One Big Wacky Family

by Jackie French

  ‘No, you’re a good dog,’ said Gunk, reinforcing the message with a pat. ‘A really good dog. Just do it outside next time, all right? Now, this is how you wash your hands…’

  CHAPTER 8

  Life With Spot

  Life with Spot settled down to a routine. Every morning Gunk gave her a big bowl of lettuce and cucumber with salad dressing to eat, while he ate his muesli.

  Every day Spot played in the garden (keeping a wary eye out in case Mrs Fluffytum arrived and she had to hide under the camellia bush) and munched the grass till Gunk came home from school.

  Then, in the afternoon, they’d go for a walk together and for dinner Spot would have more lettuce or maybe colesaw with grated onion. Spot loved onion, but Gunk didn’t let her eat too much because her breath stank in bed. Spot was still too scared to sleep alone, so she slept next to Gunk.

  It was good to get home to Spot’s welcoming bark. Not that she did bark of course. She just said ‘spt’, which Gunk supposed meant ‘Hey, am I glad to see you, Gunk!’ in Spot language.

  Spot was growing too. Gunk hadn’t realised anyone could grow so large just on coleslaw, lettuce with salad dressing and tomato and black olives with chunks of feta cheese. There was hardly room for both him and Spot in bed anymore.

  ‘There’s just not room in this kitchen for us and that dog!’ exclaimed Dad one morning, trying to step over Spot as she munched her breakfast of lettuce and cucumber with a few slices of beetroot and dribbled salad dressing onto the cork tiles.

  ‘Come on, Spot. Under the table!’ ordered Gunk, pushing the salad bowl next to his feet.

  Spot padded after the lettuce and sat down under the table to enjoy it. She lifted her head as Mum wandered in.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled Fliss, as her twenty-seven slices of toast and peanut butter slid off the table.

  ‘Down, Spot!’ cried Gunk.

  Dad shook his head. ‘Spot will have to eat outside,’ he decided. ‘I never realised one small dog could grow so big!’

  ‘Or be quite so hairy,’ said Mum, looking up from the Computer News as she spooned up her muesli. ‘That dog hair just floats everywhere.’

  ‘She’s moulting,’ said Gunk defensively.

  Mum looked at Spot sternly. ‘If anyone bothered to vacuum up all that hair, we could knit another dog with it.’

  ‘She’s going bald, that’s what she’s doing,’ said Fliss. ‘She’s going to look even weirder. One weird wimp of a dog. Is she still scared of cats?’

  ‘No,’ said Gunk, crossing his fingers behind his back. ‘Come on, Spot. You can finish your breakfast outside.’

  Spot trotted after him down the laundry steps and out to the back doorstep. She stuck her nose out the door and looked out carefully.

  ‘Come on!’ called Gunk, putting the salad bowl down on the lawn. ‘There’s no sign of Mrs Fluffytum. I promise.’

  ‘Spt,’ said Spot. She trotted out after him and began to eat her lettuce again.

  ‘Mrs Fluffytum’s gone to visit Gran,’ said Pete’s voice. She peered at them through the sweet peas that were growing on her side of the fence.

  ‘How come?’ asked Gunk.

  ‘It was my idea. I told Mum I had such a great time at Gran’s Mrs Fluffytum should have a holiday there too. I felt sort of guilty hearing Spot whimper every time Mrs Fluffytum looked over the fence.’

  ‘I know,’ said Gunk gloomily. ‘Fliss says my dog is a wimp.’

  ‘I think she’s a great dog,’ said Pete.

  Gunk stared. ‘Spot? Everyone else says she’s weird!’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t look quite like other dogs. But there’s something about her I really like. She sort of reminds me of something, but I can’t think what. She’s cute anyway,’ decided Pete.

  ‘Even though she doesn’t have any ears?’

  ‘Who needs ears?’ said Pete airily. ‘Spot can hear okay, can’t she?’

  ‘Spt!’ said Spot, wagging her massive tail happily and knocking over Fliss’s motorbike.

  ‘Well, see you,’ said Pete. ‘I’d better get to work.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Gunk, though he didn’t really think Pete would tell him.

  ‘Oh, stuff,’ said Pete casually. She vanished into the shed again.

  Gunk bent down and patted Spot’s hairy head. ‘See you, Spot,’ he said. ‘I have to go to football training. It’s the grand final next Saturday.’

  ‘Spt?’ asked Spot hopefully.

  Gunk shook his head. ‘I can’t take you to football training,’ he said. ‘There’s too much jumping about and shouting. You’d get scared.’

  ‘Spt,’ said Spot sadly. Her eyes grew big and her tail drooped sadly as she watched Gunk walk down the street.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Football Grand Final

  Gunk woke up early the morning of the football championship. He clambered over Spot and dressed hurriedly, then dumped Spot’s salad into her dish and helped himself to muesli and banana. He was just finishing when Fliss wandered in, still in her red-back spider pyjamas.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ she asked sleepily. ‘Going to take the wimp for a walk?’

  ‘She’s not a wimp,’ said Gunk hotly. ‘She just gets…nervous.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s a nervous wimp,’ said Fliss.

  ‘Anyway, I’m not taking her for a walk,’ said Gunk. ‘It’s the football finals this morning.’

  ‘Really?’ Fliss showed a bit of interest, even though she’d never forgiven her high school for not letting her play football when she was head and shoulders taller (and heaps more muscular) than any of the blokes on the school team. ‘Good luck.’ She rubbed Spot’s hairy back with her boot. Spot liked being scratched. ‘Maybe I’ll take the wimp for a run instead.’

  ‘You won’t take her near the freeway will you?’ asked Gunk anxiously. ‘She doesn’t like the noise. And not down past McAdams’, because their cat sleeps on the front steps and scares her, and…’

  ‘Relax, baby brother!’ said Fliss ‘It’s time that dog learnt not to be a wuss. And I’m just the person to teach her!’

  ‘Um,’ said Gunk. But it seemed there was nothing he could do. And anyway, it was time to go.

  It was a tough match. By half-time the team were down six–nil. The other side all seemed twice as big and three times as mean.

  ‘I’m sure that kid in the front row has a moustache,’ whispered Neil Chung, as they took a breather while the ref argued a foul.

  ‘Huh! The one behind him has a beard!’ said Gunk.

  Neil peered around him. ‘That’s Bruiser Beastley,’ he muttered. ‘I saw him play last year. Just don’t get too close to him.’

  The ref held up his hand and play began again. By the third tackle, Gunk felt like he’d been put through the washing machine and then run over by the lawn mower. It didn’t help that he was worried about Spot too.

  Had Fliss taken her down past the shopping centre? Spot was frightened of the noise the coffee machine made at the Coffee Café.

  Had Fliss taken her down Ryrie Street? There was a budgie in a cage in one of the houses there that called out rude names and it spooked Spot almost as much as cats.

  Maybe Fliss had even taken her past the indoor swimming pool. There was an air-conditioning exhaust fan there that Spot found really scary.

  Or maybe…

  Suddenly Gunk saw Spot snaking her long neck through the crowd to peer at him. Gunk stood on tiptoes to try to see her more clearly. Was she really all right? Maybe Fliss had looked after her. He sighed in relief. She looked okay, Gunk decided. Just sort of bigger than any other dog around. But it was nice of Fliss to bring Spot to see him play.

  Gunk blinked. It wasn’t Fliss who was holding Spot’s lead, it was Pete. Why was Pete holding Spot? Where was Fliss? Had there been an accident?

  Spot took a mouthful of grass and munched it absent-mindedly, her gaze still on Gunk.

  Pete grinned at him over the heads of the crowd, ‘Come on Biscuit Creek!’
she yelled.

  Gunk grinned back. It was sort of nice to have someone watching him play. Dad hated football and Mum got bored because you didn’t do it with computers.

  Thud! The football landed right by Gunk’s feet. ‘Wake up, dopey!’ yelled someone.

  Gunk grabbed the ball and began to run. Miraculously the way seemed clear in front of him. He could score a try! And if he scored one try, maybe they could score more tries! Maybe they could even win…

  ‘Go, Gunk, go!’ shrieked Pete on the sidelines.

  One metre, three metres…he was nearly there.

  Suddenly someone loomed behind him. His feet sounded like small earthquakes and his breath hissed like a vacuum cleaner gone wrong. Bruiser Beastley. It had to be! Gunk tried to force his feet faster.

  Whump! The tackle caught him round the knees and he crashed down, the ball still in his hands. He was just about to let it go when…

  Zoom! Something whizzed onto the football field.

  Whup! The weight was suddenly lifted from his knees.

  ‘Help!’ screamed Bruiser Beastley. ‘Get it off me!’

  ‘It’s a dog!’ cried someone else. ‘There’s a giant dog on the field!’

  ‘Spt.’ Something dribbled happily in Gunk’s ear.

  Gunk rolled over. ‘Hi, Spot,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 10

  Spot Bounces In

  Pete galloped onto the field. ‘I couldn’t hold her,’ she cried. ‘She was just standing there, but as soon as that kid tackled you, she was off!’

  Gunk sat up. ‘Thanks, Spot,’ he said.

  ‘Spt,’ said Spot.

  ‘You can put Bruiser down now,’ Gunk added.

  ‘Please,’ whimpered Bruiser Beastley.

  ‘Spt,’ said Spot agreeably. She opened her mouth. Bruiser Beastley crashed to the ground. He peered up at Spot’s big, bare nose looming above him and gulped. ‘Er, nice doggy,’ he croaked.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Gunk. ‘Spot’s really gentle. She wouldn’t hurt anyone.’

  Pete giggled. Gunk stared. It was the first time he had ever heard Pete giggle. Suddenly the giggle broke into a giant belly laugh. ‘Not hurt anyone?’ she gasped. ‘That dog just hurtled through a football crowd onto the field, knocked over three players and the referee and grabbed the kid who tackled you!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Gunk. He gulped. ‘Is anyone hurt? Is the ref okay?’

  ‘They’re fine,’ said Pete, still laughing. ‘No matter what Fliss says, Spot is definitely not a wimp! Well,’ she added, ‘maybe she’s only brave when someone threatens you!’

  ‘Spt,’ agreed Spot, dribbling on Bruiser now.

  ‘Hey, how come you’ve got Spot. I thought she was with Fliss?’ demanded Gunk.

  Pete sighed. ‘It was the cat down the road,’ she informed him, ‘the one Mrs Fluffytum used to bash up

  all the time. She scared Spot and Spot ran away, and Fliss couldn’t catch her, then I did, and Fliss said she gave up—Spot was too much of a wimp to bother with.’ Pete began to giggle again. ‘If only she could have seen Spot just now!’

  ‘Can I get up please?’ said Bruiser hopefully, wiping Spot’s dribble off his face.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ said Gunk. He got to his feet too, just as the ref came over. ‘Look, sir, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Get that dog off the field! Now!’ ordered the ref.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Gunk. He leant over to Spot. She was taller than his waist now. ‘Look, Spot,’ he said, ‘this is a game, okay? As long as we’re on this field, people are allowed to tackle me as much as they like. Well, almost as much as they like,’ he added, with one eye on Bruiser.

  Bruiser smiled sickly, as though to say, ‘Me? Tackle too hard? Me? Never!’

  ‘Have you got that?’ asked Gunk.

  ‘Spt,’ agreed Spot.

  The ref frowned. ‘That dog looked as though it almost understood you,’ he said.

  ‘She did understand me,’ said Gunk, crossing his fingers. He just hoped Spot did understand.

  Pete picked up Spot’s lead and tugged. ‘Come on, Spot,’ she said. ‘I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘In your shed?’ asked Gunk.

  Pete ignored him. She tugged on the lead again. Spot gave Bruiser a long wet lick, as though to say ‘No hard feelings?’, and trotted obediently behind her.

  But Pete didn’t leave for her mysterious shed. She stayed to watch the rest of the game. Spot stayed too.

  ‘Penalty for Eastern Valley,’ ordered the ref. He held up his hand for play to begin again.

  Things were different now with Spot staring from the sideline. No one tackled Gunk at all. He only had to approach someone and they almost dropped the ball. The score was fifty-eight-twenty-four to Biscuit Creek when the whistle finally blew.

  ‘Hey, that was great!’ cried Neil. ‘We should make Spot our mascot!’

  Gunk grinned, but he wasn’t too sure. Having your dog win the game for you seemed just a little like cheating.

  But he was glad about one thing anyway: Spot mightn’t have any ears or eat dog food or wag her tail properly like other dogs, but she was definitely no wimp!

  CHAPTER 11

  Spot Can’t Sleep

  For Gunk’s next birthay he got a computer game from Mum, six pairs of silk boxers with baby bunnies on them from Dad, a voucher to have any part of his body he liked pierced from Fliss and a new bed.

  ‘I can’t think how you broke your old one!’ said Mum vaguely, on her way to the study.

  Gunk said nothing. No one knew Spot still slept on his bed—well, what was left of his bed. Spot was taller than Gunk now but still nervous about sleeping alone.

  Spot had changed in other ways too. Her neck had grown longer and her tail even fatter and her legs looked more like an elephant’s than a dog’s. Even worse, now she was a year old, her fur was falling out.

  ‘I told you she was going bald,’ remarked Fliss one morning, as she shovelled sausages and eggs and fried tomatoes and mushrooms into her mouth. ‘You’ll have to change her name and call her Egg-head instead.’

  ‘No way,’ said Gunk.

  ‘Maybe she’s got fleas or mites or mange or something,’ said Dad, reaching for the jam.

  ‘She’s not scratching or anything,’ said Gunk defensively. ‘I looked it up in the encyclopedia, and it said there are some dogs that are naturally bald.’

  ‘Yeah, but naturally bald dogs are the size of rats,’ said Fliss, ‘not baby elephants.’

  Mum shook her head. ‘Have you any idea how much it costs to keep that dog in lettuces?’ she asked. ‘Not to mention cucumbers and tomatoes. And yesterday she wagged that massive tail of hers and unplugged the cord from my computer! I hadn’t done a back-up either,’ she complained. ‘Do you realise there may be aliens trying to communicate with us right now? The world needs my new program!’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry!’ yelled Gunk. ‘Spot can’t help losing her hair, or eating so much, or growing so big! It’s not fair! Fliss has her motorbike and Mum has her computer and Dad has his cute collection. All I have is Spot!’

  ‘And enough dog hair to open a carpet factory and enough doggy dribble to fill a bathtub,’ remarked Fliss. ‘Settle down, baby brother. No one’s attacking your precious doggy. See you later, everyone.’ She clomped out.

  The crisis came two days later. Gunk waited, as he always did, till everyone was asleep then tiptoed out to the laundry. ‘Come on, Spot,’ he called softly. ‘Bedtime.’

  ‘Spt,’ said Spot happily, dribbling into the washing machine.

  Gunk made a note to empty the washing machine first thing next morning. Dad had made a fuss last week about washing his baby duckling boxers in doggy dribble.

  Spot squeezed into the kitchen, bending her long neck so her head could fit under the archway, and lumbered through. Then suddenly…

  ‘Come on, Spot!’ said Gunk sleepily.

  ‘Spt!’ said Spot urgently.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Gunk turned round. Spot gazed a
t him pathetically from the doorway into the corridor.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Gunk softly. ‘You fitted through the door yesterday! You can’t have grown that much in one day.’

  ‘Spt,’ said Spot pathetically, dribbling onto the carpet.

  ‘You’ve been eating too much lettuce,’ accused Gunk. ‘Come on, breathe in!’

  Spot breathed in. She tried to force herself through the doorway again.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Gunk urgently. He had a sudden vision of the corridor exploding around them as Spot breathed out mid-doorway.

  It was no use. Spot was just too big. Gunk sighed and reached up to stroke Spot’s big, bald nose. ‘You’ll just have to sleep in the laundry,’ said Gunk. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he added encouragingly. ‘I’ll only be a couple of rooms away.’

  ‘Spt,’ said Spot sadly. She turned around clumsily and lumbered back to the laundry. Gunk followed her.

  ‘Now settle down and go to sleep,’ he ordered. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Spt,’ sniffed Spot, as Gunk turned to go back to his bedroom.

  Gunk looked back at Spot. Big tears rolled down her nose and dripped onto the laundry floor. ‘Look, you’re a big dog now!’ cried Gunk. ‘A really big dog! You’re old enough to sleep by yourself.’

  ‘Spt,’ agreed Spot mournfully, settling her giant head onto her blanket. She sniffed twice and stared sadly at Gunk.

  ‘Goodnight, Spot,’ said Gunk gently. He turned off the light and marched back to his room and settled into bed. It seemed too big and empty without Spot. It was also too quiet without Spot snoring next to him and dribbling quietly onto the carpet.

  Gunk tossed and tried to get comfortable. Surely Spot was all right! She was probably asleep by now. There was no point worrying…

  Gunk sighed, pushed back the bedclothes and tiptoed out to the laundry. Moonlight spilled through the laundry window and there in the moonlight was Spot, sobbing quietly into the blanket.