sheep, Hamish! It’s gone to your head! Stop it! If you don’t stop, someone’s going to get — yooooooowwwwwwww! Get away from me you four-legged torture chamber!”
Just then Selby noticed a wombat hole just big enough to squeeze into, and too big forHamish. He tore into the hole and waited for a few minutes till Hamish had given up hope of herding Selby back to Bogusville. Finally he heard Hamish’s footsteps as he ran after the other dogs.
“Now’s the time,” Selby said, strolling along and sniffing the odd flower, “for that pleasant walk I’ve been looking forward to.”
And as he walked — possibly inspired by the wandering poet Whittlebone Jones — a few raindrops fell and he wrote a poem in his head:
“Oh little drops
And big ones, too,
How you like me
And I like you.”
But it began to pour and when Selby reached Bogusville Creek it was a roaring river instead of the usual trickle. On the other side, most of the dogs from the race had stopped and were barking.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Selby thought. “Nobody’s going to talk me into trying to cross that mess. I’m going to turn around and head straight back to Mount Gumboot and see if I can get a lift into town.”
Just as he was about to go, Selby heard a bark from the middle of the river. There, clinging to a branch, was Hamish, and the water was rising dangerously around him.
“I can’t just leave him there,” Selby thought, wondering if he could, and then thinking that it wouldn’t be the proper thing for the mayor’s dog to do. “If I can get up this rivergum and climb out on that branch … well, it’s worth a try.”
Selby took a running jump onto the low branch and made his way over the raging river to where Hamish clung just below him. He leaned down off the branch, holding on with his paws and dangling his tail towards the stranded sheepdog.
“Stay calm,” Selby said, feeling anything but calm himself. “Just grab my tail and I’ll pull you to safety.”
With this, Hamish let out a howl and then sank his teeth into Selby’s tail with all his might and didn’t let go.
“Yiiiiiiiiiiii!” Selby screamed, and he dropped from the branch into the river and was carried off with Hamish still clinging to his tail. “Let go, you maniac! Let go! Help!”
Selby and Hamish tumbled over and over in the muddy water as they tore along with the current. Selby grabbed at logs and branches, but every time he caught anything, Hamish’s weight pulled him away and they tumbled back into the water and further downstream.
Finally, just when Selby thought they would surely drown, he caught a long branch and dragged himself from the water with Hamish still holding on with his teeth.
“Okay,” he gasped, shaking his tail and trying to get rid of the sheepdog, “we’re saved. Now let go! Let go!”
Hamish was so frightened that Selby’s yelling made him panic and he bit harder.
“Stop it! Yoooooooowwwwwwww!” Selby yelled, jumping to his feet and tearing along, looking back at Hamish and not noticing that Bogusville Creek had taken them right to Bogusville and that he and Hamish were headed straight for the finish line of the Flat-Out Four-Footed Dog Race. “Yipe! Yiiii! Yooooowww!”
“And look at that!” Postie Paterson yelled, as the crowd cheered and Selby and Hamish crossed the finish line. “Selby’s won the race! Hewins this year’s grand prize — a two-year supply of Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits!”
“Crikey!” Selby mumbled to himself as he finally prised Hamish loose from his tail. “Why is it I only seem to win when I’m trying to lose?”
In the Spirit of Things
“This house is haunted,” Mrs Trifle said one evening as she and Dr Trifle sat watching a TV program called
Australian Spirits, Then and Now,
which was hosted by the famous ghost hunter, Myrene Spleen. “I keep hearing footsteps running in the hall at night and there’s no one there. I’m sure it’s a ghost.”
“It’s probably just
Just then Selby noticed a wombat hole just big enough to squeeze into, and too big forHamish. He tore into the hole and waited for a few minutes till Hamish had given up hope of herding Selby back to Bogusville. Finally he heard Hamish’s footsteps as he ran after the other dogs.
“Now’s the time,” Selby said, strolling along and sniffing the odd flower, “for that pleasant walk I’ve been looking forward to.”
And as he walked — possibly inspired by the wandering poet Whittlebone Jones — a few raindrops fell and he wrote a poem in his head:
“Oh little drops
And big ones, too,
How you like me
And I like you.”
But it began to pour and when Selby reached Bogusville Creek it was a roaring river instead of the usual trickle. On the other side, most of the dogs from the race had stopped and were barking.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Selby thought. “Nobody’s going to talk me into trying to cross that mess. I’m going to turn around and head straight back to Mount Gumboot and see if I can get a lift into town.”
Just as he was about to go, Selby heard a bark from the middle of the river. There, clinging to a branch, was Hamish, and the water was rising dangerously around him.
“I can’t just leave him there,” Selby thought, wondering if he could, and then thinking that it wouldn’t be the proper thing for the mayor’s dog to do. “If I can get up this rivergum and climb out on that branch … well, it’s worth a try.”
Selby took a running jump onto the low branch and made his way over the raging river to where Hamish clung just below him. He leaned down off the branch, holding on with his paws and dangling his tail towards the stranded sheepdog.
“Stay calm,” Selby said, feeling anything but calm himself. “Just grab my tail and I’ll pull you to safety.”
With this, Hamish let out a howl and then sank his teeth into Selby’s tail with all his might and didn’t let go.
“Yiiiiiiiiiiii!” Selby screamed, and he dropped from the branch into the river and was carried off with Hamish still clinging to his tail. “Let go, you maniac! Let go! Help!”
Selby and Hamish tumbled over and over in the muddy water as they tore along with the current. Selby grabbed at logs and branches, but every time he caught anything, Hamish’s weight pulled him away and they tumbled back into the water and further downstream.
Finally, just when Selby thought they would surely drown, he caught a long branch and dragged himself from the water with Hamish still holding on with his teeth.
“Okay,” he gasped, shaking his tail and trying to get rid of the sheepdog, “we’re saved. Now let go! Let go!”
Hamish was so frightened that Selby’s yelling made him panic and he bit harder.
“Stop it! Yoooooooowwwwwwww!” Selby yelled, jumping to his feet and tearing along, looking back at Hamish and not noticing that Bogusville Creek had taken them right to Bogusville and that he and Hamish were headed straight for the finish line of the Flat-Out Four-Footed Dog Race. “Yipe! Yiiii! Yooooowww!”
“And look at that!” Postie Paterson yelled, as the crowd cheered and Selby and Hamish crossed the finish line. “Selby’s won the race! Hewins this year’s grand prize — a two-year supply of Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits!”
“Crikey!” Selby mumbled to himself as he finally prised Hamish loose from his tail. “Why is it I only seem to win when I’m trying to lose?”
In the Spirit of Things
“This house is haunted,” Mrs Trifle said one evening as she and Dr Trifle sat watching a TV program called
Australian Spirits, Then and Now,
which was hosted by the famous ghost hunter, Myrene Spleen. “I keep hearing footsteps running in the hall at night and there’s no one there. I’m sure it’s a ghost.”
“It’s probably just
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