Dogtective William
and the Poachers
Elizabeth Wasserman
Illustrations by Chris Venter
Tafelberg
This book is dedicated to
William
Plans are Made
When I came home from school and found my mother waiting for me, armed with my favourite takeout hamburger and an extra-large packet of fries, I smelled a rat.
There was even a small vase with flowers on the table next to the big, brightly coloured paper bag.
“Isn’t fast food supposed to be bad for me?” I asked.
“Perhaps. But you don’t eat it that often,” she said with a sweet smile.
I gulped down my lunch so quickly that I almost forgot to wonder why she was spoiling me like this. Now she was whistling while doing the dishes – another ominous sign.
Below the table, William pressed his cold nose against my shin.
“Sorry boy, you can’t have any of this,” I said. “You already have a problem with your weight.”
William sighed and skulked away to his favourite spot: the armchair where my dad likes to sit and read the morning paper over his first cup of coffee. Dad was a nifty dresser, but he always had black and white dog hair sticking to the back of his pants.
My mother came from the scullery, drying her hands with a cloth and giving me a broad smile. “Did you enjoy that, Alex?”
I would have felt more comfortable with the usual “Don’t you have a lot of homework to do?” or “I hope you’ve already started studying for tomorrow’s geography test!” or even “I found your socks on the bathroom floor. Again!”
Something was definitely wrong. She patted me on the head and drew a chair from the kitchen table to sit next to me. Any moment now, I thought while I finished off the last of my hamburger, she was going to hit me with a story that would mean some kind of trouble for me.
“Would you mind, dear, to go and stay with your Aunt Ada for two weeks?”
I sat up straight in my chair. From the corner of my eye I saw William pricking his ears. His long, floppy ears were not good at pricking, but I knew he was doing his best.
“Aunt Ada! When can I go?”
Aunt Ada was my mom’s older sister, and she had a game farm in the north of our country, right on the border of Botswana. And on top of this, I get a hamburger thrown into the deal!
“Well, see … ” my mom started to explain. She looked somewhat disappointed that I was so keen to go, perhaps wondering whether she might have got away without bribing me with junk food. “Your dad’s promotion means more responsibilities for him at work. They asked him to represent the company at a conference in Europe. I would love to go with him, of course.” She explained that one of Dad’s colleagues had been set to go to the conference, but he’d fallen ill and now Dad had to go in his place. That’s why there was such short notice.
I used a finger to mop up some tomato sauce from my plate and licked it clean. I was testing her patience.
“I’ve never been to Europe,” Mom continued. Her eyes were glistening at the thought of travelling to such a far-off and exciting continent.
“Europe is great,” I said.
She smiled at me in that motherly way that was supposed to make me feel cute, but not as clever as I might think I am. “I’m sure you’ll also get an opportunity to go there one day. At least you’ve already been to South America, and Mauritius too!”
Little did she know that I was familiar with many of the great European cities, while South America still remained a mystery to me. My parents were under the impression that I went there on a soccer tour; meanwhile, I was dodging that lout Brumbum and his henchmen in a wild chase across Europe. And Mauritius is boring compared to Tromelin Island, where William and I found one of the largest pirate treasures ever.
But of course I couldn’t tell her about any of that. She would freak out.
My Aunt Ada
I only visited my Aunt Ada’s farm once, when I was little. I didn’t remember much of it. I recalled a lot of wild animals: bush pigs and giraffes and rhinos, and the constant screech of the cicadas. I also remembered that my Aunt Ada was a lousy cook. Her koeksisters, for example, were a tough and sticky business, as palatable as pieces of cardboard soaked in syrup. Last time I tried them, some of it got in my hair and it has never been the same since.
I made a note to myself to avoid those koeksisters. “Tell me more about this aunt of yours,” William said. We were back in my room. I pulled off my socks and threw them in a corner.
“She is Mom’s eldest sister, but I don’t think they like each other very much.” My school shirt joined the socks. I wondered how long Mom’s good temper would last.
“She’s a farmer, and she manages an enormous game farm on the banks of the Limpopo River, right in the middle of nowhere. And she does this all on her own. I remember her once calling Mom a pampered city mouse, and she said Dad was a wilted stick of office furniture that would not last a day in the bush.”
“I understand why you don’t visit often,” William said.
I remembered our previous trip: how my mother tottered on her high heels over the rocky pathway leading to the front door of Aunt Ada’s house, my dad sweating and panting in the heat, regarding the overgrown garden with suspicion. We never did see a snake on that visit, but I was sure there were plenty about.
My parents were clearly not suited for the African bush, but William and I were a different matter. Stanley and Livingstone: I could just picture us!
That evening we both were so excited that we couldn’t sleep. The summer holiday was only starting in two weeks, but my parents had to leave the next Friday and they would ask Mr Paterson for permission for me to skip the last week of term.
Since William had come to live with us there had been previous surprising events and unexpected travels, and I should have recognised the signs that trouble was afoot. But all I could think of was how much fun it would be on that farm. Lions, leopards and open space all around! Perhaps Aunt Ada would teach me to shoot with one of her hunting rifles. I definitely did not want to shoot at any animal, but a row of tin cans or even a pumpkin would do very well.
And William was going too! For once, my mother did not object to my request to take him along. She agreed with a sly smile, perhaps enjoying the thought of her stalwart sister dealing with a spoiled city mutt like our William.
Mom reckoned that William was much too fond of his comforts. He always picked the best spots for his regular naps (like my dad’s chair or the very expensive rug in the living room), and he was fussy with food. No pellets, please!
Of course she knew nothing about his international fame as a dogtective.
I gave my dog a hug. I was very proud of him, even if no one around here knew exactly who and what he was. The International Detective Agency – IDA for short – counted on him. He gave