‘It’s just for a minute, Wolfie,’ said Micky.
Wolfie behaved as if a minute might be an entire lifetime. He growled and howled and when Micky tried to pat him to reassure him he snapped at his hand, nearly biting him.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ said Micky firmly. ‘You’re not to bite me. I’m your friend. We’re pals, you and me. So you’ve got to learn to do as I say, right?’
Wolfie sniffed and grumbled, but he lowered his head submissively, and diis time when Micky patted him he didn’t snap at all.
‘Wow,’ said Micky softly. Wolfie really had done as he was told. No one had ever obeyed Micky before. He obviously couldn’t tell Mum and Dad what to do. Meryl and Mandy and Mona would squash him if he tried to give them orders. Marigold always argued as a matter of course and did her best to boss him about instead.
‘But we can boss her now, can’t we, Wolfie?’ said Micky. ‘Right, you stay there, out of harm’s way. I promise you, I’ll just be two ticks.’
Micky took the step-ladder and dragged it outside. He got a stout cardboard box to be temporary accommodation for the rabbits while he was fixing them up a desirable new residence. He leant the ladder against the wall of the garden shed. He undid the catch of the hutch and put first one then the other rabbit into the cardboard box. They were still in a shaky way, especially as Wolfie had started howling miserably inside the shed.
Then Micky took hold of the hutch and lifted it. It was quite a struggle. It was almost impossible holding it under one arm and trying to climb the ladder. He knew he ought to call one or other of his sisters to help him. Someone at least ought to hold on to the ladder in case it slipped. Micky had always hated ladders. When he was little Dad had taken him to the playground in the park and put him on the big ladder to go on the slide. Micky had got half-way up the ladder, and then looked down. That had been a mistake. He’d shut his eyes and screamed. Dad had had to climb up the ladder to rescue him. Dad hadn’t been best pleased. Micky shut his eyes momentarily, hating the memory.
Wolfie howled harder inside the shed. There was a sudden crash. Several further crashes, and frenzied barking. Wolfie had obviously got free. Micky had shut the door so Wolfie couldn’t get out. He could, however, make quite a mess inside the shed. There was another bump and crash. Micky thought of all Dad’s gardening things and the seed trays and the potted plants. Oh dear.
The rabbits were getting resdess too. Micky could see Rachel’s paws right at the top of the cardboard box. She was so fat she’d tip it right over any minute.
‘Get cracking,’ said Micky, and he quickly clawed his way up the ladder, hanging on grimly to the hutch as he climbed. It dug hard into the soft flesh of his arm, scratching and tearing, but it couldn’t be helped. His whole shoulder felt dislocated as he struggled to keep hold of the hutch, and his hands were so slippy with sweat that he very nearly dropped it, he very nearly slipped himself, he very nearly stumbled right off the rung into thin air… but he didn’t! He got there. He got right to the top of the garden shed and he rolled the hutch onto it and then stood panting at the top of the ladder, stretching his freed arms in delight.
But he couldn’t hang about. He hurried down the ladder, he picked up Rachel rabbit, tucking her right inside his T-shirt. He’d never been all that keen on rabbits and she scrabbled in a rather disgusting way, but it couldn’t be helped. He climbed up the ladder, his T-shirt wriggling violently, he got the hutch door open, he deposited Rachel inside, he shut the catch, he scrambled down the ladder, he picked up Roberta, he posted her down his T-shirt too, he climbed up the ladder, he had a terrible job getting the hutch door open, keeping Rachel in whilst still struggling to extract Roberta from inside his shirt; he struggled and they wriggled and he swore at them and told them they were so silly they almost deserved to be turned into rabbit stew, but at long last Roberta was in the hutch with Rachel and the catch was closed on them both. He’d done it! The rabbits were safe, out of Wolfie’s way, in a lovely new high-rise site.
‘Yippy!’ said Micky, and he practically bounced down the ladder. He got the garden shed door open and Wolfie flew at him, covered with earth and seedlings, barking joyously.
‘What’s that creature doing in my garden?’
It was Dad home from work. Micky quivered like the rabbits, his nostrils twitching. He looked at the fumbled flowers, the squashed shrubs, the earthquake spilling out of the garden shed. Dad seemed to be getting taller and fiercer and redder in the face, whilst Micky whizzed right down to a small scared mouse.
‘This is my puppy, Dad,’ Micky squeaked.
‘Who said you could have a dog? I thought you were scared of them? Look at all this mess! You obviously haven’t got a clue how to look after him. I’m not having this. You can’t keep him.’
‘But he’s mine!’ said Micky.
Wolfle barked to show that Micky was his.
‘Look, you don’t know anything about dogs.
You can’t let them run wild like this. You’ve got to let them know who’s boss,’ Dad shouted, showing Micky who was Boss.
Wolfie didn’t like Dad’s tone. He approached Dad with his teeth bared, growling.
‘Don’t you growl at me, you silly little puppy,’ said Dad, and he put out a finger in warning.
This was a mistake. ‘Ouch!’ Dad yelled.
Wolfie bristled and growled, ready to have another go.
‘Get away, you little brute. Quiet! Get off.’ Dad cried.
Wolfie advanced rapidly. Dad started to back. He waved his hands about. He started sweating. He looked worried.
‘Down, Wolfie!’ Micky called. ‘Here, boy. Come to me. It’s OK, Dad. He won’t really hurt you.’
And Wolfie shook his head and stopped growling, bounding over to Micky.
‘That’s my dad, Wolfie. You mustn’t bite him, you bad boy,’ said Micky, bending down and rubbing noses with Wolfie.
‘Well I’m blowed,’ said Dad, weakly.
‘I’m ever so sorry about all the mess, Dad. I’ll pay for some more flowers and seeds and stuff out of my pocket money, I promise.’
‘He’s turned the whole garden into a tip,’ said Dad, but he didn’t sound so cross now. ‘And what on earth is that rabbit hutch doing on top of the shed?’
‘Oh. Well, I had to put it there. Out of Wolfie’s way,’ said Micky.
‘You put it there? You went up that ladder?’
‘Yes, and I suppose it’s going to be a bit of a nuisance for Meryl when she has to climb up to give Rachel and Roberta their supper, but I’ll try to get Wolfie really trained soon. Only do let me keep him, Dad. I have to have him. It’s like he’s part of me already,’ said Micky.
‘I didn’t know you had it in you, son,’ Dad murmured. ‘All right then, Micky. You can keep your puppy. For the moment.’
6…
It seemed a good idea to feed Wolfie as soon as possible as he’d already chewed several fingers, tried to eat a rabbit supper, and now, after a sniff at Wilbur rat and a gnaw at Mona, he was severely worrying Marigold’s My Little Ponies.
‘I’ll get some proper dog food tomorrow,’ said Mum. ‘Meanwhile I wonder if he’d like a hamburger? He certainly looks ready for proper meat. He’s not a little baby puppy, he’s more a boy.’
‘Like me,’ said Micky, helping Mum delve in the deep freeze. He found some frozen hamburgers and took one out of the packet. He held it up to Wolfie.
‘Do you think you’d like this, Wolfie?’
Wolfie nodded enthusiastically. He leapt up and snatched the frozen hamburger right out of Micky’s hand. He did his best to chomp it up, but his teeth skidded across the icy surface.
‘You can’t eat it like that, silly,’ said Micky. ‘You’ve got to wait until it thaws.’
Wolfie didn’t want to wait. He gnawed and slobbered and licked the hamburger like an ice lolly. Micky knew that ordinary wolves came from the North so maybe Wolfie had a built-in love of frozen food.
He seemed to have a built-in l
ove of any food whatsoever. Wolfie wanted more than his share of the hamburgers when they were cooked – and most of Micky’s chips and peas. He noisily demanded a big lick of ice-cream afterwards, though Mum got very cross and wouldn’t let him share Micky’s bowl. Wolfie particularly wanted a chocolate biscuit when they had a cup of tea. Micky showed him how to sit up and beg and Wolfie got the hang of it immediately.
He scurried round to Mandy and begged appealingly, and she laughed and gave him half of her biscuit.
‘He’s not getting any of my biscuit,’ said Marigold, stuffing it into her mouth so quickly she choked. ‘Horrid ugly old thing, keep it away from me!’ she coughed, spraying biscuit crumbs everywhere.
‘Not Marigold, Wolfie. We wouldn’t want her messy soggy old biscuit anyway,’ said Micky.
Wolfie steered well clear of Marigold and edged up to Meryl, who had only taken one bite of her biscuit so far.
‘Beg for it, then, Wolfie,’ said Micky.
Wolfie sat up and begged.
‘See, Meryl, he’s trained already,’ Micky boasted.
He spoke a little too soon. As soon as Wolfie devoured Meryl’s biscuit he stood up, circled the room in a purposeful way, and then squatted.
‘Oh no!’ Mum wailed. ‘Not again!’
‘Worse!’ said Mandy, giggling.
‘ Yuck!’ said Mona.
‘Show him what he’s done and then take him out in the garden, son,’ said Dad.
Micky did his best. Wolfie didn’t seem at all ashamed. He didn’t want to leave the room, especially when there were still chocolate biscuits on offer. He argued with Micky, snapping at him.
‘Watch out, Micky,’ said Mum.
‘It’s OK. He won’t really hurt me. Come on, you messy old pup. Out, I say,’ said Micky sternly, and Wolfie slunk to his side.
‘I’ dneverhavethoughtit of him,’ Dadmuttered. ‘Our Micky’s got so much spirit when he wants. And that pup’s got an evil temper. He went for me, and I don’t mind admitting, I wasn’t too thrilled about it – but Micky seems quite fearless.’
Micky swaggered out into the garden with Wolfie. He found a spare patch of earth (there were quite a few, actually, after Wolfie’s race across the flower-patch) and tried to explain to Wolfie that this was now his own special toilet. Wolfie found the whole thing a huge joke and dashed about grinning, refusing to listen properly.
He disgraced himself again before bedtime. The whole house was starting to reek of disinfectant and Mum was thoroughly regretting Wolfie’s adoption.
‘I’ve a good mind to take him straight back to the dog’s home tomorrow,’ she said grimly, still scrubbing at the carpet.
‘Mum!’ said Micky.
‘It’s OK, son, Mum doesn’t mean it,’ said Dad. ‘She’sjust a bit narked because of her poor carpet. I don’t think that pup’s going to make it out into the garden for a bit. We’d better put newspaper down. Then the minute he starts to tiddle – or worse – we’ll pop him on the newspaper. He’ll soon get the hang of it’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Micky. He was kneeling on the carpet, one arm round Wolfie, the other busily crayoning a new moon picture for Miss Monk. He was trying hard now, using his best cartridge paper and his biggest set of felt-tips. He coloured the vast rocky surface of the moon and a strange purple sky and a little tiny blue and green earth spinning so far away. He did a rocket on the moon, and tumbling out of it, taking their first joyous leaps into the moon’s atmosphere, were two tiny silver figures in spacesuits. One was upright, the other on all fours.
Marigold stopped grooming her panicky ponies back into submission and walked past, kicking out with her feet as she went, sort of accidentally on purpose. But just as her slipper touched Micky’s drawing hand, Wolfie growled ferociously and Marigold jumped smartly out of the way.
Wolfie himself wasn’t so sensible. He was so keen to see Micky’s picture that he slavered admiringly and made a long slimy smudge all down one side, and then he struggled free of Micky’s restraining arm at one point and pranced right across the paper, leaving several muddy paw prints.
‘Wolfie, you nuisance!’ said Micky. He usually found it unbearable when his pictures got spoiled, and this was one of his best efforts. He had to show it to Miss Monk, too, and she might not understand this time. But somehow Micky didn’t feel too worried.
‘Time for bed, Micky and Marigold,’ said Mum. ‘Now, what about Wolfie? Where’s he going to sleep?’
‘Locked up in the garden shed,’ said Marigold.
‘My rabbits don’t want him howling underneath them. They’re unsettled enough as it is. Rabbits are supposed to live in burrows, not blooming great skyscrapers,’ said Meryl.
‘If Wolfie’s got to sleep in the garden shed then I’m sleeping with him,’ said Micky.
‘You’re scared of the dark, Sicky-Micky,’ said Marigold.
‘I wouldn’t be scared, not with Wolfie,’ said Micky, and Wolfie growled in agreement.
‘No one’s sleeping outside,’ said Mum.
‘Then Wolfie can come and sleep with me,’ Micky said excitedly.
‘You’re not having that puppy in your bed. I absolutely forbid it,’ Mum said firmly. ‘I think we’ll try bedding Wolfie down in a corner of the kitchen. Later on we’ll get him a proper basket but for now we’d better make do with a cardboard box. Marigold, where’s that big box I gave you when we came back from Sainsbury’s?’
‘You can’t have that! It’s My Little Ponies special stable extension,’ said Marigold indignantly.
‘We’ll get you another box tomorrow, a better one. But Wolfie needs it for tonight,’ said Mum, and for once Marigold couldn’t talk her out of it.
Wolfie didn’t seem particularly grateful. Mum found him an old blanket and made him up a very comfortable bed inside the box and Micky setded him into it with a biscuit to nibble on, but Wolfie bounded up again as soon as he’d demolished the biscuit. Micky said good-night firmly and shut the door on him. Wolfie howled reproachfully and scrabbled at the kitchen door. He went on howling and scrabbling most of the evening. Mona and Mandy and Meryl went to bed. Wolfie didn’t go to bed. He howled and scrabbled. Mum and Dad went to bed. Wolfie still didn’t go to bed. He howled and scrabbled, scrabbled and howled.
Micky couldn’t stand it any longer. It wasn’t poor Wolfie’s fault. Werewolves were nocturnal. Wolfie couldn’t be expected to go to sleep. And he sounded so lonely howling away all by himself in the kitchen. It was a dark night too. Wolfie was only a baby werewolf. Maybe he was a bit scared of the dark.
Micky was rather scared of the dark himself. Marigold was right on that account. He normally didn’t like getting up in the night, not even to whizz along to the toilet and back. He certainly didn’t want to go all the way downstairs. The stairs were the darkest part of the house, and they creaked at every step. He was always frightened hands might reach right through the banisters and grab his ankles. But now he was so worried about poor Wolfie that he jumped out of bed, shuffled across the landing in his slippers, and ran down the stairs determinedly. He decided that if there were any hands then he’d simply stamp on them.
He reached the downstairs hall perfectly safely. Wolfie’s howl was becoming deafening. Micky opened the kitchen door and Wolfie flew at him, practicallyjumping into his arms. He licked Micky’s face ecstatically, as if they’d been parted for several weeks instead of several hours.
‘Silly old boy,’ said Micky, giving Wolfie a big hug and lots of kisses. ‘Come on. You’ve got to try to go to sleep. I’ll put you back to bed in your box and then I’ll stay and chat with you for a bit, OK?’
Micky felt his way uncertainly across the pitch black kitchen, Wolfie struggling in his arms. He wondered if he might be dreaming for a moment, because the kitchen floor seemed to have changed into a beach. His slippers crunched on a lot of gritty stuff like sand – and then he seemed to have reached the sea, because his slippers were soaked and he was almost paddling.
The moon suddenly cam
e out from behind the thick clouds and Micky saw the kitchen properly. He stiffened with shock.
‘Oh, Wolfie!’he gasped.
Bags of sugar were spread all over the floor, while chewed cartons of milk made a lake of the lino.
‘You bad bad boy,’ said Micky, and he gave Wolfie a little shake.
Wolfie gave a high-pitched howl and jumped right out of Micky’s arms. He seemed a strange eerie silver in the moonlight, and yet his eyes glinted gold. He threw back his head and howled again, every inch a werewolf.
‘Oh gosh,’ said Micky, his skin prickling. ‘Calm down now, Wolfie. Try to be a good litde pup.’
The moonlight was making Wolfie want to be very bad indeed. He streaked round the room, slavering, his teeth gleaming. He’d had his very large meal of hamburgers and biscuits just a few hours ago but now he looked ravenously hungry.
Next door’s tabby cat leapt up onto the outside window ledge on one of her nightly prowls. She saw Wolfie and her nose bumped the window pane in astonishment. Wolfie saw the tabby cat and dribbled ferociously, his teeth bared.
‘Shoo!’ Micky shouted, flapping his hand at the cat.
She didn’t need to be told twice. She gave one yowl of terror and fled as Wolfie sprang. Micky leapt after him, catching him by one back paw. Wolfie’s head banged hard against the window. Micky’s head banged even harder against the wall. They ended up in a heap on the very sticky floor. They both moaned and grumbled at each other.
‘You can’t go round chomping up all the neighbourhood cats, Wolfie,’ said Micky sternly. ‘It’s no use whining and telling me you’re hungry. Here, why don’t you lick up all this sugar?’
Wolfie wasn’t interested in feeble food like sugar now. He wanted furry flesh.
‘You’ve got to try to be a good boy,’ said Micky, but Wolfie enjoyed being bad too much.
He struggled to his paws and shook his sore head, still salivating.
‘Come back here,’ said Micky, scrambling after him, but his feet skidded in the pool of milk and he fell headlong.