Читать книгу Dogtective William travels the world - Elizabeth Wasserman - Страница 5

My Dog William

Only a handful of people know what really happened: Superintendent Spears of the International Detective Agency, a French truck driver, a carpet salesman from Istanbul, a couple of crooks and, possibly, an English witch.

To this day, my parents know nothing about my secret travels with William.

I think it’s better that way.

It all started last year, towards the end of second term. That’s when William, my spaniel, suddenly became restless.

I got William from the animal shelter three years before. My dad took me there on my ninth birthday after I finally persuaded him that I needed my very own dog. William was already fully grown by then, and Dad wanted me to rather choose a puppy. But from the moment I laid eyes on that spotted black-and-white spaniel, looking so lost in his cold steel cage, I knew he was the only dog for me.

“All right, then. I can see you won’t change your mind,” Dad said at last. “We may as well take him. At least he’s not too big, and he’s probably house trained already – and, well, he is rather cute.”

William objected to that last observation. He never liked to be called “cute”.

“I wouldn’t exactly describe myself that way. I prefer ‘handsome’ or even ‘dashing’,” he whispered to me as we sat huddled together on the back seat of my dad’s car on the way home.

Because I was still quite little, I wasn’t too surprised that my new pet could talk. And by now, well, I’m used to it.

My parents, on the other hand, have chosen to turn a blind eye to William’s many special abilities. Grown-ups prefer to ignore things they don’t understand.

“What’s your name?” I asked. I was very happy to have my very own dog at last.

“William,” he said proudly.

“What are you going to call him?” my dad asked from the front seat.

“He already has a name,” I replied. “It’s William.”

“William? Good choice.” And my dad turned his thoughts back to dividends and shares, or whatever else it was that kept his mind so busy.

We had a wonderful three years together, but then something started to trouble my spaniel. One morning he woke before dawn. I heard him shaking his head until his lips made a loud flapping noise. I pulled my pillow over my ears, trying to go back to sleep.

I just hate waking up early.

When my alarm eventually went off, I noticed that William was sitting on the window ledge, staring forlornly out towards the mountains.

“What’s up?” I asked him. I was concerned.

His large, brown eyes were filled with sorrow, and his soft spaniel ears drooped. But he didn’t answer me. By the time I had to leave for school, he was still sitting there, reading the morning paper with an old pair of my granddad’s glasses. Perhaps his eyes had begun to weaken over the past year. After all, he was no longer a puppy.

Maybe that was what was bothering him, I suddenly realised. He was getting old, and dogs don’t live nearly as long as humans. So I asked, “Is it your next birthday that’s bugging you, William? Are you worried about turning six?”

He looked up from the paper and replied crossly, “As you well know there are seven dog years in every human year. That means it’s my forty-second birthday, not my sixth!”

“Forty-two!” I was shocked. I’d forgotten about the difference in dog and human years. “You are right,” I agreed. “That’s pretty old.”

“I’d be MIDDLE AGED!” he cried.

Then I knew what the problem was: my dog was having a mid-life crisis.

At the time, I was in the middle of school exams. I had to study hard every day and didn’t have time for his brooding. He would just have to accept that he was getting older.

“What are we doing for the holidays?” he asked me one afternoon.

“Oh, I don’t know. We can play soccer in the back garden, or maybe it’s time I finally taught you how to work my computer properly,” I suggested.

“Humph!” sneered William. “What makes you think I don’t already know how to use your silly computer?” He stalked off in a huff. People are right when they say dogs are only cute when they’re puppies. Older dogs can be grumpy.

“Right! I have things to do!” he announced over breakfast a few days later. I looked up in surprise from my cornflakes. “What do you mean?” I asked. “You have plenty of things to keep you busy. You have to guard our house and play with me and chase the neighbour’s cat. What else would you possibly want to do?”

“You really don’t understand me, do you?” William growled back and walked away. He was right. I didn’t understand him. Sometimes I wished I had an ordinary dog. One that just barked and played catch, like the neighbour’s Jack Russell.

William was special, and I was just an ordinary boy. Maybe he did not want to be my pet anymore. What could I do to make his life less boring?

For the first time, I felt really worried.