Selby's Secret (7 page)

Selby was in a panic. It all started when Mrs Trifle phoned for takeaway food from the Trifles' favourite restaurant, The Spicy Onion. Whenever Mrs Trifle ordered food from The Spicy Onion she got a special dish of prawns cooked in peanut sauce just for Selby. Always — except this time. Selby had walked into the room while Mrs Trifle was on the phone and heard her say: “Yes, that's right, the beef thing-a-me and the egg plant whatsit and the zucchini alla what's-her-name — I'm terrible at those foreign names — yes, that's the whole order. Thank you.”

“No peanut prawns!”
Selby thought as his stomach rumbled with hunger at the idea of them. “What have I done wrong? How can they expect me to survive on a diet of Chunk-O-Gravy Hunks and Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits. I'm a thinking, feeling dog and I need some variety in my diet. Crumbs, you don't suppose she … hates me? No. She's such a wonderful person. She couldn't hate anyone, not even me. I'm sure she just forgot to order the prawns. I'll fix it up.”

Selby waited till Mrs Trifle had left the study and gently nudged the door closed. He picked up the phone and dialled The Spicy Onion.

“This is Dr Trifle of Bunya-Bunya Crescent,” Selby said, putting on his best imitation of the doctor's voice. “I'd just like to add a dish of peanut prawns to the order my wife phoned in earlier.”

“Yes sir, of course,” Phil Philpot, the owner and cook of The Spicy Onion said. “Is that all?”

“That's all,” Selby said. “When do you think you'll be bringing it around to my house?”

“You want it delivered to your house?” Phil Philpot asked, sounding a bit surprised and a little irritable after all the questioning from the police who had just returned the net from his peach tree.

“Of course,” Selby said, wondering what better place to send the Trifles' dinner than to the Trifles' house.

“Okay,” Phil Philpot said. “It'll be there in half an hour.”

“Thanks,” Selby said, quietly putting down the phone as the Trifles' footsteps approached.

“Are you ready to go now, dear?” Mrs Trifle asked her husband.

“Yes, almost ready,” the doctor answered. “I just have to find the theatre tickets.”

“To go? Theatre tickets?” Selby wondered as he lay on the carpet watching. “Aren't they going to eat first?”

Dr Trifle looked through every drawer of the desk twice and then went back for a third look.

“By the way,” he said to Mrs Trifle, “have you organised dinner for the bushfire brigade?”

“I rang The Spicy Onion,” said Mrs Trifle. “It's going to be delivered to the fire brigade hall. It's all taken care of.”

A shiver shot up Selby's spine.

“Cripes,” he thought. “The food wasn't for us after all! What have I done? I'd better phone The
Spicy Onion straight away before they deliver the food here instead of the fire brigade hall.”

For the next twenty minutes Selby watched the phone anxiously but Dr Trifle continued to search his desk for the theatre tickets.

“Oh, here they are,” Dr Trifle said, pulling them out of the book he was reading,
The Inventor's Guide to Fast-Moving Cam Shafts and Water-Driven Floral Clocks,
where he'd been using them for a bookmark. “We'd better get going or we'll be late.”

After the Trifles drove out of the driveway, Selby dashed for the phone only to hear a knock at the door. He peeked out the front window and saw Phil Philpot driving away. When he opened the door he found twenty-one boxes of hot food — plus one box of peanut prawns.

“Crumbs,” Selby said, dashing to the phone only to find that The Spicy Onion was closed for the night. “I'll have to get the food to the bushfire brigade hall myself — quick!”

So Selby was in a panic. He had a problem: how was he to carry all those boxes of food all the way across Bogusville?

“I know!” he said, remembering the old tea trolley that Dr Trifle had left out to be taken to the tip. “I'll just put it all on the trolley and push it there.”

It was dark and no one saw Selby pushing the loaded trolley along the footpath that led up Mulga Hill towards the bushfire brigade hall. And if pushing it uphill was hard, holding it back going down the hill was even harder.

“But what am I doing?” Selby suddenly thought, jumping on the trolley. “I'll just ride it down the hill and I'll be there in no time.”

The trolley took off like a runaway bowling ball, jumping the kerb and tearing down the middle of the street with Selby hanging onto it, and the food, for dear life.

“Oh, no!” Selby said, looking ahead to the bushfire brigade hall with its front door open and all the fire fighters sitting at a long table having their meeting. “I've got to slow this thing down.”

Selby put his hind paws on the ground and dragged them but the trolley only went faster and faster towards the open door.

“This is serious!” Selby thought, trying to stay cool but not succeeding. “This is more than
serious — it's a disaster! Even if I can stop this thing I'm a done dog. They'll see me. Everyone will know that it was me who phoned The Spicy Onion. Then they'll know that I can talk! This isn't a disaster, it's a catastrophe! I've got to think of something fast!”

The hall came closer and closer and Selby suddenly realised that he was about to run down all the fire fighters in Bogusville at one go.

“I've got to warn them,” he thought. “What can you say to clear a hall full of fire fighters fast? I've got it!”

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”
he screamed.

The second they heard the word
fire!
the fire fighters ran for every door and window in the hall and they didn't stop till they were sitting safely in Bogusville Creek.

Meanwhile, Selby tore through the empty hall, throwing all the boxes of food onto the long table as he went, and then shot out the back door and straight into a thicket of lantana.

In a few minutes the fire fighters returned, dripping wet, to the hall.

“I didn't see any fire,” one of them said.

“Neither did I,” said another. “I didn't even smell smoke. But look! Phil Philpot's been in and brought us our dinner. He must have been in and out of here in a flash. That must be the fastest delivery on record.”

That night when the Trifles arrived home they were careful not to wake Selby who was sleeping on the carpet.

“Very strange,” Dr Trifle said. “He's all scratched. Do you suppose he's been in a fight?”

“Who, Selby?” said Mrs Trifle. “Selby doesn't fight. He's too smart for that. Whatever happened it must have made him happy. Just look at that smile on his face. I haven't seen him looking so happy since the last time he had takeaway food from The Spicy Onion.”

“Hmmmmm …,” Dr Trifle hmmmmmed thoughtfully, “that's funny. I could swear I smell peanut prawns.”

“What
are
you doing with that bicycle?” Mrs Trifle asked Dr Trifle as she bounded out of the bedroom in her new tracksuit. “No tinkering, now. It's exercise time.”

“I'm not tinkering, dear,” Dr Trifle said, removing the brakes from the bicycle he was working on in the lounge room. “I'm going to turn this old thing into an exerciser. I'll make a stand for it so that the back wheel is off the ground. Then I can sit right here and read a book or watch TV and still get plenty of exercise.”

“What a marvellous idea — but you'd better stop now,
Slim-Slam
is on,” Mrs Trifle said, turning on the television to their favourite TV exercise program,
Slim-Slam,
and watching as Ronald Ringlets and the Slim-Slam Dancers bounced out on stage, pumping their fists in the air to a pop tune.

“A one and a two and a one and a two,” Ronald sang, “love your body and your body loves you.”

Dr Trifle dropped his spanner and he and Mrs Trifle joined in as Ronald Ringlets and the Slim-Slam Dancers began running on the spot. The pounding on the floor woke Selby.

“I don't think I've ever been so fit,” Dr Trifle said as the sweat poured from his forehead.

“Neither have I,” Mrs Trifle said. “Three days and I'm sure we've both lost kilos already.
Another week and we'll have to stand twice in the same spot just to cast a shadow, as my father used to say.”

“A one and a two and a one two three!” Ronald Ringlets yelled, pumping his knees up to his chest. “You love you and I love me!”

“The
(puff)
other
(puff)
thing,” Mrs Trifle said, lifting her knees higher and higher, “is that exercise is supposed to give you energy. If I can get in shape I won't need to take a holiday.”

“I've got an idea!” Dr Trifle said, suddenly turning off the TV set. “Let's go for a real jog around Bogusville and get some fresh air and sunshine.”

“Exercise,” Selby muttered as soon as the Trifles were safely out of the house. “What a waste of time. They're such wonderful people just the way they are. Why don't they sit back quietly and enjoy life the way I do? They could read books or newspapers,” Selby said, suddenly remembering something. “Come to think of it, I missed the last episode of my favourite comic strip,
Wonderful Wanda, Maker of Music.
I wonder what happened to the latest copy of the
Bogusville Banner.
It must be with the old newspapers in the garden shed.”

Selby went out the back door and across the lawn to the shed.

“Hmmmmmmmm,” he hmmmmmmmmed as he looked at the lock on the door. “I'll have
to squeeze through the hole in the back where the broken boards are.”

“Oooooooomph!” he said, getting stuck halfway through. “Either this hole is smaller or no! It can't be! I don't believe it! I've been eating the same amounts of the same old food except for one order of peanut prawns from The Spicy Onion — how could I have put on weight?”

Selby struggled to get through the hole, but it was hopeless. Finally he pulled himself back and lay panting on the grass.

“This is a disaster! What will I do? The old newspapers will be collected on Thursday. I'll miss
Wonderful Wanda!”

Selby ran back to the house and turned on the TV. Ronald Ringlets was slicing the air with his arms and touching his toes.

“This is just what all you Slim-Slammers need to keep your tum tums trim,” he squealed. “A one and a two and a one and a two.”

“If Mrs Trifle can lose kilos in a few days at the speed she goes,” Selby said, standing on his hind feet and swooping down touching paw to paw, “I'll go at double speed and, by Wednesday,
I'll be slipping in and out of the garden shed like a ferret after rabbits.”

“And now the Slim-Slam shuffle!” Ronald Ringlets screamed, and his curly hair bounced up and down like a hundred springs. “Put your hands on your hips and shuffle your shoes around the carpet. Bend your whole body while you do it. To the music now,” he sang. “Let's do that slip-slap hip-happy Slim-Slam shoeshine shuffle! And a one and a one and a one two three, I can see you but you can't see me!”

“This had better work,” Selby said, shuffling along at lightning speed and then throwing open the door to get some fresh air, “because it's (puff puff) painful!”

“All right all you beautiful Slim-Slam slimmers!” Ronald Ringlets yelled as he jumped on his exerciser bicycle. “If you want to take pounds off your paunch and years off your age, just remember: one two three five six five four, pedal that bike now, more more more!”

Selby grabbed Dr Trifle's exerciser bicycle and propped up the back of it with two stacks of books to keep the back wheel off the ground. He jumped on it and started pedalling furiously.

“I may be a little out of shape,” he said, trying to keep up with Ronald Ringlets, “but an out-of-shape dog can beat an in-shape human any day of the week.”

Selby pedalled faster and faster till the back wheel made a whooshing sound as it sped through the air. Then, suddenly, the bicycle lurched and fell off the books and when the speeding wheel hit the carpet, Selby and the bike shot out the open door and down Bunya-Bunya Crescent.

“Cripes!” Selby yelled when he realised that there were no brakes and that he was headed straight down the steepest part of Mulga Hill towards town. “I think I remember doing this before! Somebody save me!”

Selby went faster and faster till — when he passed the exhausted Trifles who were puffing their way up the hill — he was nothing more than a brown streak.

“That's funny,” Dr Trifle said, slowing down to a walk. “Did you feel that breeze?”

“Yes,” Mrs Trifle said, wiping her brow and sitting down by the side of the road. “And did you hear it?”

“Hear it, dear?”

“Why, yes. It made a sound that sounded curiously like someone saying ‘
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!'
.”

“Yoooooooowwwwwwweeeee!”
Selby screamed, barely making the corner at the bottom of the hill and then tearing out of control through two of the longest flowerbeds in the Bogusville Memorial Rose Garden.

Later, Selby sneaked back into the Trifle house with the bicycle just ahead of the Trifles. The three of them lay back on the lounge-room floor watching
The Lucky Millions Quiz Quest.

“I don't know if all this puffing and panting is worth it,” Dr Trifle said, barely able to keep his eyes open. “I'm so tired all the time I can't get anything done. Yesterday I started filling in the hole in the back of the garden shed and now I don't know when I'll have the energy to finish the job.”

“I know what you mean,” Mrs Trifle said. “Somehow it's no substitute for a good holiday. I only wish we had the money to get away from Bogusville for a while. But just a minute,” she said suddenly, “don't fix that hole in the shed.
Put it back the way it was. Selby likes to go in there for a snooze.”

“Crumbs, the hole
was
getting smaller after all. And I thought I was getting fat,” Selby thought as he pulled another rose thorn out of his leg. “But I'll say one thing for Ronald Ringlets and his Slim-Slammers, he said that exercise would take years off my age and he was nearly right. I almost lost all my years at once!”