Werepuppy and the Werepuppy on Holiday Read online

  ‘You’re not a boring old dog, are you,’ Micky whispered into Wolfie’s whiskery grey ear. ‘You’re my own special werepuppy – and we’re going to get into lots and lots of scrapes together, aren’t we, boy?’

  Wolfie woofed delightedly. Micky looked deep into his glowing amber eyes and saw his own small face grinning happily back at him.

  THE WEREPUPPY ON HOLIDAY

  1…

  ‘Right, everyone,’ said Miss Monk. ‘Time to start clearing out your desks ready for the summer holidays.’

  Micky hummed happily as he scrabbled through the mini municipal rubbish dump inside his desk. He kept coming across long forgotten treasures underneath his school books and drawings and scribbled notes. And there was the yellow ochre that had gone missing from his best box of coloured crayons! He hadn’t been able to do a proper portrait of his pet, Wolfie, for weeks. Micky found a half-chewed Mars bar that had only gone a little mangy at the edges. He munched appreciatively as he riffled through his drawings, colouring in Wolfie’s yellow eyes. Each newly crayoned pair of eyes glowed at him gratefully.

  ‘Micky?’ said Miss Monk. ‘What are you up to?’

  Micky jumped, swallowed the last morsel of Mars, and choked.

  Darren Smith leant forward and thumped Micky on the back, much harder than was necessary.

  Micky coughed and spluttered, practically knocked head-first into his open desk by Darren’s assault.

  Micky and Darren Smith were Deadly Enemies.

  ‘All right, Darren, that will do!’ said Miss Monk.

  ‘But he’s choking, Miss. I’m helping him, Miss. That’s what you do when someone chokes, you thump them on the back like this, see.’ Darren demonstrated vigorously.

  ‘Darren! Stop it. You get on with tidying up your own desk,’ said Miss Monk, walking over to them. ‘OK now, Micky?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Micky mumbled, sitting up straight.

  He stopped choking but he was still bright red in the face. He adored Miss Monk with a devotion that was almost painful. She looked especially lovely today in her blue summer dress and her long black hair tucked back behind one ear with a little bluebird slide.

  Micky didn’t know how he was going to stand not being in Miss Monk’s class after the summer holidays. He was going to miss her so much. He wished he had a present to give her. He’d given twenty pence to bossy Judy the form monitor when she went round collecting and she had given Miss Monk a big bunch of flowers, but that was from everyone.

  Micky fumbled in the depths of his desk, hoping that he might find another Mars bar, preferably unchewed, to give to Miss Monk.

  She was peering at Micky’s chocolatey mouth, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Have you been eating in class, Micky?’ she said.

  ‘Why do you think he was choking, eh, Miss?’ Darren hissed. ‘Eating gungy old chocolate that’s been mouldering in his desk for months. It’s probably all gone rancid and poisonous by now and he’ll be sick any minute.’

  ‘You mind your own business, Darren,’ said Miss Monk. ‘And you stop eating all your old forgotten snacks, Micky, and get on with tidying your desk. No more drawing either – not just now.’

  Miss Monk tried to sound stern but her mouth was all smiley round the edges. She bent forward, her shiny black hair brushing Micky’s cheek, her lovely lilac smell making his nostrils twitch.

  ‘You really are good at drawing, Micky,’ said Miss Monk, smiling properly at his pictures.

  Micky suddenly had a brilliant idea.

  ‘Would you like to pick one as a goodbye present, Miss Monk?’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh Micky. That’s a lovely idea,’ said Miss Monk.

  She picked out a picture of Micky running along with Wolfie. Wolfie was on his lead but he was way in front, pulling Micky along. Wolfie generally took charge of Micky when they were out. When they were in too, as a matter of fact.

  ‘I’d like this one, Micky, if that’s really all right,’ said Miss Monk. ‘I’ll pin it up in my flat and then I’ll always think of you when I look at it.’

  Micky went redder than ever, this time with pride.

  ‘Here, Miss, how about having one of my pictures?’ said Darren, offering her a whole sheath of scribbles. ‘So you can remember me too, eh?’

  ‘I think I’ll always remember you, Darren,’ said Miss Monk, laughing. She stretched and rubbed the back of her neck. ‘It’s been quite a busy term one way and another. I’m looking forward to the holidays.’

  ‘Me too, Miss. We’re going to Florida,’ said Darren proudly. ‘To Disneyland.’ He leant forward and gave Micky another poke in the back. ‘To see Micky Mouse.’

  Micky wriggled away from Darren’s sharp finger. Darren and all his gang were forever calling him Micky Mouse. It got on Micky’s nerves. He did his best to ignore Darren and got on with sorting his drawings. He stroked the shiny crayon portrait of Wolfie with one finger.

  The other children were all chatting excitedly about their summer holidays. Two of the girls were also going to Disneyland, and one boy was going to EuroDisney in France. There were going to be a lot of people wearing Micky Mouse ears during the summer.

  Some of the children were going to Spain and some were going to Greece. One girl was going to Cornwall, one boy was going to Blackpool. Several children were going to stay with their gran or their aunty, and bossy Judy was going on a special summer camp in the country.

  ‘Where are you going, Micky?’ asked Miss Monk.

  ‘We’re not going anywhere,’ said Micky.

  Micky was part of a big family. Much too big, Micky often thought. He had three elder sisters, Meryl and Mandy and Mona. Then he had a little sister, Marigold, and she was a right pain. Mum was OK but Dad could get ever so cross and tetchy at times. Especially nowadays, as the firm he worked for was nearly going bust and Dad was worried he might lose hisjob. He’d had to take a cut in his wages already.

  ‘We can’t afford to go on holiday this year,’ said Micky.

  ‘Oh Micky, I’m sorry,’ said Miss Monk.

  ‘I don’t mind, honestly,’ said Micky. And he didn’t. He was desperately looking forward to six long weeks at home with Wolfie.

  Micky loved Wolfie more than anyone. Even Miss Monk. And yet not so long ago Micky had been terrified of all dogs, even the silliest, squattest old lady’s corgi. That’s why Mum had taken him to Webb’s Dog Shelter to pick out a puppy.

  She had felt it was the best way to cure Micky of his fear of dogs.

  Micky hadn’t been at all keen on the puppy idea. But then he had spotted Wolfie, a strange mangy grey pup, very wild and whiney and bad-tempered. Marigold had tried to pat him and Wolfie had practically chewed her finger off. Micky had taken to Wolfie in a big way after that.

  Micky was the only one who realized the most amazing thing about this weird little puppy. He had watched Savage Snarl, the famously scary film about werewolves. Wolfie wasn’t a puppy-dog. He was a baby werewolf. A werepuppy.

  That was why Wolfie got into so much trouble and simply refused to be properly trained. He couldn’t help creating havoc. He terrorized half the neighbourhood and Micky’s mum and dad were forever threatening to send him back to the dog shelter. Micky knew he’d have to take Wolfie properly in hand this summer. (And Wolfie thought he’d have to take Micky properly in paw.)

  ‘I’m going to have a smashing summer, Miss Monk,’ said Micky. ‘I’m going to take Wolfie to the park every day.’

  The last time Micky had taken him to the park, Wolfie had picked a fight with every dog in sight, barked hysterically at the ducks on the pond, and snatched an ice-cream from a small child’s hand and swallowed it in one gulp. The ice-cream, not the hand. Wolfie was actually quite gentle with most little children. Apart from Marigold.

  ‘I’m going to spend the summer getting Wolfie to obey all my orders,’ said Micky, with unreasonable optimism.

  Mum brought Wolfie with her when she came to meet Micky and Marigold when school broke up. Wolfie came flying
across the playground, his teeth bared in a great grin, his grey fur sticking up spikily.

  Most of the children laughed and pointed. Some stepped back rather rapidly out of Wolfie’s way. Darren Smith just happened to be bending down, doing up his Doc Martens. Wolfie spotted him and his grin grew wider. He decided to try out a goat imitation. He lowered his head and charged. Wolfie butted Darren right on the bottom and sent him flying.

  Darren wasn’t hurt. Just his dignity. Everyone laughed at him. Micky practically fell about, and Wolfie gave short sharp barks as if he was snorting with laughter too.

  Darren didn’t find it funny at all.

  ‘That mangy old dog ought to be put down!’ he yelled. ‘You keep it away from me, Micky.’

  ‘I think it’s certainly about time you got your dog trained, Micky,’ said Miss Monk, crossing the playground.

  ‘He can be good sometimes, honestly, Miss,’ said Micky.

  And as if to prove his point Wolfie wiped his paws on the sprawling Darren Smith and trotted meekly up to Miss Monk, head a little bowed, as if overcome by her presence.

  ‘Say hallo to Miss Monk, Wolfie,’ said Micky.

  Wolfie raised one paw very politely, and Miss Monk laughed and shook hands.

  ‘You’re certainly going to keep each other busy during the holidays,’ she said. ‘Have a lovely time anyway, Micky. And thank you again for the picture.’

  Micky danced home in a dream, and Wolfie seemed a little dazed too. He kept bumping into Marigold.

  ‘Get off me,’ Marigold whined. ‘Mum, he’s slavering all over me, yuck! It’s not fair. How come Micky can have Wolfie when I haven’t got a pet? When am I going to get a pony, eh? I’ve wanted one for ages and ages, and it wouldn’t have to cost all that much. I could feed it grass and dandelions and that and – ’

  ‘Oh, Marigold, do give it a rest,’ said Mum.

  ‘My friend Fiona’s going pony-trekking this summer, Mum. Can I at least go pony-trekking? Oh please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Marigold, but I really don’t think we can manage it. We just can’t have any proper holiday this year,’ said Mum, sighing. She sounded as if she certainly needed a holiday.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ said Marigold all the way home.

  When Meryl and Mandy and Mona got home from school they too were all agreed that it wasn’t fair. Meryl wanted to go to Spain to sunbathe in her new bikini. Mandy wanted to go to Wales to walk for miles in the mountains. Mona’s best friend was another one going to Disneyland and Mona moaned and moaned and moaned because she couldn’t go too.

  ‘Put a sock in it, Mona,’ Micky muttered.

  Wolfie thought Micky had issued a command and went off searching, coming back a few minutes later with one of Dad’s socks which he’d got out of the laundry basket. He’d laundered it himself with all his slaver. Dad was not going to be pleased. Wolfie’s teeth were sharp and the sock had several holes that were going to take quite a lot of darning.

  Micky quickly shoved the sock back in the laundry basket. Dad was usually so bad-tempered when he came home from work that seeing a perforated sock might well make him explode. Micky gave Wolfie a bone to keep him reasonably quiet and settled down to do another drawing.

  ‘I’m making up a place called Mickyland,’ he muttered to Wolfie. ‘It’s like Disneyland only better, and no-one else can go there. It’s just for you and me, Wolfie. We’ve got all the rides to ourselves and we don’t ever have to queue, and we can eat ice-creams all day long. That would be good, eh?’

  Wolfie thumped his tail, agreeing that it would be very good indeed.

  2…

  Dad was very late home from work.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mum. ‘I hope he’s all right. Well, we’d better have tea without him.’

  Mum put Dad’s cottage pie on one side, ready to pop in the microwave when he came home, and dished up everybody else’s meal.

  The girls were still talking about holidays. Or the lack of them.

  ‘Don’t go on like this when Dad gets home,’ said Mum anxiously. ‘Eat up your tea, come on. And Micky, stop messing about with your food.’

  Micky was busy turning his cottage pie into a real cottage, with carrots for windows and a green courgette front door. He had already tiled the roof with his fork and supported the sagging walls with his knife. He’d made such a perfect cottage that it seemed a shame to eat it.

  ‘Micky!’

  Micky ate. When he got to the boring sloshy bit under the crisp potato he snapped his ringers for Wolfie to come and help him out.

  But Wolfie wasn’t there.

  ‘Wolfie? Wolfie?’ Micky called.

  ‘Finish your tea, Micky,’ said Mum.

  But Micky was cocking one ear at the kitchen, all systems alert. He heard a distant enthusiastic chomping.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Micky, rushing to the kitchen.

  Wolfie was finishing Aw tea. Only it wasn’t really Wolfie’s tea. It was Dad’s.

  ‘Oh no! What am I going to give your dad for his tea now?’ said Mum. ‘I’m not doing my big shop till tomorrow. There’s nothing in the fridge. Oh Wolfie, you bad dog.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ said Micky. ‘And Wolfie’s sorry too, aren’t you, Wolfie?’

  Wolfie didn’t look a bit sorry. He was licking his lips appreciatively, obviously very partial to cottage pie.

  ‘Dad can have the rest of my cottage pie, Mum,’ Micky offered.

  But Micky’s cottage pie was now demolished to rubble and it did not look appetizing.

  Micky decided it might be wise to get Wolfie out of the way before Dad came home. Mandy had already finished her veggieburger (she did her own cooking now she was a vegetarian) and was busy packing newspapers into Mum’s shopping trolley. Mandy delivered the local paper one evening a week to earn some pocket money.

  ‘I’ll help you with your deliveries,’ said Micky. ‘And Wolfie will too. He can carry some of the newspapers in his mouth.’

  ‘These newspapers have to be delivered in pristine condition – not soggy shreds after your carnivore has slobbered all over them,’ said Mandy.

  Micky sighed. Mandy was still his favourite sister, but only just. Now she didn’t eat meat she seemed to have an awful down on Wolfie, who ate little else. An unfortunate encounter between Wolfie and Wilbur, Mandy’s pet white rat, hadn’t helped either.

  Mandy had let Wilbur have a little walkabout in her bedroom. Wolfie had come barging in, nose aquiver, and spotted a walking white sausage with a tail. Wolfie had followed his instincts and there was very nearly a terrible tragic accident. Luckily, Micky had managed to prise Wolfie’s mouth open and Mandy managed to nurse poor Wilbur back to full health, though he’d been understandably twitchy ever since.

  ‘Go on, Mandy, we want to help you,’ said Micky.

  ‘No way,’ said Mandy.

  ‘Oh, let them come with you, Mandy,’ said Mum. She could see that it might be better to keep Micky and Wolfie out of Dad’s way. ‘I worry about you going round the streets on your own. Wolfie will be protection for you.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Mandy. ‘I need to be protected from Wolfie.’

  But she gave in and let them trot round delivering too. Wolfie did his best to be well behaved at first, though he couldn’t quite get the hang of all the stopping and starting while they delivered the newspapers. He kept bounding forwards, thinking they were going walkies, and Micky had to dig in his heels and haul him back each time.

  When they eventually got to the end of the road and turned the corner they saw a gang of boys from Mandy’s secondary school.

  ‘Oh-oh. Trouble,’ said Mandy, squaring her shoulders.

  They were the sort of boys who made Darren Smith and his gang look like Blue Peter boy scouts.

  ‘Hey look, it’s old Milly-Molly-Mandy with her kid brother and some dopey mongrel pup,’ said one of the boys. ‘Out delivering newspapers. Aaah, isn’t that sweet? Like us to help you, Mandy?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Mandy, trying to mar
ch straight past. ‘Come on, Micky.’

  But the boys were blocking their way.

  ‘That’s not very nice of you, Mandy. Why can’t we help you, eh? You’ll get it done much quicker if we all lend a hand. So give us the papers, right?’

  It wasn’t right at all. The boys were grabbing newspapers out of the shopping trolley and throwing them wildly to each other. Papers flapped through the air like unwieldy birds and then flopped to the ground, all their pages crumpling.

  ‘You stop that,’ said Mandy.

  ‘Yes, stop it,’ said Micky.

  ‘Woof,’ said Wolfie, getting excited, chasing after the papers as if it was a great game.

  The boys laughed and went on throwing. Mandy tried to grab some of the newspapers back and the biggest boy elbowed her out of the way.

  Mandy staggered and tried to push back and the boy shoved his hand in her face.

  ‘Don’t you hit my sister!’ Micky shouted, and he hurled himself at the boy, trying to rugby tackle him round the waist. The big boy kicked backwards and Micky found himself on the pavement. The boy still had hold of Mandy, hurting her.

  Micky was boiling with rage, itching and aching, clenched ready to make a further attack.

  But he didn’t have to. Someone else went to the rescue. Wolfie stopped savaging a newspaper, saw Micky on the pavement, Mandy struggling with the boy, and growled. His fur stood up and he seemed to grow before their eyes. He was still only a puppy but somehow he seemed transformed, a huge hairy savage creature with wild eyes and bared teeth.

  He sprang in the air and pounced on the boy, who gave a high-pitched scream and shot forwards, leaving the entire seat of his jeans in Wolfie’s jaws.

  ‘He bit my bum! He bit my bum!’ the boy yelled, running like mad.

  Wolfie growled triumphantly, eyeing the other boys, obviously revving up for a further attack. They decided to beat a hasty retreat. They all went flying down the road, Wolfie chasing after them for the pure fun of it.

  ‘Good boy, Wolfie!’ Micky yelled delightedly. ‘See, Mandy. Wolfie did protect you, didn’t he? You can’t still be cross with him now.’