My dad's tough. Really tough. He drives a big Mack truck and he reckons he's never cried in his life.
For breakfast, he has cornflakes, but always in a dirty bowl. And if heâs got a lot of heavy lifting to do that day, he sprinkles crushed bricks on top. Or thatâs what he tells me, anyway â Iâm usually asleep when he leaves.
Except for Saturdays. Dad starts late on Saturdays and if Iâve been good, he lets me come with him on his trip to the brickworks. We always go along exactly the same road and each time we pass the park, we see a dog. The same dog, in exactly the same spot.
âThereâs that stupid dog again,â said Dad one day. âWhat a useless, dirty-looking mutt. What a scumbag.â
âLooks a bit hungry,â I said.
âSo what?â said Dad. âShould get off its lazy butt and rip into a couple of rubbish bins.â
I wouldnât have minded stopping to give it a cuddle, but Iâd never say so, of course. Dad would call me a wuss. A big sooky-baby.
Dad reckoned everyone was a wuss. Unless they drove a truck and drank beer like him.
The next Saturday, that poor, dirty old dog was there again, with its big sad eyes, looking as hungry as any dog Iâd ever seen.
âWhat a filth bag!â yelled Dad. âWhat a loser. Pity someone hasnât run it over.â
I didnât say anything. Sometimes I didnât like my dad very much.
And so it was. Every Saturday, Jack â thatâs what I decided to call him â would be sitting there, almost like he was waiting for us to come. Until one day, when he wasnât there at all.
I looked everywhere, my face pressed up against the window, but I found nothing.
âWonder where he is?â I said as we kept driving.
âWho cares?â said Dad. âThe muttâs better off dead, anyway.â
On the way back past the park that day, I asked, âCouldnât I have a quick look?â
âFor that rotten mongrel?â asked Dad. âYouâve got to be joking.â
âPlease, Dad,â I said. âHe might be lying hurt somewhere. Iâll clean the truck for you. All of it. I promise! Inside, too.â
Now, it so happened that Dadâs footy team was playing on TV that night, and he knew that if he washed the truck himself heâd miss the first half.
âOh, all right,â he said. âMake it quick or Iâll leave you here.â
Sure enough, Jack was hurt. Badly. Hit by a car, probably. I found him lying behind a tree, bleeding from the mouth.
âDad!â I screamed. âYouâve got to help me. Jackâs been hurt!â
âLeave the useless thing to die,â yelled Dad.
I leant down to cuddle poor Jack and he tried to lick me. But he was too sore to move.
I started to cry.
âHellâs bells!â grumbled Dad. Heâd come over to have a look by now. âIf thereâs one thing I canât stand, itâs a bloke crying. Get out of the way and give me a look.â
Dad felt around Jackâs tummy and said, âYep, heâs hurt all right. So now what?â
I just looked up at Dad, trying not to cry again.
Dad sighed, shook his head and said, âAll right. Anything to stop your blubbering.â And with that, Dad picked Jack up and put him in the back of the truck. âIâll drop him at the vet, but if itâs going to cost anything to fix him, weâll have to put him down.â
âPut him down?â I asked.
âYep. Knock him off. Put him to sleep. Heâs probably going to cark it anyway.â
Sure enough, the vet said Jack looked really bad. But he couldnât be sure how bad until heâd taken an X-ray.
As the vet carried him out, Jack looked up and his big sad eyes said, âI understand if you decide not to help me. Whoâd want an old dog like me anyway?â
Dad and I sat in the waiting room in silence. My mouth was dry and I had a sick
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