Selby Santa Page 5

  ‘So what?’

  ‘There are lots of birds that imitate other birds but this has to be the only dog in the world that can make bird sounds. I don’t know much about dogs but I’ll bet the dogologists at the zoo will want to study this guy. We’d better keep him.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Robyn Renn said. ‘This dog must have heard a male Christmas Parrot. Why else would he be imitating that sound? So there must be one around here somewhere and I reckon it’s in Bogusville Reserve. Okay, everybody! Back to the Reserve!’

  ‘Oh no,’ Selby thought. ‘Now they’re going to trample the Reserve. I’ll really have to talk to them now.

  But before Selby could open his mouth, there was another sound.

  ‘Keeee-kaw krita-krit-krit-krit.’

  ‘The parrot!’ Robyn Renn cried. ‘Either that or it’s another parrot-imitating dog! No, I can see it over there! After him!’

  Selby watched as a stampede of birdwatchers took off, running towards Gumboot Mountain. And, by the time they returned, Selby was out of the net and running for home.

  ‘They caught that male Christmas Parrot,’ Mrs Trifle said that evening. ‘They took it to the National Zoo to be with the female parrot and they’re getting on just like a couple of love birds.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘And the National Zoo wants the mysterious caller to phone in again. They’d like to give him a big reward for telling them about the parrot. I suspect that someone here in Bogusville is about to be very rich.’

  Selby looked up from where he lay resting. A slight smile rippled across his lips.

  ‘Rich?’ he thought. ‘I’m already rich. I’ve got something that money could never buy. I’ve got the Trifles, the loveliest, most wonderful people in the world.’

  Paw note: Of course I didn’t say ‘Bogusville Reserve’ or ‘Bogusville’. I told her the real name of the town I live in.

  S

  SELBY, LOST FOR WORDS

  ‘A modest repast for your delectation will be provided presently, assuming you so desire,’ Mrs Trifle said to Dr Trifle.

  ‘What is she talking about?’ Selby thought. ‘What’s this about past elections and presents?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Dr Trifle said. ‘What language are you speaking?’

  ‘I was speaking English, of course. I was asking you if you wanted a snack.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say it like that?’

  ‘Because I wanted to use some of those big words that aren’t used very often.’

  ‘Why not use little words that we use all the time? Then I’d understand what you are saying?’

  ‘For two reasons,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘The first is that I think we should increase our vocabularies.’

  ‘You mean learn more words?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘What’s the second reason?’

  ‘The second reason is Ralph.’

  ‘Is that a reason or a person?’

  ‘He’s both. His full name is Professor Raphael Bagsby-Gormless. He’s a cousin of mine who I haven’t seen since we were children. Ralph’s an expert on the English language and he’ll be here next month. I thought, wouldn’t it be embarrassing if we didn’t understand a word he was saying? He might think we’re stupid.’

  ‘I see,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘We might say something to him like, “Would you like a snack?” and he wouldn’t know what we were talking about. He could starve to death and it would be all our fault.’

  ‘Exactly. Or he might not understand us when we directed him to the indoor sanitation facility.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The loo. Can you imagine what it would be like not to go to the loo for a week because you couldn’t find it? He’d surely undergo a catastrophic destructive expansion.’

  ‘He’d what?’

  ‘He’d explode. Anyway, his email says that he wants to spend some time in a country town next month. He needs some peace and quiet to do some work. I said he could stay here. I hope that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but how are we going to learn all those big words?’

  ‘Simple. Every time there’s an easy word, a word like finished, for example, we’ll look it up in a dictionary and find a synonym.’

  ‘Oh, I like cinnamon,’ Dr Trifle said.

  ‘No, not cinnamon — synonym. A synonym is a word that means the same thing as another word. Instead of saying finished, we might say concluded, culminated or terminated.’

  ‘Good!’ Dr Trifle said. ‘Where’s another dictionary?’

  The next week was Selby’s most confusing week ever. Dr and Mrs Trifle spent their time looking things up in dictionaries and trying to understand each other. Their conversations went a bit like this:

  ‘Would you care for some melodious sonority?’ Mrs Trifle asked.

  ‘Are you asking me whether I want milk in my tea?’

  ‘Negative. I mean, no. I just asked if you were in the mood for a bit of music,’ Mrs Trifle said, turning on the CD player. ‘I gather you’re not implacably opposed to the suggestion, so it shall commence forthwith.’

  ‘Gather?’ Dr Trifle mumbled, as he thumbed through his dictionary. ‘Implacably? Oh, yes. Opposed? Got that one, too. Commence? Yes. Forthwith? Now I know what you’ve just said. You’re going to put some music on right now. Hey, you’ve already done it. I mean, the music has forthwithedly commenced. This is fun! That is to say, I am greatly diverted by this activity.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Selby thought. ‘They’re driving me nuts with all this big-word stuff!’

  To make matters worse for Selby, the Trifles stopped watching TV. Instead, they spent their time reading the sort of books that are filled with big words. And when they left notes for each other, Selby couldn’t read them any more.

  ‘What on earth does this mean?’ he’d say to himself. ‘“If you are so disposed and if it’s not inconvenient, kindly proffer sufficient sustenance for the domestic canine.” Now wait, the canine bit has got to be me. Canines are dogs. I know that much.’

  Selby went to the dictionary.

  ‘Okay, so she wants Dr Trifle to feed me. Why didn’t she just say “Feed Selby”, for pity’s sake? All this looking things up is driving me bonkers! Anyway, it was useless leaving the note because Dr Trifle forgot. Or maybe he didn’t have time to look up the words. Never mind, I’ll get something yummy from the fridge.’

  At dinnertime, the Trifles continued using their new words. Bit by bit they began to understand each other and there was less looking things up. Now the conversations were more like this one.

  ‘Are you aware of a disagreeable, even malodorous, sensation?’ Mrs Trifle asked. ‘The assault on my olfactory organ is giving me horripilation.’

  ‘I wholeheartedly concur,’ Dr Trifle answered. ‘Perhaps the hour has come for a canine cleansing.’

  ‘Hey, they’re talking about me again!’ Selby thought. ‘I got the canine-cleansing bit. They want to give me a bath. But what’s all this olfactory stuff and what is horripilation?! I don’t think that’s even a word!’

  As soon as the Trifles were out of the house, Selby raced to the biggest dictionary he could find.

  ‘Okay, so Mrs Trifle says that I stink so much it makes her skin crawl,’ he said. ‘Hey, that’s a terrible thing to say! Oops (sniff sniff), maybe she’s right. All this looking things up is making me sweat. I’d better pop into the shower and freshen up.’

  As the weeks went on, Selby got more and more used to big words.

  ‘I’m beginning to think in substantial lexical items. I mean big words,’ he said to himself. ‘And I’m beginning to like it.’

  And everything would have been fine and dandy but then something happened.

  It was the day that Mrs Trifle’s cousin was going to arrive. Dr Trifle was racing around cleaning up and Mrs Trifle was helping. But then she was called away.

  ‘Sorry, dear, I would continue to assist you were it not that my presence is urgently re
quired elsewhere. Would you be so kind as to extinguish the culinary apparatus and remove the confection from its receptacle?’

  ‘Um, yes, certainly,’ Dr Trifle mumbled as he changed the sheets on the spare bed.

  Mrs Trifle raced out of the house and a little later Dr Trifle did the same, leaving Selby alone.

  ‘I think he forgot to do what Mrs Trifle asked him to do,’ Selby thought. ‘I’d better do it. What was it now? Something about giving a distinguished rat to a receptionist? No, that doesn’t sound right.’

  One by one, Selby remembered the words and looked them up in the dictionary. He was concentrating so hard that he didn’t see the smoke in the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Selby thought. ‘She wanted him to take the cake out of the oven. That’s easy. I can do that. Hmmm, what’s that malodorous sensation?’

  Selby looked around at the smoke that was now filling the loungeroom and saw flames shooting out of the oven.

  ‘Oh, no!’ he screamed. ‘I’ve got to ring Triple 0!’

  Selby grabbed the phone and pushed the numbers.

  ‘Triple 0,’ a voice sang out. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘There’s an enormous conflagration!’ Selby yelled.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A combustible confection has ignited!’

  ‘You’re delighted?’

  ‘No, I’m not delighted! I said ignited!’

  ‘You’re on fire, is that it?’

  ‘No, it’s not me! There’s inflammation of great intensity in our area of food preparation!’

  ‘Inflammation? So you want me to send an ambulance?’

  ‘No, not an ambulance! Please dispatch some officers to extinguish the conflagration!’

  ‘Officers? Okay, I’ll send the cops.’

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand! We’re in a state of dire emergency here on Lamington Drive and —’

  ` ‘Lamington Drive? Wait. We just got a call from one of your neighbours. Apparently there’s smoke pouring out of your house.’

  ‘That’s right!’

  ‘Get out of the house and stay calm. The Fire Department is on its way.’

  In seconds the firefighters were there putting out the flames. Moments afterwards, the Trifles both arrived.

  ‘I told you to take the cake out of the oven!’ Mrs Trifle said, going back to normal talk after the firefighters had left. ‘What a mess.’

  ‘You did?’ Dr Trifle said, also in normal talk. ‘I thought you sent me off to buy a toilet plunger.’

  ‘What a disaster,’ Selby thought. ‘And it’s all because of this poncy Ralph guy. I hate him already and I haven’t even met him yet.’

  ‘Quick!’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘That’s Ralph coming up the path right now! Mind your language.’

  ‘Oh no, here we go again,’ Selby thought.

  ‘Greetings and salutations, cousin Raphael,’ Mrs Trifle said, shaking the man’s hand.

  ‘Welcome to our humble abode, Professor Bagsby-Gormless,’ Dr Trifle said.

  ‘G’day,’ the man said, ‘how ya goin’? Forget the professor stuff. Just call me Ralph, okay? Crikey! What happened to your kitchen? What a shemozzle!’

  ‘It was a rather devastating conflagration,’ Mrs Trifle said.

  ‘A what? A fire? Gee you guys talk funny. Stone the crows! Does everybody in Bogusville talk like you lot?’

  ‘Well no, not really,’ Mrs Trifle said.

  ‘Thank goodness for that!’ Ralph laughed. ‘I came here to study the way people talk in Australian country towns these days. That’s what I’m an expert in. Fair dinks, guys, I love that country sense of humour. You really had me goin’.’

  Selby watched as the Trifles’ blushes slowly turned to smiles.

  ‘What’s the little guy’s name?’ Ralph asked, looking at Selby.

  ‘That’s Selby,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘He’s our only pet. We think of him as one of the family.’

  ‘He looks like a cool little dude,’ Ralph said, giving Selby a pat. ‘Oh, by the way, guys, where’s your dunny?’

  ‘I love this guy,’ Selby thought. ‘He talks my kind of talk. Of course, he’s never going to find that out.’

  All of which brings us to the conclusion, the culmination, the termination of this tale. Or in other words:

  THE END

  CONFLAGRATION!

  by Selby Trifle

  Allow me a delineation Of

  a tricky situation:

  A sudden olfactory sensation

  Roused me from my meditation

  Preliminary examination

  Brought about my consternation

  As I assessed the situation

  A utensil used in preparation

  Of a Christmas cake formation

  Was all consumed by conflagration

  Although unsure of its causation

  I acted without hesitation

  Out of moral obligation

  To bring about its termination

  I grabbed the phone in trepidation

  Pressed it with my digitation

  And quickly rang the fire station

  Now I’m consumed with jubilation.

  A translation of the preceding confabulation:

  FIRE!

  also by Selby Trifle

  Once while I was sitting, thinking

  I smelled something burning, stinking

  The Christmas cake was pouring smoke

  So I quickly rang the fire blokes.

  Paw note: If you read the previous story, ‘Selby’s Play on Words’, you’ll know what this is all about.

  S

  SECRET AGENT SELBY

  Blake Romano lay on the floor struggling against the chains that tore at his wrists and ankles. Around him stood the soldiers of the Army of the Sword of Midas. They poked him with the muzzles of their Federboa 39E Special Issue Service weapons, their hideous laughter ringing in his ears.

  Selby had almost finished reading Escape Into Doom. ‘I hate those guys!’ he thought, as he turned the second-last page. ‘They’re going to be really sorry when Blake gets free!’

  General Fridas Monsolet stormed into the cell and raised his hand for silence.

  ‘You have finally run out of luck, Mr Romano,’ he said. ‘No one can stop us now.’

  ‘That’s what you think!’ Selby thought. ‘Blake is the smartest, bravest secret agent ever! He’s too smart for you!’

  ‘Evil like yours can never win,’ Blake spat through clenched teeth. ‘Sooner or later you will make a slip. And when you do, your days will be over.’

  ‘Do not make me laugh, Mr Romano,’ Monsolet sneered.

  The nightmare of that day played itself out in Blake’s brain like a cheap movie: the kidnapping; the hijacking of the Supernova Star Fighter, the five-star hotel, swimming with Istvana, the gorgeous blonde double-agent; the bomb in the snack bar, the rescue of the kids from the daycare centre …

  A sharp pain from the commander’s boot slamming into Blake’s ribs brought him out of his daydream.

  ‘Say your prayers!’ Monsolet barked. ‘Nobody has ever left this prison except in a wooden box.’

  Blake Romano glanced up at Monsolet’s steely eyes and smiled.

  ‘There’s always a first time for

  everything, birdbrain,’ he said.

  Then, with the speed of lightning, Blake

  ‘Oh oh oh!’ Selby squealed in his brain. ‘I can’t wait to see what happens next! This is soooo exciting!’

  As Selby’s eyes darted across to the right-hand page, he found himself gazing at the inside of the back cover of the book.

  ‘Oh no! The last page is missing! How am I supposed to know what happens in the end? It’s the last page of the last book of the whole series! I have to know if Blake Romano survives!’

  Selby raced around the house, looking everywhere for the missing page.

  ‘Maybe I dropped it,’ he thought. ‘Where have I been since I started reading it? I haven’t been anywhere! I got
it off the shelf in the bookcase where Dr Trifle keeps all his old Blake Romano books and I read it right here.’

  Selby lifted the lounge and then checked behind the curtains.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he thought. ‘I’ve just got to know what happens. Lionel O’Neill wouldn’t have let his main character die, I’m sure. But Escape Into Doom was his very last book. Maybe it’s the end of Blake Romano, too.’

  Selby put the book back on the shelf.

  ‘I’ll make up my own ending,’ he thought. ‘I don’t want Blake to die, so maybe the last bit should be, Then, with the speed of lightning, Blake lived happily ever after. The end. No, that doesn’t sound right. How about, Then, with the speed of lightning, Blake was shot by Fridas Monsolet and he dropped dead. The end. No! No! I have to find out how the book really ends.’

  Selby rang the Bogusville Library and then the Poshfield Library and even some other libraries in the city. None of them had any of Lionel O’Neill’s Blake Romano books. Then he rang a bookshop.

  ‘Lionel O’Neill?’ a woman said. ‘We don’t have any books by anyone of that name. Let me check the computer. I’ll see if we can order a copy for you.’

  ‘He’s a fantastic author. He writes about Blake Romano, who is like this top super-special secret agent who gets captured by bad guys and he always gets away and that, but sometimes he gets hurt, but a lot of the bad guys get killed, and they’re really great books. I just have to get a copy of Escape Into Doom ’cause I don’t know how it ends.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said,‘but the books are out of print. They don’t make them any more.’

  And that was that. No last page. No last book. No copies of the book in libraries. No copies in bookshops or even used ones on the internet. Selby did a search to see what he could find out about the author.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ Selby thought. ‘Everything about him is secret. Nobody even knows what Lionel O’Neill looks like. He’s like a secret agent, just like Blake Romano.’