The Dog that Dumped on my Doona Read Free Page B

just about to unzip when I heard the door of the laundry cupboard open behind me. There was no time to do anything. Rose jumped out, grabbed me by the hair and stuffed my head straight down into the bowl.
    On the plus side, I hadn’t had time to pee.
    â€˜C’mon Mucus,’ she said. ‘Say you’re sorry.’
    â€˜Sorry,’ I muttered.
    â€˜Can’t hear you, Mucus!’
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said as loud as I could.
    â€˜Sorry for what, Mucus? What are you sorry for?’
    â€˜For saying “Up yours” this morning. I am very, very sorry indeed.’
    I know. Trust me, I know exactly how big a wuss I am. And I would dearly love to have been able to stand up for myself, maybe wrench my head from Rose’s grip, twist around so that she was the one peering at lapping water and a couple of faint, disturbing stains on the porcelain. But she was just too strong. I put it down to alien genes.
    Anyway, you’d reasonably expect that this cringing apology would do the trick. But you don’t know my sister.
    She flushed anyway.
    This isn’t finished , I thought as I dried my hair. Not by a long chalk . If Rose wanted a battle, she could have one. I could be patient. When you are faced with superior physical strength, you have to rely on cunning.
    Dylan announced his presence by throwing stones at my bedroom window.
    It would have been easier just to knock since we live in a single-storey house, but Dylan likes throwing stones. I opened the window and he slid into the room. This happens most afternoons. Mum has banned Dylan from the house. Ever since he wondered what would happen if you tried to dry a small pile of wet washing by stuffing it in our microwave for half an hour. The Fire Brigade didn’t find it funny either.
    â€˜Wassup, Marc?’ he said, slipping a can of cola from his back pocket and opening it. Jumping in through the window had shaken up the contents, so it fizzed all over the carpet. He rubbed the foam in with one dirty shoe and sipped the froth at the mouth of the can. ‘What’s that smell?’ he added, wrinkling his nose.
    â€˜Blacky’s calling card,’ I said. ‘The gift that keeps on giving.’
    Dylan sat on my bed and started fishing for stuff in his nose. He does that a lot. Sometimes he mines so deep I worry his head is going to cave in.
    â€˜What you talking about, mate?’
    â€˜The dog. That’s his name. Blacky. And the smell is what he left on my carpet last night.’ Then I remembered the reason I was mad at Dylan. ‘Oh, and thanks by the way.’
    Dylan looked puzzled.
    â€˜For helping me out when the dog turned nasty,’ I added. ‘You know, throwing yourself in front of me, taking the full force of its attack just so I would be spared. You’re a hero, mate. You should get a medal.’
    Sarcasm goes straight over Dylan’s head. Doesn’t even ruffle his hair.
    â€˜â€™s what friends are for,’ he said.
    Or maybe his short-term memory is so stuffed he simply can’t remember.
    â€˜Dylan,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I am going mad after all. I had a long talk with Blacky and he explained everything to me. It’s weird, true. In fact, it’s downright crazy, but I believe I can communicate with animals. Some, at least. What’s more, I have a duty to help someone in deep trouble. Blacky told me a sad story today. A really sad story. And I think we are the only people who can do anything about it. I say “we” because you are my mate and I know you will do anything for me.’ Apart from tackling a growling dog , I added silently. ‘What do you say?’
    â€˜Why’s he called Blacky?’ asked Dylan. ‘When he’s white. Sort of white, at least. More white than black, that’s for sure.’
    Maybe I’m old-fashioned. Or maybe I’m just normal. But if I had been told what I’d just told Dylan, I think