The Dog that Dumped on my Doona (5 page)

‘I haven't got that kind of money,' I said.

‘Do you have a tank to keep it in?' he asked. I shook my head.

‘Ah,' he said. ‘Then you are talking about equipment, lighting, heating as well. You'll have to add on another five or six hundred bucks for all that. If you want that pygmy and you want it to stay alive, then you're talking the best part of a thousand dollars.'

A
thousand
dollars?

‘If that's too much, we have a bearded dragon that's only sixty. Good pets, they are.'

‘It has to be that one.'

‘Then you'd better save your pennies, kid,' he said. He was remarkably cheerful talking about how expensive everything was. It was like I had made his day by not being able to afford to buy God from him.

‘Don't sell him,' I said as I headed for the door. ‘I'll be back.'

His beard parted and some noise came out, but I didn't hear what it was. With that level of soundproofing around his mouth, it wasn't surprising.

Back on the footpath, I did some quick maths. I was a hundred and sixty bucks short. Forget about all that equipment. That wasn't going to be necessary. But a hundred and sixty bucks? That was a fortune.

Blacky studied me. He didn't have to ask the question. It was in his eyes.

‘This isn't going to be as simple as I thought,' I said. ‘God costs a lot more than you'd expect.'

‘Just so you know,' said Blacky. ‘Time is short. You have only five days. So I respectfully suggest, mush, you get your skates on.'

I failed to spot the respect in his voice, but I didn't dwell on it. You see, a dim light had pinged on above my head.

‘There's still my brick idea,' said Dylan hopefully. His fingers clenched and unclenched. You could tell he was itching for some destructive action.

‘Hold the brick,' I said. ‘No. I don't mean hold the brick. I mean, we'll keep that plan on the back burner. I've got another idea.'

‘Better make it quick,' said Blacky.

I was really starting to hate that dog. I hadn't liked him to begin with. I was doing my best here, willing to spend all my savings. And for what? Nothing that was going to help me, that was for sure. I didn't stand to gain anything. But this hound wasn't in the slightest bit grateful. I hadn't asked for this job and there was no way I was going to be made to feel guilty just because I couldn't do it immediately.

‘Look,' I said. ‘Clear off, the pair of you. I need to do some thinking. Come and see me tonight. Hopefully, I'll have something to report.'

‘Okay,' said Dylan. ‘I'll use the time to improve my brick-throwing skills.'

Someone was in for a disturbing afternoon. It was comforting to know I wasn't going to be the only one.

‘
How
much?'

I nearly yelled it. Surely he couldn't be serious?

This felt like déjà vu.

‘Thirty bucks,' he said. ‘That's it. Not a cent more.'

I put the phone against my chest and tried to keep calm. When I was sure I wasn't going to lose it big time I got back on the line.

‘It's worth ten times that and you know it, David,' I said. ‘You chiselling cheapskate chunk of snot.' Well, okay. I didn't say that last bit. Never let it be said I don't know how to conduct delicate negotiations. ‘It's hardly been used,' I continued. ‘And it's a bargain at a hundred and sixty.'

‘It's even more of a bargain at thirty,' he said.

It was clear that David wasn't quite so delicate in his bargaining skills.

‘That's true, mate,' I said. ‘But you are forgetting one thing. I won't sell it to you for thirty. I would sooner give it the Salvos than let you have it for that price. I would sooner smash it into pieces with a hammer and then set fire to it than let you get your fingers on it for thirty. One hundred and twenty. That's the lowest I can go. And it's still robbing me blind.'

I looked down at the iPod on my bedside cabinet. I wasn't exaggerating. This thing was top quality. Eighty gig, black, video. Top of the range.

‘Thirty-two,' he said.

I sighed. The thing is, I knew David was loaded. He has parents who own BMWs. Not one. Two. Plus they go on overseas holidays about five times a year. He could afford to buy a new iPod like mine. But maybe that's how rich people become rich – by never spending more than they have to. Ever since I'd taken my iPod to school, he'd wanted it. In fact, David had bugged me about selling it to him, even though I'd only had it for the week since my birthday.

‘Thirty-two dollars, fifty cents,' he said.

‘Bye, David,' I said.

‘Thirty-three,' he said.

‘You know my number,' I said and hung up.

I was in a black mood. Not because David wasn't going to buy it. But because there was only one other person who wanted to buy the iPod from me and could afford it. Trouble was, I didn't think I could bring myself to do it. I almost came out in a cold sweat just thinking about it. In fact, I knew that if I did think about it anymore, it would never happen. So I picked up the iPod, walked down the corridor and knocked on her door. I tried to keep my mind blank.

‘Is that you, Mummy?' called Rose. Her tone of voice was so sweet it was probably rotting her teeth.

‘No. It's me. Marcus.'

‘Well, don't just stand out there, Mucus,' she said. ‘Clear off.' The sweetness had been replaced by acid. I was surprised the paint on her bedroom door didn't blister.

‘Rose. I need to talk to you.' I tried to keep
my
voice calm and reasonable.

‘So write me a letter.'

‘Please?' God, I hated myself. I was going to sell her my iPod and here I was pleading with her to rob me.

The silence behind her door was deafening.

‘I want to sell you my iPod,' I said to the big sticker she has on her door.
If It's Too Loud, You're Too Old.
What a loser. The sticker disappeared and Rose's face appeared instead. Normally, where I'm concerned, Rose moves at a slug's pace. I could be drowning and she'd finish texting her friends before dialling 000. If she could be bothered. Now she'd nearly pulled a muscle getting to the door. ‘Come in,' she said.

I counted the money twice, but it still didn't come to more than a hundred.

I won't go over all the details of my negotiations with Rose. It's too painful. Suffice it to say that in the end she bargained me down by pointing out that buying the iPod was going to be a risky business. Mum and Dad had only bought it for me the previous week. There was a danger, she said, that they would insist on her returning it if they found out she'd bought my only birthday present.

Though I hate to admit that Rose
ever
talks sense, she had a point. So I swore to secrecy. I also swore that I would say I had lent it to her if questions were asked. I had to pay the price for this inconvenience. She cut twenty bucks off the asking price on the grounds she couldn't declare the iPod was officially hers. I mean, Rose wasn't bothered about robbing me. She'd have ripped me off, poked out my eyes and sold me to white slave-traders in a flash if she could. It was only the
practical
side of robbing me that bothered her.

It's no real surprise I wouldn't urinate on her if she was on fire.

I tried to block out all thoughts of my sister as I did the maths.

Still sixty bucks short.

And time was running out.

The phone rang.

‘Okay, then,' said David. ‘You win. I'll give you a hundred and sixty.'

It was like someone had smacked me around the face. I'd told him – not ten minutes before – I'd take a hundred and twenty. He offered thirty-three. Then he jumped in with this bid. Was it just me or was the whole world going crazy?

I thought about Rose in her bedroom, plugged into my iPod. I thought of her reaction if I went back in there and offered to refund the cash.

I put the phone down carefully. I didn't want David to hear me sobbing.

‘I'm not sure I've got any jobs you can do,' said Mum, pulling sheets out of the washing machine.

‘I could put those on the line for you,' I suggested.

‘That's very kind of you, dear,' she said, bundling the soggy mass into my arms.

‘How much?'

‘Sorry?'

‘For putting the washing on the line.'

‘Are you serious, Marcus?' she replied. She had this hurt look on her face. ‘You want to be paid for that? A small job that will take you about two minutes? When I feed you, wash your clothes, tidy your room, buy you clothes …'

I hung the washing on the line and tried Dad.

‘You could mow the lawn,' he said.

‘How much?'

‘All of it.'

It wasn't worth arguing. I mowed the lawn. Excellent. Two boring jobs. No money. This wasn't going to work. I darted across the road to number forty-three. It was time to get serious.

Mrs Bird lived up to her name.

She was tiny and had a hooked nose like a beak. She also put her head to one side when she talked. Every time I spoke to her I had an urge to offer her a handful of seeds just to see if she'd peck at them. Mrs Bird was also ancient. I'd seen pictures of Egyptian mummies that looked younger. She'd lived on her own at number forty-three since her husband had died back in about 1952. As far as anyone could tell, she had no relatives. Probably outlived them all. So the neighbourhood kept an eye on her. There was no roster or anything. People just knocked on her door from time to time to see if she wanted any jobs done or if she needed anything from the shops.

But mainly to see if she was still alive.

Mrs Bird had a cat with a serious weight problem, due to the fact that she shovelled food down its throat from morning to night. She'd turned it into a hairy beach ball on legs. Not that you could
see
its legs beneath the rolling mounds of blubber. When it stopped, its stomach wobbled on for another two or three minutes.

I had a theory. Beneath the cat's obese exterior a slim and supple beast was trying to get out. Given its size, maybe two or three slim and supple beasts. I had visions of before-and-after photographs. One looking like a tortoiseshell cow-pat, the other on a beach with a six-pack and a bikini. Okay, I'm exaggerating. But I reckoned someone should care about the strain being placed on the cat's heart by its unnatural girth.

Maybe Mrs Bird felt that way occasionally, because she had been known to pay to have the cat exercised.

I knocked on the door and waited for her to answer. This took ten minutes. Like her cat, Mrs Bird was not known for quick or sudden movements. Finally though, the door creaked open and her face appeared, her hooked nose like a blade arcing towards me from a nest of wrinkles. She smiled and the wrinkles writhed like something insane.

‘Hello, Sonny,' she said. She called everyone Sonny. Maybe because she was so old, it was the only name she could keep in her head.

‘Hello, Mrs Bird,' I said. ‘I wondered if you'd like me to take Tiggles for a walk.' That was the cat's name. Tiggles.

‘I think I might be short of cornflakes,' said Mrs Bird.

That was the other thing about Mrs Bird. Short. Birdlike. And stone-deaf. It took me another five minutes to make her understand what I meant.

‘That is very kind of you, Sonny,' she said. ‘I will pay you, of course.'

‘Only if you insist, Mrs Bird,' I replied.

‘About half-past eleven,' she said.

I sighed. You couldn't afford to worry too much about time when you were having a conversation with Mrs Bird.

I snapped the lead to the front frame of the treadmill in our garage, keeping my fingers well away from Tiggles. It couldn't waddle two paces if you put a fresh salmon in front of it, but if your flesh was within striking distance of its paws it'd lash out at the speed of light.

I had a theory about that as well. I reckoned that its size made it unhappy and depressed. It couldn't be easy being a slim and supple beast trapped inside the body of a walrus. I'd lash out as well.

Once the mog was secure I plugged in the treadmill and put the machine on a programmed incline. When I pressed the start button, the cat moved down the belt until the lead started to choke it.

I had done this before. It was an idea born out of desperation. The first couple of times I had walked it, the cat didn't move. Went limp and unresisting. I hadn't taken it for a walk. I'd taken it for a drag. The animal was so heavy it was like dragging a furry cannonball along the street. I ran out of energy while Tiggles didn't use any at all. This was not the idea.

Then I remembered the treadmill in our garage. It was never used. When I first stuck the cat on the moving treadmill, it just slid down the belt and got dumped on the floor. I had worked on the idea it wouldn't like ending up as a splat on the tiles, but I hadn't realised how stubborn it was when it came to exercise.