ALSO BY BEN GARROD

  Jack-Jack series:

  A Dog in Africa

  Extinct series:

  Hallucigenia

  Dunkleosteus

  Trilobite

  Lisowicia

  Tyrannosaurus rex

  Megalodon

  Thylacine

  Hainan Gibbon

  Ultimate Dinosaurs series:

  Ankylosaurus

  Microraptor

  Stegosaurus

  Triceratops

  Velociraptor

  Tyrannosaurus rex

  Spinosaurus

  Diplodocus

  To all the good girls

  and best boys out there.

  Thank you for making

  our lives so much richer.

  This is a true story. The bits that definitely happened are true. The other bits are made up, because dogs are terrific storytellers, and sometimes, we bend the truth just a little bit.

  Teaching humans basic tricks is always harder than I think it’s going to be. I can definitely see a glimmer of understanding in their big round eyes, but sometimes I wonder if they just don’t want to learn. It’s important to remember though, us dogs have no idea what their lives were like before we took them on. It’s taking forever to teach mine the simplest of commands. Believe me, training a human is not easy.

  I’m Jack. Jack-Jack is my full name, but I answer to both, and very often to neither. I grew up in West Africa, where I lived with the coolest family you’d ever want to meet. There was Azuu, the Egyptian vulture, who was always ready to give me advice, especially when I didn’t ask for it. Hop and Jump lived with me… No, sorry, they lived on me. They’re fleas, who sing all the time, and used to live under my old collar. We had a bouncy bushbaby who never stopped moving, monkeys who never stopped talking (though we never knew what they were saying) and a scraggly old cockerel called Sidney (let’s just say I never did trust that crafty old bird). Then there were the chimpanzees. Each had been rescued from a sad life, perhaps found for sale as pets in markets, or in woven grass cages, meant for the cooking pot. A mishmash of young and old chimps lived together in the safety of the sanctuary. There were also a lot of other dogs and we –

  Oh, you knew I was a dog, right? What did you think I was? Not human, I hope. I’ve nothing against humans but, you know, you’re a bit weird and gross, aren’t you? You must know that. If you don’t believe me, think about it… I’m always licking myself clean, but I’ve never seen you humans do that. Sure, you head off into the bathroom every so often and come out soggy a few minutes later, but really, is that getting clean? Really clean?

  And the snot… you humans have so many bogeys. Why? Why do you make so much of the stuff? What do you do with it all? I saw a little human recently, with crusty bogeys around its snout. When I sniffed this one, I got a nose full of baby powder, the leftovers of some sloppy food that reminded me of peas, carrots and green jelly, and the sense that an emergency nappy change was needed.

  Anyway, back to being a dog. I’m very happy right now, but I’m also getting used to my new home because it’s not long since I left Africa. It’s fair to say I’ve been on a bit of an adventure recently.

  Here I am, lying on a bed, with the covers over me and my nose buried where it’s warmest. A grumpy old cat called Minnie is gently snoring next to me. I’ve not been properly warm in ages, and it’s been even longer since Minnie started constantly reminding me that this is her home and that she was here first. She likes me really, I can tell, and the cold is okay, because I’m quite hairy and, besides, it means I get to spend more time under nice thick blankets on comfy beds. Something I rarely got to do, or needed to do, in Africa.

  I first met my new human, Ben, nearly six seasons ago. He was with a film crew who had visited our sanctuary a few times, making a TV show about the chimps, and we ended up spending more and more time together. Eventually I decided to adopt this human and go to live with him. He’d decided the same, which is lucky because humans seem to find it easier than dogs to book plane tickets. Sometimes, I think this world is built for you humans and not for other animals.

  The flight from Africa to my new home, in a place called the Yookay, had been terrifying in parts. Before I could even get on the plane, bubbles and a bath were involved, so much shampoo and endless warm water. Apparently essential, as according to Ben, I smelled ‘worse than a hippo’s fart’. That seemed a little rude, both to me and to hippos. I mean, I did smell pretty bad, but I definitely didn’t smell worse than that. The actual flight wasn’t scary at all, by the way. I slept, ate and slept some more.

  I was tired when I landed in this new, cold country. So tired. I was zonked. I felt like a snail going uphill, after running all day. Well, sliding all day. I was looking forward to sleeping a three-day sleep. Then a day of snacking, and hopefully another two days of snoozing. But in no time Ben announced that we were going out to start our ‘training’ immediately. It’s not exactly what I’d have gone for, but look, if he wanted me to start training him as soon as possible, who was I to argue? I respected his decision.

  So when Ben attached a rope with a loop at one end and a shiny metal catch at the other to a strange set of linked straps, which he called a harmless, or maybe a harness, to my brand-new collar, I started to realise he might think he was training me. He gently pulled my legs through the holes in this harness thing and connected everything, including me, together. It didn’t hurt, but it did feel strange. I’ve never worn anything like it. He put his hand through the looped end of the rope and… and… he pulled me. He actually pulled me. Oh my dog! What was going on?

  How did he know where I wanted to go? I knew where I wanted to go and suddenly, it wasn’t in the same direction as my human. I dug my furry feet into the ground and made my legs go stiff and wide. I was there to stay and no matter how much I liked him, nothing would convince me to move. Ben didn’t stop pulling me, gently but firmly, and I realised there and then, training was going to be harder than I’d imagined. He has so much to learn.

  ‘We’re going to the beach, Jack-Jack. To the beach. You’ll love the beach. Let’s go to the beach.’

  Beach, beach, beach. He must really love the beach. I’d never heard of this mysterious thing before, but now it was almost every other word. I was happy to go to see the beach, or eat it, or meet it, whatever it is. Is it like a monkey? Or a special bush? Could I drink it? When Ben finally mentioned the word sand, I knew instantly what a beach is. We had sand in Africa. It was in a pile, as high as two of me, near the water well, and was used to build stuff. The mongooses used to look out across their territory from the top of it. They also used it to mark their territory. So I was off to see a pile of sand with some little mongoose poos on the top, was I? Beach mystery solved.

  Before we left my new home, Ben did something right, at least. He gave me food-but-not-food. I mean, it was definitely tasty, but even better than food. He called it ‘treats’, though I only got one after he’d wrestled me into the harness and I’d stopped wriggling.

  ‘Good boy, here’s a treat,’ he said.

  I got another when we started walking together, after going in different directions to start with.

  ‘Good boy, Jack,’ he said again.

  I realised that first tasty treat hadn’t been a one-off after all. So what was the link? How did I get more?

  Ben closed the door behind me, walked me up some steps and stopped by a car. I’ve seen lots in Africa, so I have no problems with cars and trucks, but when he said I needed to get in, and I wriggled my bum ready to jump, I couldn’t. I was a bit nervous. He bent down and before I knew it, he’d scooped me up and carefully placed me in the back of the car. There was another ‘good boy’ and another treat. I really needed to figure this pattern out and unlock the secrets to getting more.

  Once we were moving, I had a proper look at my new home. The buildings were so much bigger than those I’m used to, and there was far less green. Fewer trees, bushes, less grass. Lots of grey, though. The buildings were grey. The ground was grey, with grey, flat parts on either side of grey roads. Even the sky was grey. I thought it was meant to be blue up there. Maybe all the colour has been used up in Africa and here only has greys to choose from.

  There were even grey clouds in the grey sky, and I could smell rain. That meant puddles. I’ve not decided about puddles yet. In Africa, I could smell rainy-season rain moments before the clouds opened and covered the world beneath in fat, warm drops of water, but here it just smelled… everywhere… like it was definitely, maybe, probably going to rain any second now. Or later. Or both. All day.

  I think I might have to get used to this weather, pretty quickly.

  The car ride was fine. After I was strapped into a belt, which was a lot easier once I stopped wriggling and squirming, all I had to do was ignore the world whizzing past in a blur, not think about the slightly sick feeling in my tummy, and bury my snout under my paws. I kept thinking about the beach. I was going to have to act impressed when we finally got to this little heap of sand. I didn’t want to upset my human.

  Not yet, anyway. But really, a pile of sand is a pile of sannnnnnnnn…

  There’s. So. Much. Sand! A beach is so big. It’s huge. How come no one told me this before? Ben opened the car door and every single one of my senses woke up instantly and started ramming information into my doggy brain. All at once. This was the greatest, strangest and weirdest set of smells I’ve ever smelled. S o much was going on. Salt, there was lots of it, and it was the strongest smell, but there was much more. Lots of lovely rotting plant smells but from plants I don’t know. There was a very dead, very stinky fish smell. And a thousand, well, a thousand and forty-two different smells, if my nose was to be believed, which it usually is. It’s much better at maths than the rest of me.

  Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m not the sort of dog who enjoys getting mucky. I can’t think of anything worse than being covered in sand, and stinking of fish guts. I have standards, you know.

  Wet sandy ground slooped and glooped between my toes and in my paws. A shudder, and not the good sort, ran down my tail. And then it hit me… This place was too big and open and… endless. Well, it wasn’t endless, because where it ended there was a line of water and that was endless. It has to stop somewhere, doesn’t it? Does it hit a wall or does the ground run out and all the water fall off the edge, or something? I’ll have to ask a bird. They usually know most things. I’ll keep my eye out for a friendly-looking bird.

  ‘Isn’t this amazing? Look at the sea,’ my human shouted, pointing at the water. ‘Go on, then, Jack-Jack. Go.’

  What did he expect me to do? Run off and explore this nightmarish landscape on my own? I wasn’t falling for that. It’s weird that I think of this human as my human now. Ben already goes everywhere with me, feeding me, stroking me and making sure I have everything I need. I’m not saying I’m his boss or anything, but he’s definitely my human. I don’t own him, any more than he owns me. All us animals know this and there are no exceptions to the rule. It’s one of the only rules we stick to in nature. No owning. But also no running off by myself in this place.

  There was as much chance of that happening, and me frolicking on the sand, as there was of me being owned by this human. I refused to budge. There was nothing he could do to change my mind. Then he pulled me. Actually pulled on the lead that was attached to the harness that was attached to me and yanked. It’s fair to say I was shocked, but also fair to say I was helpless to resist. I ended up further along the beach. I’ve changed my mind, as soon as he unclips me from this contraption, I’ll run away. While I was planning that, he threw my world into even more chaos by saying, ‘Okay, Jack, go for a poo. I’ve brought a bag.’

  Lesson One:

  A Poo with a View

  ‘Could you just go for a quick poo, please?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why not? It’s okay, I’ll be watching. I’ve even brought a bag.’

  See… it’s weird, right? I definitely can’t go on demand, when someone is watching me. And what’s he planning on doing with that bag? He’s not planning on putting…?

  Dogs are proud animals. Yes, we lick our own bums, but we are proud. And we do sometimes eat our own sick, it’s true. Okay, okay, some of us are scared of thunder, dangerous-looking shadows, that funny-smelling thing my human called a strawberry, and occasionally fluttery moths, but as I said… we’re proud. What we don’t do, being the proud animals we are, is poo on demand. It’s inappropriate, it’s inhuman… well, inanimal, in fact. I refuse…

  But now he’s said it, I could do with one. Not in front of him though. I’ll hide behind that… erm… there’s actually nowhere to hide. It’s so flat and endless. Nope, I’ll hold it in and ignore it. It doesn’t help when your human repeats, ‘Go on, have a poo,’ like some sort of chant, or a spell with a smell. This never happened in Africa.

  If he wants to watch me making a bum log, is he expecting me to watch him when he needs to go? I walked around for as long as I could hold it in. I tried counting, but only got as far as three, because I’m not sure how high us dogs can count, and three is enough for me. I could try whistling, as I’ve heard it can be a distraction, but it’s not easy to whistle with such hairy lips and I just blew raspberries, sounding like a chorus of farts, which made the situation worse. I gave in to the inevitable. I needed a poo. Now.

  I did it looking eye to eye with my human. Neither of us seemed to blink and I’m not sure what it was like for him, but it was one of the most awkward moments of my life. He even rustled a bag as I was mid-creation, which was distracting, and it would take me a few more poos to realise what he was up to. Finally, I was done and I wandered off, grateful it couldn’t get any weirder. Then, as I looked back, I felt cold horror rising through my tail, as I watched my human bend over and, using the noisy bag, pick up my still-warm poo.

  I tried to put it out of my mind. I saw some birds, and remembered I was going to ask them about where the water ends. I trotted towards them. They turned silently, a gang of big white and grey birds, their heavy, yellow bills and spindly legs catching the watery light. They looked friendly, I thought.

  I introduced myself, but I didn’t get the response I was expecting.

  ‘You dirty land seal,’ they screeched, not actually explaining what a seal is, and asking over and over again if I had any chips, or if my human had chips, or if either of us was able to go and get some chips. They started chanting, ‘What what what whaaaat…’ until I walked off. I’m not sure what I was expecting these birds of the sea to be like, but it wasn’t this. They have no manners. I’m not even entirely sure what chips are, either.

  Ben and I walked along the beach and I’m not going to lie… I may be a big, rough, tough dog all the way from Africa but the seaside is next level scary. I stayed close to Ben and he must have noticed my tail between my legs and my ears lying against my neck.

  ‘You look a bit nervous, Jack-Jack. Let’s play a game,’ he said.

  I love games, great idea. When I was in Africa, I played games all the time. Being chased by baby chimps in the sanctuary was always fun. Well, it was for them. I wanted to nap, usually. Jumping out from behind a bush and making my old friend Azuu the vulture jump was another. Playing hopscotch with the bouncy bushbaby, Laaluu, was cool, but over quickly, because she got bored and distracted by almost everything else. As I thought about all the games I used to play with the other animals, I looked up and saw my human holding a ball. It was nearly yellow in colour and looked fuzzy. Okay, I know what a ball is, but what did it have to do with a game? Then he threw it. Maybe he didn’t want it. He threw it as far as he could, shouting, ‘Go get it, Jack-Jack. Fetch.’

  I was confused. If he wanted it, why had he thrown it away? And why did I have to get it? It wasn’t my ball, and I wasn’t the one who’d thrown it away. Anyway, I guessed we’d both walk over to retrieve the ball. Nope, just me. He expected me to go. Some nerve. With a heavy and loud sigh, to let him know I wasn’t impressed, I shuffled off to collect the ball.

  I picked it up and held it as gently as I could. I don’t know about you, but I’m not a huge fan of a mouthful of white sand, drool and a fuzzy ball, even when the drool is mine. As I dropped the ball at his feet, I hoped he appreciated me collecting it for him. I nearly choked when he picked it up, curled his arm and threw it right back where it had been moments before. WHY DID YOU MAKE ME BRING IT BACK IF YOU DIDN’T WANT IT?

  We stood there, looking at each other. I was starting to think my human just might be a bit of a challenge.

  ‘Isn’t this fun, Jack-Jack?’ he said. ‘Go fetch.’ This confirms he is. Does he really think I’m going to go and get it? If I do, who knows, he might even try to throw it away yet again. This might be Ben’s idea of a fun game, but it’s not mine. It doesn’t matter though, because two things happened after he threw the ball a second time. I did not go to get it, and we never did play ‘fetch’ again. Ever. We have an old dog saying, which is: ‘If I fetch a ball for you once, shame on you. If I fetch a ball for you twice, shame on me. If I fetch a ball all day long, I’m probably a spaniel.’

 

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