The Dog that Dumped on my Doona (3 page)

Sometimes it's very tiring having a simple conversation with Dylan. Not that this was a simple conversation.

Dylan finished his cola and tossed the empty can over his shoulder. It hit the teacher on yard duty smack on the head. She had her back to us and the two hundred other kids who were sitting on benches around the canteen area. But, when she turned around, she was in no doubt about who'd done it.

‘Dylan. Principal's office. Now!'

I was going to protest. How could she
know
it was Dylan, when there were hundreds of suspects all around? But I didn't get the chance.

‘Good shot, eh, Miss?' said Dylan. It was clear he was pleased with himself. Sometimes he is his own worst enemy. Most of the time, actually.

The dog was still sitting on the footpath after school. In exactly the same spot.

‘Is that it?' asked Dylan, all excited. Part of me was relieved he could see it as well.
But that proves nothing
, I thought. There's nothing unusual about a dog. It's a dog's ability to speak that makes it stand out from the crowd. And if it did speak, would Dylan hear it as well? I felt as if my entire mental health rested on what would happen during the next few minutes. We walked over and stood next to the dog. The three of us gazed at each other for a few moments.

‘Hello,' I said.

‘What did it say, what did it say?' asked Dylan.

‘Nothing, ya drongo,' I replied. ‘Give it a chance, willya?'

But the dog didn't say anything at all. It stared, but there wasn't much interest there.

‘Ugly piece of work, isn't it?' said Dylan after a while.

‘Oi, ya twonk! Who you calling ugly? You should look in the mirror, mate.'

‘Did you hear it? Did you … '

Twonk?

‘… hear it?' I yelled.

Dylan looked blank.

‘You didn't hear it, did you?' I said. He shook his head.

It was then that the dog gave a low growl. Dylan and I stared. The dog's hairs were standing up around his neck and it crouched slightly, in the promise of a spring. Its pink-rimmed eyes were fixed on Dylan, its loose lips curled back in a snarl. Slimy yellow teeth dripping with saliva were bared in a grim grin.

Dylan backed away a few paces. The dog followed, the growl getting deeper. The hairs on the back of
my
neck rose. If I'd had time to check out Dylan's neck I'm sure I would've seen that his had done the same. So, there were the three of us, all with hair standing to attention.

And then the dog leapt forward.

I have never seen Dylan move so quickly.

He was a blur.

Within point oh-one-six of a second, he had disappeared around a corner. And that must have been a hundred metres away. You could feel the air being sucked behind him. Branches of trees bent in the wind he made. The bitumen was smoking. Gone.
So much for friendship
, I thought.
Leave me to be chewed to a bloody pulp
, I thought.
Look after yourself
, I thought.

The dog hadn't budged from where it had landed. It sat on its dirty-white bum and scratched behind an ear. Its hairs had flattened.

‘Got rid of that dropkick,' the voice in my head said. ‘God is waiting, boyo.'

Boyo
?

Look, I don't know how you'd behave, but at that moment I came to a decision. Maybe there was no point fighting against insanity. Maybe it was better to give in, go with the flow, enjoy the ride. Plus, I had a horrible feeling that it wouldn't be a good idea to keep God waiting.

‘All right,' I said.

We went and sat in a deserted play area, me on a peeling bench and the dog laid out at my feet. Having given in to insanity, I decided I might as well try to be friendly, despite the poo on my doona.

‘Shall I scratch your belly?' I said.

‘Only if you want to lose your fingers,' said the dog.

So much for friendliness.

‘Listen,' it continued. ‘Shut your trap and pin back your ears. I have important things to tell you and frankly I've got better things to do with my time than spend days chewing the fat with you.'

‘Like what?' I asked. I was curious. What important things did dogs have to do?

‘Chasing cats,' it said. ‘Chewing up shoes, sniffing other dogs' bums. None of your damn business, mate. And I told you to shut up.'

I shut up.

‘I'll make this quick,' it continued. ‘You are a rare human being. So rare, in fact, that you are one in roughly five million people. Don't get superior about it, by the way. It's just an accident, all right? The way you were born. In every other respect, you are typically human. Below average intelligence, actually, which is a terrifying thing in its own right. But you were born with the ability to hear some animals, to communicate in a way that very few can. I am also unusual in that I can talk to you. Us animals are, of course, more intelligent and more highly developed than you, so the ability to communicate is limited to one in a million for us. The odds, therefore, against you ever being able to talk to an animal are …'

‘Big?' I said.

‘Bigger than big.'

‘Huge?'

‘Huger than huge.'

‘Colossal?'

‘Let's not get bogged down in complicated statistical mathematics,' said the dog. ‘Accept that our meeting is very, very unlikely. In fact, it couldn't have happened by chance. I have been searching for you. And now I've found you.'

‘Because you are on a mission from God?'

‘Exactly. And it is my job to pass that mission on to you. Any questions before we start?'

I did have one, actually.

‘Did you fart?' I asked.

‘Sure did.'

‘It's foul.'

‘You're lucky. My sense of smell is ten thousand times more sensitive than yours.'

There is nothing very interesting to see down a toilet bowl
, I thought, staring at the water gently rippling a few centimetres from my eyes. It beat me why Dylan thought it might be a fun thing to do.

‘Say you're sorry and I won't flush,' said Rose.

It was all my fault. I should have been more careful. But I was still thinking about the amazing story the dog had told me and the incredible mission I'd been entrusted with. So when I came home, I did what I always did. Dropped my bag in the middle of the kitchen floor, searched the fridge for something to eat and headed straight for the toilet. I was just about to unzip when I heard the door of the laundry cupboard open behind me. There was no time to do anything. Rose jumped out, grabbed me by the hair and stuffed my head straight down into the bowl.

On the plus side, I hadn't had time to pee.

‘C'mon Mucus,' she said. ‘Say you're sorry.'

‘Sorry,' I muttered.

‘Can't hear you, Mucus!'

‘Sorry,' I said as loud as I could.

‘Sorry for what, Mucus? What are you sorry for?'

‘For saying “Up yours” this morning. I am very, very sorry indeed.'

I know. Trust me, I know exactly how big a wuss I am. And I would dearly love to have been able to stand up for myself, maybe wrench my head from Rose's grip, twist around so that
she
was the one peering at lapping water and a couple of faint, disturbing stains on the porcelain. But she was just too strong. I put it down to alien genes.

Anyway, you'd reasonably expect that this cringing apology would do the trick. But you don't know my sister.

She flushed anyway.

This isn't finished
, I thought as I dried my hair.
Not by a long chalk
. If Rose wanted a battle, she could have one. I could be patient. When you are faced with superior physical strength, you have to rely on cunning.

Dylan announced his presence by throwing stones at my bedroom window.

It would have been easier just to knock since we live in a single-storey house, but Dylan likes throwing stones. I opened the window and he slid into the room. This happens most afternoons. Mum has banned Dylan from the house. Ever since he wondered what would happen if you tried to dry a small pile of wet washing by stuffing it in our microwave for half an hour. The Fire Brigade didn't find it funny either.

‘Wassup, Marc?' he said, slipping a can of cola from his back pocket and opening it. Jumping in through the window had shaken up the contents, so it fizzed all over the carpet. He rubbed the foam in with one dirty shoe and sipped the froth at the mouth of the can. ‘What's that smell?' he added, wrinkling his nose.

‘Blacky's calling card,' I said. ‘The gift that keeps on giving.'

Dylan sat on my bed and started fishing for stuff in his nose. He does that a lot. Sometimes he mines so deep I worry his head is going to cave in.

‘What you talking about, mate?'

‘The dog. That's his name. Blacky. And the smell is what he left on my carpet last night.' Then I remembered the reason I was mad at Dylan. ‘Oh, and thanks by the way.'

Dylan looked puzzled.

‘For helping me out when the dog turned nasty,' I added. ‘You know, throwing yourself in front of me, taking the full force of its attack just so I would be spared. You're a hero, mate. You should get a medal.'

Sarcasm goes straight over Dylan's head. Doesn't even ruffle his hair.

‘'s what friends are for,' he said.

Or maybe his short-term memory is so stuffed he simply can't remember.

‘Dylan,' I said. ‘I don't think I am going mad after all. I had a long talk with Blacky and he explained everything to me. It's weird, true. In fact, it's downright crazy, but I believe I
can
communicate with animals. Some, at least. What's more, I have a duty to help someone in deep trouble. Blacky told me a sad story today. A really sad story. And I think we are the only people who can do anything about it. I say “we” because you
are
my mate and I know you will do anything for me.'
Apart from tackling a growling dog
, I added silently. ‘What do you say?'

‘Why's he called Blacky?' asked Dylan. ‘When he's white. Sort of white, at least. More white than black, that's for sure.'

Maybe I'm old-fashioned. Or maybe I'm just normal. But if I had been told what I'd just told Dylan, I think my first question might have been slightly more … relevant, I suppose. I sighed.

‘It's not his real name,' I said. ‘He wouldn't tell me his real name. But Blacky is what he was called when he lived with a human for a while. He said the human called him that because he had this problem with his guts. The dog, I mean. So he was dropping smells all over the place and they were foul. And the human would yell at him and threaten him with a frying pan, so the dog would make a bolt for the door. That's when he called him Blacksmith, Blacky for short. Geddit? Made a bolt for the door? Blacksmith? Geddit?'

‘No,' said Dylan.

‘Never mind,' I said. ‘The important thing is, will you help me?'

‘What have we got to do?'

‘Simple,' I said. ‘We have to kidnap God.'

I couldn't get to sleep that night. It seemed to me that snatching God was something that was going to take planning and research. I was also hoping Blacky would show up but he didn't. That was a pity. I still had about ten million questions to ask him. And not just about the practical stuff that would help me fulfil my mission. He'd started me thinking about the bigger picture, the world and what we were doing to it.

For some reason, Rose's comment about the butterfly effect fluttered around in my head.

Saturday morning and it was raining.

This was no surprise, since on Saturday morning I play soccer for the local under-thirteens. I wasn't in the mood, partly because I was keen to get on with the God mission but mainly because I'm
never
in the mood. Dad, however, forces me. He was a goalkeeper when he was young, far back in the mists of time, and I think he likes to relive former glories through me.