I dance around the box on my hind paws, which would suggest to the audience, I think, that I’m not a real dog.
‘Danz, dizobedient docky, danz!’ Roland swipes at me with his cane as the music speeds up. ‘Danz, you pezky poppy!’
Every time he swings, I step back, and the crowd applauds harder and louder.
‘Go, dog, go!’The crowd seems very involved. ‘Go, dog, go!’
Roland throws open the lid of the box then picks up the saw.
‘Ze bat zpotty dock muzt be zawn in ’alf!’ He grabs me by the tail. ‘Get in ze box, Gheorge, bat dock!’
I get in, the lid is shut, and I simply drop under the stage and sit there in the dark.
‘Now we zay ’appy goot rittance to zat pezky poppy!’
Half an hour later, covered in sawdust, I’m let out by Roland.
‘You zee, Gheorge?’ He smiles that awful yellow smile. ‘You can truzt Roland az if I am luffly polizeman or zuntanned zurf lifegart in Oztraylya.’
‘Oh yes, I jolly well can trust you,’ I say, using my recently acquired acting ability and talent for natural-sounding dialogue. ‘Without one speckle of a doubt! You’re just like my dear old scoutmaster,Trusty John McReliable!’
Using a realistic name that suggests trustworthiness, I think, has totally guaranteed that Roland doesn’t suspect a thing. Boy, it seems I’ve inherited a talent for disguise like my great Canadian great-aunt, Aunt Selma Parker, who worked undercover as a female moose to capture illegal hunters until she was shot on the opening day of hunting season because she unfortunately put the wrong date in her calendar.
Oops!