ‘So you’d better go back to the city.’
‘All right,’ Penny said with a sigh. ‘I guess I’ve come all this way for nothing. Well give Ibbles a pat for me. Or is it Ibbles backwards — is it really Selbbi?’
‘Yes, it is. The Trifles’ dog is named Selby,’ Selby heard a voice outside say.
‘Who said that?’ Selby wondered as he moved around to the front window and peeked out. ‘Why, it’s Postie Paterson delivering the mail.’
‘Just as I thought,’ Penny said to Postie. ‘And you’re just the man I wanted to talk to. A postman like you must know everyone in Bogusville.’
‘Well, yes,’ Postie said. ‘Why?’
‘Is there anyone with the initials P. P. — as in Paw Paw?’
Postie thought for a minute. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But then my nickname is Postie and my last name’s Paterson so I guess my initials are P.P.’
‘Postie, darling!’ Penny screamed, as she threw her arms around him and gave him a big kiss. ‘It’s me, Penny!’
‘Who?’
‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know me, you gorgeous hunk. Two-Up Penny from Adelaide. Only my name’s really Penny Wise. You know, from the Net. I just loved your stories about the Trifles’ dog.’
‘W-W-What dog? W-W-What net?’ Postie asked, feeling distinctly nervous. ‘I’m not the dog-catcher. I’m the postman.’
‘I told you I’d find you,’ Penny said, linking her arm in Postie’s and leading him away. ‘Come along, Paw Paw, let’s go somewhere for a nice quiet chat.’
‘Are you sh-sh-sure I’m the one you’re looking f-f-for?’ Postie stammered.
‘Of course I am,’ Penny said. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Trifle.’
Selby didn’t answer as he watched Penny lead the baffled Postie up the driveway, passing the Trifles along the way.
‘Poor Postie,’ Selby thought, ‘he must think that Penny’s completely bonkers. Or should I say, she’s a raven nuck ace.
Paw note: It’s easy, just read it out loud and it will sound like: ‘I have lots of pets and I love them all.
S
Paw note: These three smilies are: l. a normal smiley, 2. a smiley with a big smile, and 3. a smiley with big kissy lips. Yuck!
S
SELBY DYES
‘Why in the world,’ Mrs Trifle asked Dr Trifle, ‘are you painting the front door only minutes before our guests arrive?’
‘Guests?’ Selby thought as he pushed through the new doggy-door at the bottom of the door. ‘I wonder who’s coming?’
‘Guests?’ asked Dr Trifle. ‘Who’s coming?’
‘The BoPoFest organising committee will be meeting here in ten minutes’ time,’ said Mrs Trifle.
‘What in the world is BoPoFest?’
‘You know, the Bogusville Poetry Festival — and now they’ll have to be careful not to get white paint on them when they come in.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Dr Trifle said, touching the door with his finger. ‘This isn’t paint at all.’
‘It looks like paint and it smells like paint and you paint it on with a paint brush,’ Mrs Trifle said.
‘But it’s better than paint,’ said Dr Trifle. ‘It’s my newly invented Dry-In-A-Flash Surface Covering Substance. You see — it’s already dry.’
‘Goodness, so it is,’ Mrs Trifle said, swiping her hand down the door.
Minutes later Selby watched as Melanie Mildew, Constable Long, Phil Philpot, and the other poetry organisers arrived to do the last minute planning for the highlight of the BoPoFest: the Sudden-Death Poetry Read-Off.
‘My, how Selby has aged,’ Phil Philpot said, reaching down to pat him.
‘He looks ten years older,’ Melanie Mildew agreed.
‘Is it true?’ Selby wondered. ‘Do I really look old? Have I suddenly aged?’
At the end of the meeting Melanie Mildew turned to Constable Long and said, ‘You won the Sudden-Death Poetry Read-Off jackpot two years ago with that lovely poem about a police constable fixing a punctured tyre on a lonely dirt track, remember?’
‘I remember it well,’ the constable said. ‘It was such a great feeling to win.’
‘Oh, I loved that poem,’ Selby thought. ‘All that business about getting the old tyre off the car and the new tyre on. The sound of cicadas in the afternoon heat. The goanna watching from a tree. I felt like I was right there changing the tyre myself.’
‘Of course it wasn’t really just a poem about changing a tyre, was it?’ Melanie said.
‘Yes, it was,’ Constable Long said.
‘No, no, that tyre wasn’t really a tyre at all. It was really a symbol for the years and how they roll by.’
‘And the sound of cicadas,’ said Phil Philpot, ‘was a symbol for all the happy people the policeman had helped over the years.’
‘And that goanna,’ said Dr Trifle, getting into the spirit of things, ‘it wasn’t really a goanna. It was a symbol of the spirit of the land looking down — protecting us.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ Mrs Trifle asked her husband.
‘Well, I think so,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘I don’t know much about poems but I know that they’re never about what you think they’re about — they’re always about something else.’
‘Goodness me,’ Constable Long said, scratching his head. ‘I thought I was just writing a poem about the time I had a flat tyre out near Gumboot Mountain.’
‘I can’t
stand it!’ Selby thought, as he put his paws over his ears. ‘Why can’t people just listen to a poem and enjoy it without all this carry-on?’
Later, when the Trifles and the others had gone to Phil Philpot’s restaurant, The Spicy Onion, Selby trotted into the kitchen. He munched a Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuit and had just turned to his drinking bowl when he saw his reflection in the water.
‘What’s that on my head?! It looks like white hair!’ he thought as he dashed for the bathroom and jumped up on the basin to look in the mirror. ‘Oh, no! It is! No wonder they thought I looked older — I do! I’ve got to do something about it! Didn’t Mrs Trifle get some hair dye when she was thinking of getting rid of her white hair?’
Selby searched through the medicine cabinet and found a box with a label that said: Two-Step White-Fighter Shampoo. Inside was a row of little bottles.
‘Thank goodness,’ Selby thought, ‘there are lots of colours. Let’s see which one is closest to Selby colour. “Autumn Leaf"? No, too red. “Blue Lagoon"? Who would want blue hair? “Auburn"? No, too brown. “Champagne"? No, too silvery blond. And what’s this clear stuff called “Fixer"? Hmmm. There’s nothing like my colour. I’m sort of in between those last two. That’s it! I’ll use half Auburn and half Champagne! I’d better dye the whole of me instead of just the white bits just to make sure I’m all the same colour. That way no one will notice.’
‘Let’s see now,’ Selby said, reading the directions. ‘First wet hair. Then apply Two-Step White-Fighter Shampoo and wait ten minutes. Then — oh, forget it. I hate directions. It’s all just common sense anyway.’
Selby turned on the shower, jumped in and began rubbing both dyes into his fur. Then he stood there covered in foam for ten minutes.
‘Okay, finished with the shampoo. Now for the old rinse-aroo,’ he said, showering off the foam. ‘And then the big dry-aroo.’
Selby grabbed the hair dryer and was just finishing drying himself when he heard the Trifles’ car pull into the driveway.
‘Finished,’ he thought. ‘And not a second too soon.’
Selby jumped up on the basin and put the bottles of dye back in the medicine cabinet and was just about to jump down again when he saw himself in the mirror. The full horror of what he saw hit him like a thousand thunderbolts.
‘I’ve gone bright pink!’ he cried. ‘I’m pink all over! I look like a pink parrot! Oh, woe, woe, woe. How did it happen? Oh, no! The white hairs on top of my head are still white!’
Selby could hear the Trifles come into the house as he glanced at the directions on the Two-Step White-Fighter Shampoo package. At the bottom was a warning that he hadn’t noticed before:
NEVER USE THESE DYES IF YOU ALREADY HAVE DYE IN YOUR HAIR AND NEVER MIX TWO COLOURS TOGETHER. IF YOU DO, IT’LL BE TOO BAD FOR YOU.
‘Why, oh, why didn’t I read the directions?!’ Selby thought. ‘Why didn’t I just stay white? I’d much rather be old than pink! From now on I’ll always read every word of directions on everything!’
‘Selby,’ Mrs Trifle called as she walked down the hallway towards the bathroom. ‘Oh, Selby. Where are you? Time for your walk.’
‘I can’t let her see me like this,’ Selby thought. ‘One glimpse and I’m gone. Pink, for pity’s sake! Why pink?! I hate pink! I’ve got to get out of here quick smart.’
With this, Selby leapt up out the window and hit the ground running. He didn’t stop running till he’d gone all the way down Bunya-Bunya Crescent and into the bush beyond.
‘This is the end,’ Selby sniffed. ‘I can’t go back again till my hair grows out and gets back to its usual colour. It could be years. (Sniff.) I’ll have to walk and walk across the land. I’ll never know where my next meal is coming from. I might starve. Just because of a few white hairs I could die.’
Suddenly Selby felt a giggle coming up from his stomach which then turned into a laugh.
‘I’ll die!’ he laughed. ‘That’s what I’ve already done. I’ve already dyed! I’ve dyed myself pink. What am I saying? First I went pink and now I’ve gone bonkers!’
Selby wandered through scrub and fields, going further and further from Bogusville. As it got darker, only the light of distant lightning showed his way. Finally, just as he was about to collapse from exhaustion he saw a pinpoint of light in the distance. As he came closer he could hear a man’s voice.
‘He’s sitting by a campfire talking to himself,’ Selby thought as he crept through the bushes. ‘He sounds like an actor practising his lines.’
Selby crept even closer until he could see the man’s rugged face, ringed as it was with white hair and a white beard. As Selby listened the old man’s voice flowed like honey in the night air.
‘As a child I walked across the land,’ the man said, ‘and everything I saw, I became. I saw rocks and I became the rocks. I became the brown hills and the trees and the streams filling dry riverbeds after a summer shower. I became the woman picking berries, the boy fishing in the sea. I became the tiny flowers on mountain peaks and the thick wet leaves of the rainforest. I became each blade of grass and each blade of grass became me …’
‘He’s gone bonkers just like me,’ Selby thought. ‘At least I’ve got an excuse to go bonkers — I’ve gone pink.’
But as the old man’s voice rose and fell Selby began to feel the beauty of the words spinning about him like leaves in a willy-willy. Seconds passed and then minutes and the words drifted gently down to the bare earth beside the fire.
‘I’ve never heard anything like it,’ Selby thought. ‘His words paint paintings in my head the way poetry does — but it’s not like poetry. It doesn’t rhyme. He’s like a great white spider spinning a web of words in the air.’
Selby was so carried away by the magic of the words that he sat down, breaking a twig beneath his paw.
‘Who goes there?’ the old man demanded. ‘Step into the light so Wanderin’ Dan can see you.’
Selby thought of turning and running away, but before he could move the man had pulled a branch aside and seen him.
‘Goodness me,’ the man said, ‘a pink dog! What will they think of next? Come close to the fire and warm your bones. Wanderin’ Dan needs someone to talk to.’
With that, the man picked Selby up and put him down next to the fire. And for the next few hours, the old man talked and talked, spilling out his strange poetry, speaking of stars and the planets and the land.
‘I dream of a day,’ he said, finally, ‘when I could fly high in the sky and look back on this great green earth and say, Wanderin’ Dan, you’re the luckiest man that ever lived. You’ve got nothing and you’ve got everything. And everything there is, is good. And that even goes for pink dogs.’
Selby listened on into the night and soon he’d fallen asleep. Towards morning, the sound of raindrops on leaves woke him. He looked around and found himself alone in a little shelter made of branches.
‘He’s gone,’ Selby thought. ‘Wanderin’ Dan has wandered off. But before he did, he made this thing to keep me dry. Wasn’t that nice? Such a nice man. He was old, he had no money or anything, but he was still happy. Why can’t I be happy too? My only problem is that I’m pink, for heaven’s sake! This is silly, I’m going straight back to Bogusville and tell the Trifles that I know how to talk and they’re just going to have to like me for what I am — a pink talking dog!’
Without waiting for the rain to finish, Selby ran back towards Bogusville. Within minutes he was soaked to the skin. He was just balancing on a log crossing Bogusville Creek when suddenly he looked down and saw pink droplets around his feet.
‘What’s this?’ Selby thought. ‘My goodness! My colour is running! The pink is coming out with the rain! I’m turning Selby-coloured again!’ he screeched, leaping to the riverbank and dancing in circles. ‘Of course — that’s why it’s called Two-Step White-Fighter Shampoo. I didn’t do the second step! That “Fixer” bottle must be the chemical that makes the dye stay in! I didn’t use it because I didn’t read the directions!
Oh, happy day, I’ll never ever read directions again!’
Selby broke into a joyous run filled with leaps and bounds as he tore towards town.
‘Yiiiipppppeeee! My colour is running and I’m running too!’ he cried as he soaked up as much rain as he could. ‘I can go back now and just keep my trap shut and be my real secret self again!’
It was evening by the time Selby crept back through the doggy-door and curled up on the carpet. Moments later Dr and Mrs Trifle arrived home.
‘That was the greatest BoPoFest ever,’ Dr Trifle said, ‘especially the Sudden-Death Poetry Read-Off part.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Trifle. ‘And that old man who won it — that Wanderin’ Dan, the Poet Man — he was wonderful.’
‘And he recited it all from memory,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘The words just flowed out. But I wonder why he didn’t want to keep the jackpot?’
‘He asked us to donate it to the RSPCA,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘He must be wealthy because he said he didn’t need money. He said that he had everything he needed.’
‘You know,’ Dr Trifle said, ‘it all goes to show that I was right.’
‘About what?’
‘That poems are never about what you think they’re about,’ Dr Trifle explained. ‘The pink dog in the poem must have been a symbol for something else. I mean there aren’t any pink dogs, are there?’
‘No, I guess you’re right,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘Hey! Look over there! Selby’s back! He’s not lost after all!’
‘Oh, Selby, where have you been all night? You frightened the wits out of us!’ Dr Trifle said, stroking Selby’s head. ‘Hmmm, this is strange. This hair on top of his head is all white and stiff —’
‘That’s not white hair at all,’ Mrs Trifle said, looking more closely. ‘It’s paint from the doggy-door. He must have come through it just after you painted it with your surface covering thingy.’
‘Well, isn’t that a coincidence,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘Just today I invented Dry-In-A-Flash Surface Covering Substance Remover. I’ll get the bottle now and we’ll have him back to normal in a jiffy.’
