Born to Run by Michael Morpurgo

Author:Michael Morpurgo
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsChildren'sBooks
Published: 2010-08-19T00:00:00+00:00

When the binmen came first thing the next morning, they discovered a girl lying semiconscious behind the bins. She was bleeding badly. Standing over her was a fawn coloured greyhound who, from the look of him, had been in a nasty fight. They wouldn’t have found her at all, they’d have driven off without ever seeing them, they told the paramedics, if the greyhound hadn’t come over and barked and barked at them, until they took some notice of him, and then he’d deliberately led them back to where she was. The paramedics told them that in that case, if the girl lived – and that was doubtful because she’d lost a lot of blood – it would be the greyhound who had saved her life.

I’m a running dog, a chasing dog, a racing dog. I’m not a fighting dog. I never in all my life had a fight before that night. My speed had always got me out of trouble before. This time I didn’t have a chance to use it. He came at us out of nowhere, leaped straight at my face, teeth bared and snarling. He may have been small but he was all aggression, all muscles, all teeth, and I realised at once that he’d rip my throat out if he could. So I fought back with all my strength because I knew I was fighting for my life. It was him or me.

For a while I gave as good as I got, but I very soon understood that I was neither strong enough nor cunning enough. I was up against a street fighter, a killer dog. As we tussled and tore at each other, I could feel my strength ebbing fast. If Becky had not pulled us apart when she did, it would have ended much worse for me. As it was I got away with a bloodied ear. Becky was not so lucky.

I didn’t really know how badly hurt she was until we were through the fence, and running through the streets, until I looked back and saw she was staggering rather than running. I stopped to wait for her. She was leaning against a lamp post now, so I ran back to her. “It keeps bleeding,” she said. She was breathing hard and clutching her wrist. “It won’t stop bleeding.”

We walked on after that, Becky talking all the while, but after a time I realised she wasn’t talking to me at all, but to herself. And she wasn’t walking straight either. She kept bumping into me, kept stumbling off the pavement. Several times she ended up on her hands and knees, unwilling or unable to get up. I would try to encourage her to her feet again, and on we’d go, until at last we came into the glaring light of shop windows. She found a hiding place in behind some bins and crawled in, calling me after her.

She clung to me. “I’m so tired, Brighteyes,” she whispered, “so tired.” She was finding it difficult to talk at all now.

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