Chapter 3

Do Dogs Need Glasses?

‘Did you write the LOST DOVE sign for me?’ Art was in a hurry to pin notices on shop windows, fences and poles.

‘Yes.’ India gave him the sheets of paper.

‘What do you want to swap the writing for?’

‘An hour of dog walking.’

‘That’s a lot! Is something wrong with Tiny? ‘ asked Art patting him. Like a fast broom, Tiny’s giant tail swept the leaves. Then he sat down with a dog smile as Art pinned the notice on the fence.

‘I think he needs glasses.’ India was holding Tiny’s face in her hands. She looked closely at his eyes. Tiny tried to lick her. ‘I’m sure he needs glasses,’ repeated India stroking Tiny’s long nose.

Mario walked past and overheard the word ‘glasses.’

He thought he knew everything about dogs.

‘Our greyhounds can see a rabbit a kilometer away. They can see everything. Dogs don’t wear glasses.’

‘Tiny can’t see some things,’ insisted India. ‘He’s missing out.’

Art waved his hand from left to right. Tiny looked at him. Art moved his hand again. Tiny’s eyes followed the movement from left to right. The he followed from right to left.

The dog looked as if he were shaking his head.

‘Do you need glasses, Tiny?’ Art cried. ’He’s shaking his head. He’s saying ‘No’ .’

India laughed. ‘I can make him nod “yes”. Look!’

India took a biscuit from her backpack. She held the biscuit up high. Tiny looked up. Then she dropped her hand down. Down went Tiny’s head. ‘See.’She threw him the biscuit. Tiny crunched noisily.

‘Dumb dog.’ Mario knew his grandad’s greyhounds were better than Tiny at doing anything. ‘How come he needs glasses?’

India stood up.’ When I throw the ball over on the oval, he loses it.’

Art watched Tiny crunching. Crumbs fell on the ground. Tiny’s eating manners were extra messy.’ What colour is the ball?’

‘We’ve lost five already. They were green.’

Art laughed. ‘That’s why he loses them. Green ball. Green grass. Get it? The mystery of the disappearing ball.’

Annoyed, India dusted the crumbs off. She liked to be the first to work things out. ’Put up the other notices yourself, Art. I’ve got to go home.’

‘My grandad’s got contact lenses, ‘offered Mario.

‘I;ve never met a dog wearing contact lenses.’ said India. She was still cross with herself for not realizing about the green balls.

‘You wouldn’t know,’said Mario. ‘Not unless the lenses fell out. Yesterday morning at 5 we were looking for Grandad’s down at the training track. Of course, I found one of them…with a torch.’

‘Of course,’ echoed India. ‘You would.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Art. ‘Bye Tiny. See you when school starts tomorrow, India. Then only 67 school days until the next holidays.’

‘See you, with or without glasses,’ laughed India.

Art grinned as he left but Mario still didn’t understand.

‘A bird can’t read a sign,’ he yelled. ‘Nor can some people.’

Mario looked closely at the LOST DOVE sign on the fence. He didn’t notice anything about a reward. It only said: If you find the missing dove, please call Art on 8087803’ Mario felt in his back pocket. He pulled out a black texta and blotted out Art’s phone number. Then Mario wrote his own above it. ‘Easy money for birdbrains.’

On the way home, Art pinned his LOST DOVE notices everywhere.

At the shopping centre, he left one on the ‘Community Notices’ board. People looked there when they wanted to buy or sell things. On the ‘Entertainments This Week’ board was a picture of a magician . he was pulling a rabbit out of a top hat. Art looked at the picture closely, but there were no doves.

How could he solve the mystery of the missing dove?

Pinning up LOST DOVE signs wasn’t enough.

Where had the doves gone? Who had taken them? And why?

Finding out was a job for a super sleuth like Art. As he walked past the police station, Art had an idea. Police?

Slowly he went up the steps. He pushed open the glass door.

GUN LICENCES. SAFETY HOUSE PROGRAM. MISSING PERSONS

The walls of the police station were crowded with posters. Art looked closely at one poster. Underneath the word MISSING was a girl’s photo. She looked about fourteen. Someone coughed. Art looked around. The police officer on duty has coughed.

‘Excuse me, do you have a MISSING form?’ asked Art quickly.

The police officer’s round face looked over the desk.

‘Who’s missing , son?’

‘A dove.’

‘We don’t have missing dove forms. Only canaries.’ He laughed. ‘And galahs! Got plenty of them around here.’

‘Canaries?’

Smiling, the police officer said,’ They’re yellow stickers. For unroadworthies. Unroadworthy cars. We call them canaries.’

Art smiled politely. Adult jokes weren’t always funny. And sometimes kids could think differently from adults. Birds were hard to track. Perhaps part-time sleuths could do things the police didn’t have time to cover? Burglars would interest them more than birds.

‘D’you mind if I put my LOST DOVE notice on your board?’

The police officer took the notice. He read India’s writing carefully. ‘I’ll check with the sergeant.’

Art looked around the walls of the police station. ‘a ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ chart had coloured pins to show where robberies had happened. Art found a green patch.That would be the park at the bottom of his street. There was a yellow drawing pin nearby. Art wondered if that was a robbery.

‘Okay son,’ the police officer was back. ‘Serge said just this once. Pin it over with the community notices.’

‘Thanks,’ said Art. ‘What do the yellow pins mean?’

‘Hot burgs.’

Art didn’t understand. ‘Like Mc Donald’s hamburgers?’

The police officer laughed again. ‘No. A ‘hot burg’ is a burglary where the owners are in the house.’

‘Is it a ‘cold burg’ when no one’s home?’ asked Art.

‘That’s right son. Now off you go.’

Hurrying down the steps of the police station, Art noticed the police cars parked with blue lights which were not flashing. Was a police car ever booked for parking in the wrong place? His dad’s truck had been booked a few times. Mum said it was Dad’s own fault.

Also Mum wouldn’t be happy to hear there had been a ‘hot burg’ near their street. She was always telling him to lock his window or remember his key.

Out the back of Art’s place was a shed. Inside were lots of paint pots. When he was home, Art’s dad painted walls and doors in their house. But usually he was away interstate, driving his truck.

‘Ah. I thought there was some left,’ said Art as he used a screw driver to open the lid on the rusty tin. Inside was a dull gold skin of old paint. Before he packed up his new school bag for the first day back, there was something he needed to paint.