The Bare Bum Gang Battles the Dogsnatchers by Anthony McGowan Page A

said Mum.
    â€˜What’s he called?’ I asked, trying to stop the argument in its tracks.
    â€˜His name? Ah, well, there’s a slight problem there. The man who gave him to me said he was called . . . well, it was a rude word.’
    â€˜What sort of rude word?’ said Mum, sounding cross.
    â€˜Really quite rude.’
    Dad mouthed something at Mum so I couldn’t hear it. Then he said to me, ‘We’ll have to think of a new name for him.’
    â€˜No we won’t,’ said Mum, ‘because he’s not staying.’
    â€˜But I paid fifteen pounds for him!’
    â€˜You paid how much?’ yelled Mum. ‘He should have paid you!’
    And then there was no stopping the argument. In the end, after all the shouting, it was decided that I could keep him for a month on trial, but that I had to pay for part of his food out of my pocket money. And I had to take him for a walk twice a day, which was all a bit unfair as I didn’t even want him in the first place. And if he ate any more of the car or any part of the house then Mum would take him straight round to the vet’s to be put to sleep.
    The dog ate Dad’s burned dinner and Dad had some cornflakes.

AFTER THE DOG had finished Dad’s fish cakes, chips and peas, Mum said I had to take him for his first walk. I called the rest of the Bare Bum Gang before I set off, but the only one who was allowed to come out to play was Noah, and he didn’t want to because he was scared of dogs. So I went by myself to the field near the park, where you are allowed to walk your dog as long as you bring a bag for the you-know-what.
    We didn’t have a lead, just the rope that Dad had used. The dog pulled me all the way, as if he knew where he was going. Itwas like being dragged along by a tractor. Although he was strong, the dog didn’t seem very vicious, which was a relief. But when it came to snuffling, this dog was the world champion. Everything on the way had to be snuffled – every stick, every stone, every lamppost. When he snuffled, as well as the snuffling noise he also made a wet
plapping
noise like an old man with no teeth eating an ice cream.
    I’m not really scared of dogs, not like Noah is scared of dogs. He’s scared of
all
dogs, even the friendly ones that wouldn’t even
dream
of biting you. I think he might have had a bad experience when he was little. I’m only scared of the ones that definitely
do
bite you. And, frankly, anyone who’s not scared of a dog that’s actually biting them needs their head examined, as well as whichever part of them is being bitten – say, their leg or their bum.
    But my dog didn’t seem to be a biting dog, or not a biting-
people
dog, anyway, becausehe could have bitten me lots of times and he didn’t.
    When we got to the dog-poo field, Mrs Cake was the only person there. She had a dog called Trixie. Trixie was a Jack Russell terrier, about the size of a big rat, and she definitely
was
a biting dog. Trixie especially liked to bite children, because they’re nice and easy to chew. So I
was
scared of her. Not as much as I’d be scared of a sabre-toothed tiger or a great white shark, but more than I’d be scared of, for example, some brokenglass or a medium-sized baboon that had escaped from the zoo.
    Â 

    Mrs Cake was also quite scary. Her hair was in a funny shape, and she carried an umbrella whether or not it was raining. In the Olden Days she’d probably have been burned as a witch. I don’t think that would have been fair, and I’m glad we live in Modern Times, but you could sort of understand why they’d do it. It was probably why she had a dog rather than a cat, because if she’d had a cat, especially a black cat, then everyone would have said she was a witch for definite, rather than just as a maybe.
    Well, I stood as far away from Mrs Cake and Trixie as possible. I kept my dog on his rope.