My Dog Doesn't Like Me

Elizabeth Fensham lives in ­Vic­toria's
Dandenong Ranges. She is married to an artist and has two adult sons. Fensham has been
writing in earnest for the last
twenty years. Her first novel,
The Helicopter Man
, won the CBCA Book of the Year for Younger Readers in 2006. Previous young adult novels i
nclude
Miss McAllister's Ghost
and
Goodbye Jamie Boyd
,
which was shortlisted for the Bologna Book Fair's White Ravens Award in 2009
.
Elizabeth's younger reader,
Matty Forever
, was shortlisted for the CBCA Book of the Year for Younger Readers in 2009. The companion,
Bill Rules
, was published in 2010. Her most recent young adult book is the moving
The ­Invisible Hero
, which won the Speech Pathology, Book of the Year Award 2012 and is listed as an IBBY book.

Also by Elizabeth Fensham

The Invisible Hero

Goodbye Jamie Boyd

Miss McAllister's Ghost

Helicopter Man

Matty Forever

Bill Rules

Matty and Bill for Keeps

To the readers of this book, including the children who want their dogs to like them.

And in memory of our beloved family dogs: Lassie, Laddie, Simon, Shane, Jason, Maud and Toby.

Chapter One

Running away is a very difficult thing to do if you are going to do it properly. To be warm and safe, there's lots to organise. Before I knew it, my school backpack was quite full, and I had only packed a book, my coat and a chocolate bar. I still needed to take:

• •
  a blanket;
  
• •
  a torch;
  
• •
  a water bottle;
  
• •
  some sensible, healthy food;
  
• •
  my whistle;
  
• •
  two extra books to read in case I never saw a library again in my whole life;
  
• •
  some paper and a pen;
  
• •
  my tin of pocket money.
  

How was I going to carry all that?

In the end, I snuck out to Dad's shed and grabbed the wheelbarrow. When Mum was in the bathroom, I crept into the kitchen and raided the pantry and fridge. I put on my backpack and dragged the rest of my stuff out to the wheelbarrow.

Unfortunately, my horrible big sister, Gretchen, spotted me. She laughed in a teasy way and said, ‘I'll help you run away, Eccle! Here give us it.' She tried to take the wheelbarrow from me, but it tipped over. Everything fell out. Then she stooped down to put all my things back in.

‘Better give us your new address,' said Gretchen in a nasty, cheerful voice.

I didn't answer. I started pushing the barrow up the driveway and along the footpath. I was heading for the little park two doors down. Our neighbour, Mrs Manchester, was drinking a cup of tea on her front porch. Her ginger cat, Penelope, was draped over her lap like a rug. ‘Off for an exciting adventure, Eric?' she called out to me.

How was I supposed to reply to that?
Mrs Manchester must have thought I was like a three-year-old playing make-believe. As I turned to reply to the old lady, I noticed Gretchen had followed behind like a spy. She called out to Mrs Manchester, ‘Eccle is running away from home!'

‘Oh, dear me,' said Mrs Manchester. ‘Your parents will be very worried.'

I didn't wait to hear more. In a fury, I put my head down and pushed that wheelbarrow so hard and fast that I was trotting like a pony. Gretchen's cruel tongue gave me a spurt of energy. When I got to the playground, I stopped and sat on a bench. I was panting, and my heart was thumping – out of anger and sadness.

Ugly had brought me to this. I was homeless because of a dog. Tonight, he'd be safe and warm. Maybe he'd even take over my bedroom. Where would I be? I might even be in danger. That scared me – stranger danger. How would I stay safe?

I looked around. It was a summer evening. The sun was sinking lower and lower in the sky. Spooky fingers of shadow were sliding across the grass towards me. In the sunshine, I felt I could cope. But what would I do in the dark? Was I going to stay on the bench all night, or find somewhere else? By now, Gretchen the spy had turned and gone home. No-one cared. I was alone in the world.

I started to realise that running away was very boring. I sat and sat on that hard, wooden bench for a whole half an hour. I ate my chocolate bar. Then a mum with a baby in a pram and a noisy little boy walked into the park. The mum looked tired; she sat on another bench and texted someone on a mobile while her noisy boy mucked about on the swings, the slippery-dip and other kids' play equipment.

After the mum and kids left, a bashed-up looking car stopped and three teenagers got out. They played on the equipment, too, and were just as loud as the little boy had been. No-one spoke to me, but I didn't mind. I didn't want anyone asking questions. I pretended to read my book, but I was too upset to concentrate. That shows how sad I was, because I usually love reading.

After that, it got almost dark. I started imagining all the things that could happen to me. In the middle of my imagining, I noticed a creepy-looking man.
He had a cap pulled down over his eyes, and he wore a black baggy coat. He was hanging about the edge of the park.

Sometimes he'd walk out of sight. Then he'd come back again. My heart started leaping about in my chest; it was going in all directions, like a terrified wild bird trapped in a room. What a stupid, dangerous thing I was doing – being all by myself.

People's backyard fences were left, right, and behind me. Should I climb one of them and ask for help? What if I climbed into someone's place and they thought I was a robber? What if the people were baddies? I was stuck. How I wished I was safely at home reading a good book in my bedroom. Reading an adventure about a boy running away is much more fun than actually running away, I realised.

I reached down and picked up a heavy stick to protect myself from the scary man. Next, I took my whistle out of the wheelbarrow and got ready to blow like mad. But then I noticed the man's bent back and the way he shuffled and limped a bit.

It was Grandad! He was keeping an eye on me. Someone cared.

That's when I decided to go home – but not with Grandad. That would be giving in to all the rest of the family and to Ugly, who didn't care. I stood up and re-arranged my things in the wheelbarrow, trying to look busy. Grandad shuffled further down the street, towards home. I quietly followed, keeping a distance.

After Grandad went inside the house, I waited a few moments. Leaving most of my things in the wheelbarrow, I slipped through the open front door. I crept down the hallway. Second door on the right and I was back inside my bedroom. I sat on my bed, enjoying feeling safe and warm, until Dad appeared and invited me to the kitchen for a family chat.

Most of what was said can wait for later, but in the end, I was sent back to my room for being rude to Gretchen. Now, I wouldn't mind being sent to my room if I'd been rude to Mum or Dad or Grandad, but Gretchen? It's like the victim is in prison and the bad guy is free. Boy, was I mad.

I was stuck in my room for so long (actually for the rest of the night). At first, I was too upset to do anything – not playing games or even reading, which I really love. That left me with nothing much to look at except for the curtains Mum had made me with the dog pictures all over them, which made me even sadder. The curtains reminded me of my eighth birthday, more than a year ago.

It was while I was stuck in my room feeling all clogged up with miserableness that I became an author. I thought I might start writing down my sad and angry story. It's been over a week now since I became an author. After I finish writing each bit, it feels good to get everything off my chest.

Chapter Two

My dog doesn't like me. It's a fact. When I got back from running away, I explained this to my family.

‘Codswollop,' Grandad grumbled, and he stomped out of the kitchen and down the back steps to his vegie garden.

My big sister, Gretchen, muttered, ‘You are such a loser,' and kept on filing her fingernails.

Dad said, ‘What a load of rubbish!' He walked away and sat at his computer to do his accounts.

Mum bent down, patted the dog, and said, ‘Poor bloke.'

The dog looked deep into Mum's eyes, as he always does. He knows how to get round her. But I'm telling you the truth. My dog truly, ruly doesn't like me. He won't give me the time of day. I'm not sure what ‘time of day' even means, but I know he wouldn't give it to me. I just don't exist for him.

I know because that silly dog just won't spend any time with me. He loves Mum; he follows her around like a bad smell. Grandad says that about Gretchen's boyfriend, Shane. It exactly describes my dog, Ugly. For one thing, if Mum stands up, he gets up off the floor. If Mum walks to one room, he plods after her. I swear, if Mum twirled and whirled in little circles, Ugly would turn in circles too.

And as for ‘like a bad smell', that's my dog all over – especially when it's been raining and his fur is wet and pongy like sheep's wool. Mum is what you call house-proud and likes things clean and neat, but Ugly is allowed to plod through the house and leave his big, round doggy footprints on the floors. And what if I did that? I'd get yelled at.

I said that to Mum, as an example of how she's made Ugly her favourite.

She said, ‘Don't be silly.
You
know better. And you can take your shoes off or wipe your feet, but a
dog can't.'

‘He can so, too,' I said. ‘If he is as intelligent as you reckon, then he could learn to wipe his paws.'

Before Mum could admit I might be right, Gretchen said, ‘You're jealous, Eccle!'

‘Am not,' I said.

Gretchen laughed in a nasty way and said, ‘My little brother is jealous of a dog!'

I could feel the tears prickling my eyes, but I didn't want Gretchen to see. ‘I'm not little. I'm more than nine now. And I'm not jealous, and you're the sister of a dog.'

I didn't get time to explain, because Dad had me by the back of the collar. He was almost lifting me off the ground, and then he half-carried me, like a dripping wet rag – my feet tiptoeing across the floor – to my bedroom.

‘Don't ever use language like that again, Eric!' he said.

I only get called by my proper name, Eric, when someone's cross with me. (Eccle or Ec is what I called myself when I was two years old because I couldn't pronounce
Eric
.) So this time, I knew Dad was really angry.

‘That's the second time in just a few hours that you've been unacceptably rude,' Dad said. ‘First to your mother and now to your sister. It stops now!'

As I've already explained, I was totally miserable stuck there in my bedroom. Tears were leaking from my eyes, although I was trying to stop them. Until the moment I decided to start writing a book, I even thought about running away again. No-one takes me seriously.

Even as I was being marched out of the kitchen, I noticed that Ugly – who was lying with his snout across Mum's feet as she sat at the table – lifted his head and twitched one ear for only a moment. Then he dropped his head back onto Mum's shoes, as if to say, ‘Is that what the fuss is about? Just that kid being difficult again?'

I'm not jealous of my dog. I'm just disappointed in him, and I have good reason. Actually, I'm not just disappointed in him. If he doesn't like me, then I don't like him either!