After we had abandoned the world’s worst game, I grabbed a drink of water from a bowl outside a little shop on the edge of the sand. I’d tried to drink some of the sea but had to spit it out as it was so salty. What’s the point of all that water if you can’t lap it up? What do the fish drink, then? Do they have to come out and find a bowl of water that’s not salty? I would suggest asking a friendly bird but only the grumpy ‘What what whaaaat’ birds were around, and they’d just demand chips, I could tell.

  While I was busy wondering how fish drink, I noticed Ben holding something and, better still, offering me a taste. He was probably trying to make up for the ‘fetch’ fiasco. He held a pale-looking cone, with a swirl of white stuff on top. He scooped a finger of the white swirly stuff and placed it in front of me, but it didn’t look that tasty. It looked like a… Oh, wow, it was so cold. And, wait, so good. I slurped his finger to get as much of that icy, creamy stuff as possible. I could eat this all day, it was… Oh no, my brain.

  Suddenly, my nose, like, all of my nose, started to tingle, the bit between my eyes hurt, and my head felt as if someone had sneaked ice cubes in there without me knowing. I wanted to sneeze, I wanted to shake my head to get rid of the brain freeze, but I wanted more of the cold white tasty stuff too. That was all I’d get today.

  I was getting less anxious about the beach as the day went on. My human wasn’t acting scared, and he didn’t even have big teeth like I do, to protect him from the sand monsters I assumed were lurking nearby. I was too busy to be scared anyway, because something was happening. Every so often, when I wasn’t too close to my human, he’d call my name. Each time he’d shout just as I was doing something important, like sniffing another dog, or peeing on a dead crab. No, I’m not weird, I simply want the other dogs to know that the dead crab is my dead crab, if I decide I need one, that is. Anyway, it seemed as though Ben called me every single time I was in the middle of something. I’d walk over to see what he wanted, get a friendly scruffle on my head, a treat, and then he’d let me go back to whatever it was I was doing before. If, like me, you’re good at noticing stuff, you’ll have picked up the most important word there. Yes, treats were involved. This apparently is known by humans as recall.

  I have no idea why they do this, but who cares when there’s a bottomless pocket of treats? Humans aren’t as clever as they think they are. It works like this:

  I get called.

  I go over to Ben.

  I get a treat.

  Happens every time I’m busy. So if I pretend I don’t understand what he wants, then he calls me more often, and when I do finally head over to him, after finishing whatever I’m doing, he ends up giving me more treats, just for trying.

  Not surprisingly, I spent the rest of that beach walk pretending I couldn’t hear Ben, or understand him. I walked in the wrong direction towards complete strangers at least twice. He gave me so many treats for trying that his pocket finally emptied. I had a sneaky feeling there and then that this training was going to be more fun than I’d imagined. All I need to do is not be too good at it so my human doesn’t suspect that I’m training him.

  Lesson Two:

  Dodging Death Daily – Walkies

  Some animals don’t have many friends and do their own thing. That’s why you don’t usually see herds of tarantulas, thank dog, or shoals of sloths, or flocks of weasels. But some of us are social animals and like to hang out. I know from Africa that vultures love having friends for lunch. I had a whole bunch of doggy friends there too but I wasn’t sure I’d ever have any dog pals in the Yookay. I do though. And what a bunch!

  When you think about it, us dogs are fan-dabby-dozy, super fantastic, in every single way, even if I say so myself. Think about it… we’re basically all the same, but we look and act so differently. Deep down, a dog is a dog is a dog. We’re the same recipe and wow, was I living with a special bunch, or what?

  First, I met Trotty, who is the leader of my new pack. He’s also the smallest. And oldest.. He told me the rules when I moved in, and there are lots:

  No peeing in the neighbours’ homes

  No stealing their food

  No wandering into other homes when you feel like it

  No eating the neighbourhood cats, or guinea pigs, or rabbits (squirrels maybe, if no one is looking)

  On and on it went. Old Trotty must really love these rules, even though I heard he’d broken most, if not all of them, and he was the reason our rules existed.

  As pack leaders go, he’s not bad. When he’s excited, he runs on three legs and he has the bark of a very big dog, which I find is often the case with small dogs. He has a colourful collar of blue, red, yellow and black beads, which is from Africa, though I suspect he’s never set paw there.

  Next is a little brown pup, Sprout. She has the curliest hair I’ve ever seen and can bounce so high, she reminds me of Laaluu. Trotty told me that Sprout doesn’t have an off switch!

  Moti is from Brazil and, like me, she’s a bit of a street dog at heart. She has the loudest bark but is always smiling and has uncontrollable ears. It’s as if they think completely separately from the rest of Moti, and even from each other.

  Billie is a young, very big pointer. I’ve discovered that some dogs are named after what they do, so Billie’s sort are trained to point. Retrievers are taught to bring things back (maybe they enjoy ‘fetch’), and sheep dogs are good at rounding up sheep. I wonder what I am. An African snoozer?

  Ralph is in the pack too. He’s a black street dog from somewhere in Europe, and we fight a lot. Not serious fights, play fights. I like to play in a rough and tumble way. There’s lots of teeth involved, rolling over, chasing, standing on our back legs, and generally being noisy. Remember, I grew up wrestling a bunch of baby chimps, and they grab and throw, and whack and yank. I was never going to end up playing gently, was I?

  In many ways, life here is easier than it was in Africa. There’s as much food and drink as I want, well, maybe not exactly as much as I want, but definitely enough, and there are fewer bush fires, and no snakes. Don’t get me wrong, my days are still quite tough. I am training my human and that means letting him think he’s in charge. I am learning new stuff. So much new stuff.

  The Gang

  I’d say I’m pretty good at walking, but apparently I’m not doing it right, according to Ben. How could he say that? He has two legs. I have four. I must be twice as good as him. I’ve been doing it since I was a pup. But there are rules about walking. First, to make sure I walk just right, I need to be attached to my human by a cord. I have to walk slowly. And close to my human. When I was growing up, I could walk when and where I wanted, but in the Yookay some things are dangerous. I saw more roads and cars on my first day here than I’d seen in my whole life.

  Cars are a puzzle. I know they move by a type of magic called ‘mekkanix’ but really, I’m not sure how they go as fast as they do. And why do so many humans get into cars when they could often walk faster? One thing I do like is that they can only drive cars on the roads. This is a good thing when they look as if they weigh as much as a rhino and could hit you as hard as a hippo running downhill. The ants in Africa were a bit like this, travelling in lines, all going one way, sometimes criss-crossing other lines of ants, all moving towards or away from their nest, where the queen is.

  I wondered what would happen if I got in the way of a car but when I saw a very, very flat squirrel on the road, I stopped wondering pretty quickly. Just like the beach, walking around the streets is about rules. And treats. I was learning fast, and more importantly, I was learning how to turn one into the other. Remember, the worse I am at something, the more treats I end up getting, so… ‘SIT.’

  Well, did you? Did you sit? Did you drop everything and park your behind on the ground? No, me neither. Sitting is tough. Not because sitting in itself is difficult, but because it can be a real pain in the bum sometimes. Especially when I’m busy doing something, like peeing on a new gate before any other dog has, or if it’s cold, or wet, or cold and wet outside. If you don’t believe me, you try sitting on the pavement in winter.

  Every time we’re near the edge of the pavement, Ben raises his hand, his palm flat, and says, ‘Sit’, while slowly bringing his hand close to my nose. I noticed quickly that between two fingers, Ben holds a bone-shaped treat, so as I focus on my approaching treat, with my eyes practically crossing, I sit on my bum to keep it in sight. Easy enough.

  If we learn new stuff quickly then you humans think we’ll do it for the fun. No way. Chasing pigeons is fun. Licking clean windows is fun. Sniffing your own butt in the queue in a café, when everyone around you is watching and probably jealous that they can’t sniff theirs, is fun. Sitting by the road staring into space and ignoring all those tempting smells is not, I’m afraid to tell you, fun.

  So instead, I roll over, give him my paw, and once, I spent ages shouting at a butterfly, instead of sitting. It always works. Every time I look close to sitting, I get another tiny, tasty bone. One day Ben will realise.

  Sometimes I was happy with not being a ‘good boy’ and being a bad boy instead.

  Sometimes, he won’t stop. ‘Sit,’ he says, even though I can see we’re safe to cross the road. If he was a dog, his tail would have stopped wagging by now. Wait, I am a dog, and mine has stopped. What’s he worried about? What other possible dangers are there? Gangs of angry squirrels running around ready to steal that stash of gravy bones I know he has in his front right pocket?

  ‘Jack-Jack, we’ve been here twenty minutes,’ he says. This seems like a long time to me, especially because everything is seven times longer for us dogs. It was then that I realised my human is very stubborn, but also really cares I’m safe. I sat.

  Puddle water crept around my bum, which wasn’t so bad, because I’d been standing here for so long, the rain had soaked me anyway. He looked down, beaming, and gave me a tiny tasty biscuit.

  ‘Okay, let’s go,’ he said.

  All that just so I’d sit for a second? I may as well have been good and sat when he asked the first time. I guess I will next time. Not because he makes me, you understand. No one tells us dogs what to do. It was to make things easier for us both.

  Everything else was pretty relaxed in my life. But one day, it all changed.

  Lesson Three:

  Keep Your Friends Close and Your Enemies Far, Far Away

  ‘Oh no, that’s terrible,’ Ben said. ‘How old is she?’ He was pacing about the kitchen and it must have been an important call because he barely noticed my ‘I really need an emergency snack’ face. I tend to save it for when he’s in the kitchen, which happens to be my favourite room.

  ‘What sort of character is she?’ He paused. ‘Oh dear, is the vet okay?’

  As I listened in, I wondered what, or who, Ben was talking about. ‘She’ sounded as if she was incredibly grumpy. I overheard him ask if she could be cuddled or even touched, and, from the look on his face, it probably wasn’t wise to try either. She’d bitten quite a few humans. Whatever she was, she was sick. She was in hiding, because of something she’d done, or maybe not done. She was going to be put to sleep, which is never a good thing for us animals, unless we’re really old or ill. For some reason, the vet didn’t want to do this, and instead was giving her a new name, and moving her to the other side of the country, where nobody would recognise her. Just how bad was this mystery monster? What exactly had she done?

  There followed lots of nodding and shaking of Ben’s head. My ears pricked up when Ben said, ‘I’m not sure there’s enough room here.’ Someone was trying to give my human this terrible beast! Luckily, he wasn’t having any of it. Phew! The last thing we needed, or I wanted, was this mysterious monster in my home. Our home, I meant our home. She sounded scary. So, I nearly dropped my chew in surprise when he put down the phone and announced, ‘We’re getting a new housemate, Jack-Jack.’

  The day got closer and closer. Preparations were underway. Anything that could get broken was moved, a ‘quiet space’ was made. I didn’t get any of this when I arrived.

  I chatted to the other dogs in our garden and they had different ideas. Trotty is certain a tiger is arriving, and that I should leave home. Billie said it’s going to be a huge snake that will pounce on me and squeeze me until my eyes pop. She said I should definitely leave home. Sprout thinks it might be a shark, which Ben will keep in the bath. That works for me, because I don’t go anywhere near the bath anyway. She said I should probably leave home just to be safe. They all think I should find somewhere else to live, to avoid becoming someone’s breakfast, lunch, dinner or a Jack-shaped snack.

  I’d like to take Ben with me, but right now, it’s every dog for himself. I’ll need food, my favourite blanket and my water bowl. Of course, the mystery monster arrived before I could put my plan into action.

  The big crate had metal bars on its sides and as hard as I tried, it was too dark to see inside. A deep growl started somewhere in the back of the box, rumbling away, with blood-curdling wails, howling and hissing thrown in.

  Ben got on his hands and knees, and in a calm voice, said, ‘Hello, you, do you want to come out?’ This seemed a terrible idea to me, why would he go anywhere near that box of doom?

  He unhooked the latch that kept the door locked and it swung slowly open with a creak of the hinges. The hair that runs down my back stood on end. What nightmare was coiled up inside? How big was this terrifying creature? How long were her fangs? Did she have wings? Venomous spines? Fiery breath?

  A skinny cat walked out from the box and blinked in the light. Not a monster. Not the slightest puff of fire-breathing. Just a cat. A little, old, scruffy cat. Her dark yellow eyes were wide and startled, and her hair was frazzled and matted.

  She’s a black and pale brown tabby, with silvery grey legs, white cheeks and a strange sandy yellow flash on her forehead. Her whiskers are so scruffy and messy they look as though they all fell out and someone stuck them back on in a hurry, hoping nobody would notice. Her face is scrunched up, which makes her mouth look pinched, and means one long tooth is always showing. She looks sick, but not dangerous. She’s not scary.

  I walked over and introduced myself. She replied by lunging at my face. I quickly turned to make sure she didn’t scratch my eyes, leaving her to sink sharp claws into my bum instead. She latched on tight, as I ran everywhere trying to shake her off. Down went two small tables, over went my water bowl, splash, crash, we hit a bag full of shopping, and upturned three plant pots, sending soil and flowers everywhere.

  Ben was not going to be happy, but it was his fault this thing was here in the first place. I needed to separate cat claws from my bum. I couldn’t even worry about the mix of soil, water, furniture and shopping mixed up like some sort of indoor natural disaster. As someone who doesn’t often run that far, or, yes, even move too fast too often, I can tell you I bucked and kicked, twisted and leaped, and finally threw the cat off. She landed delicately on a cushion, her unblinking yellow eye fixed firmly on me. I stood panting heavily, feeling like a pin cushion. Ben looked at us both and the wreckage.

  ‘Well, you two… it could have been worse, I guess.’

  I’ve lived with some different animals in my life. I once met a crocodile who thought she was chicken (that’s a long story), and an eagle who was scared of heights. I’ve lived close to some dangerous beasts. Huge bird-catching (yes, actual birds) spiders who sat in the middle of giant golden webs stretched between trees. Every night, I’d stare into the bushes and imagine how many leopards were out there, silently watching me. Compared to the meaty milkshake-making spiders and stealthy carnivores, this little cat was SCARY.

  Even for Ben it was like trying to juggle crocodiles blindfolded, while riding a bike – no, not the crocodiles blindfolded or on a bike, silly – well, anyway, it wasn’t easy for either of us.

  I gave her a couple of days to settle and calm down. Two days later, she hadn’t stopped hissing at me whenever she saw me. I gave her a few more days. Two weeks later, she’s still stalking me, spitting angrily, and making her hair stand up whenever she sees me.

  I thought it was just me but then I saw her growling at a plant, hissing at a shoe, and even swatting Ben. That was the last straw for me. I’m not having my human being attacked by a cat. Enough is enough. She’s a cat and I’m a dog, after all. It’s a story that stretches back in time… Dogs and cats don’t get on, and because we’re bigger and have larger teeth, dogs are always the boss. I marched over to tell her exactly –

  I ran back to my bed, yelping. A perfectly placed scratch on my bum again. It seems as if this cat doesn’t care much about how far the dog and cat story stretches back in time, or who should be the boss. We’ve both discovered who the top dog is in this household and, sadly for me, it’s the new cat, who Ben has named Newbie.

  Lesson Four:

  Queuing for Croissants

  Today, we’re heading to the café. My human goes there a lot. We stand in a queue, which gets closer to a counter. There’s usually some lovely humans there, who are in charge of all sorts of treats. Cakes and slices, pies, breads and tarts, cookies and swirly things. Square things and round things that look, and definitely smell, out of this world.

  Ben always gets a hot drink which makes my nose wrinkle, but apart from that, the smells, oh my dog, the smells are amazing. Us dogs know the world through our noses. Yeah, the eyes and the ears help, I guess, but for us, it’s about the smells. Sometimes, I just close my eyes in these cafés and it’s as if I’m drinking a rainbow through my nostrils. You should try it.

 

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