The Great Expanding Guinea Pig & Beware of the Snowblobs! Read online

  For Dylan, Erin and Jess, who like Thing

  very, very much (it likes you, too!)

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Great Expanding Guinea Pig

  1 A super-mega, extraordinary Thing

  2 A huff and a woof

  3 Well, hello again!

  4 How to help a barker

  5 Translating with sausages

  6 Walkies!

  7 A snuggly white lie

  8 Pop! goes the bubblegum

  9 Down a dead end

  10 Sparkles and sneets

  11 Happy ending(ing)s

  Beware of the Snowblobs!

  1 A sighing sort of noise

  2 Projects and snowpigs

  3 The sound of schlumfing

  4 From a woof to a WHATEVER …

  5 Hurry up and hide

  6 Huffing and puffing

  7 Angels and dingbats

  8 All of a sudden serious

  9 Twenty minutes later …

  10 Getting hot and being cool

  11 The never-mind-cuddle

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  The Great Expanding Guinea Pig

  Boo!!

  There – got your attention.

  It’s just that I have an exciting story you might like to hear.

  So, where should I start?

  By introducing myself, I guess.

  I am Ruby Morgan.

  I am ten years old.

  I am an ordinary girl, who lives in an ordinary house, with an ordinary family (one mum, one dad, one extremely old cat).

  ‘Yeah, well, that doesn’t sound too exciting so far,’ I hear you all cry.

  Ah, but my story gets better. Lots better.

  weirder.

  Honest.

  Mainly because of my super-mega, extraordinary secret …

  But, hey, let’s begin at the beginning.

  Once upon a not-very-long-ago time, the cottage where I live sat on the edge of a huge wood.

  Then someone decided it might be nicer to get rid of all those pesky trees, and build a huge housing estate there instead.

  ( idea, if you ask me.)

  All that’s left of lovely Muir Woods are five straggly trees bunched at the end of my garden.

  Oh, and the super-mega, extraordinary secret.

  ‘Yes, but what is it?’ you might be saying, right about now.

  OK, since you asked, it’s a small creature called Thing, which used to live deep, deep, deep in the heart of Muir Woods – until the forest got eaten by chainsaws. And that’s when I found Thing lost and lonely by those five straggly trees at the bottom of my garden.

  ‘Um … what sort of thing is this Thing?’ you might be wondering.

  Here, let me help.

  Think of a squirrel.

  A red one.

  Now mush it up in your mind with a tiny, talking troll.

  Add weeny stubby wings that don’t work, and eyes as big as moons.

  Got it? A picture in your head of what Thing looks like, I mean?

  Or maybe I’ve just given you a headache, trying to imagine all that strangeness. (And I haven’t even mentioned the rubbish magic it can do.)

  To be honest, sometimes Thing gives me a headache.

  It’s incredibly cute but also incredibly good at landing me and my friend Jackson in trouble.

  Like the time we went to the Happy Valley Petting Zoo.

  We got in so much trouble that my head nearly exploded.

  A bit like the guinea pig, I suppose …

  But, hey, I’m rushing ahead.

  Let’s just go back to the day when the whole great expanding guinea-pig thing started.

  And it started with a cooing, pooing pigeon.

  Cos if the pigeon hadn’t cooed and pooed when it did, Jackson might not have spotted the dog.

  And if Jackson hadn’t spotted the dog, we wouldn’t have gone to the Gala Day at the Happy Valley Petting Zoo.

  And if we hadn’t gone to the Gala Day at the Happy Valley Petting Zoo, we wouldn’t have had all the fuss with the guinea pig that grew and grew and grew until …

  Oops, I’m rushing again, aren’t I?

  I think I should take a big breath, and start again, this time calmly and clearly.

  Up a tree …

  ‘Ooooh, it nice to sit where birdies singinging!’ Thing sighed happily one day, staring up into the leafiness above our heads.

  And that was the day it seemed like a fun idea to climb one of the straggly trees at the bottom of my garden.

  Thing scrambled up first.

  Then Jackson bounded up.

  Then it was my turn, and I found out that I’m not a very scrambly or boundy sort of person.

  ‘Snurr-hurr-hurr!’

  My friend Jackson was straddling a branch, eating jelly babies and sniggering down at me.

  ‘Be quiet and help me!’ I said sternly, since I was in a bit of a huff. Obviously Jackson thought I was a useless climber, but then can be a useless friend, so there.

  Jackson stopped eating long enough to reach down and haul me up into the tree. But then he did another annoying ‘Snurr-hurr-hurr!’, so I didn’t feel very grateful.

  ‘Rubby?’ said a small voice, as I tried to settle my bottom on the scratchy bark of the branch.

  The small voice belonged to Thing, who was perched next to Jackson like some freaky, fuzzy pigeon.

  ‘It’s Ruby,’ I reminded Thing.

  ‘Oh, I forgotted!’ Thing purred apologetically.

  ‘That’s OK. Did you want to ask me something?’ I said more gently, now that me and my bottom had got our balance and I didn’t feel quite so huffy.

  ‘Yes, please, Rubby!’

  ‘Snurr-hurr-hurr!’ sniggered Jackson.

  I’d have reached over and punched him in the arm, if I wasn’t worried about knocking the big donut out of the tree. (That’s me – a non-useless, kind and caring friend.)

  ‘So, what’s your question?’ I asked Thing, ignoring Jackson and his sniggering.

  ‘Why Boy keep making Snurr-hurr-hurr noise?’

  ‘Because he has a very small brain,’ I explained.

  Thing turned its huge eyes on Jackson.

  Then all of a sudden it scampered straight up his arm and tried to peer in his ear.

  ‘Gerroff!’ yelped Jackson, getting prickled by Thing’s claws and tickled by its fur.

  ‘Rubby, it too dark to see into Boy’s head – EEK!!!’ Thing squeaked.

  Perhaps Jackson didn’t like being prickled and tickled. Or maybe he didn’t like getting his head examined. Whichever it was, he yanked poor Thing away.

  ‘Jackson! Leave Thing alone!’ I hissed.

  Getting Thing stressed out is Not A Good Idea.

  When Thing gets stressed, magic tends to ping and sproing from nowhere, and that never ends well.

  ‘Ouch! Stop digging your claws in,’ Jackson roared, as Thing now wriggled and wiggled in his hands, making him drop his packet of jelly babies.

  ‘Not squidging me, Boy!’ Thing squealed back.

  ‘Shush, you two!’ I muttered, feeling panicky.

  It wasn’t just stray, rubbish magic I was worried about. If Jackson carried on roaring and Thing carried on squeaking, it would only be a matter of time before one of our parents came out of our next-door-to-each-other houses to see what was happening.

  As Thing would say, ‘EEK!’

  But in the end it wasn’t me who stopped the fussing and fighting.

  It was a great fat wood pigeon, perched so
mewhere high above us.

  ‘Proooo-proo!’ it cooed, flapping its wings at the commotion.

  And doing something else at the same time.

  ‘Urgh!’ groaned Jackson, as a slimy white blob landed on his gelled blond hair.

  He relaxed his grip on Thing long enough for our gingery friend to scuttle over to the safety of my lap.

  ‘Just your luck!’ I laughed, as Jackson winced.

  ‘Not luck, Rubby!’ purred Thing. ‘Pigeon thinking Boy bad, Pigeon shout, “Not hurt! Not eat!”’

  ‘That bird thought I was going to eat you?’ said Jackson, leaping down from the branch.

  ‘Jackson would never eat you,’ I reassured Thing, stroking it as it waddled anxiously from foot to tiny foot.

  ‘Yeah! All your fur would get stuck between my teeth. Yuck!’ joked Jackson, wiping his hair with a grotty-looking tissue he’d pulled out of his pocket.

  ‘Woof!’

  Jackson stopped wiping.

  I stopped stroking.

  Thing stopped waddling.

  We had a guest in our straggle of trees …

  ‘Hello there!’ said Jackson, bending down and patting something I couldn’t quite see.

  Leaning over just enough to get a better view (but not enough to fall out of the tree), I caught sight of a black and white spaniel with its head in the packet of jelly babies.

  It was wagging its tail so hard its whole back end was swaying.

  ‘Not like barkers, Rubby,’ whis-purred Thing, clawing its way up my chest and trembling.

  ‘You mean dogs?’ I checked.

  ‘They too … chasey,’ muttered Thing.

  ‘Chasey?’

  ‘They go chase, chase, chase, bark,’ Thing explained with a shudder. ‘Or chase, chase, chase, bite. Peh!’

  ‘Don’t worry – it’s really friendly!’ Jackson called to us, then burst out laughing as the dog suddenly jumped up and knocked him over with oodles of enthusiasm and licking.

  ‘Huh-ooo!’ the dog yodelled between licks.

  Which gave me an idea.

  Thing was so good at listening that he had learned the languages of every creature that had ever wandered through Muir Woods.

  And while Thing might not be too keen on the dog, I was pretty keen to know what it was saying.

  ‘What does “huh-ooo” mean?’ I asked Thing.

  Thing clung on to my top and peered anxiously down at Jackson and the black and white slobbery blur.

  ‘Lost,’ Thing translated.

  Being flat on his back, Jackson was in the perfect position to stare up at me and Thing.

  ‘It’s lost? Hey, buddy, are you lost?’

  ‘Huh-ooo!’

  Jackson was also in the perfect position to check out the dangling tag on the dog’s collar.

  ‘It’s name is Frodo and here’s the address … 39 Walnut Grove.’

  ‘That’s just a few streets away on the estate,’ I said. ‘Let’s take it ba—’

  ‘No! Not leaves me, Rubby!’ Thing begged, as I began to move.

  ‘Ruby, you stay and look after Thing, and I’ll take Frodo home,’ said Jackson, taking off his belt, threading it through the dog’s collar and turning it into a lookalike lead. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes.’

  And off ran Jackson and Frodo, through the zigzag of streets all named after the trees that used to live here.

  ‘I not have to see barker again, Rubby? It gone away now?’ Thing blinked up at me with its full-moon eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure Frodo won’t be back,’ I answered my shivery little friend.

  But two things were for sure …

  It had been two days since Jackson had reunited Frodo with his grateful owner.

  And two days since I’d learned that ‘Huhooo!’ is dog-speak for ‘lost’.

  That last fact was woozling round my head when I got home from school and found my very ancient cat Christine awake and hunched upright on my bed.

  Normally, Christine cat spends her time happily sleeping, snoozing or dozing in comfy circles. Awake and hunched upright was wrong.

  ‘Maybe she’s coming down with something,’ Mum suggested, when I called her upstairs. ‘Or maybe she’s just getting old and poorly, Ruby. If she’s still the same tomorrow, we can take her to the vet …’

  After Mum went downstairs, I sat on the bed, stroking Christine and wondering what was up.

  I thought about gently poking her all over – to see if she miaowed when something was painful – but that seemed a bit mean.

  Then I wished I was psychic, so I could read Christine’s catty mind. But even if I could, her thoughts wouldn’t be in English, would they?

  At that very second, I knew what I needed to do.

  ‘Come here, puss,’ I said softly, and scooped Christine cat into my arms.

  Together we went pad-pad-padding down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Mum was pottering about.

  ‘Er, what are you doing, Ruby?’ Mum asked, raising her eyebrows at me.

  ‘I … I just thought fresh air might make Christine feel better,’ I replied, heading for the open back door.

  ‘Well, I guess it might,’ said Mum, smiling the sort of smile that told me she thought I was mad.

  I felt her eyes following me as I wandered down the garden, but in a second I was safely out of sight, thanks to the giant rhododendron bush.

  That’s when I sped up, tippy-toeing to the low stone wall, where I sat myself and Christine cat down. With a swing of my legs we were on the other side, and had entered the hideaway world of trees, root tangles and Thing.

  ‘Hello!’ I said softly to a dark doorway hidden down amongst some leaves and twigs. (Thing’s den is an old Scooby Doo Mystery Machine toy van that used to be Jackson’s.)

  ‘Rubby!’ Thing said happily, emerging with one fat cheek and a half-eaten mushroom in its paws. ‘Wanting some?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Chris-cat wanting some?’

  ‘Thanks, but she’s more into meaty chunks,’ I explained, as I sat down. ‘And anyway, I don’t think she’s very well today.’

  ‘Oh! Is her eyes wrong? They very … open!’

  I understood why Thing would think that was the problem. Christine normally had her eyes firmly shut, dreaming happy old cat dreams. Actually, the fact that she spent ninety-nine per cent of her time sleeping was also the reason Thing had never talked to her in all the time we’d known each other.

  But hopefully that was about to change.

  ‘Thing, I was thinking … could you maybe ask—’

  We were interrupted by a scrabble and a thunk, as Jackson vaulted over his high garden fence and joined us.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, sitting down beside us on the scrubby ground.

  ‘That’s exactly what I want to find out,’ I said, and turned back to Thing. ‘Can you ask Christine if she’s hurt?’

  ‘Yes, please!’ said Thing, waddling up to a miserable-looking Christine cat and gently stroking her paw with its own.

  ‘Prrp? Mrrrrroaww?’

  I felt Christine stir a little in my arms. Jackson scooted closer, keen – like me – to hear any response.

  ‘Mrrrreww …’ my cat feebly answered.

  It didn’t sound good, whatever it was.

  ‘What did she say?’ Jackson asked Thing.

  Thing blinked its big eyes, racking its brain for the right words.

  ‘Chris-cat feel … blah.’

  ‘Blah? But what sort of blah?’ I asked. ‘In pain blah?’

  ‘Not paining,’ said Thing, with a scrunch of its nose. ‘More like …’

  Another silence. Another hunt in the head for the right word.

  Except the silence was suddenly broken by a very particular sound.

  ‘Blahhh-ahhh-ahhh-urghhhhhh …’

  Christine retched in my arms – and coughed something completely unexpected right into Jackson’s lap.

  ‘What is name of that kind of blah, Rubby?’ Thing a
sked politely, pointing to the odd, dry lump that looked like a cross between a cocktail sausage and a bit of bird nest.

  ‘That’s called sicking up a furball,’ I told Thing matter-of-factly. ‘Cats do it now and again.’

  So that had been Christine’s problem.

  As for Jackson, he looked as horrified as he had done when the wood pigeon used him for target practice.

  ‘Woof!’

  That familiar, oh-so-close doggy hello made all of us jump – some more than others.

  Feeling much better after her short barf, an energised Christine leaped out of my arms and back over the wall.

  And the close-at-hand scrabbling told me Thing was already halfway up the nearest tree.

  ‘Frodo!’ yelped Jackson, hastily brushing the furball out of his lap and jumping to his feet. ‘What are you doing here again?’

  But Frodo was more interested in whatever had just gone scampering into the branches above.

  ‘Frightening Christine and Thing, that’s what,’ I told Jackson, as Frodo put his front paws on the trunk of the tree and barked.

  ‘Eek!’ squeaked Thing.

  ‘C’mon, get down!’ Jackson ordered Frodo. Frodo ignored him.

  ‘Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!!!’

  ‘EEK!’ Thing squeaked louder.

  ‘Thing! It’s all right!’ I tried to reassure it.

  ‘It not all right, Rubby!’ Thing called down, rocking from side to side on its perch making all the nearby leaves shake like, well, leaves. ‘Barker saying, “Chase! Chase! Chase!”’

  ‘But it can’t catch you all the way up there, Thing,’ I pointed out.

  Jackson, meanwhile, was feebly trying to grab hold of the dog’s collar as it bounced round the trunk like a large, furry jumping bean.

  ‘Whooo! Who-oooooo!’ Frodo howled.

  ‘AARGHH!’ Thing yelped, slapping its tiny paws over its ears. ‘No, barker! I is not, not, not a SQUIRREL!!!’

  Uh-oh.

  Frodo hadn’t just scared Thing – he’d deeply insulted it.

  Thing hated squirrels.

  And no wonder. Squirrels had never been very nice to it. I mean, would you like being called a ‘phlplplplpp’? (No, I don’t know what it means either, but apparently it’s very, very rude.)