My Dog Doesn't Like Me Read Free Page A

me from under his fringe. And I swear he was smiling with his neat little needle teeth.
    He jumped up against the wire and looked straight into my eyes. His big sister wasn’t going to let him speak to anyone else. She bounded up behind him, jumped on his back, and latched onto the loose skin around his neck. But little brother shook off his sister – and he kept looking at me.
    â€˜This one!’ I called over my shoulder to Mum, Dad, Gretchen and Grandad.
    Gretchen was the first to walk across to me.
    â€˜That?’ said Gretchen.
    â€˜Yep,’ I said.
    â€˜It’s as ugly as sin!’
    Gretchen’s words helped me make up my mind even more.
    â€˜He’s the one I want,’ I said. ‘And I’ll call him Ugly.’

Chapter Five
    Maybe my dog hates being called Ugly. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t like me. But I don’t think it’s that. The day I picked him, he said thank you by licking me all over the face. Anyway, if he doesn’t like his name, he gets plenty of variations. Sometimes he’s Uggie or Ug or Ug-Dog or Ug-Paws. Like me, Ugly looks like he’s growing into his paws. He’s over a year old and still growing.
    It might seem silly to get so upset about a dog, but for so long I’d had this dream of what owning a dog would be like. I pictured myself walking along with him, my hand resting on his back. He would keep to my side like a loyal companion. He’d be waiting for me at the door when I came home. He’d fetch things and do tricks and come when I called. He’d sleep on the floor at the end of my bed and guard me all night long. He’d be my best friend.
    But instead, Ugly is Mum’s best friend.
    It hurts.
    He doesn’t obey me. I’m not even on his list as second-best friend. There’s Grandad, then Dad, then even Gretchen comes before me – and she’s just as bossy with the dog as she is with me. So nothing adds up. Ugly has been a disappointing birthday present. It’s as if Mum got the present, not me.
    And Ugly does mean things. He pounces on me and bites my ankles. A few weeks ago, he got into my room and pulled my Ancient Greece project off my desk. I’d made the famous temple the Parthenon out of squillions of matchsticks. Ugly chewed up the lot. The carpet was covered in tiny bits of wood like straw.
    On top of that, I’ve had enough of being told off for not properly controlling or doing my bit for Ugly.
    On the day I ran away, the whole family was on my back.
    â€˜Have you fed the dog? You keep forgetting.’
    â€˜Ugly’s just pulled Mum’s apple cake off the kitchen table.’
    â€˜There’s no water in Ugly’s bowl.’
    â€˜Ugly’s digging a hole under the fence into Grandad’s vegie garden.’
    â€˜Ugly’s stolen Gretchen’s lace knickers and torn them to pieces.’
    â€˜Ugly’s had an accident on the kitchen floor. Get a bucket of water and a cloth and wipe it up.’
    â€˜Ugly’s chewed one of Dad’s antique chess pieces and another one’s missing.’
    â€˜Ugly’s dragging Gretchen’s tights around the backyard.’
    â€˜When was the last time you took Ugly for a walk?’
    Well, just to answer that question: on that horrible day that I was sent to my room, the last time I’d taken Ugly for a walk was an hour before I ran away. And what did he do on that walk? He took off after another dog. He pulled me along on his leash until I tripped and gashed my knee on stones. I lost hold of the leash and nearly killed myself trying to get across the road to grab him. Then I had to pull him away from a fight with a nasty big black dog. Ugly thought it was really funny. His tail was wagging hard. When it hit my legs, it hurt. I yelled at Ugly.
    The black dog’s tall owner, a man with a dark beard, told me I shouldn’t yell at a dog and that I needed to have more control over