Jean Ure - Buster

“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.

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