Ruff vs. Fluff

by Spencer Quinn

  And even though I did feel like being at home, possibly lounging by the fire, I trotted off after Harmony. Why? I had no idea.

  We walked side by side, me and Harmony, the main sound being the crunch crunch of her boots on the snow. Some of the time she was crying, but soundlessly. Tears came rolling out of her eyes, down her face, and falling into the snow. I trotted ahead, turned, and showed her the puck, hoping to distract her. At first she didn’t notice, but later—after I’d bumped against her legs once or twice or maybe more—she did. She gazed down at me and smiled. Smiling through tears? Was that an expression? It was what I saw now. I loved Harmony, no doubt about that. She knelt and gave me a nice pat. I dropped the puck and licked her face.

  “I like hockey, Arthur.” She rose and put the puck in her jacket pocket. “I’m going to play.”

  Sure. Why not? I didn’t see any problem.

  Not long after that, we were enjoying hot chocolate at Willard’s. More accurately at a picnic table on the deck behind Willard’s, due to some incident that may or may not have occurred inside on a previous visit. The hot chocolate was for Harmony, of course. I had a nice bowl of fresh water, my go-to drink. It was sunny on the deck, maybe on the cool side, but the air was still, the tree branches on the lower slopes of Mount Misty motionless, the snowy summit shining gold. Did we have a single care in the world? Not me!

  Harmony gazed at Mount Misty over the rim of her mug. Hey! She was rocking a chocolate mustache! Licking it off struck me as a very good idea. I moved a little closer. Good things can happen in life, but you have to be ready.

  “You know what I still don’t understand, Arthur?”

  Why we hadn’t ordered a side of Willard’s Famous Home-cured Bacon? That was my only thought.

  “What’s the big deal with the old Sokoki Trail in the first place? That’s what I don’t get.”

  The old Sokoki Trail? That sounded familiar.

  “Mr. LeMaire never said. I wonder if he left tracks in the snow. It might be interesting to …” She didn’t finish that thought, not out loud. Was the finishing part … order up some bacon? I waited to see. But no bacon got ordered. Instead Harmony rose and—oh, no—licked off her chocolate mustache. “Plus I … I just don’t want to go home yet. And a walk will do us good.”

  It would? I was plenty good just like I was. Why mess around when—

  “Arthur? You’re lying on your back? Get up. Let’s roll!”

  Why were people always saying that a walk would do me good? I liked walking—up to a point—but I also liked other things, bacon for example. How come no one ever said, “Care for some bacon, Arthur, my friend? Bacon’ll do you good”?

  Various thoughts—but pretty much all of them about bacon—occupied my mind as we followed the trail we’d walked yesterday, up and around the side of Mount Misty. The snow wasn’t deep—hardly any at all under the trees—and we zoomed along, the way you do when your mind is elsewhere. Harmony didn’t say a word the whole time, not until we reached the cliff at the base of the old Sokoki Trail. She gazed up.

  “Bodychecking starts next year, Arthur,” she said. Then, after a long pause, she added, “I love hockey.”

  I gazed up at her. She was so lovely! I sat down right on her foot, just letting her know we were good for always. As for what she was talking about, I couldn’t tell you.

  Harmony gave me a quick pat, took a deep breath, and—wow!—gave herself a little shake. Just when you think she can’t get any better, she does.

  “Okeydoke, Arthur. Think you can scramble up? It’s not that steep.”

  What was this? She wanted me to scramble up this sheer cliff?

  “Come on. You’ve got four feet.”

  Maybe so. But what difference did that make?

  Harmony unzipped her jacket, reached into an inside pocket, took out a biscuit. To be precise, a Willard’s Homemade Doggy Biscuit, extra-large. Not long after that, we found ourselves on top of the cliff, which had turned out to be not so steep after all, practically level ground. We had a quick little picnic—energy bar for Harmony, biscuit for me—and set off on the old Sokoki Trail.

  MOM WAS PUTTING UP DECORATIONS around the front desk: paper bells, silver icicles, Santa dolls. There’s constant entertainment here at the Blackberry Hill Inn, especially if you’re the quiet, watchful kind, and I am. Me: many, many things, of which quiet and watchful aren’t close to the most amazing, but they’re part of the package.

  I love watching Mom—or any humans—at work. They get so focused. It’s kind of cute, really. Because when all is said and done, what difference … but enough of that! It was Christmas. The mood should be bright at Christmas. I stretched out on the grandfather clock, my heart full of nice feelings for all my fellow creatures. With one exception, as I’m sure you understand by now.

  Mom started to hang a wreath on the wall behind the desk. To make space, she moved a mirror onto a different hook. And lo and behold! What suddenly appeared in that mirror, up near the top? Why, the image of a stunning, golden-eyed individual, relaxing in the most elegant fashion on top of an old grandfather clock. Here was entertainment of the very highest quality. The individual slowly raised her glorious tail, and curled and uncurled it in the most languorous way, for no reason other than the sake of beauty. For a moment I turned my gaze to Mom and sent her a strong, simple message. Mom? You won’t ever be shifting that mirror again, will you?

  Perhaps Mom didn’t get the message, distracted by the entrance of Bro, carrying two hockey bags. He closed the door. And Harmony was where, exactly?

  “Hi,” Mom said. “How was practice?”

  “Good.”

  She looked past him. “Where’s Harmony?”

  I was no longer surprised that Mom and I often thought along similar lines. It has been clear to me for some time that we have a lot in common, although golden eyes are mine alone. When it comes to looks, there’s no missing the big gap between me and, well, everyone. Fair is fair.

  “Uh, Harmony?” Bro said.

  “Your sister. The one you go to hockey practice with.”

  “She went for a walk.”

  “A walk? After all that exercise?”

  “With Arthur.”

  Mom nodded like that made sense. Arthur could always use a walk, although all those walks of his never seemed to produce the slightest result.

  “What’s for lunch?” Bro said.

  “Whatever you make yourself,” Mom said. “Just don’t blow up the kitchen. And first run upstairs and bring down Mr. LeMaire’s bag.”

  “Huh? How come?”

  “So we’ll have it handy by the desk when whoever he sends comes calling for it. Plus we’ll free up the room. Do I need any more reasons?”

  Bro thought that over. Then he smiled. Bro has a very nice smile, actually not as broad as Harmony’s, and even kind of shy. “That’s a joke, right?”

  “Partly,” said Mom. She handed him a key. Bro started up the wide staircase that led to the guest rooms. I hadn’t been up there in some time. So why not now? I took one last lingering look in the mirror and leaped down from the grandfather clock, if leaping was the right word for such a silent, fluid movement.

  “Hey, Queenie,” Bro said. “How’d you get in here?”

  Bro was looking at me—perched on the desk in the big guest room at the end of the hall—with surprise. He really hadn’t noticed me following him the whole way, and entering the room side by side? Was Bro even safe out in the world on his lonesome? Did I have to keep an eye on him?

  A suitcase lay open on the bed. Bro moved closer to gaze inside. I could see perfectly from where I was: neatly folded clothing; Dopp kit; sneakers; phone charger; and a postcard. An old postcard: I could smell its mustiness. Bro picked it up.

  “Hey,” he said. The front of the postcard was a picture of a man standing by a truck. “ ‘Foster Mahovlich Transport, Anything and Everywhere, established 1919,’ ” Bro read aloud. He turned it over. “It’s addressed to LeMaire and Comp
any, in Montreal, October 12, 1932. There’s no signature and no message, except this one letter, C.” Bro said “Hmm” a couple of times, then slipped the postcard into his pocket and closed the suitcase. “Come on, Queenie, you can’t stay here.”

  I hadn’t been planning to, but now that it was forbidden, I reconsidered. At the same time, I was suddenly in a curious mood. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t you believe that old saying about curiosity. We in the cat world are not so easy to get rid of. And who in their right mind would even want to get rid of us? I thought about that as I glided down the stairs beside Bro. The problem was that a surprising number of humans were not in their right minds, at least not all the time. But only my opinion. Don’t get upset. Getting upset too easily is a sign of not being in your right mind, by the way. Just sayin’. No offense. But you know who you are.

  Bro wheeled the suitcase over to the front desk.

  “Thanks,” said Mom. She glanced at the door. “Sure practice was okay?”

  “Uh-huh. I found kind of a cool thing up there.”

  “Oh?”

  He laid the postcard on the desk. Mom put on her cat’s-eye glasses. For a moment she looked a little like me. Not close to the full effect, of course. But still. Mom had a bit of cat in her, not something you see every day. Finding dog in just about every single human? Easy peasy.

  Mom examined the postcard, front and back.

  “Any relation to the Foster Mahovlich on our team, Mom?” Bro said.

  Mom nodded. “Great-grandfather, I would say, or even great-great-grandfather. He was the one who made all the money.”

  “How?”

  Mom tapped the postcard with her fingernail. “He started this trucking company, long gone now, hauling logs to the mills, I think it was, and maybe lumber down to Boston and New York. After that came all the real estate.”

  “How rich are they?”

  “More than rich enough. I don’t know the details, but they own thousands of acres in this part of the state, including Big Snow Ski Resort.”

  “Yeah?” said Bro. “I didn’t know—”

  The front door banged open and a large man came in, one of those types with a barrel of an upper body and sticklike legs. He looked red-faced and angry, in fact, pushing a sort of invisible anger wave ahead of him. I could feel it.

  He stabbed his thick finger at Bro. “There he is!” he said. “And don’t give me that innocent look, you sneaky little—”

  Mom interrupted. “Mr. Mahovlich? Is there some problem?”

  Mr. Mahovlich’s voice rose. “Is there some problem? I’ve just come from the hospital and you bet there’s a problem. This sneaky little b—sneaky little sneak of yours busted my son’s nose. Took the doc fifteen minutes to stop the bleeding. Like a stuck pig!” Mr. Mahovlich came forward, now wagging that thick finger at Mom. “You gonna let him get away with it? And be careful with your answer. I can loop in my lawyers in a heartbeat.”

  Mom tilted up her chin. I love that look. It’s a family thing: Harmony and Bro do it, too. We don’t like being pushed around in this family.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Mahovlich. And I’d appreciate it if you’d—”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m talking about! This sucker-punching offspring of yours—”

  Bro’s face went bright red, even redder than Mr. Mahovlich’s. “It wasn’t a sucker punch! We dropped our helmets and—”

  “Whoa!” said Mom, raising both hands like stop signs. “Was there some problem at practice?”

  “That’s one way to put it,” said Mr. Mahovlich.

  “He started it,” said Bro.

  “What a load of—”

  “WHOA!” Mom said.

  That whoa shook the house. I wouldn’t have thought Mom capable of a whoa like that.

  “One at a time. You first, Mr. Mahovlich. And please, let’s all try to calm down.”

  “I’ll calm down after you assure me that this hooligan will be punished—and punished severely.”

  “For what?”

  Mr. Mahovlich banged his fist on the desk. He wore a huge golden watch, a beautiful watch, I suppose, matching the color of my eyes. But that wasn’t enough to make me like him.

  “For what? I’ve been trying to tell you. He flat out—” Mr. Mahovlich raised his fist, intent on banging the desk again, but now he noticed the postcard, lying right there. He froze. “What’s this?”

  Mom glanced down. “A postcard.”

  Mr. Mahovlich tried to snatch it up, but Mom can be quick—not cat-quick, of course, but surprisingly close. She laid her hand on the postcard.

  “Not just any postcard,” Mr. Mahovlich said. “Where did you get it?”

  Mom turned to Bro. “I was just finding that out.”

  “Um,” said Bro. Then he added “uh,” followed by another “um.” He shifted around—and suddenly spotted me! A very nice sight, of course, and it seemed to have a calming effect. Bro straightened up and said, “A guest left it behind.”

  “Who?” said Mr. Mahovlich. “What guest?”

  “We have strict confidentiality rules when it comes to our guests,” Mom said.

  “Huh? What does that mean?”

  “It means we don’t blab about them.”

  Mr. Mahovlich clenched his teeth, making his jaw muscles bulge in a most unpleasant way. He jabbed a finger at the postcard. “I want it,” he said.

  “It’s not yours.” Mom’s hand moved a little, now covering the postcard completely.

  “But it’s … it’s a family memento,” Mr. Mahovlich said. “I’ll pay you. How does one hundred dollars sound?”

  Mom did not reply, just gave Mr. Mahovlich a steady look.

  “Two? Three?”

  Three hundred dollars? For a crummy old postcard? Sounded good to me. Mom? The money? We have no guests at the moment? Hello?

  “It will be returned to the owner.” Mom put the postcard in a drawer. “Like any other forgotten item. Now, where were we, Mr. Mahovlich?”

  Mr. Mahovlich’s eyes stayed on that drawer for what seemed like a long time. Then he made a big show of checking his watch. Because he wanted us to see how beautiful it was? Did he care what we thought about anything? Mr. Mahovlich shot Mom an unfriendly look and Bro an even less friendly one. “To be continued,” he said. He backed up a step or two, wheeled around, and strode out of the inn, slamming the door behind him.

  Mom turned slowly to Bro. “All right, mister—the truth about hockey practice, the whole truth, and nothing but.”

  DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE OLD SOKOKI Trail, Arthur?”

  I did not. But I did know that me and Harmony were hiking on it, so maybe everything would soon be clear. Hey! What was with me? I was getting brainier and brainier with every passing day! In fact, maybe this was enough braininess. I got the feeling too much braininess might be tiring. And wasn’t it time for a little rest, possibly accompanied by a snack of some sort? Nothing elaborate. Just scraps—a leftover sandwich crust or a rolled-up baloney slice—would do. I glanced over at Harmony—moving a little on the rapid side—to see if a snack might be in the plans.

  She looked at me. “Everybody’s wrong about you, aren’t they, Arthur? You’re not a complete blank in there, I can tell.”

  Of course I wasn’t a complete blank! What a strange idea! That was my only thought at the moment. But a great one! Otherwise my mind was nice and empty.

  We kept moving. This trail—I was pretty sure it had a name and it would come to me eventually—was real easy to follow, since somebody had been by already, somebody in snowshoes, packing down last night’s snow, really not that deep to begin with. We went up and up and then it got flat, headed sideways across Mount Misty. The air was so still among the trees—most all of them of the Christmas-tree type—and there was nothing to hear but the crunch of Harmony’s boots on the snow, I myself moving silently, and if not silently, at least pretty quietly. If I tried hard I could also hear the beating of my heart, thump thum
p, thump thump, nice and steady, always there when I needed it. And even when I didn’t! Who’s luckier than me?

  “Matty says the old Sokoki Trail goes way back to Colonial days, or even earlier,” Harmony said, interrupting my thoughts at just the right moment. “He’s got the mountains in his blood.”

  Sokoki! I knew it would come to me. But mountains in his blood? That sounded terrible. Poor Matty! And he was one of my favorite humans, the best guide in the mountains, which was why we always recommended him to our guests, not to mention what a fine head-scratcher he was. I made what Mom calls a mental note to give Matty a nice big kiss the next time I saw him.

  “Do you think Mr. LeMaire had snowshoes?” Harmony said. “I don’t remember seeing any.”

  Neither did I. Pretty much all I remembered of him was that gun in his jacket pocket.

  “Arthur? What are you growling about?”

  Me? I listened. Yes, my growl for sure, low and rumbly. Grrr. Grrr. The party on the other end of that growl must have been shaking in his boots. I wondered who it could be.

  “Cut it out.”

  I cut it out.

  We crossed a frozen stream, the ice black and mostly clear of snow, except for a few wisps here and there.

  “Hey!” Harmony said on the other side. “No more snowshoe prints.”

  I hadn’t spotted that little detail. But now that she mentioned it, I saw no prints, no prints for sure. We were a great team, me and Harmony. She peered up and down the stream.

  “Whoever it was must have left the trail.”

  Wow! Was Harmony cooking or what?

  “I wonder whether we should follow the stream.” She turned toward the woods, where the trail led into the trees and vanished from sight. “But that’s clearly the trail, and the trail’s what Mr. LeMaire was interested in. Let’s roll, Arthur.”

  Or, if this was getting too complicated—and that was my take—we could head for home, curl up in front of a nice fire, just hang for a while. Anything wrong with that? Harmony was real big on rolling, except we never rolled anywhere, always stayed on our feet. Although there was the one time last summer when she took me on her bike. That hadn’t ended well, on account of—