Missing Toby Page 5

  “Brutus has been slipping his collar for ages,” said Harriet. “I’ve seen him. He roams around quite a lot. He’s the one who should be in the pound, not Gus.”

  “Are you sure?” queried Mrs Martin.

  “Yes, I am,” Harriet retorted. “And today’s not the first time Brutus has growled at me. I’m scared of him. You don’t look after him properly,” she continued. “You never take him for a walk – he’s tied up all the time. His water bowl is often empty, too. And he barks a lot when you’re away.”

  “That’s enough Harriet,” said her mother.

  Mrs Martin looked thoughtful. “I suppose part of the trouble is that Brutus isn’t my dog, he’s my son’s. He went to Australia soon after he got Brutus. I don’t know anything about dogs. Anyway, I’ve tightened his collar. What surprises me is how he gets it on again – he’s always tied up when I come home.”

  Harriet decided she’d said enough. She and her mother went inside.

  “I wish you’d let me have my own dog, Mum,” said Harriet. “Then I wouldn’t have to visit Max all the time. We could give a home to a stray.” A brown and white one, she added to herself.

  Her mother changed the subject. “Oh, I’ve just remembered – there was another parcel in the box for you several days ago. I completely forgot to give it to you.” She took it down from the top shelf and handed it to Harriet.

  The parcel felt like a whiteboard pen, but heavier. Harriet opened it. It was a pocket knife with a curved, wooden handle. She used her thumbnail to open the blade. She read the letters etched into the steel: OPINEL FRANCE. Next to it was a tiny hand pointing to something like a crown.

  “It’s a French pocket knife,” she told her mother. “Does that mean that Maddy person is French? I don’t know anyone French. Who is giving me these things?”

  “It could just mean she’s been to France – or bought the knife in New Zealand. It is curious, though,” she agreed. “Let’s Google it.”

  The computer was in the dining room. She keyed in ‘opinel knife’.

  “It’s a famous French knife,” she said. “First made by Joseph Opinel in 1890.” Harriet looked at the picture on the website. It was exactly like her knife and its blade was closing, opening, closing. “Golly, a famous French knife! I can show everyone at school tomorrow! Maybe even Tim will look at it.”

  “Just as long as you don’t let anyone else touch it,” said her mother.

  Harriet took it upstairs. If I’d had this earlier, I might have been able to cut the rope round Gus’s neck, she thought, although the rope had been pretty thick. Where was Gus now? She felt angry with Brutus – what a menace!

  Distant thunder muttered and a sudden wind whistled round the house.

  To the Rescue

  Max crouched in his kennel waiting for darkness. He had to take the dog biscuits to Girl, make sure she was all right, and then find Gus.

  He could think of nothing but the fact that he’d run away and left Gus on his own. If anything happened to Gus, it would be his fault. It was urgent for the man next door to realise Gus wasn’t coming home and it was up to him, Max, to make him understand. He lifted his head and howled. He barked and whined, then howled some more. He let everyone know what had happened to Gus.

  The man and the woman were perplexed. “What’s wrong, Max?” They searched the house and the garden looking for clues. “If only you could tell us what’s the matter.”

  Max ground his teeth in frustration. “I am telling you! Why can’t you learn to understand?”

  Gus’s owner looked over the wall to find out why Max was making such a noise.

  “Look, old chap,” he said, “I can see something’s wrong, but what is it? Is it Gus – he doesn’t seem to be around.”

  The woman came out of the house. “Did you say Gus is missing? That must be what’s upsetting Max.”

  Upsetting me, thought Max, I’m desperate!

  “I wonder if animal control have picked him up?” she suggested.

  Max barked loudly. “Yes! That’s it! That’s it!”

  Calls of support came from all over the neighbourhood.

  “Don’t do anything rash,” barked Lulu. “He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  It’s all very well for you, thought Max. You haven’t let your best mate down. I can’t leave him to face this alone. He strained his ears for barking from the dog prison but he heard nothing.

  To make matters worse, the sky was getting darker. It felt wintry even though it was only the end of summer. Sudden gusts of wind drove leaves across the lawn in rattling flurries.

  “Nasty night coming,” said the man when he brought Max his dinner. “I think we’ll bring you inside. You know what you’re like in storms.”

  “Oh no!” gasped Max. How would he get out? He had to take food to Girl, and he had to find Gus. He called Girl immediately.

  “Girl! Girl! I’m going to be shut in the house tonight. I mightn’t be able to bring you anything to eat. Don’t go out.”

  He didn’t expect to hear back. Girl never barked – she was too afraid of anyone knowing she was there.

  As the first splats of rain hit, the man hurried Max inside. They’re going out, he thought, as he sniffed the scent on the woman – it swamped everything else. How could she bear it? At least it meant he wouldn’t have to wait until they went to sleep. He curled up in his basket and watched them put on their coats. Don’t shut any inside doors, he implored silently.

  “Don’t like leaving you in a storm, old pal,” said the man. “Get stuck into your chew.”

  Max heard the key turn in the door. He waited till the whine of the car faded. Right. He had to find a way out. He checked the windows – all shut tight. Next, the outside doors – firmly closed. The inside door to the garage, he suddenly thought – they hadn’t closed the garage door when they went out. He trotted to the door opposite the laundry, but it was closed.

  Max sat on the mat and thought. He listened to the raindrops being flung against the window. In a tiny corner of his mind he hoped he wouldn’t be able to escape – he knew it would be frightening out in that weather and he wasn’t sure where the dog prison was. He watched the newspaper under his bowl moving in the draught. But nothing’s open, he thought, so why is that happening? Then he remembered. At the bottom of the laundry door was an old cat door; but sitting in front of it was a carton full of bottles.

  No matter how much Max scratched and nudged the carton, he couldn’t move it. He tried backing into it and pushing with his rump, but the carton stayed put. There was only one thing for it. He gripped a bottle by its neck and lifted it out. It forced his mouth open wide and hurt his teeth. He grabbed the next one. Before he got it to the ground it slipped out of his mouth and clattered to the floor. By the time he’d emptied enough bottles to move the carton, his teeth and tongue were very sore. And that was the easy part, he thought.

  He nosed open the cat-flap and dust blew into his eyes as the wind whistled through. It’s much too small, thought Max. He poked his head out but his shoulders were too big. If I can get them through, the rest of me will follow. He wriggled his shoulders around, twisting to one side then the other. His head was plastered by the rain. He pulled it back inside and shook.

  I’ve tried to get through, he told himself – or was he really talking to Gus? Gus – my best friend, whom I love most, and whom I deserted. Max looked at the cat door again and decided to try rump first. He managed to get his hind legs through the hole. He wriggled backwards until he reached his shoulders. They still stuck. The back of him got colder and colder. He tried to twist his shoulders sideways but it made no difference. I’m stuck, he thought.

  Suddenly there was a clap of thunder. He jerked with terror – his shoulders popped through and he fell backwards. The flap banged shut. He yelped loudly – it was so painful he felt as though he’d left his skin behind. But he was out!

  There was no time to lose. Pushing against the wind, he ran to his kennel and crawled in. He g
rabbed the dog biscuits and went back out into the wild night. He fought his way through the hydrangeas and along the tracks to the shed, while leaves and twigs hurtled through the air.

  He pushed through the leaning door.

  Girl was crouched at the back. Water dripped through the roof and the walls shook in the wind. The shed won’t survive the night, thought Max. He dropped the dog biscuits beside her and she wolfed them down.

  “You can’t stay here,” he shouted, “it’ll collapse!”

  Thunder rumbled round the sky. Max whined in fear and Girl nudged him. The shed groaned and shuddered.

  “You’ll have to shelter in my kennel,” Max shouted, and the two dogs squeezed out of the shed and made a run for it.

  Hero

  “I’m coming with you,” insisted Girl.

  “No, you’ll just hold me up. You haven’t got the strength yet.”

  “But you’re frightened of the thunder and I’m not,” she replied.

  They crouched in the kennel, arguing.

  “Please, Girl,” said Max. “You’d be an extra worry. Anyway, what about your paw?”

  “I’m much tougher than I look, and I’ve got used to getting around on three legs. It’s better if we go together.”

  We’re wasting precious time, thought Max. I can’t make her stay in the kennel. And he knew he would feel braver with company.

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Girl.

  Max just wanted to get close enough to Gus to cheer him up. Maybe he could even help him to escape.

  “But how can you have a conversation in this wind?” said Girl when he explained.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going, I just have to,” he said. He crawled out of the kennel and the wind hit him as he struggled across to the hydrangea bushes. Girl was at his heels. He knew the prison was somewhere along the main road and that he had to turn right when he got to the end of the street. He hoped the barking would guide him to the prison.

  The two dogs didn’t bother trying to hide – who was around to see them anyway? At least the wind was coming from behind once they were on the main road, but it drove them forward, the rain raked them and the thunder growled. They trotted side by side and encouraged one another, but it was bitterly cold. When they reached the first bus shelter, they huddled together out of the wind, fighting for breath.

  “We’ll never make it,” gasped Girl.

  “Then go back!” snapped Max.

  Girl jerked her nose up. “No I won’t!” she said. “Let’s try to reach the next bus shelter.” She limped on.

  Max kept his eyes fixed on the street lights with their misty haloes and gleaming needles of rain. They struggled on. A few cars passed, flinging muddy water at them. Max could just make out the traffic lights blinking. He tried to keep the pace up, and Girl stayed with him, but they were both walking more slowly, and Girl was limping heavily.

  I won’t give up, thought Max. I’ll just get to the traffic lights.

  A small truck slowed down at the lights, spitting water off its wheels. A wet, black and white dog looked down at them from the back.

  “Hey, youse guys. Where y’goin’? Y’don’t look too flash. Wanna ride?”

  The traffic lights blinked and the truck slowed almost to a stop.

  “Dog prison!” shouted Max through the wind.

  “Get in!” the dog shouted back. “We’re headin’ for the dump next door.”

  Max turned to Girl. “Can you jump up there?”

  “It’s too high, but you go. Quick – the truck won’t stay at the lights for long!”

  “But what will you do?”

  “I can look after myself,” shouted Girl. “Go on!”

  “Thank you, Girl, thank you!” Max ran at the back of the truck and leapt up. He sprawled on the wet wood. The truck pulled away. Max watched Girl’s small, sodden figure disappear into the murk and wondered how she would ever get back to his kennel. She probably would make it, he thought – she had guts. She had given him the courage to set out.

  “Whaddya want at the dog prison?” asked the other dog. “Good place to stay away from.”

  Max told him. It sounded stupid: I’m going to the place where they shut away dogs off leashes – like me – to make contact with my friend inside, in a howling gale. He looked down.

  “Hey, tails up!” exclaimed the black and white dog. “Like, that’s cool, mate. Whadda friends for? Good on yer!”

  They lay on the greasy floor of the truck, sliding from side to side as they went round corners. It was too hard to talk any more until they stopped at the next traffic lights.

  “Tell y’what, mate,” said the other dog, “best for you to hop off when we slow down to turn into the dump. And if y’go round the far side of the prison by the high wooden fence, you’ll be oudda the wind. Give y’ a better chance of talkin’ to y’ friend.”

  So, as the truck slowed, Max jumped off the back. When he saw the squat, concrete building of the dog prison, his heart hurt with fear. The wind screamed around it and the rain dashed against it. Max could hardly stay upright. He lowered his head and forced himself forward, past the yard where the white van was parked, past a big sign which he guessed probably said DOG PRISON, past the front door and finally to the far corner of the prison. His heart hammered with the effort and the wind snatched his breath away, but around the corner, he was sheltered by a high fence, even though the rain still beat down.

  He heard it immediately. It came from the windows high up along the wall, a chorus of despair. Dogs moaned, howled, whimpered, barked and whined. The cries were heart-breaking – and frightening.

  “Why did you leave me behind?”

  “When will you get me out of here?”

  “I’ll kill you if you come anywhere near me!”

  “I’m frightened.”

  “Have you forgotten me?”

  “Will I ever have a home again?”

  “Let me out! Let me out!”

  Max had never before heard such misery. It pushed everything else out of his head. He crouched against the sodden ground and closed his eyes.

  Gradually other thoughts fluttered back.

  I have to make contact with Gus.

  I have to get away from here.

  If I end up in there I’ll die.

  He stood up, took a deep breath and shouted: “Gus! Gus! Gus, it’s Max!”

  Did the chorus falter a little? “Gus, can you hear me! It’s Max!” But the howling wind whipped his voice away and sent his words tumbling up over the roof.

  I’m too tired to try again, thought Max. His teeth chattered with cold and fear. One last time, he thought, and shouted again.

  “Settle down!” roared a voice inside. The dogs fell silent. This was his chance. Straining every muscle to send his voice up to those windows, he shouted again. “Gus! Gus! It’s Max!”

  And back came the reply. “Max, where are you?”

  Tears started into Max’s eyes. “I’m outside the windows,” he called. “How can I get you out?”

  Another shriek of wind prevented Max from hearing. All he caught was the word “impossible”.

  The chorus started up again and Max knew he couldn’t keep up the shouting. Nor could he fight against the cold and exhaustion any more. And yet he had to get home, away from this hideous place. He dragged himself towards the road. As soon as he stuck his head out beyond the fence the wind slammed him back and knocked him to the ground. He lay motionless while the thunder grumbled and the rain beat down on him

  Red Jersey

  First thing on Saturday morning, Harriet went to Max’s place. When she’d gone the day before, he wasn’t in his kennel. She’d peered into Gus’s place but there was no sign of him either. The garden was strewn with debris from the storm.

  Harriet hoped Mr and Mrs Howard would be home this morning. Footsteps approached when she knocked on the front door. Mrs Howard opened it.

  “Hello, dear. I suppose you’ve come to see Max.”


  “He didn’t seem to be around yesterday,” replied Harriet.

  “Max has been very ill,” said Mrs Howard. “We nearly lost him.”

  Harriet went pale. “Oh, no, what happened?”

  “Come and see him first,” said Mrs Howard, “then I’ll tell you.”

  She led the way to the back of the house. “He’s in the laundry.”

  Max lay in a basket on a bright red jersey. Harriet was shocked. “But he looks like a skeleton,” she gasped, “and his coat’s a mess – some of the fur is missing from his shoulder.”

  Max didn’t lift his head. He opened his eyes and his tail twitched.

  “Can I stroke him?”

  Mrs Howard nodded and Harriet crouched down by Max and gently stroked the side of his face with one finger. Max moved his mouth and Harriet saw a sliver of pink tongue. She stroked the top of his head. Max closed his eyes.

  “Come to the kitchen,” said Mrs Howard. “You can still see Max if you sit at the end of the table.”

  Mrs Howard put some biscuits out and poured Harriet a drink. Max lay still in his basket.

  Mrs Howard began. “The night of the storm we had to go out, so we brought Max inside – he gets frightened by thunder and lightning. He was very upset about Gus, so we shut him inside. When we got home there was no sign of him. We were mystified – until my husband found bottles all over the laundry floor. That’s when we realised: Max had moved the bottles to get at the cat door. Somehow he squeezed through it – that’s probably when he lost some fur.”

  Harriet’s eyes were as big as birds’ eggs. “Go on.”

  “We checked his kennel, but he wasn’t there. Then we remembered Gus. Might Max have tried to get to the pound? It’s a good five kilometres away, and Max has never been there – how would he know where it was?”

  “He will have heard the dogs howling – you can hear them on a still day,” said Harriet.

  “But not in that wind,” said Mrs Howard. “Anyway, we drove along the road, calling him. We did see one pathetic, little dog limping along the grass verge, fighting against the wind. We tried to pick her up but she ran away.”