Chapter 7

7 Dave versus Dave's Dad Remember the big secret about Dave? He's going to be back at the end of this chapter, so keep those beaks sealed, 'UP UP UP!' I woke to the shrieks of Mickey, bashing a spoon against our cage. 'Dad! It's too early!' Dave cried. 'The race is tomorrow, son,' Mickey cooed. 'We don't have much time.' Jet growled as Mickey landed on her head and peeled an eyelid open with his claw. 'We need everyone up to help,' Mickey screeched.

Only Gary was raring to go as he spun around in his ball in excitement. A sleepy Dave hopped out of bed and yawned as he joined his dad. 'You need to be awake and switched on, son,' Mickey squawked. 'Are you a pigeON or a pigeOFF?' 'A pigeon?' 'I'm a pigeon, Gary shouted, rolling up

beside Dave. 'You're a hamster,' Mickey shouted back. 'Don't be a wally.' Me and Jet lined up next to Gary and Dave as Fluffle and Cricket-Ball Face joined us. Mickey marched up and down the line, inspecting us like an officer in the army. 'Today, we train,' he squawked. 'Tomorrow, we soar.'

He pointed at Gary. 'Do you have the jammy biscuits?' 'Yes, sir!' He turned to Dave. 'Every time you do well, you get a biscuit.' 'That will be easy,' Dave scoffed. 'I'm a racing pigeon.' I couldn't look Dave in the eye. 'What happens if he doesn't do well?' I asked, changing the subject. 'Then he will have to clean out the tiny poos in Cricket-Ball Face's hutch.' 'Yuck,' Dave said. 'And I warn you that Cricket-Ball Face had a double helping of rabbit pellets yesterday so his poo is a little runny. As everyone gathered around the

rabbit's hutch to see if what Mickey had said was true, Dave called me over to help him put his new wing on. He pecked off his sling and we slid the harness on. As I tugged the straps tight with my beak and the feathers clicked into place, Mickey whistled in awe. 'That's a wing of beauty, my boy,' he said to Dave. 'It is,' Dave said, fanning the feathers open. 'With my racing-pigeon blood and this wing, I won't need any training at all.' Mickey and I exchanged awkward looks as Dave started pecking his way into the centre of a chocolate-orange biscuit. I wanted to tell my friend the horrible secret that was weighing my feathers

down with guilt but I knew I couldn't. If Dave was going to stand any chance of beating Opprobrious Vastanavius the Parrot, he'd have to believe he was born to race. 'Follow me!' Mickey crowed at Dave. He'd been busy. The reception area had been transformed into an assault course. There were hoops and squeaky toys on the floor and water bowls strung from the ceiling. Smelly hills of dog food dotted the floor and hamster-wheel towers were stacked high. 'What is this?' Dave asked. 'This is your training circuit, son,' Mickey said.