"Rover! Rover! What are you doing out on the lawn! Come back here this minute!" Mrs Jones dropped the washing-up towel and rushed to the back door. The peace of her garden had been rudely disturbed. There, right before her eyes was Rover charging across the lawn at a cracking rate of knots. "Trevor!" She screamed up the stairs. "Your bloody crocodile's out again." Trevor was still in bed dreaming of taking over a couple of t.v. series from David Attenborough. He could hear doors crashing downstairs, then his mother screaming in the garden. He rolled out of bed and stumbled to the window. He could see a scaly tail sticking out from underneath a bush. His mother charged at it with a broom and gave it a crack. Suddenly the tail disappeared, the bushes shook, and Rover, apparently grinning all over his ugly face charged across the lawn and onto the rockery. "Trevor! Get this crocodile back into the shed will you." Trevor put on his dressing gown, grabbed a length of rope and ran downstairs into the garden. The crocodile was staring at Mrs Jones, teeth akimbo. Mrs Jones was staring at the crocodile, brandishing her broom. "Just you dare touch those goldfish, you blighter, just you bloody dare!" Rover flicked his head in a saucy way, and waddled over to the pond. Mrs Jones turned to see Trevor coming across the lawn, swinging his rope. "It's no good chasing him with a broom, you'll just make him frisky." "Well, what am I supposed to do, just let him rampage all over the garden, eating your father's goldfish?" "Why not? It would at least teach him not to leave the garage door open. All that cold air getting in there: it won't do the animals any good." "Quick, the brute's eating all the goldfish." Mrs Jones charged across the lawn, broomstick rampant. Rover was thrashing about in two feet of water, mouth snapping in gay abandon. Trevor crept up on him, noose dangling at the end of his rope. "Mother, for god's sake put that broom down, you're making him excited. I'll never catch him if you keep playing with him." "Playing with him!" Mrs Jones nearly exploded. "Playing with him," she seethed. "I'll give you playing with him." And she brought the end of the broom down on Trevor's shoulders. Trevor staggered under the blow, and sprawled into the red current bushes. Rover looked around. Mrs Jones was sure he was laughing. "All those teeth, it's obscene. Get him back in his own pond will you." "How can I get him back in the garage if you keep waving that effing broom about. Lay off will you." He picked himself up, squashed red currents were in his hair, and sticking out of various places in his pajamas. "Mother, will you please go back into the kitchen and let me deal with this." "Let you deal with it? You haven't done anything at all yet. If we leave it to you that brute will turn the entire garden into an African bog. Trevor was creeping up on Rover again. Rover, meanwhile, was grinning his head off, wagging his tail, and splashing around in the fish pond. "Hurry up!" "Shut up mother. If you hadn't got him excited in the first place we wouldn't have all this hassle." "If you looked after the bloody thing it wouldn't be out wrecking the garden." "It's only out wrecking the garden because father left the ruddy door open. Now shut up and let me catch him. And for god's sake put that damn broom down." Rover had settled down in the mud. Trevor crept up behind him, noose dangling. Closer, closer. The reptile seemed to have calmed down, the cold water and chill early morning air were obviously getting to him, and he was beginning to get torpid. Trevor was level with his tail. He slowly and silently walked astride the beast until he was level with the front legs. He waited. Then with one quick movement he dropped the noose over Rover's snout and pulled hard, closing the noose round his jaws. At the same time he brought one foot hard down on the beast's neck. Rover immediately started thrashing about, lunging with his tail, but Trevor quickly looped the other end of the rope round the tail, jumped off his neck, and started dragging him back towards the garage. Five minutes later Rover was back in his tepid pond in the garage, and Trevor was in the bath, dreaming about three toed sloths in the South American jungle. ^ TOP ^

© John Clare 2000-2007