feeling in my stomach. It would have helped so much if Dad had said something nice about Jack, or how sorry he felt for him, but instead he just stared at the wall.
At last the vet came back.
I could tell straight away from the look on the vetâs face that the news was bad. Broken ribs, and three hundred and sixty dollars to fix him.
âRight,â said Dad, âthatâs all I need to know. You can put him down. Sooner the better, I say.â
âNo!â I sobbed. âIâll pay, somehow. Please, Dad!â
Dad just shook his head. Suddenly, something inside me went funny. Something Iâd never felt before.
âI hate you!â I shouted. âYou reckon everyone else is a wuss, but you know what? I think you are. Because youâre too scared to do something nice!â And with that I turned and ran.
Iâd never spoken to my dad like that before, and I expected him to chase me down and ground me for a year. But he didnât.
When he came out of the vetâs a few minutes later, I saw him wipe his eye with his sleeve.
âGot some of that dog dirt in my eye,â he muttered.
On the way home, neither of us said anything. Nothing.
That night, no-one said much either. Except for Mum, who asked Dad when his fishing trip was coming up this year.
âMight not go,â said Dad.
âBut you love it,â said Mum.
âGets a bit boring,â said Dad. âAnyway, we could use the money.â
âWhat for?â asked Mum. Dad didnât answer. I didnât even mention Jack after that. Iâd told Dad I hated him for putting Jack down. What else was there to say?
Not that I didnât think about poor Jack. I thought about nothing else. I reckon itâs the saddest Iâve ever felt.
It was about a week later that Dad came home and said, âIâve got something to show you.â
I guessed he had a new truck, so I walked outside for a look. And there, sitting in the front seat of Dadâs old Mack, was the nicest thing Iâve ever seen.
Jack , with his fur all washed, his tail wagging and a great big bandage around his tummy.
I raced over and gave Jack the most massive hug of his life. Then I turned and said, âI love you, Dad.â
âAnd I love you too,â said Dad. This time, he must have had dirt in both eyes.
Jack goes everywhere with Dad now. When Dad does a job picking up sheep or cows, Jack helps round them up.
âSo he should,â says Dad. âRotten mongrel owes me heaps.â
In the morning, Dad leans down and lets Jack lick his face. If thatâs tough, I want to be just like my dad.
Peter Wallace was mad about cricket. âCricket-crazy,â his dad said.
It was cricket-this, cricket-that. Cricket before school. Cricket after school. If Pete didnât have a bat or ball in his hand, his mum used to take his temperature.
Peter wouldnât let his dad or his little brother Robbie rest for a minute. Always wanting to have a hit in the backyard, always wanting to bat first, and never, ever going out LBW. Some nights Peter wore his pads to bed. And Rob reckoned that on windy, scary nights, he wore his protector as well.
As Peter grew older, he started to play in the under-thirteens competition. His love of cricket became even greater. And people started noticing something. Peter was becoming a good little player.
But Pete didnât want to be just good. He wanted to play for Australia! It was something heâd heard on the radio that did it. A young Indian batsman was asked when heâd first wanted to play for India. âFrom the moment I picked up a bat,â he answered.
Yes, thatâs me! Pete thought. Iâm not crazy. I want to play for my country too!
Peteâs dad said there was nothing wrong with aiming for the top, but that he shouldnât forget cricket was just a game. âPlay for fun and try your best,â he said. âAnd everything else will take
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