Christmas Chaos for the Hundred-Mile-An-Hour Dog Read online

  Streaker, the fastest dog in town, is in a spin…

  and it’s not because of all the Christmas decorations!

  Can Trevor and his friend Tina help before it’s too late?

  Jeremy Strong once worked in a bakery, putting the jam into three thousand doughnuts every night. Now he puts the jam in stories instead, which he finds much more exciting. At the age of three, he fell out of a first-floor bedroom window and landed on his head. His mother says that this damaged him for the rest of his life and refuses to take any responsibility. He loves writing stories because he says it is ‘the only time you alone have complete control and can make anything happen’. His ambition is to make you laugh (or at least snuffle). Jeremy Strong lives near Bath with his wife, Gillie, four cats and a flying cow.

  Are you feeling silly enough to read more?

  THE BATTLE FOR CHRISTMAS (A Cosmic Pyjamas Adventure)

  THE BEAK SPEAKS

  BEWARE! KILLER TOMATOES

  CHICKEN SCHOOL

  DINOSAUR POX

  GIANT JIM AND THE HURRICANE

  THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG

  INVASION OF THE CHRISTMAS PUDDINGS

  KRANKENSTEIN AND THE HOUSE OF HORRORS

  (A Cosmic Pyjamas Adventure)

  KRAZY COW SAVES THE WORLD – WELL, ALMOST

  LOST! THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG

  MY BROTHER’S FAMOUS BOTTOM

  THERE’S A PHARAOH IN OUR BATH!

  JEREMY STRONG’S LAUGH-YOUR-SOCKS-OFF

  JOKE BOOK

  Illustrated by Rowan Clifford

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  Published in Puffin Books 2009

  Text copyright © Jeremy Strong, 2009

  Illustrations copyright © Rowan Clifford, 2009

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

  ISBN: 978-0-14-191013-0

  Happy Christmas to Sam and all readers

  Contents

  1. Lions 1, Elephants 0

  2. A Gorilla in Boots

  3. The Great Vanishing

  4. The Hunt Begins

  5. Criminals!

  6. Suspicious Behaviour

  7. And the Contents of the Shed Were…

  8. Back on the Trail

  9. Attack! Attack!

  10. The Great Switch-On

  10½. The Very Last Bit

  1. Lions 1, Elephants 0

  Streaker is the best dog in the whole world. That’s what I think. Unfortunately nobody agrees with me. Mum and Dad have handed her over to me because they can’t control her. I’m the only one who can do that. Streaker will do anything I say, but not necessarily when I actually say it. If I shout ‘Come here’, she will do it, eventually, although I might have to wait until the next day, or maybe the day after.

  However, she is BRILLIANT at doing all sorts of other things. For example, she can:

  1. Run like toast on fire. (The toast has got legs, obviously.)

  2. Leap like a kangaroo on an iceberg. (Kanga is trying to get warm.)

  3. Eat like Frogmouth Freddie. (He’s in my class at school and I have seen him eat three jam doughnuts ALL AT THE SAME TIME. How disgusting is that?)

  4. And, most of all, she is brilliant at GETTING INTO TROUBLE. Streaker has been in more trouble than a room full of bank robbers. In fact she has been in trouble with Mum, Dad, me, my friend Tina, Tina’s mother, the police, the dog warden and about half the people in our town.

  She’s also pretty good at looking after her puppies. She has got three pups and they are called, in the following order: One, Two and Three. Yes, I know – not exactly interesting names, are they? I wanted to call them Piddle, Tiddle and Widdle but Mum said NO WAY.

  ‘They are not nice names, Trevor,’ she complained.

  ‘They’re not nice puppies,’ I pointed out. ‘Not when they’re tiddling and –’

  ‘Stop,’ Mum broke in sharply. ‘No details, thank you very much. It’s bad enough having to clean up their mess.’

  ‘But you get me to do that,’ I said.

  ‘She’s your dog,’ Mum shot back.

  ‘But they’re Streaker’s puppies, not mine. She should clean up after them.’

  ‘She’s a dog,’ Mum went on. ‘How often have you seen a dog with a mop and bucket?’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe she could be trained.’

  Mum gawped at me for a moment and then burst into laughter. ‘You have got to be joking! That dog couldn’t be trained to breathe, let alone do anything useful.’

  ‘Mum, Streaker knows how to breathe and breathing happens to be very useful.’

  ‘And you know perfectly well what I mean, smarty-pants. How many times have you tried to train her? How many times have you failed? The words “Streaker” and “training” just do not fit together.’

  I have to admit Mum is probably right there. I mean, Streaker doesn’t even know her name! Anyhow, Dad and Mum decided that since the puppies would not be staying with us forever they didn’t need proper names and that’s why they ended up being called Boring, Boring and Boring. Or to put it another way: One, Two and Three.

  ‘They’ll be ready to leave us just in time for Christmas,’ said Dad. ‘Excellent.’

  ‘But it will be their first ever Christmas!’ I protested. ‘Can’t we keep them? Please?’

  Dad looked towards heaven as if he was searching for help, but the help he got wasn’t very helpful as far as I was concerned. ‘No,’ Dad said bluntly.

  ‘I’ll feed them,’ I suggested and made my best pleading face.

  ‘No,’ Dad repeated. ‘And stop trying to look like a dying idiot.’

  I made my final offer. ‘I’ll buy them off you.’

  Mum sighed. ‘Trevor, puppies grow up. Soon they will be the same size as their mother, if not bigger. You haven’t got the money to buy them or feed them and we haven’t got room for them. We already have Streaker and Erik under our feet all day.’

  In case you’re wondering, Erik is the cat that Streaker brought home with her when she got lost a couple of months ago. (She also brought a manic baboon, but that’s another story.) Dad wanted to call the cat Tiger, after the
famous golfer, Tiger Woods, but there was no way I was going to have any animal named after a golfer. I mean, pleeease! I said we should give the cat a Viking name. Dad wanted to know why.

  ‘Because he looks like one.’

  ‘He’s a cat, Trevor. How does he look like a Viking?’

  ‘He’s fierce and hairy,’ I said. ‘Vikings were fierce and hairy too – except the bald ones, of course. They were probably just fierce.’

  Dad gazed at me for several seconds while he struggled to find the right words. His mouth moved several times but no sound came out. Eventually he gave in.

  ‘All right. Erik it is.’ Dad looked across at the cat. ‘What do you think of that, Erik?’

  Erik sat up, made several icky noises, stretched out his neck and head and finally coughed up a small hairball.

  ‘Lovely,’ muttered Dad. ‘I don’t remember the Vikings doing that.’ He began to move away but Erik had other ideas and threw himself at Dad’s left leg as he brushed past, sinking in his claws.

  ‘OWW!’

  Erik let go and stalked off, his tail high in the air. If he could speak he would have been saying:

  ‘Don’t mess with me, sonny. I’m Erik the Viking.’ I smiled inwardly, rather proud of the name I’d just given him. I bet Erik likes it.

  Funnily enough, Erik loves Streaker and her puppies. They get on really well. Erik plays with them. He lets them jump on him and chase his tail. And Erik and Streaker are great friends. They sit together for hours. It sounds mad but sometimes you’d think they were actually talking to each other.

  However, none of this will stop Mum and Dad from selling the puppies. Dad put up a card in our local shop saying PUPPIES FOR SALE and he posted another one in the club house at the golf course he goes to.

  (Groan groan. Golf. WHAT IS THAT ABOUT? I will tell you. It’s about people wandering around all day looking for a tiny ball they’ve lost. The only thing they use their golf clubs for is poking about in nettles. And then, when they DO find the ball, what do they do? They hit it again, lose it again and spend the next three years in another search. And that’s meant to be A GAME?)

  Anyhow, a strange man came round this afternoon to take a look at the pups. I could tell he was strange the moment I saw him. He had an enormous moustache. It was truly gigantic. It looked like he had a yak hanging off the end of his nose. And his eyes were swimming about behind thick spectacles.

  His name was Mr Slocumber and he loved the puppies and drooled over them. Honestly, it was disgusting, you should have heard him.

  ‘Oh, they are so GORGEOUS! Oh, look, look, they’ve got PAWS!’ (What did he expect to find – monster lobster pincers?)

  ‘I love them. They are so funny. And look, look, look – this one’s got FUNNY EARS!’

  ‘They’ve all got ears,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I know! AREN’T THEY FUNNY?!’ cried Mr Slocumber.

  ‘All dogs have ears,’ I growled.

  ‘I know! AREN’T THEY FUNNY?!’ he repeated yet again, bending over the pups.

  I was just wishing the yak under his nose would stampede down his throat and suffocate him when a four-legged ginger Viking thundered across from behind a cupboard, launched himself at Mr Slocumber’s rather large backside and clung there, like a small lion trying to bring down an elephant.

  Mr Slocumber straightened sharply, eyes wide with alarm and his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Erik slowly let go and backed down the poor man’s leg, digging in his claws on the way. Then off he went, tail in the air, as usual.

  ‘He’s been teaching the puppies to do that,’ I hinted.

  ‘Really?’ squeaked Mr Slocumber, backing away.

  ‘They’ve got ALL their teeth now,’ I added for extra effect. ‘You’d be surprised how sharp they are for such little nippers.’

  ‘Would I?’ croaked Mr Slocumber. He had turned rather white, quite possibly through loss of blood in the leg and bottom areas. He didn’t stay much longer. Victory! I felt quite proud of myself! Mind you, I hope Mum and Dad don’t find out.

  2. A Gorilla in Boots

  Of course I do know that the pups will have to go, sooner or later. I just want to enjoy them a bit longer. I want them to be with us for Christmas. Surely that’s not too much to ask? Streaker’s going to miss them too when they’ve gone. And Erik as well, even if he is a bloodthirsty little Viking.

  I reckoned Tina would enjoy my story about Mr Slocumber so I told Mum I was nipping out to see her. Mum raised her eyebrows a trifle.

  ‘When’s the wedding?’

  I knew she was only teasing but it is SO ANNOYING. Tina and I have been friends for ages and because she’s a girl everyone makes boyfriend and girlfriend jokes. But we are just good friends. HONESTLY.

  Mind you, Tina does like getting close. Sometimes she leans against me or tries to loop her arm through mine when we’re walking. When I ask her to stop she tells me I should ‘chill’ and be more ‘tactile’.

  ‘What does tactile mean?’ I was suspicious.

  ‘It means you shouldn’t scream when I touch you,’ she grunted.

  Tina lives just round the corner and she’s got this MASSIVE St Bernard called Mouse. (Ha ha.) ‘Why don’t we walk into the centre and see how the Christmas decorations are going? You can tell me all about Mr Cucumber on the way.’

  ‘Slocumber,’ I corrected.

  ‘Slocumber, Fastcumber, jumber-cumber,’ she laughed.

  ‘Tina, you are a complete twittle.’

  ‘What is a twittle when it’s at home?’ she asked.

  ‘A little twit, of course. Ta da!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tina answered evenly. ‘You can go home now if you like.’

  You can see that Tina and I enjoy our little conversations.

  By this time we were practically in the centre of town. The council workmen were out in force, rigging up a big Christmas tree and dangling lights from just about everything that didn’t move.

  Tina beamed. ‘It’s going to be so – twinkly,’ she gushed. ‘And romantic,’ she added, slipping her arm through mine. I automatically flinched.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Tina asked, as innocent as a cat with a bird in its mouth. I had just started to try to extricate my arm when there was a brash guffaw from behind.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Mr and Mrs Lovey-Dovey.’

  I whirled round and found myself face to face with a gorilla in a coat, and his three Alsatians.

  ‘Charlie Smugg,’ I groaned, yanking my arm free of Tina at last. I could feel my face heating up fast. I probably looked like a boiled tomato. Charlie sniggered.

  ‘Go on, give her a kiss,’ he urged, a big grin splitting his spotty, fat face. ‘There’s mistletoe going up there – go on, have a Christmas snog.’

  He’s disgusting, Charlie – a nightmare in boots. He’s fourteen and he hates Tina and me. We’ve been kind of locked in a war with him for ages. AND he’s got those horrible dogs – THREE of them. They’re all teeth, and growl and snap and slobber. You might have thought that having Mouse with us would be some protection, but Tina’s St Bernard sat behind us, innocently watching the workmen ferrying bunches of mistletoe up the lamp posts.

  ‘Get lost, Charlie,’ Tina suggested. Charlie scowled and let his dogs surge at us, flashing their horrible white teeth and curling back their lips so we could see their mottled pink gums. Tina and I recoiled several paces.

  ‘My dogs don’t like it when people are rude,’ snarled Charlie.

  ‘Don’t know how they live with you then,’ Tina answered.

  I do so wish she wouldn’t talk like that – NOT TO CHARLIE SMUGG of all people. Maybe it’s all right for her, being a girl. But I’m fish-food as far as Charlie’s concerned, and he’s the biggest shark in town. Charlie let his dogs rush us again.

  ‘Goodbye, Charlie,’ I said, as evenly as possible. I could feel my heart speeding up. He’s a big lad.

  ‘Whoa!’ yelled Charlie as his Alsatians almost pulled him off his feet. Mouse sat
there and watched. He might just as well have been having his nails done.

  Charlie began to move off but then stopped and came back. With a smile. ‘Oh yes, I knew there was something on my mind. How are those puppies of yours?’

  Why should he be interested in Streaker’s puppies? I wondered. He must be up to something. Charlie didn’t care about anything except himself.

  ‘They’re OK.’

  He nodded. ‘Thought so, cos I saw that card in the shop – Puppies For Sale – and it had your surname. Now then, I think we need to talk about them pups. You’re selling them, aren’t you?’

  ‘So?’ I muttered.

  ‘Well now, seems to me that we need to do a deal, cos those pups aren’t exactly yours, are they?’

  ‘No, they’re Streaker’s,’ I answered.

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ Charlie went on, wagging a fat finger at my face. ‘I remember when those pups were born and I reckon the father of those pups was one of my dogs.’

  Charlie’s face had turned seriously threatening by now. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Charlie’s Alsatians had chased Streaker several months earlier and cornered her behind a shed. Nobody knew exactly what happened but very soon after that we found Streaker was pregnant and then the pups were born.

  ‘So the thing is,’ Charlie continued, ‘I reckon that since one of my dogs was the dad I should have half the money when you sell them.’ His face lit up with another smile. He looked like a shark who’d just found his midday meal and was about to swallow it. Whole. And the meal was me.

  ‘In your dreams,’ snapped Tina. ‘Firstly, it was Streaker who had the pups, not your Alsatians. Secondly, you can’t prove it was one of your dogs. Thirdly, you’re a big bully, so get lost, again.’

  Wow! Tina can be pretty feisty. I swallowed hard and wondered what Charlie would do about this. The gorilla looked around but there were lots of shoppers out and about. He licked his lips again.