Selby Screams (9 page)

“It looks like a bush, dear,” said Mrs Trifle, who was too busy worrying about what to do with Dudley Dewmop, Bogusville’s shortsighted part-time dog catcher, to notice what her husband was doing.

“It’s not supposed to be a bush,” Dr Trifle said, snipping another branch. “See if you can guess what it is.”

“Dudley’s meant to be catching stray dogs but his eyesight’s terrible,” Mrs Trifle said. “Last week he brought in three cats, two possums and a rabbit.”

“That’s it!” Dr Trifle cried. “It’s a rabbit! It does look quite like a rabbit, doesn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, dear, but it looks more like a pig eating an ice-cream cone,” Mrs Trifle said. “Why are you doing all this?”

“It’s called
topiary,”
Dr Trifle said to Mrs Trifle. “It’s the art of making bushes and shrubs look like something else. I was getting bored with bushes that looked like bushes and shrubs that looked like shrubs.”

“Why can’t people just let things look like what they are?” Selby thought as he moved out of the sun and under his favourite bush only to have Dr Trifle lop off the shadiest branch.

“Just out of curiosity,” Mrs Trifle said, suddenly forgetting about the near-sighted part-time dog catcher and noticing the bush behind her,"is that a hippo doing a handstand?”

“Ummm, er,” Dr Trifle said, reaching around and cutting off a big limb. “It’s supposed to be a kangaroo juggling three koalas.”

“And that one? It looks like a giraffe climbing a ladder.”

“Two snakes kissing,” Dr Trifle corrected her.

“Surely that one’s a cow tying her shoelaces.”

“Wrong again. It’s the prime minister giving a speech,” Dr Trifle said with a sigh. “I’m not very good at this, am I?”

“I’ll invite him over tonight and give him a good talking to,” Mrs Trifle said.

“Who? The prime minister?”

“Goodness no. Dudley Dewmop. He refuses to wear his new glasses because he says they make his nose itch. I’ll just have to insist that he does. As it is, he can’t tell a dog from a rabbit.”

That night when the near-sighted part-time dog catcher was about to arrive, Selby crept out to the backyard to avoid him.

“Dudley Dewmop, sheeesh!” Selby groaned as he looked around in the moonlight at the eerie animal shapes in the garden, and remembered all the times he’d been chased by the dog catcher."The man hates dogs!”

Selby lay down under a bush that looked very like a lizard doing a somersault when
Dudley Dewmop came driving down the driveway. Which would have been okay if the near-sighted Dudley hadn’t missed the driveway entirely and shot straight past the house and into the backyard.

“Gads!” Dudley exclaimed in a loud whisper as he grabbed his dog-catching net and leaped from the car."I’m surrounded by stray dogs!”

Dudley swung hard at the nearest bush, breaking off four branches at a single hit.

“Gotcha!” he said, plucking sticks and leaves out of his net."Ooops! Where’d you go?”

Selby watched as Dudley raised his net again and again, smashing away at Dr Trifle’s topiary. “I see you,” the short-sighted dog catcher said, not seeing Selby at all but whacking off the trunk of an elephant and two humps off a camel. “You can’t fool me.”

Selby watched as Dudley’s swishing net left a litter of leaves on the lawn.

“If I don’t stop him,” Selby muttered, scooting under another bush only to have it demolished by Dudley, “there won’t be a patch of shade left in the whole yard! Help! What can I do?”

Just then a cloud covered the moon and cast the yard into total darkness. Selby stepped towards Dudley and put his paws on his hips knowing that the dog catcher couldn’t possibly see him.

“Okay, Dudley,” Selby said aloud, “stop it this instant! Enough is enough. You’re destroying the Trifles’ backyard and they’re not going to be very pleased. These aren’t stray dogs, they’re bushes, you nit!”

“Who said that?” Dudley said, raising his net over his head.

“I did,” Selby said calmly and then, just as Selby was about to leap over the fence and escape, the moon came out again and, when it did, Dudley’s net came crashing down around him.

“You talked! An animal talked!” Dudley screamed. “And I caught you! People are going to have to pay squillions just to see you! I’m going to be famous!”

“What
is
going on here?” Dr Trifle yelled as he and Mrs Trifle ran out into the backyard and looked around at all the mess. “Dudley, what have you done?”

“Look! He talked!” Dudley cried, pointing at Selby. “He really did! He’s a real, live, talking monkey!”

Dr and Mrs Trifle looked at one another and then at the dog catcher.

“Congratulations, Dudley. You’ve finally caught a dog,” Mrs Trifle said, letting Selby out of the net. “Even if he isn’t a stray dog. Now could you do me a big favour and put on your new glasses?”

“Maybe you’d better talk to him about his hearing,” Dr Trifle whispered to Mrs Trifle. “He seems to be hearing talking monkeys.”

“I’ll put them on if you wish, Mrs Mayor,” Dudley said, putting on the glasses and looking around for a talking monkey but seeing only topiary. “My goodness! Look at all those bushes! They look just like animals.”

“Well at least they did before you came along,” Dr Trifle muttered.

“That looks just like a bear on a bicycle,” Dudley said.

“Does it really?” Dr Trifle asked, taking a closer look.

“It certainly does. And there’s a frog in a spacesuit and two dingoes dancing and an emu on a tightrope. They’re wonderful, Dr Trifle.”

“Are they really?” Dr Trifle asked with a blush.

“Absolutely. I’ve never seen anything like them before,” Dudley said. “Hmmmmmm, I wonder where that talking monkey went.”

“Talking monkey indeed!” Selby muttered, as he ran off down Bunya-Bunya Crescent. “That’s the last time I let that dim-witted dog catcher make a monkey out of me.”

It was the annual Bogusville Charity Night and once again the two bush boxers, Nigel “Knuckles” and Sigmund “Slugfest” were in the dressing-room getting ready for the big fight.

“I’m pleased that you’ve come once again to help us raise money for our needy,” Mrs Trifle said to the huge men and their tiny manager, Wilma “Willy” Wynn. “Many people have paid to see this boxing match tonight and of course the profits will go to charity. Though I have to admit I don’t care for fighting myself.”

“Mrs Mayor!” Wilma exclaimed, letting her cigar fall from her lips. “Bite your tongue!
Boxing is a wonderful sport. It’s good exercise and it gives boxers a lot of pleasure.”

“Mostly the winners, I should think,” Mrs Trifle said, looking around the room for Selby and wondering where he’d gone. “Now I’d better get back to my seat for the big match. Happy boxing.”

In a minute, the dressing-room was empty except for Knuckles, Slugfest, Wilma and Selby — who had hidden in a box in the corner for a close-up view of Knuckles, his favourite boxer.

“All right, boys,” Wilma said, spitting into a bucket. “I want you to get out there and beat each other to a pulp. The crowd wants to see lots of blood so give it to them and have a great time! May the best man win.”

“Oh, Ma, do we have to?” Knuckles whined. “Do we have to hurt each other?”

“Goodness!” Selby thought. “Knuckles called her
Ma.
Willy Wynn, the manager, must be his mother! This is a surprise.”

“Of course you do. Don’t be silly.”

“But why?”

“Because they’ve already paid us for the fight, that’s why.”

“Well I don’t care,” Knuckles answered. “Slugfest is my brother and I don’t want to fight him any more.”

“Double goodness,” Selby said, stretching his neck for a better look. “Knuckles and Slugfest are brothers and Willy’s their mother.”

“You just don’t want to fight because you know I’ll beat you this time, you big sook,” Slugfest said in a deep growl. “I’ll knock you out right now if you’re not careful!”

“Save it for the ring, boys,” Wilma said, stepping between her sons. “There aren’t any paying customers in here. Now let’s get out there.”

“Right you are, Mum.” Slugfest turned to Knuckles. “I’m going out there and you’d better come too.”

With this he stormed out of the dressing-room nearly knocking over Selby’s box as he passed.

“I’m tired of fighting, Mum,” Knuckles said. “I never wanted to be a boxer. You made me do it. I only ever wanted to be a ballet dancer.”

“Ballet dancer. Don’t be silly. That’s not fun like punching people. Besides, it’s bad for you. It gives people square toes.”

“No it doesn’t, Ma. It’s fun. You should have let me do it. I could have been somebody. I could have been a choreographer.”

“A corry-what? They kicked you out of ballet class because you were no good. You couldn’t stand on your toes, remember?”

“I know, Ma,” Knuckles whimpered. “But I don’t like beating people up any more — not even my own brother. I want to stop. I’ve been hit so much already that my head’s going wonky. One more punch and I’ll start hearing voices, for sure. Oh, please, please, please,” he added, getting down on his knees.

“Poor Knuckles,” Selby thought as a tear trickled down Knuckles’ face. “My favourite boxer hates to box.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilma said, giving Knuckles a pat on the back that could have knocked over an elephant."I don’t mind if you retire from the ring but not tonight. Now I’m going out there right now and I’ll count to ten. If you’re not there, you know what you’ll get.”

“No, Ma, please!” Knuckles pleaded. “Not a spanking! No! It’s not fair! Nobody spanks like you!”

Wilma strode out of the dressing-room.

“This is awful!” Selby thought. “I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to give Knuckles a good pep talk.”

“Pull yourself together, Champ,” Selby said. “I’ve got an idea.”

Knuckles wiped the tears from his eyes with his boxing gloves and looked around.

“Who’s there?” he asked. “Oh, no! I was right! Now I’m hearing things. I’ve had one punch too many.”

“Never mind about that,” Selby said from deep inside the box. “Tonight you’re going to dance.”

“I’m going to what?” Knuckles said to an empty locker.

“Dance, you big lug,” Selby said. “You’re not going to punch, you’re going to dance. If you’re a good dancer, he won’t be able to lay a glove on you.”

“What if I’m not a good dancer?” Knuckles said to the sink.

“Just remember what they taught you at ballet school,” Selby said. “Now get out there, your mum’s already counted up to nine.”

“Oh, no!” Knuckles screeched. “Not another spanking!”

Knuckles raced out of the dressing-room and into the ring as Selby sneaked into the hall. The referee rang the bell and the two boxers came towards each other. Slugfest threw a punch and watched as his brother hopped to one side. He swung again and Knuckles jumped back as fast as lightning.

“Hey! What’s going on here?” Slugfest muttered as a brilliant uppercut missed his dancing brother.

The crowd went silent as Knuckles leaped from side to side and then all around his bewildered brother, who punched in every direction.

“Stand still!” Slugfest whispered. “This isn’t fair! We’re supposed to be punching each other.”

“That’s what you think,” Knuckles whispered back, spinning around and holding his hands together over his head.

Round after round, Knuckles danced as the sweat poured off his brawny brother.

“Make him stand still,” Slugfest hissed at the referee.

“There’s nothing in the rules about standing still,” the referee said as Knuckles picked him up and spun him around, putting him back on the canvas ever so gently.

Slugfest drew in a deep breath and then punched in every direction as fast as he could, hoping to hit his brother just by luck.

“Ha ha, you can’t hit me,” Knuckles sang as he danced this way and that, and the crowd
roared as the exhausted Slugfest collapsed on the canvas.

“What a fight!” the referee yelled, holding up Knuckles’ hand. “You’ve won! I’ve never seen anything like it! It was a no-punch fight!”

“I did it!” Knuckles screamed at his smiling mother. “Did you see me dance on my toes, Ma! Now they’ll have to let me back into ballet class!”

“Ma? Ballet class?” the smiling Mrs Trifle mumbled as she and Selby started home. “Am I hearing things?”