‘Can’t we just try and see what happens?’
‘OK, we’ll do it tomorrow. I’m a bit busy today.’
As things turned out, it was just as well that Jemima’s mum postponed the undressing of Frank. For that evening, the old dog fox sneaked back and lay up once more in the nettle patch. Most of the flock had already made their way up to the henhouse and only Gertie and Mildred were still down at the far end of the orchard, having a last forage in the grass.
Though they were not as firm friends as they had once been, Mildred had partly wormed her way back into Gertie’s good books, mostly by toadying to her. Now, looking up at the sky, she said, ‘Don’t you think it’s getting late, dear? Time for bed. Come along now.’
Gertie did not like to be told. ‘I’ll come when I’m good and ready,’ she said.
Frank was still standing by the edge of the duckpond. The ducks had gone in, but he stayed, his eye on his distant mother. I’ll try and have a word with her as she goes by, he thought. She might give me some advice on what to do.
As he peered down the darkening orchard, he saw the figure of Mildred approaching.
‘Isn’t Mum coming?’ he asked her.
‘Don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Mildred huffily as she went by.
I’d better go down and see what she’s doing, thought Frank. It’ll be dark soon. But then he saw his mother turn and begin to walk up the orchard towards him.
Then he saw a bushy-tailed red shape emerge from the nettle patch and follow …
Chapter Eleven
‘Mum!’ yelled Frank at the top of his voice. ‘Behind you! Look behind you!’ and Gertie, doing as she was told for once, came scuttling towards him, wings flapping madly, squawking in panic.
Chickens have always run away from foxes, and Frank should now have fled too. For a moment he was paralysed with fear, knowing that he’d be too slow to escape. But then, unable to bear the sight of his terror-stricken old mother, he set off bravely straight towards the oncoming fox.
‘Keep going, Mum!’ he cried as Gertie dashed past, and then he marched on towards the old enemy, lifting his great yellow webs high and stamping them down again while loudly crying, ‘Frank! Frank!’
The fox stopped in his tracks. What kind of chicken was this that was coming directly at him, shouting some kind of war cry? What kind of chicken was this that wore a coat of green armour, that had huge webbed feet, and smelled strongly of duckpond? The old dog fox’s nerve broke, and he turned tail and slunk away.
Just then, Jemima came out into the orchard to shut the ducks and chickens up for the night. She heard her cockerel’s cries and ran, just in time to see the worsting of the fox. ‘Oh, Frank, Frank!’ she called, and then she hurried to pick him up.
‘What a brave boy you are!’ she said as she carried him to the duckhouse. But when she came to its door, he kicked and struggled and squawked and shouted his name in an angry voice. So she took him to the henhouse, and he jumped out of her arms and dashed in.
On one of the perches, a breathless Gertie had been telling Mildred what had happened.
‘There was a fox …’ she panted.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ said Mildred. ‘I told you it was getting late.’
‘Oh, be quiet and listen,’ said Gertie, ‘because if it hadn’t been for Frank, you would never have heard my voice again.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Mildred.
‘He saved my life!’ said Gertie. ‘He charged at that fox so that I could have time to escape. I only hope he died quickly. Oh, my brave Frank, he gave his life for mine.’ She closed her eyes and sat in silent mourning.
‘I don’t think he did, dear,’ said Mildred, for at that moment Frank came dashing in through the henhouse door, which Jemima closed behind him.
Gertie opened her eyes to see, standing in the gloom, the rubber-clad figure of her son. ‘It’s a ghost!’ she murmured to Mildred in horror.
‘I don’t think it is, dear,’ said Mildred.
‘I’m not a ghost, Mum,’ said Frank. ‘I’m solid flesh and blood.’
‘And rubber,’ said Mildred.
‘Yes, I think that’s what scared that old fox. He’d never seen a cockerel like me.’
‘There’s never been a cockerel like you, my boy!’ cried Gertie. ‘You saved Mummy’s life! You’re a hero!’
Frank looked down his beak modestly.
‘And it’s lovely to have you back here with us instead of being with those old ducks,’ said Gertie. I daresay it was his funny gear that frightened that fox, she thought drowsily as she drifted towards sleep. But I wish he’d get rid of it …
Chapter Twelve
The very next day Jemima’s father went to market and found just what he’d been looking for.
‘Come and see what I’ve got for you,’ he said to his daughter when he arrived home. He took a crate out of the back of the Land Rover.
‘Oh, Dad!’ cried Jemima. ‘Is it a girlfriend for Frank?’
‘Yes. What d’you think of her?’
Jemima lifted out of the crate a pullet of a particularly pretty colour. She was not brown like all the other hens in the flock. She was speckled, her white feathers covered in little black dots.
‘She’s gorgeous!’ cried Jemima softly. ‘Shall I take her out and introduce her to Frank?’
‘I think I’d leave it till the morning,’ said Tom Tabb. ‘It’s getting late; it’ll be dark soon. Stick her in the old rabbit hutch for tonight with some food and water and we’ll put her out tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Jemima said, ‘Mum’s going to take Frank’s wetsuit and webs off.’
‘Wait till she has, then. This little girl might get a bit of a shock if she meets Frank in all his funny gear.’
She won’t get a shock, thought Jemima as she lay in bed that night. She’ll probably think he looks really cool.
So next morning, when she went to let the flock out, she caught up Frank and carried him to the rabbit hutch. Frank looked in, to see a vision of speckled beauty. He let out a strangled croak. It was love at first sight!
The pullet’s reaction at seeing him was rather different. She put her head on one side and regarded him with a bright eye.
‘Coo-er!’ she said. ‘You don’t half look funny.’
‘Funny (ha! ha!) or funny (peculiar)?’ asked Frank.
‘Both,’ replied the pullet and she turned her back on him.
Frank looked crestfallen.
‘Don’t worry,’ Jemima said to him. ‘Wait till we get all that old stuff off you.’
With the help of her mother, she unstuck the wetsuit and took off the artificial webs, then Jemima took Frank out into the orchard and let him go.
Hope he doesn’t try to swim now, she thought, ready to rescue him if he should. But grown-up Frank seemed to have more sense. To be sure, he waded a little way into the pond on his long legs to say good morning to his web-footed friends, but no further. Then he ran lightly off and began to scratch about in the grass with those sharp claws he’d never properly used, and gave himself a good dust bath, and shook his bright-red feathers, hidden for so long under their rubber covering, and began thoroughly to preen himself. Then he jumped easily on to the top of the big log and stood up on his toes and puffed out his chest and stretched out his neck and crowed a loud, triumphant crow.
Gertie had just re-entered the henhouse to lay an egg when Mildred came dashing in.
‘Quickly, come quickly, dear!’ she screeched.
‘I have told you before, Mildred –’ began Gertie, but Mildred continued, unabashed.
‘It’s Frank!’ she cried. ‘You’ll never guess!’ and she rushed out again.
Frank, from having been the bane of Gertie’s life, was now – thanks to his saving of that life – the apple of her eye, and she forgot both her cry of triumph at laying and her dignity and went tearing after her friend.
‘Where is he? What’s happened? Is he all right?’ she cried, and then she saw
, standing upon the log by the pond, a magnificent young red cockerel. Who’s he? she thought. ‘Where’s my Frank?’ she said.
‘There, dear,’ said Mildred. ‘On the log. That’s him. They’ve taken his clothes off. Isn’t he handsome!’ And as she spoke, Frank gave another loud, triumphant crow.
At that moment Jemima came out carrying the speckled pullet and put her down on the grass and watched her scamper towards the new Frank and stop by the log to gaze up at him.
‘Hello,’ said the pullet. ‘Where have you been all my life?’
Inside a wetsuit, thought Frank. ‘I think we’ve met before,’ he gulped.
‘We certainly have not,’ replied the speckled pullet. ‘The only guy I’ve met since I arrived last evening was a weird-looking wally dressed up as a duck. As different from you as could be. Hope I don’t meet him again.’
‘You won’t,’ said Frank. ‘He’s gone. By the way, my name’s Frank. What’s yours?’
‘Haven’t really got a name,’ she said. ‘My mum just called us all “chick”.’
Frank hopped off the log and stood beside her. ‘I’d call you gorgeous,’ he murmured softly.
‘I like it!’ cried the speckled pullet. ‘Sounds nice. You’re Frank, I’m Gorgeous.’
‘Oh, my!’ said Mildred from where she and Gertie were standing. ‘How I should love to know what they’re saying!’
Normally Gertie would have replied to such a remark with a cutting answer such as ‘The world would be a better place if everybody minded their own business.’ But now she stood in a kind of daze, staring at her handsome hero of a son and the new arrival. She looks to be well-bred, she thought, and that speckled colour is so distinguished. I bet she will lay the brownest of eggs. Then she saw the pullet run off down the orchard, pursued by her boy.
‘Don’t they make a lovely couple, dear!’ said Mildred. ‘You’ll be having more pretty grandchildren one of these fine days.’
‘Mildred,’ said Gertie dreamily. ‘For once, you’re right.’
The rest of the flock had been staring too, first at the new-look Frank and then at the very pretty pullet. The ducks, too, watched proceedings with much interested quacking.
‘We miss Frank,’ those ducks that had once been his little duckling friends said to their father, the big white drake. ‘D’you think he’ll ever come swimming with us again, Dad?’
‘He will not,’ said the drake. ‘He’s a nice boy, Frank is, but it wasn’t wise of him to try and be a duck. Ducks are cleverer than chickens, you see. We can walk about and we can swim. Chickens can only walk about. They can’t swim.’
That afternoon Carrie Tabb tempted her brother-in-law, the vet, to come over to tea (she’d just made a fresh batch of fruit scones), and so the four of them – Tom and Carrie, Jemima and her Uncle Ted – leaned on the orchard gate and watched as Frank strutted proudly past, Gorgeous at his side.
‘Funny, Frank, wasn’t he?’ said Jemima.
‘How d’you mean?’ they said.
‘Well, wanting so much to be a duck. He doesn’t any more, does he?’
‘He’s found his true place,’ they said.
‘And his true love!’ said Jemima, and they all smiled happily.
Frank and Gorgeous stood wing tip to wing tip by the edge of the duckpond. Frank’s friends swam by, loudly quacking his name in greeting.
‘Stupid creatures!’ said Gorgeous, tossing her pretty head. ‘Sploshing about in that stuff. Why, water’s only for drinking, any fool knows that.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Frank, ‘but don’t you ever think it would be nice to be able to swim?’
‘To swim?’ cried Gorgeous. ‘A chicken, swimming? Oh, Frank, you are funny!’
When I was small I had a favourite book. I’ve still got it, though a lot of the pages are loose or dog-eared or even torn because it’s so old. It was written long before I was born, and it’s called Pets and How to Keep Them.
It seems very old-fashioned now, but I still feel that the man who wrote it had thought a lot about what the word ‘pet’ means.
Have you?
If you look it up in the dictionary it says: ‘Pet – a cherished tame animal’, and then you look up ‘cherished’ and it means somebody or something that’s taken care of and treated with affection. So that’s what a pet is – an animal you look after and love.
Dodo is a miniature wire-haired dachshund and is one of my wonderful pets.
Dodo and I are going to look at lots of different animals that make good pets. Maybe you already have one of them. Maybe you’ve always wanted one, but haven’t been lucky yet. But whatever your pet is, whether it’s a valuable dog like Dodo or a tiddly little goldfish you won at a fair, be sure to cherish it.
Dodo
Most people in the UK are fond of all sorts of dogs, whether they are huge wolfhounds from Ireland or tiny chihuahuas from Mexico. I’m particularly fond of dachshunds (which came from Germany), and of one in particular: a miniature wire-haired dachshund called Dodo.
Dachshund means ‘badger dog’, and that’s what the full-sized ones were used for – to hunt badgers. That’s something I wouldn’t let Dodo do. For one thing, she’s much too small, and for another, I like badgers. But she wouldn’t be frightened to try, because she’s a brave little dog.
Dogs are all different, just like people. As with people, their nature depends partly on what their mums and dads were like and partly on how they’ve been brought up. Some are bright, some are silly, some shy and some bouncy, some grumpy, some happy.
Dodo is a particularly nice pet because she has lots of brains and she’s full of fun and very friendly to everyone she meets. She wags her tail so much it’s a wonder it hasn’t fallen off. Mind you, she wouldn’t be much good as a guard dog. If a burglar came to my house, Dodo would say, ‘Hello! How lovely to see you! Come in, come in, make yourself at home!’ And she’s an awful show-off. She loves people to make a fuss of her and tell her how pretty and clever she is. ‘I am, I know I am!’ – you can almost hear her saying it.
She has her faults, of course. She’s very stubborn. If Dodo doesn’t want to do something, Dodo doesn’t do it. Lots of dachshunds are like that. They may want to please you, but they also like to please themselves. But I’m very glad we chose her, all those years ago. Choosing a puppy for your pet is something you have to think very hard about.
First of all, you have to be absolutely sure that you want a dog – it’ll be part of your life for ten years or even longer. Then you have to decide what breed of dog is best for you. Then you have to pick one puppy from a litter that might look much the same but are going to grow up a little bit – sometimes a lot – different from each other.
Later on, I’ll tell you about some other breeds of dogs – and how to look after your puppy, whatever kind it is – although Dodo would say that the only kind worth talking about is a dachshund. But then she’s a big-head.
Frank
Frank is a special kind of rabbit called a ‘French lop’, but all rabbits make very good pets, especially if you’ve never owned an animal before. A rabbit is easy to house, keep clean and feed; in fact, it’s easy to look after.
Your rabbit will need a hutch, which could be outside but is really better in a shed or a garage. Rabbits hate draughts and damp.
Most hutches are just oblong boxes with wire on the front. That’s fine, as long as you use fine-mesh wire to keep out the mice that will steal food, and – this is very important – the hutch is big enough. It doesn’t need a separate sleeping place – that just uses up space and means that you can’t see your bun half the time – but it does need to be roomy, so that the rabbit can lollop about and stretch its legs.
Put nice dry sawdust on the floor, especially in the corner that is used most, and clean the hutch out, not once a week – that’s no good – but every other day. It doesn’t take a minute, and you’ll get some good manure.
There are two ways to feed pet rabbits: a boring way and an int
eresting way. The boring way is just to offer rabbit pellets from a pet shop (or rabbit mix, though pellets are better because there’s no waste). The rabbit will do fine, but you’ll get much more fun out of feeding it if you take a bit of trouble to find other foods: bits of stale bread, apple cores and raw vegetables like carrots and cabbage leaves – don’t put them in the bin, just put them in the bun.
And from early spring right through most of the year there are loads of wild plants your rabbit will love, especially dandelion leaves. Put out a few of the boring old pellets too, if you like, but give your rabbit a choice. And if you can, make sure it has some hay to eat; not a great bed of it – it’ll only be wasted – but just as much as it’ll clear up each day.
One more thing – don’t forget to keep the drinking bottle filled with clean water, whatever kind of food you offer, so that there’s always a drink handy.
There are dozens of different varieties of rabbit – all sizes and colours and coats. You might decide to have a big one or a little one, an expensive pure-bred animal or a crossbreed from the pet shop. It doesn’t matter which. They’re all clean, and quiet, and soft and cuddly. Like Frank.
Frank is all those things – and huge as well. But there’s one extra special thing about Frank that makes him different. I wouldn’t mind betting that of all the hundreds and thousands of pet rabbits in the world, Frank is the laziest. Life for Frank is one big YAWN.
Dick King-Smith's Book of Pets Page 9
