Harry Cat's Pet Puppy

by George Selden

  The mouse jumped up onto one corner of the box, and he too froze there, balanced, two legs on one side and two on the other. “He’s gone!”

  “When?”

  “Oh, Harry, it’s all my fault—”

  “But when could—”

  “Last night—”

  “—he have run away?”

  “—I was chasing all over the subway station, looking for all those—”

  “Oh, Huppy—”

  “—lousy little things, and—and—”

  They were jabbering at one another as if they were rabid, hardly hearing a thing that the other said.

  “It is my fault!” Tucker toppled back down on the drainpipe floor, hoping that he would hurt himself. “He must have been awake all the time, and heard me say Bellevue, and experimenting on animals—”

  Harry was first to get back his sanity. “Now stop, Tucker—”

  “—and I called him a vicious little mutt—oh! oh! oh!” The mouse hid his eyes in his claws. But he still saw himself as he’d acted last night.

  “I say stop! Right now! You be guilt-ridden later. We both have to think! Where’s he gone? Where’d he hide? Then we have to go find him!”

  * * *

  There passed ten minutes of quick, alternating thoughts—mostly those of Harry Cat, because Tucker couldn’t wait to feel guilty—as they tried to decide where the dog had gone. The nearest entrance to the subway station led up to the east side of Broadway. He must have gone that way. They both were convinced he’d left the station.

  “Too frightened we’d find him here,” moaned Tucker, “and take him—”

  “Shut up!” said Harry Cat.

  They dashed up through a roundabout path of pipes—to avoid all the people on the entrance stairs—and arrived on the sidewalk. A cold gray rain, which would have been snow if the temperature was a little lower, was punishing New York for something.

  “Now looking west,” Harry thought out loud. The dog would have seen, past the old Times Tower, the crowded block between Seventh and Eighth avenues. Lights blinking outside movie theaters, cars coming and going, brakes screeching, horns honking, the crush of restless human beings. “That probably would have scared him.”

  But eastward—less noise, less lights, less people. He might even have caught a glimpse, beneath the street lights, a block away, of the tops of the trees in Bryant Park. “Come on! Down here,” the cat commanded, and crouching low, they scuttled through the streaming gutter toward the Avenue of the Americas. Under each parked car they stopped and shouted, as loud as they dared, “Huppy! Huppy?” And got back in answer nothing but the indifferent city sounds.

  On a pleasant day Bryant Park can be a truly beautiful, natural place: a living rectangle of grass and trees in the midst of a city conjured of concrete and steel. But today, with bare branches dripping, it felt desolate and unprotected. And it was empty—except for Lulu.

  “Hi, you guys!” she called down from a branch.

  “This is all we need,” whispered Tucker to Harry. “To meet that kookoo bird.”

  “Oh, Lulu’s okay,” Harry whispered back. “As a matter of fact, she can help us.”

  Now Lulu Pigeon was definitely not a cuckoo. But she was, as she freely admitted herself, a rather kookoo bird. She came from a very distinguished pigeon clan that claimed to be descended from the original Hynrik Stuyvesant Pigeons. And they claimed to have come to New York clinging to the yardarm of a Dutch sailing vessel, when New York was still New Amsterdam. But over the years the Stuyvesant Pigeons and their descendants had grown very grand indeed. You might even say snooty. They refused to be seen below Fourteenth Street. However, every family—birds, too—has at least one flap-out. And a year ago Lulu flapped out of the private Stuyvesant Pigeon tree uptown and came down to live in Bryant Park—“Nearer where the action is really at!” she explained. She called everybody “guys,” or “men,” or “fellas,” no matter what kind of animal it was—her talk, in fact, was the latest New York slang—and within a few months she’d established herself as one of the authentic characters in the Times Square area.

  “What are you cats doing out today?” (She also called everybody “cats,” even if it was a dog or a mouse.)

  Harry explained how he and Tucker had adopted Huppy—“Ooo, that’s groovy!” cooed Lulu, who still had some pigeon left in her speech—and then how Huppy had run away. “Bad day for splitting.” Lulu shook her head. “Only out here myself to hunt up a seed or two.”

  “Will you help us find him?” Harry asked.

  “Sure, men.” Lulu coasted down through the air and settled next to them. “Love to!”

  The plan, rapidly decided upon, was this: Tucker and Harry should continue on down the south side of Forty-second Street, and Lulu—“Since I got wings!” she boastfully flapped, and so could search out nooks and crannies and doorways more quickly—Lulu Pigeon would take on the north side herself.

  “All the way to the East River, if necessary!” said Harry.

  An excellent idea, they all agreed. There was one thing wrong, though: it didn’t work. Nobody found Huppy. And four hours later, having peeked in every possible place where a little dog might hide, they were back in Bryant Park—drenched, shivering, and disconsolate.

  “Too bad the other dogs aren’t around,” said Lulu. “They could help.”

  “What other dogs?” asked Tucker.

  “There’s a pack that hangs out around the park here. Some pretty tough guys, too. But on days like this—or when the cops are makin’ a sweep—they hole up in cellars all over the city.”

  “There’s nothing to do,” said Harry Cat, “but tackle that block between Seventh and Eighth. He might have thought, if he got in a theater, he’d be safe in the dark, and be warm.”

  “And see a flick too!” added Lulu.

  “I doubt very much if movies were on his mind!” said Harry. “Come on!”

  They switched sides of the street this time—with the same result: nothing. By evening they were back in the park. The gray day was dying, defeated by night. But the rain had grown stronger—had turned into sleet.

  “You didn’t see any dogs?” asked Harry.

  “Not a hair of a one,” said Lulu. “But I caught the last half of the greatest Roadrunner cartoon! He was in this tunnel, with a Mack truck bearing down on him—”

  “Lulu!” Tucker shouted. “Did you take time off to look at the movies?”

  “Well, Mousiekins, I was in the theater, so—”

  “And don’t call me Mousiekins! Only Harry can call me that.”

  “He can? Since when?”

  “No, he can’t! But he’s the only one who can!”

  “Will you two please keep quiet?” said Harry. His teeth were chattering. So were Tucker’s. And so was Lulu Pigeon’s beak. “Now I really have to think.” He paced, and stopped. “If I was Huppy—” And paced, and stopped. “—if I was a dog—who lived in a drainpipe—and was only acquainted with the Times Square subway station—” Abruptly he pounced on an idea he’d had. “Of course! That’s it! How stupid can an alley cat get? Follow me!”

  Tucker, spluttering, and Lulu, fluttering, followed Harry as he ran down Forty-first Street, avoiding the crowds on Forty-second. The cat panted out an explanation. “The subway—isn’t the only place—Huppy knows!” Tucker tripped, fell into a puddle, and swore. “He must remember—where I found him!”

  Across Eighth—across Ninth—they reached Tenth Avenue. “Now if I can only remember where that dismal, filthy alley was—”

  “Shall we fan out again?” asked Lulu Pigeon.

  “No. I’m sure it’s—it’s—here!” Harry suddenly stopped. A black corridor that was darker than the coming night yawned threateningly between two buildings. The only thing the three could see, through the sleet, in the dim glow that a street light cast, was the outline of a garbage can.

  “We gotta go in there?” said Lulu.

  “You don’t have to go anywhere,” Harry
answered. “But I’m—”

  “After me!” In a fit of courage very unlike himself—unless he was after something really valuable, like a high heel or a belt buckle—Tucker scooted past his friend, and vanished. Very catlike and quick, on the pads of his feet, Harry followed him.

  “Oh, well,” said the bird, “if I gotta, I gotta.” She flapped into the dark. But after she’d almost brained herself on a brick wall she couldn’t see, she decided she’d better land and walk.

  “Huppy? Huppy? Huppy?”

  He wasn’t behind the first garbage can. Or the second. Or the third. As they felt their way into the pitch-black alley, nobody could see a thing—not even each other. They reached the end: a final wall across their path.

  “He’s not here”—Tucker Mouse.

  “He’s got to be!”—Harry Cat.

  “Let’s get outa this place!”—Lulu Pigeon. “I got a feeling there’s something there—like maybe meat-eating rats!”

  “Ah—”

  “Shh!”—Harry Cat again.

  “What?”—Tucker Mouse.

  “Ah-choo!”

  “That’s him!” said Harry.

  Tucker dashed toward the sneeze. “I got him! He’s here—”

  “Let go! Let go!” a voice whimpered.

  “Don’t scare him!” warned Harry.

  “’Bye, boys,” said Lulu. “I’ll wait for you all in the street.”

  Coaxing, cajoling—and finally carrying—Tucker and Harry got Huppy out to the sidewalk’s edge. “Oh, I’m so glad we found him! I’m so glad we found him,” the mouse kept moaning.

  But the puppy huddled against Harry Cat. “Now don’t be afraid,” Harry purred reassuringly. “We’re going home.”

  Which they did—after introducing Lulu. She shook her head. “Poor bedraggled mutt.”

  “Don’t you call him a mutt!” said Tucker.

  For if the three of them were drenched, then Huppy was absolutely flooded. Like a soggy sponge he squished along beside Harry, back to the Times Square subway station.

  “You’re welcome to stay overnight,” said Harry.

  “No, thanks,” said Lulu. “There’s a guy down on Second Avenue who owns an antique shop. He doesn’t know a back window is busted. I sack out down there in weather like this. But I’ll drop in later on, this week, to see how the”—she glanced at Tucker—“the little dog is.” And flew off through the winter night.

  A time of frantic drying began. Using shredded newspapers, Kleenex, Scot towels, anything they could get their claws or paws on, the cat and the mouse rubbed Huppy dry. Then they fed him—only a chunk of cheese, all they had, but he ate it gratefully—and Harry punched up the pillow so it was good and soft.

  “Wait!” said Tucker. “Last night—I saw something—” He whisked out into the subway station, and came back a minute later dragging a piece of red-checked flannel shirt behind him. “Tuck him in.”

  “You tuck him in!” said Harry Cat. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “That’s a lousy joke,” said Tucker. But he jumped at the chance—jumped, in fact, right into Huppy’s house, and began to tuck him in like mad. “Now soon you’ll be nice and warm,” he soothed.

  “Thank you, Tucka.”

  “Harry!” The mouse beamed up at Harry Cat, who was on his hind legs, looking down.

  “I know. I heard.”

  “Tucka Mouse!” said Huppy, and laughed to himself.

  Tucker Mouse jumped out of the cardboard box. And looked away.

  A minute passed. Then, “Well,” said Harry, “you glad he’s back?”

  “I’m glad,” said Tucker.

  “And what’s that on your cheek?”

  “It’s nothing.” Tucker brushed nothing away. “Some rain.”

  “We’ve been home an hour.”

  “A little leftover rain, is all.”

  FOUR

  A Growing Dog

  “Ah-choo!”

  That first sneeze in the alley was just the beginning. The sleet, the cold—Huppy got sick. But Harry and Tucker just thought it was sniffles. They had no idea how ill he was until Lulu came calling a few days after they’d gotten the little dog back.

  She flew through the station, waddled into the drainpipe, took one look at Huppy, shivering in his box, and said, “That’s a very sick dog. Feel his nose!”

  “Why his nose?” demanded Tucker Mouse.

  “You can tell if he has a temperature. The hotter the nose, the higher the fever.”

  “Since when were you a veterinarian, Lulubelle?” asked Harry.

  “Ooo, I know all about dogs,” said Lulu. “Max—he’s the head of the pack that meets in Bryant Park—Max tells me everything.”

  Tucker jumped into Huppy’s house. “His nose is burning up.”

  “Pneumonia, probably,” cooed the pigeon.

  “Thanks a lot!” said Tucker. But he began to worry.

  The next day he worried even more, because Huppy’s nose was hotter still. And back came Lulu, with more cheery information. “Max says there’s nothing that you can do. He says he eats a special grass when he’s sick. But it’s winter now, and the grass is dead.”

  “Well, I think there’s something to do,” said Harry. “We’ll keep him warm, and give him lots to eat and drink—he’ll be well in a week.”

  “Hope so,” said Lulu. “Toodle-oo!”

  Huppy was not well in a week. If anything, he was worse. Harry tried to stay calm, although he too, behind a hopeful smile, was extremely concerned. Someone had to stay calm, because Tucker was frantic—more frantic, that is, than usual. He would feel just as guilt-ridden if the dog died of pneumonia as he would if they hadn’t been able to find him at all. And he ran around the drainpipe, as Harry Cat said, feeling Huppy’s nose every hour, “like a hysterical head nurse.” Harry sneaked a touch himself every now and then, when Tucker was out scrounging up something for Huppy to eat.

  And if as a nurse the mouse overdid it somewhat, in the matter of food he proved himself a hero. Like most sick people, Huppy had no appetite, and to get him the goodies that went down most easily, Tucker risked life, limb, and dignity. He found that the one thing that always was welcome was unmelted ice cream. The soup left over when a chunk had melted was not enough; Huppy liked to lap at the sweet solid cold. Very natural too, Nurse Tucker decided, for someone who had a fever. But rushing the stuff in a paper cup all the way back to the drainpipe late at night when the lunch stand had closed was quite a task. (Fortunately, the cover to the vanilla ice-cream container did not quite fit.)

  It was when Huppy began to ask for strawberry that Harry suspected he was getting better. He was sure of it one morning after Tucker had taken his temperature for the tenth time that day and Harry had told him to for heaven’s sake lay off!—and the dog airily allowed, “Oh, that’s all right, Harry. Tucker can hold my nose if he wants to.” (At least, after all these weeks—it already was January—Huppy had his “r’s” by now.)

  “He can, can he—mhmm,” Harry purred. “I think instead of nose-holding what you need now is a little fresh air.”

  “Fresh air!” shrieked Tucker. “You want him to get pneumonia again?”

  “And since we’re having a thaw right now, I believe we’ll go up to the sidewalk tonight and get you at least ten good breaths. All right?”

  “No, Harry!”

  “All right.” When Harry Cat agreed with himself, the argument was settled. He didn’t want Huppy to become a chronic invalid. Which is often what happens when a sick youngster who is getting better is fed too much ice cream.

  * * *

  So that night—after Tucker had tried, and failed, to tie the piece of flannel shirt around the puppy with a piece of precious string—they set out for the sidewalk.

  Set out, that is, two steps. Then Harry and Tucker froze in their tracks and stared at each other. The dog couldn’t fit through the opening!

  “Harry—he’s grown—”

  “Hawy!”

&
nbsp; “Now don’t be scared. And don’t forget your r’s,” said the cat. “You worked hard on them. We’ll get you out of here.” Neither he nor Tucker had noticed how much the puppy had grown. “That darned ice cream!” thought Harry—along with the hamburgers and the franks and everything else that Tucker had stuffed into him. “We’ll just have to use the back way—through the pipes.”

  It wasn’t that easy, however. The back hole to the drainpipe was larger than the front—and Huppy got through it without too much trouble—but a few feet in, the pipe split. The way that Tucker and Harry usually took to the street was too small. They had to turn left—the first of many left turns—when they should have turned right, and turn downward when they should have turned up. After half an hour they’d gone so far, and in so many different directions, that even Harry didn’t know where they were—but it felt as if they ought to be in Brooklyn by now!

  The cat was leading the way—if fumbling in darkness through unknown pipes could be called leading—Huppy inching behind him, with Tucker Mouse bringing up the rear. “Let’s take a rest,” said Harry, and stopped. In the cramped pitch-black no one said a word. Then Huppy began to whimper. Harry twisted around and pawed the air till he found the dog’s head, which he patted. “I promise you, Huppy, I’ll get you out.”

  “No, you won’t! I’ll get bigger and bigger—pretty soon I won’t even be able to move—I’ll squash myself to death!”

  “Let’s get going!” came Tucker’s anxious voice from behind.

  “You two stay here,” said Harry. “I’m going on ahead and scout.”

  Huppy couldn’t turn around and Tucker couldn’t squeeze past him, so he did the best he could by patting the puppy’s rump and telling him it would be all right—which he hoped but wasn’t at all sure of.

  Neither one of them heard the cat come back. “It’s always worse right near the end. Two left—one down, one up—then a long level right and we’re on the street. And you’ll never guess where we come out!”

  “North Dakota!” said Tucker.

  They came out on the corner of Forty-first Street and Broadway—exactly one block from the entrance to the subway station. But the night was so beautiful, when they’d found a deserted doorway to sit in, that it almost made up for all their effort. A January thaw—like spring in midwinter—is a fragile, strange season. The air was clear, a warm wind brushed the animals’ fur, and high above, the remote bright stars seemed far more pure than the city’s glitter. Huppy took his ten deep breaths.