That Dirty Dog and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls

That Dirty Dog
and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls
published in 2011 by
Hardie Grant Egmont
85 High Street
Prahran, Victoria 3181, Australia
www.hardiegrantegmont.com.au

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the publishers and copyright owner.

A CiP record for this title is available from the National Library of Australia

Text copyright © 2011 Christopher Milne
Illustration and design copyright © 2011 Hardie Grant Egmont

Illustration and design by Simon Swingler
Typesetting by Ektavo
Printed in Australia

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Other books by Christopher Milne
The Day Our Teacher Went Mad and Other Naughty Stories
The Bravest Kid I've Ever Known and Other Naughty Stories
The Girl Who Blew Up Her Brother and Other Naughty Stories
An Upside-Down Boy and Other Naughty Stories
The Girl With Death Breath and Other Naughty Stories
The Crazy Dentist and Other Naughty Stories
The Toilet Rat of Terror and Other Naughty Stories

Also available from
www.christophermilne.com.au
The Western Sydney Kid
Little Johnnie and the Naughty Boat People

TO PETE AND ROB

Peter and Robert are my two sons and they provided the inspiration for most of my stories. They have always been a bit naughty in real life, but also brave, clever, decent and funny – and much-loved.

Pete and Rob went to Nayook Primary School and many of these stories are loosely based on those wonderful years.

contents

That Dirty Dog

The Boy Who Played Cricket for Australia

The Smell from Hell

The Brothers Who Couldn't Stop Fighting

When Robert Clark's Dad Died

The Girl Who Told Lies

My dad's tough.
Really tough.
He drives a big Mack truck and he reckons he's never cried in his life.

For breakfast, he has cornflakes, but always in a dirty bowl. And if he's got a lot of heavy lifting to do that day, he sprinkles
crushed bricks
on top. Or that's what he tells me, anyway – I'm usually asleep when he leaves.

Except for Saturdays. Dad starts late on Saturdays and if I've been good, he lets me come with him on his trip to the brickworks. We always go along exactly the same road and each time we pass the park, we see a dog. The same dog, in exactly the same spot.

‘There's that stupid dog again,' said Dad one day. ‘What a useless, dirty-looking mutt. What a scumbag.'

‘Looks a bit hungry,' I said.

‘So what?' said Dad. ‘Should get off its lazy butt and rip into a couple of rubbish bins.'

I wouldn't have minded stopping to give it a cuddle, but I'd never say so, of course. Dad would call me a wuss. A big sooky-baby.

Dad reckoned everyone was a wuss. Unless they drove a truck and drank beer like him.

The next Saturday, that poor, dirty old dog was there again, with its big sad eyes, looking as hungry as any dog I'd ever seen.

‘What a filth bag!' yelled Dad. ‘What a loser. Pity someone hasn't run it over.'

I didn't say anything. Sometimes I didn't like my dad very much.

And so it was. Every Saturday, Jack – that's what I decided to call him – would be sitting there, almost like he was waiting for us to come. Until one day, when he wasn't there at all.

I looked everywhere, my face pressed up against the window, but I found nothing.

‘Wonder where he is?' I said as we kept driving.

‘Who cares?' said Dad. ‘The mutt's better off dead, anyway.'

On the way back past the park that day, I asked, ‘Couldn't I have a quick look?'

‘For that rotten mongrel?' asked Dad. ‘You've got to be joking.'

‘Please, Dad,' I said. ‘He might be lying hurt somewhere. I'll clean the truck for you. All of it. I promise! Inside, too.'

Now, it so happened that Dad's footy team was playing on TV that night, and he knew that if he washed the truck himself he'd miss the first half.

‘Oh, all right,' he said. ‘Make it quick or I'll leave you here.'

Sure enough, Jack was hurt. Badly. Hit by a car, probably. I found him lying behind a tree, bleeding from the mouth.

‘Dad!' I screamed. ‘You've got to help me. Jack's been hurt!'

‘Leave the useless thing to die,' yelled Dad.

I leant down to cuddle poor Jack and he tried to lick me. But he was too sore to move.

I started to cry.

‘Hell's bells!' grumbled Dad. He'd come over to have a look by now. ‘If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a bloke crying. Get out of the way and give me a look.'

Dad felt around Jack's tummy and said, ‘Yep, he's hurt all right. So now what?'

I just looked up at Dad, trying not to cry again.

Dad sighed, shook his head and said, ‘All right. Anything to stop your blubbering.' And with that, Dad picked Jack up and put him in the back of the truck. ‘I'll drop him at the vet, but if it's going to cost anything to fix him, we'll have to put him down.'

‘Put him down?' I asked.

‘Yep. Knock him off. Put him to sleep. He's probably going to cark it anyway.'

Sure enough, the vet said Jack looked really bad. But he couldn't be sure how bad until he'd taken an X-ray.

As the vet carried him out, Jack looked up and his big sad eyes said, ‘I understand if you decide not to help me. Who'd want an old dog like me anyway?'

Dad and I sat in the waiting room in silence. My mouth was dry and I had a sick feeling in my stomach. It would have helped so much if Dad had said something nice about Jack, or how sorry he felt for him, but instead he just stared at the wall.

At last the vet came back.

I could tell straight away from the look on the vet's face that the news was bad. Broken ribs, and three hundred and sixty dollars to fix him.

‘Right,' said Dad, ‘that's all I need to know. You can put him down. Sooner the better, I say.'

‘No!' I sobbed. ‘I'll pay, somehow. Please, Dad!'

Dad just shook his head. Suddenly, something inside me went funny. Something I'd never felt before.

‘I hate you!' I shouted. ‘You reckon everyone else is a wuss, but you know what? I think you are. Because you're too scared to do something nice!' And with that I turned and ran.

I'd never spoken to my dad like that before, and I expected him to chase me down and ground me for a year. But he didn't.

When he came out of the vet's a few minutes later, I saw him wipe his eye with his sleeve.

‘Got some of that dog dirt in my eye,' he muttered.

On the way home, neither of us said anything. Nothing.

That night, no-one said much either. Except for Mum, who asked Dad when his fishing trip was coming up this year.

‘Might not go,' said Dad.

‘But you love it,' said Mum.

‘Gets a bit boring,' said Dad. ‘Anyway, we could use the money.'

‘What for?' asked Mum. Dad didn't answer. I didn't even mention Jack after that. I'd told Dad I hated him for putting Jack down. What else was there to say?

Not that I didn't think about poor Jack. I thought about nothing else. I reckon it's the saddest I've ever felt.

It was about a week later that Dad came home and said, ‘I've got something to show you.'

I guessed he had a new truck, so I walked outside for a look. And there, sitting in the front seat of Dad's old Mack, was the nicest thing I've ever seen.

Jack
, with his fur all washed, his tail wagging and a great big bandage around his tummy.

I raced over and gave Jack the most massive hug of his life. Then I turned and said, ‘I love you, Dad.'

‘And I love you too,' said Dad. This time, he must have had dirt in both eyes.

Jack goes everywhere with Dad now. When Dad does a job picking up sheep or cows, Jack helps round them up.