Werepuppy and the Werepuppy on Holiday Read online

  ‘Go on, Whimsie-Mimsie-Pimsie, that daft old bat’s calling you.’

  Micky swallowed hard.

  ‘She’s not a daft old bat,’ he said shakily. ‘She’s my gran.’

  ‘Well, she looks pretty daft to me, and she’s certainly old, and she’s flapping her arms around at you like a bat,’ said Guns’n’Roses.

  ‘Cooooeeeee,’ shrieked Iron Maiden, doing a very unkind imitation of Granny Boot.

  ‘You cut that out,’ said Micky, trying to sound stern and resolute.

  It made them laugh harder than ever.

  ‘Hark at little Whimsie here!’

  ‘Going to clock us one, are you?’

  They started jostling Micky, their big hot hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Micky?’ Granny Boot had seen what was going on. ‘Come over here.’

  ‘Go on, little Whimsie, batty old Granny wants you.’

  ‘Yes, she doesn’t want you to play wiv us wough boys,’ said Guns’n’Roses, putting on a silly accent.

  ‘Oh-oh, she’s coming over here. Oooh, will she spank us?’ said Iron Maiden, sounding equally silly.

  ‘What are you two louts doing to my grandson?’ Granny Boot demanded, rushing up. ‘Take your hands off him.’

  Guns’n’Roses and Iron Maiden cackled with laughter.

  ‘Ah, shut up, you daft old bat,’ said Guns’n’Roses.

  ‘Yeah, bog off,’ said Iron Maiden.

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to my gran like that,’ Micky shouted, red-hot with rage, so angry now that he forgot to be scared. He itched all over and there was a roaring in his head that got louder and louder. There was a snarl and a growl and Micky wondered if they were coming from his own lips. But he was gently nudged aside by a familiar grey friend, grown huge and fierce and ferocious.

  Wolfie leapt up at Guns’n’Roses and Iron Maiden and they started yelling like a heavy metal band themselves. They turned and ran, which was a mistake. Wolfie saw two denim bottoms and decided he wanted a bit of fun. He leapt up and gave their jeans several interesting new designer slashes. Guns’n’Roses and Iron Maiden ran on, shrieking.

  ‘Help, there’s a mad dog on the loose!’ people yelled.

  ‘It’s not a mad dog, it’s just my puppy,’ said Micky. ‘Here, Wolfief

  Wolfie decided to be obedient for once. Perhaps he’d had enough fun already. He happily skidded to a halt, gave one small snort at the retreating boys, and then trotted back to Micky and Granny Boot.

  ‘Well I never!’ said Granny, shaking her head. ‘So where on earth did you spring from, young Wolfie?’

  ‘Did I wake you up when I posted those sausages down the chimney?’ said Micky, hugging Wolfie happily.

  Wolfie had smelt the hot dog stall and was sniffing the air urgently, demanding another breakfast immediately.

  Granny Boot sportingly bought them all a hot dog, and while they munched Micky explained about Wolfie’s Tremendous Trek.

  ‘You will help me keep him hidden from the others, won’t you, Gran?’ said Micky. ‘I can’t send him back now when he’s been so clever to find me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how we’re going to keep him hidden – but I’ll do my best to help,’ Granny promised.

  At Sunday lunch Granny seemed to demolish her plate of roast beef almost at one gulp. She asked for a second serving.

  ‘The sea air’s certainly done you a lot of good, Mum,’ said Micky’s mum. ‘You’ve really got your appetite back.’

  ‘That’s not all we’ve got back, eh, Micky?’ Granny whispered, secretly showing him the roast beef she’d tucked into her handbag for a special Wolfie snack.

  8…

  It was an almost impossible task keeping Wolfie hidden away, out of sight. Once he was fully recovered from his long tiring trek he didn’t want to be stuffed back into the pink playhouse. He wanted to be up and doing. He especially wanted to be out on the prowl at night, like any normal werepuppy with a full-moon gleam in his golden eyes.

  ‘You must try to be good, Wolfie,’ Micky said, wishing he could risk taking the puppy to sleep in his hotel bedroom, where he could keep a proper eye on him. But if Marigold got one little whiff of Wolfie then she’d blab straight to Dad.

  So Wolfie spent the night outside – and didn’t spend much time in the playhouse. The next morning there were many wrecked gardens in the little seaside town, and a long queue of pet-owners outside the veterinary surgery, clutching traumatized cats and terrorized dogs.

  The guests in the hotel started talking about strange howlings and growlings that had woken them in the night. Micky started fidgeting anxiously but Granny Boot developed a sudden and spectacular coughing fit that diverted everyone’s attention.

  ‘Oh dear, Mum, I thought you were completely over that bronchitis,’ said Micky’s mum anxiously.

  ‘I think I need a long walk along the cliffs to get some sea air,’ Granny spluttered. ‘You’ll keep your old gran company, won’t you, Micky?’

  They managed to get away from the others and sneak Wolfie out of his temporary kennel.

  ‘Though you obviously weren’t in it much last night!’ said Micky sternly. ‘What am I going to do with you, Wolfie?’

  Micky and Granny took Wolfie for a very long walk, hoping to tire him out. Wolfie didn’t tire a bit, even though he’d been up all night. Micky tired a little and poor Granny Boot tired a lot. She had to have a long nap after lunch. Micky tried to stay with her but Mum wouldn’t hear of it. He was forced to join the rest of the family on the beach.

  Wolfie had to be left to his own devices. Micky worried a great deal, wondering what on earth he was up to. He also worried on his own behalf because Dad wouldn’t just let him mooch about the beach doing his own thing. He had to join in all the silly ball games even though Micky always managed to miss the ball completely. Everyone got very hot running around in the sunshine. Dad got red in the face shouting at Micky to keep his eye on the ball. Micky burned all over because everyone on the beach seemed to be looking at him.

  It was almost a relief when Marigold reminded him that he’d promised to make her some sand stables for her Little Pony. Micky set to work with a spade and had soon built her an elaborate pony palace with separate shell-studded individual stalls and a practice paddock.

  The artist who’d been painting on the pier came strolling along the sands and stopped to admire Micky’s efforts.

  ‘Gosh, that’s really great,’ he said, shaking his head admiringly.

  Dad came panting up, trying to catch a ball that Mandy had hit for six. He was running sideways, keeping his eye on the ball so steadily that he couldn’t see what his feet were doing.

  ‘Hey, watch out!’ shouted the artist, but it was too late.

  Dad’s feet bulldozed half the pony palace, and caused a minor earthquake in the seaweed ornamental gardens.

  ‘Dad, you’ve wrecked my palace!’ Marigold yelled.

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry, love,’ said Dad. ‘Sorry, Micky. Still, you can make another sand-castle, can’t you?’

  ‘He’s very good at sand modelling,’ said the artist quietly. ‘You’ve got a very talented son.’

  Dad looked astonished. But pleased. Maybe Micky’s hands were useless when it came to catching balls but they could also be clever at making castles.

  ‘Yes, he’s a good lad,’ said Dad, ruffling Micky’s hair.

  The artist smiled and gave Micky a wink when Dad wasn’t looking. Micky winked back and then cheerily started rebuilding the shattered sand palace. He almost started to enjoy himself, although his ears were still pricked on red alert for distant howls.

  Granny came on the beach after her nap.

  ‘Did you see Wolfie?’ Micky whispered. ‘Is he staying hidden in the pink playhouse?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Granny. ‘When I went to check up on him he was having the time of his life playing catch-the-towel with the hotel’s washing line. I went after him but he was off like a grey streak. The towels have got a few gr