The Dog that Dumped on my Doona Read Free

him feel like a shadow.
    â€˜Wow,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘That is about the coolest thing I’ve ever heard. Can I meet him?’
    â€˜You don’t get it, Dylan,’ I said. ‘It’s not a real talking dog, ya moron. It’s all in my head.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ he said, reaching for his third can of cola that recess. Dylan doesn’t eat, as far as I can tell. He just drinks cola. At any given moment he must be eighty per cent pure sugar. A teacher once told him to drink water and Dylan said he never drank water because fish pee in it. ‘But what if, hey? What if? What if the dog can talk to you and it really is from God who does live in a pet shop because, after all, they say that God is everywhere and if He is everywhere then why can’t He be in a pet shop as well as a church or in a meat pie or something and the big guy must be pretty busy all the time what with having, like, the whole universe to deal with so it might be right that He needs a bit of help from time to time, so He puts out feelers to find someone He can trust to do some of the small stuff while He concentrates on the big things like tidal waves and earthquakes and making new civilisations up in space which, let’s be honest, must be a pretty big project and take up huge amounts of His spare time, so it’s not impossible.’
    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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.

    â€˜Hello,’ I said.
    â€˜What did it say, what did it say?’ asked Dylan.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Ugly piece of work, isn’t it?’ said Dylan after a while.
    â€˜Oi, ya twonk! Who you calling ugly? You should look in the mirror, mate.’
    â€˜Did you hear it? Did you … ’
    Twonk?
    â€˜â€¦ hear it?’ I yelled.
    Dylan looked blank.
    â€˜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