Fenway and Hattie in the Wild

by Victoria J. Coe

  I rush over to make sure she smells all right.

  “Same old Marcus,” I hear Goldie grumble under her breath.

  “Give him a chance,” Patches murmurs. “Maybe he’s changed.”

  “Sure doesn’t look like it,” Goldie growls.

  “Sweet!” Marcus cries, striding up to Hattie with his arm outstretched. At first, I think he’s going to hug her, but instead he slaps her hand. “The crew!”

  “The crew!” Hattie says, slapping him back. Since when does she do that? Is this a new kind of short human greeting? Maybe Hattie isn’t sure, either. Her face flushes and she looks away. She rubs her dirty knee, wincing. Is this boy bothering her?

  He’s sure bothering me. I romp over and jump on his legs, my nose hard at work. He doesn’t smell nearly as friendly as a short human should. Besides dirt and jelly and that maple tree, he smells confident. Too confident.

  “Hey!” Marcus yells, his arm shooing. “Get lost!”

  My ears sag and I back away. I was only checking him out. How else am I supposed to know if he’s threatening?

  Hattie rushes between me and Marcus. She grabs my collar, her shoulders slumping like she feels bad. “Sorry,” she says. I think she’s talking to me for a second, but then I notice she’s looking at him.

  I glance up at her. “Why are you taking his side?” I whine.

  Hattie scowls. “Shhh!”

  “Keep your nose on that mutt,” a dog’s voice says with disgust. When I turn, I see Coco and that Chocolate Lab with the bandanna. The Frisbee that Goldie returned to her is lying in the grass, untouched. “I don’t trust him.”

  It’s pretty clear she’s talking about me, but why? I’m still trying to figure her out when the sounds of squealing short humans and jingling dog tags capture everybody’s attention. We turn as all kinds of short humans race into the Dog Park with a pack of dogs.

  “Coco!” the dogs call in unison. They head straight for the Pomeranian, their tails wagging happily, like they can’t wait to greet an old friend.

  She stands tall in all her poofy-ness, her head turned as if she doesn’t even notice the new dogs rushing toward her. What she lacks in excitement, the Chocolate Lab more than makes up for. He’s leaping and running in circles, like it’s the greatest day of his life. “Ohmygosh! Ohmygosh!” he keeps yapping.

  “Marcus!” some of the short humans yell, surrounding him. One of them bumps his fist. Another slaps him on the back. A couple smack hands with Angel. “The crew,” I hear them say. Either they don’t see Hattie standing there, too, or they are totally ignoring her.

  Marcus must notice because he waves Hattie into the group. All of a sudden, everyone’s smiling and talking. Somebody claps Hattie on the shoulder. “The crew,” some of them say.

  I turn to the ladies. “What’s so special about that boy Marcus? Is he in charge of the treats or something?”

  Goldie sneers. “He has some kind of special power over everyone. Even you backed away when he told you to.”

  My tail droops. She has a point there.

  “Funny, but the only one who doesn’t pay attention to him is his own dog,” Patches says.

  I cock my head. “But he came out of the tree. He didn’t have a dog with him,” I say.

  “That’s because she was already here.” Goldie glances toward the center of the Dog Park and nods.

  I turn to see which dog she’s looking at, my ears picking up the sounds of clinking tags and yipping dogs. Coco struts slowly across the grass, her snout in the air. A pack of dogs trails behind: a three-legged German Shepherd, a huge black Poodle, and a Dachshund panting with excitement. Their tails are swinging eagerly, even though Coco’s not racing or playing keep-away or doing anything fun. The bandanna-wearing Chocolate Lab drops back for a quick scratch, then hurries to rejoin the others as if he’s afraid he might miss the party. Don’t those dogs realize we’re in a huge Dog Park with a climbing ramp and a crawling tube, not to mention a Frisbee? Then I remember what Goldie said about who’s the boss.

  “Wait—Marcus’s dog is Coco?” I ask.

  I watch Coco wander over to the back fence and curl up in the shade. The other dogs look at each other for a second. Then they drop down, too, as if they can’t think of anything better to do than relax. Or maybe they’re lost without Coco leading the way.

  “Like canine, like human,” Goldie grumbles.

  I turn toward the front of the Dog Park. The new short humans are still swarmed around Marcus. I guess he does have special powers, because they stare at him like he’s a plate of juicy steaks. “Marcus and Coco really are a lot alike,” I say to the ladies.

  Just then, Marcus shouts, “Go!” and takes off. The others race after him through the grass, whooping and hollering. Hattie and Angel seem all too glad to join in.

  My tail goes nuts. Wowee! It’s a game of chase! I bolt toward them. “Hey, everybody!” I bark. “Wait for me!”

  Marcus leaps up and over the climbing ramp, the other short humans following his every move. They may be fast, but they clearly have no strategy. They’ll never catch him unless they try to head him off.

  Luckily, when it comes to playing chase, I’m a professional! I make a wide arc and race around to the crawling tube from the far side. I shoot through one end just as Marcus’s head appears in the other.

  “Gotcha!” I bark, scampering toward him. I’m going to win!

  But when I’m only midway through the tube, his eyes widen like he’s surprised. Or scared. Suddenly, he ducks back out.

  I should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. I race through the crawling tube and burst out after him. I spy him tearing through the grass at high speed, his arms flailing. And laughing hysterically. “Help! Help!” he cries in a voice that doesn’t sound the least bit afraid.

  The other short humans laugh, too. Some of them make frightened faces and rush away from me, shouting and giggling as I approach. They’re looking and acting totally panicked, in spite of the laughing. But none of them smells scared at all. Even Hattie is going along with this new part of the game. Why is Hattie acting panicked? It’s just little old me!

  I chase the short humans from one end of the Dog Park to the other. I can’t help but notice that none of the other dogs are joining in. “Hey, come on, everybody!” I yell as I pass by. “Don’t you want to join this really fun game of chase?”

  Some of the dogs start panting. Tails wag, too. But nobody’s making a move. The whole pack turns to Coco, who stares back at them, sitting perfectly still. Sure, the ladies said she’s the boss. But Dog Parks are for playing. She was pretty into that Frisbee before.

  Hey! Maybe she just needs an especially friendly dog to entice her to play with it again. I make a sharp turn and zip over to the Frisbee—chomp! I sprint up to Coco, dropping it right at her paws. “I’ve got a great idea!” I cry. “We can all play Frisbee. And I’ll let you have it first!” I gaze at her excitedly, my tail thumping. She can’t possibly resist!

  At first, Coco just glares at me. She doesn’t even get up. Then she cocks her head questioningly, like she’s not sure she heard me right. “Wow,” she says, not sounding excited at all. “Thanks for letting me be the first to be chased. With my own Frisbee.”

  My tail slows its thumps. Coco’s tone tells me something’s wrong. But what? She obviously loves playing Frisbee. “Hey, guys,” I say, slinking over to the other dogs. “Don’t you want to play?” The only one who bounds right up and gives me a welcoming sniff is the bandanna-wearing Chocolate Lab.

  “Ohmygosh! Ohmygosh!” he says, slobbering all over me. He tells me his name is Lucky. He smells like he’s itching to play.

  I move on to give the Dachshund a friendly sniff before reaching up to smell the German Shepherd and the huge black Poodle. They’re both way bigger than the rest of us, even Goldie. And they’re still as statues. Instead of
wagging their tails or greeting me back, they gaze cautiously at Coco. Lucky nods toward each of the other dogs, telling me their names are Chorizo, Titan, and Midnight.

  “Dude!” I say, turning to the Dachshund. “Your name is Chorizo? I LOVE chorizo!”

  The Dachshund perks up. “Thanks. I get that a lot. Apparently, my humans think I look like a sausage.”

  I tilt my head. “They do?”

  “Um, I think we’ll figure out our own game, thank you very much,” Coco sneers, nosing her way between us and shaking out her extra-fluffy fur. “Fenway, is it?” She says my name like it tastes horrible. Like a fruity peach. Or blueberries. Blech! Next thing I know, her snout is back in the air and the rest of the dogs are following her toward the front of the Dog Park.

  The ladies trot up to me. “What just happened?” I ask.

  “You’ve got a lot to learn,” Goldie says.

  Patches nuzzles my ruff. “Be patient, Fenway. You’ll get used to her.”

  I look across the grass at the other dogs. I’m about to ask if I have to get used to the rest of them, too, but then I notice the short humans grabbing leashes. Is it time to go already? We haven’t had any fun yet!

  “Fenway!” Hattie calls, holding my leash. For some reason, she sounds just as anxious to leave as everybody else.

  Marcus opens his hand, and the Frisbee flies into it. “Cool!” shouts the cap-wearing boy who’s standing right where the Frisbee used to be. Coco, her sparkly collar gleaming through her poofy fur, leads Marcus through the gate, her snout still in the air.

  As me and Hattie wait for Angel to clip the ladies’ leashes, I notice the short human on the bench near the giant water dish. A long, dark braid hangs over her shoulder and there’s white paint on her cheek that looks kind of like a horse. Her eyes are focused on a book in her lap. Has she not looked up the whole time we’ve been here? Lucky saunters over, the end of his bandanna flapping in the breeze.

  “Who’s she?” I say to the ladies.

  “June?” Goldie asks. “She used to be part of the crew, but it doesn’t look like it anymore.”

  “That must be why she’s sitting all by herself,” Patches says.

  I gaze at her, my head cocked. “That makes no sense. Short humans love to play with other short humans. Like dogs!”

  “Most do,” Patches says. “But not all.”

  Me and Hattie traipse back through the woods with Angel and the ladies, my hackles up the whole time. I spy a rotting tree trunk lying on top of the feathery ground plants. Who could knock that over? The end facing us is jagged, like it was gnawed by a huge mouth. I shudder. A pair of chittering chipmunks chases each other up and over the raggedy bark. I shudder some more.

  The path is thick with smells—damp soil, pine needles, rodent-y pests, and that strong, musky odor I picked up before. The more I try to ignore it, the more it wafts into my nose. Are scary creatures hiding underground? Behind the rocks? Way up in the trees?

  I’m thinking so hard I can barely keep up with the pack. Those mysterious wild animals will probably strike when we least expect it. “Don’t get any funny ideas!” I bark, trying to sound fiercer than I feel. “Mess with us and you’ll be sorry!”

  “Fenway, shhh,” Hattie says over her shoulder.

  Why isn’t she letting me do my job? I shut my mouth, but I keep my eyes peeled. Fortunately, I don’t see anything more dangerous than a fat tree root the rest of the way.

  As we get to the little clearing where we were before, my nostrils pulse with the scent of burning wood. Smoke, too. And where there’s smoke, there’s usually—

  “FIRE!” I bark, jumping up and pulling on the leash. “Look out, everybody! This place is on fire!”

  The ladies are not alarmed at all. They keep on walking toward the smoky smell. So do the short humans.

  What’s wrong with everybody? Good thing I’m here! “Run for your lives!” I bark. “We’re in terrible danger!”

  “Fenway, heel!” Hattie scolds, pulling me back. She’s headed right for the fire! I can hear it popping and crackling. Flames and dark smoke are rising up from the ground. Doesn’t she see it?

  “Hattie, watch out!” I bark.

  But she doesn’t even react. “See-ya,” she says as Angel and the ladies veer off at the big oak tree. Vwoop! An opening appears in the boxy tent, and I watch them disappear inside.

  As Hattie leads me toward the wooden table near the dirt road and our car, I spy Fetch Man crouching on the ground behind a burning pile of wood surrounded by rocks. He’s poking the fire with some kind of tool. I tell myself to calm down. I have a feeling it’s a grill, even though it doesn’t look anything like the one we have at home. Fetch Man seems to have it under control. For now.

  As we approach the table, I do a double take. A domed tent has popped up. Chairs, too. And that’s not all. If my eyes aren’t mistaken, right next to the table is a long box with a white lid. It has handles on the sides and wheels on the bottom. It can only be one thing—our Food Box!

  I leap and twirl. “Hooray! Hooray!” I bark, my tummy rumbling. “I knew we were going to have a picnic!”

  Hattie marches up to Food Lady, who’s at the table chopping vegetables like she does in the Eating Place at home. “Yum!” Hattie says, sliding onto a bench. She grabs a piece of cucumber and crunches a bite.

  “What about me? I love picnics!” I bark, trying to leap onto her lap. Even though that cucumber smells bland and tasteless, there’s bound to be something delicious up there, like a pretzel or a slice of cheese.

  “Off!” Hattie snaps.

  “Hey, dogs like snacks, too!” I bark as I slink away, and—what? Somehow my leash got tied around the leg of the bench again. I tug and tug, but I’m totally stuck.

  “Fenway, stay,” Hattie commands, then goes back to chattering with Food Lady.

  I sink into the matted-down dirt. We left the Dog Park for this? Lying under the table alone with nothing to eat? I sigh into my brown paw, covering my snout with the white one. I look out at the clearing.

  It’s dotted with humans and tents and smoke. On the opposite side of the dirt road sits another car and a boxy tent. Directly across the clearing, there’s a pointy tent, a tall pine tree, and a hammock with a man sitting up and waving. “Hello!” Hammock Man calls. He looks awfully friendly. Hattie waves back.

  I check out the rest of the area. The big oak tree and the path from the Dog Park are on our other side, along with that boxy tent that Angel and the ladies disappeared inside.

  The place is alive with noise and activity. Fetch Man’s not the only tall human hovering near fire and smoke. Everyone else is at tables working or hanging around holding plastic cups and chatting.

  I feel myself dozing for a moment. Or maybe longer. Because when my eyes pop open, I can hardly believe my nose. Wowee! Are those—slurp!—smoky, salty hot dogs I smell?

  Whoopee! I leap to my paws, my tail swishing with excitement. Sniff . . . sniff . . . My nose takes in loads of smoky scents—fish, peppers, baked beans, and that best scent of all, hot dogs!!!

  Hattie grabs my leash. “Let’s go, Fenway,” she says, as if I need to be told to romp toward those yummy aromas. Apparently, the tall humans have the same idea because they come along, too. Food Lady’s carrying a bowl of salad while Fetch Man brings a platter of fish.

  Crossing the dirt road, we approach a wooden table with a boy sitting on top, his hand inside a crinkly bag. A lady whose arm is covered with swirly designs waggles a finger at him, her face scowling. The boy shrugs and slithers onto the bench, stuffing a handful of chips in his mouth. He smells familiar, like grape jelly. And dirt. Marcus!

  Food Lady speaks to Swirly-Arm Lady. She takes noisy foil off a dish that smells like baked beans.

  Sniff . . . sniff . . . Those hot dogs are sizzling on another Fire Space in the ground behind the table. My ton
gue drips with desire. My tail twirls in circles. I strain against the leash. “Let me at those hot dogs!” I bark.

  Hattie’s hand taps my head. “Fenway, shhh!”

  Only Fetch Man seems to have the right idea. After setting the fish on the table, he strides over to the Fire Space, where a broad-shouldered man is squatted down and prodding those glorious hot dogs. I go to follow, but Hattie drags me up to the bench where Marcus is sitting.

  That mouthwatering scent is driving me nuts! “Please, Hattie!” I whine, trying to pull her toward the Fire Space. “What are we waiting for? Aren’t you hungry?”

  Totally ignoring me—and the hot dogs—Hattie slaps Marcus’s outstretched palm. I’m suddenly aware that he and the tall humans are glancing at me with curious eyes. Like they’re surprised someone noticed they were barbecuing hot dogs.

  My ears pick up the sounds of jingling dog tags. Apparently, other dogs have noticed, too. I turn and see the ladies leading Angel right toward us. Beside them, Muffin Lady carries a tray that smells like spicy peppers and onions. Long, metal tongs swing from her belt. Tool Man’s basket smells like warm tortillas.

  And they’re not the only ones headed this way. Across the clearing, Lucky, the Chocolate Lab, tows a slender man with pulled-back hair and shiny rings on his ears. I recognize him right away as the friendly Hammock Man. A lady with a big, round belly waddles next to him, her arms wrapped around a bowl heaped with steaming cobs of corn. Behind them trails a short human clutching a book against her chest. It’s June! The one who was sitting alone at the Dog Park.

  I remember the ladies said not all short humans like to play with each other. I wonder why.

  I cock my head, watching June. She looks like a regular short human to me. Except maybe for the shuffling gait and slouching shoulders. And the way she’s clenching that book like it’s the most important thing in the world. Her body language is saying she’s on the outside of the pack.

  “Fenway!” the ladies cry. Suddenly, we’re free from our leashes, exchanging bum sniffs.