Читать книгу Buster - Jean Ure, Stephen Lee, Jean Ure - Страница 6

The man had thrown me on to the back seat. He was sitting in the front, behind the wheel. A woman was sitting next to him. When she spoke, she sounded quite angry.

“What do you want with that thing?”

“Fancied it,” said the man. “Thought the kids might like it.”

“A dog?” The woman turned to look at me. I cringed. By now I was really frightened. “I can’t stand dogs! Filthy dirty things, messing all over the place.”

I wanted to tell her that I didn’t do that any more. I was a clean boy! My people had praised me for it, only that morning.

“Who’s a clean boy?” they had cried, hugging me.

My tail had wagged so hard I thought it might wag itself right off. I was a clean boy!

I ran to the car window and began scrabbling, frantically, trying to get out. I wanted my people!

“Stop that!”

The woman leaned over the back of the seat and gave me such a thump with her hand that I went spinning to the floor.

“Pesky dog!” she said.

I lay there, trembling, not daring to climb back up in case she hit me again. I had never been hit before. Nobody, in all my short life, had ever been unkind to me.

“It needs training,” said the man. “I’ll soon lick it into shape.”

I was so stupid! I thought he meant that he would lick me with his tongue, which I could just dimly remember my mother doing when I was born. I didn’t realize that when he said lick what he really meant was hit…

They took me to the place where they lived. It was in a tall grey building surrounded by other tall grey buildings. There was no garden to play in; I almost never saw the sunshine or breathed fresh air. It was like a prison.