Just Annoying! (19 page)

If I could slip a harness around Spot and get him to pull me around, I could set a new world record yet. I'll show them!

It's 10 p.m.

Dad is in the kitchen.

‘I think I'll go to bed early,' he calls loud enough for me to hear. ‘I expect I'll sleep well without the creaking of the clothesline to wake me up—heh heh heh! Anyone for a cup of cocoa before bed?'

‘Yes, please,' says Mum.

It's the cue I've been waiting for. The noise of the kettle will block out any noise I make while I'm setting up.

I grab my equipment. Swimming goggles, Sooty's lead and a stuffed toy cat that I borrowed from Jen's room.

I tiptoe down the steps.

Spot is lying with his head on his forelegs.

He might be asleep. It's hard to tell. Are guard dogs allowed to sleep?

I take a step towards him.

He doesn't move.

I take another step.

He remains asleep.

Too easy!

I take another step. I'm now within his range.

He could wake up and chomp me in half, but am I scared?

You bet.

I place my foot down on the ground as carefully as if I was walking on a one-millimetre thin piece of glass.

My right knee is shaking out of control.

I stoop down to steady it with my hand.

But my hand is shaking as well.

I try to steady my hand with my other hand. But that's shaking even worse. All the stuff drops onto the ground.

Spot opens his eyes.

I can tell by his growl that he is not pleased to see me.

My whole body is shaking.

I pick up the fluffy cat and wave it in front of Spot's face. He is mesmerised. I throw the cat to one corner of the clothesline.

Spot is torn.

One eye on the cat. One eye on me.

I'm at his mercy, but I'm counting on the fact that not even years of specialist guard dog training can overcome a dog's natural urge to chase cats.

I'm right.

Spot lunges at the cat.

There is an explosion of white fluff.

Better that than an explosion of me.

I loop the end of Sooty's lead over the corner of the clothesline above Spot. He's in a frenzy, tearing the remains of the cat apart.

This is my chance.

I sneak up behind him. I grab his neck chain and clip Sooty's lead on to it.

I run to the opposite corner of the line, jump up and hold on.

Spot is still more interested in mangling the cat than in me.

‘Hey, Spot,' I call. ‘Your father was a sewer rat and your mother was a chihuahua!'

That gets his attention.

He looks up, rears up on his hind legs and starts chasing me.

The line takes off with a whoosh!

Spot is going crazy. They must have starved him for weeks. Either that or he has taken an even greater offence at my insult than I could have predicted.

Whatever the reason, I am swinging faster than I have ever swung in my life.

I'm gripping the bar as tightly as I can. I feel like Superman—arms straight out, head down. I'm going so fast that I'm practically horizontal. The wind is roaring in my ears. I wish I'd thought to put more clothes on. I'm freezing.

The familiar landmarks of the backyard are gone—the shed, the old orange tree stump, the window of the kitchen where Mum and Dad are probably sipping their cocoa right at this moment. It's all just a blur of spinning colour.

Spot is huffing and barking as he chases me around.

Any moment now Mum and Dad are going to hear the racket. They are going to look out of the kitchen window and see me spinning faster than any human being has spun before.

They'll see.

They'll see that I'm serious and that nothing will stop me.

But they're going to have to look soon, because the faster I go the harder it is to hold on. It's like being caught in a force 5 hurricane.

I can't keep this up much longer.

I'm not used to this sort of pressure.

My fingers give out.

I'm flying through the air.

Straight towards the kitchen window.

I'm wondering whether it's safer to crash through a window headfirst or break it with a fist, Superman-style.

It doesn't really matter, I guess.

If the window doesn't kill me, my parents will.