The Dog that Dumped on my Doona

WHAT THE REAL CRITICS HAVE TO SAY

I have always hated reading. Then I read your book and now I understand why
.

– Flossie, aged 11, NSW

I used to think Brussels sprouts were the most disgusting thing in the world until I picked up one of your books.

– Elvis, aged 9.5, Victoria

I laughed and laughed until I thought I would die.
Then I started reading your book
.

– Carmen, aged 10, Queensland

I just couldn't put your story down. And when I find my brother and his superglue I'm gonna kill him.

–
Everard, aged 96, Tasmania

I believe your books are made from recycled toilet paper. Seems a lot of trouble just to get back to where you started
.

– Jonno, aged 5, WA

THE
DOG
THAT
DUMPED
ON MY
DOONA

BARRY JONSBERG

First published in 2008

Copyright © Text, Barry Jonsberg 2008

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin
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Australia

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National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Jonsberg, Barry, 1951-
The dog that dumped on my doona.

For primary school age.

ISBN: 978 174175 545 9 (pbk.)

A823.4

Designed by Bruno Herfst
Set in 10/14 pt Lino Letter by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group

This book is printed on FSC-certified paper.
The printer holds FSC chain of custody SGS-COC-004233.
The FSC promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viable management
of the world's forests.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

www.allenandunwin.com

For Gabrielle

Contents

Begin Reading

About The Author

I was woken up by a dog taking a dump on my doona.

It was really ugly.

Not the doona.

Not the dump, though that was pale, soft and curled like a meringue.

I mean the dog.

This dog was small and dirty-white and looked as if it had been pumping weights down at the local gym. It had a barrel of a chest and curved legs like you'd normally see on an old sideboard. An oblong head. Small, beady eyes.

We looked at each other.

I glanced down at the pile of poo steaming on my chest. So did the dog.

My first thought was that I was dreaming. I didn't even own a dog. The dog looked like it was dreaming too. It had a glazed expression all mixed up with deep satisfaction. A second or two ticked by.

‘What the …!' I shouted, flinging back my doona and catapulting the poo into the corner of my bedroom where it landed and spread on the carpet with a soft thud. The dog sprang off the bed and glared up at me.

My bedroom window was open only a few centimetres. I found it hard to believe the mangy mutt could have squirmed through the gap.

‘Shoo,' I said.

The dog didn't shoo.

‘Go away,' I said, waving my arms about in a kind of go-away fashion.

The dog didn't do that either.

I sat on the edge of my bed and put my feet carefully on the floor. I was cold and scared. Even though the dog was small, it had attitude. And muscles. This was not a dog that other dogs would bully in a dog playground. This was a dog that other dogs would hand over their pocket money to. My mum often said that dogs wouldn't bother you, if you didn't bother them. Trouble is, this pooch seemed bothered by everything. Including my breathing.

I tried to hold my breath, but a low snarl told me that bothered him as well.

I stood up. Very, very carefully.
Now what?
I thought to myself. We could probably spend the rest of the night staring at each other, but I wasn't very excited by the idea. Or I could edge my way to the door, slip out and scream blue murder. Dad could come in and deal with the dog. That's what parents are paid for, after all.

I moved my right foot a few centimetres. The dog didn't do anything. I brought my left foot over to the other. Still no reaction. Feeling encouraged, I did a quick scuttle round the end of the bed. He did the same. It was like he was tied to my legs with a short, invisible cord.

I was so scared that for a moment I thought the dog wouldn't be the only one dumping a loaf. I backed away into the corner. My heart was thumping in my chest. The dog moved slowly towards me. Stopped about a metre away. Looked up at me with hard, pink-rimmed eyes like marbles. Cocked his head to one side.

‘Chill.'

The word was loud and clear. It seemed to fill the entire room. It even seemed to fill the inside of my brain. I jerked my head around.
Where did that sound come from?
There was no one lurking in the shadows of my room, yet I had heard the word as clear as day. I looked back at the dog. It hadn't shifted.

Then, with a speed that surprised me, it turned and jumped onto the window ledge, squeezed through the gap and was gone in a dirty-white flash. I started breathing again, the pumping of my heart loud in my ears. Suddenly I felt something wet and squishy under my bare feet. I looked down. A pale-brown mush was oozing through the gaps in my toes.

I'd stepped into something extremely nasty. And it was still warm.

Mum was not happy.

She made me take a shower while she cleaned up the mess on the carpet and changed my bedding. I'd hopped to her bedroom. One foot was covered with pale-brown poo and I didn't want to spread anything on the landing carpet. Trouble was, the hopping movement had splattered it all over the walls. Like those blood patterns you see in
CSI: Miami
or true murder TV programs.

She cleaned the walls too.

‘Only you could do this, Marcus,' she said when I got back to my bedroom. ‘Only you.'

‘Mum, I didn't do it. The dog did.'

‘Leaving the window open. Just asking for trouble.'

This struck me as unfair. Leaving a window open is not an invitation for anything outside to use your room as a Portaloo. But I kept my mouth shut. I get blamed for whatever goes wrong in this house. That's just the way it is. It's always all my fault. Eventually Mum finished making my bed and stomped off to her bedroom, and I snuggled down under the spare blanket.