by Peg Kehret
Clink. Clink. Clink. I recognized the sound of a dog’s tags jingling together. Foxey stood up and arched his back. Even in the dark, I could tell his fur was standing out, making him twice his regular size.
Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound came closer.
I sat up. I couldn’t see the dog through the bushes.
I reached for Foxey’s box, and opened it. If the dog spotted us, I thought it would be safer for Foxey to be in the box. A dog might not even come to investigate a boy with a box but it would go after a cat, for sure.
I untied the rope from my wrist and then reached for Foxey. I planned to put him in the box and put the box behind me. If the dog approached, I would not let it see the box.
Foxey struggled when I picked him up, and let out a loud, “Meow,” when I put him in the box. The dog immediately crashed through the bushes toward us, barking.
Foxey panicked. Before I could clap the lid on the box, he leaped out of my grasp and streaked around the end of the rest room. I still had the rope in my hand, with the other end attached to Foxey’s collar, but the dog saw Foxey go, and bolted after him.
I jumped to my feet, which made my right leg throb.
I had to make a fast choice. I could hold onto the rope and keep Foxey from running away, but if I did that I knew the dog would reach Foxey before I could pick him up. Or I could let go of the rope, and hope Foxey would be able to run fast enough to get away from the dog. If he did, where would he go? Would I be able to find him again?
I let go.
I had to. I was afraid if I held Foxey back, the dog would tear him to pieces before I could get there.
Woof. Woof. Woof. As the end of the rope slid out of my hand, the barking was loud and excited.
The dog chased Foxey, and I ran after the dog. “Go away!” I yelled. “Get out of here, dog.” I clapped my hands. “Shoo!” I cried. “Go home!”
The barking grew more high-pitched. I followed it around the rest room. As soon as I got away from the bushes, I could see that it was a big dog—a German shepherd, perhaps, or some kind of a setter. I hoped it wasn’t a trained hunting dog.
We dashed across the grassy field in the center of the park: Foxey first, the dog gaining on him, and me limping after. Every time my right foot thumped down, I felt a jolt of pain up my leg.
Woof! Woof!
The dog suddenly stopped running, but kept barking. Did he have Foxey cornered? Had Foxey made a mistake and gone somewhere that he couldn’t get out of? I pushed myself to run faster. “Hey, dog!” I yelled, hoping to distract it.
The barking grew louder.
As I got closer I saw that the dog was standing at the base of a tree, barking upward into the branches. Good old Foxey had climbed a tree. The dog stood on its hind legs, with its front paws on the tree trunk, still barking.
“Go home, dog,” I said. “Stop that!” I didn’t raise my hand or go close to the dog, though. I like dogs, but I didn’t know anything about this one, and I didn’t want it to come after me.
The dog leaped against the tree trunk, barking shrilly.
A porch light came on across the street, at one of the houses I had seen earlier.
A woman in a blue bathrobe stepped out onto an open porch. “Here, Peppy!” she called. “Here, Peppy!”
The dog stopped barking and turned to look at her.
“Peppy!” the woman yelled. “Come home!”
The dog circled the tree again, nose to the ground.
The woman quit calling and started to whistle.
The dog looked up into the branches one last time, and then trotted toward the woman. I waited until I saw her let the dog in and close the door before I went to the base of the tree. I walked around it, hoping the rope would dangle down far enough for me to grab it. I knew I couldn’t haul Foxey out of the tree that way, but at least if I held the end, I would eventually be able to get Foxey back. I didn’t see any rope.
“It’s okay, Foxey,” I said. “He’s gone. You can come down now.”
I don’t think Foxey believed me. I stared up into the dark branches. There was no sound, and no movement.
“Here, kitty, kitty. Come on, Foxey.” Nothing.
My flashlight was on the ground next to the bicycle; I wished I had grabbed it before I ran after the dog. Now I didn’t want to leave the tree to go get the flashlight, because I was afraid Foxey might jump down while I was on the other side of the park and who knows which direction he might go. I decided to wait at the base of the tree, and hope he would come to me.
I sat on the ground, leaned back against the tree, and waited. After a few minutes I called him again. No response. Poor Foxey, I thought. He’s terrified, and I don’t blame him.
Maybe I wasn’t being fair to Foxey, taking him with me on this trip. Maybe I should have done what Mama said, and tried to find him a good home. If I had showed his picture around school, lots of people would have wanted such a beautiful, smart cat. Some rich kid might have adopted him and Foxey would be sleeping on a heated pillow and eating tuna out of a glass bowl, instead of shaking with fear at the top of a tree.
“I’m sorry, Foxey,” I said.
I waited and called, waited and called, for about an hour. Then a new worry hit me. What if Foxey wasn’t in the tree? The dog could have made a mistake. I never actually saw Foxey go up the tree; I only saw the dog barking at the bottom. Foxey might have run partway up, to fool the dog, and then run right down the other side and kept going. By now, my cat could be miles away, still running.
I stood up, called one more time, and then jogged across the park, to get the flashlight. All this running wasn’t doing my sore leg any good, but I was more worried about Foxey than I was about my leg. I grabbed the flashlight, and ran back to the tree.
I turned on the light and aimed it into the branches, waving it back and forth. I looked at the large lower branches first, and them aimed the light higher and higher. Nearly at the top, two green eyes gleamed in the light.
“Silly old cat,” I said, as relief filled me. “Come down from there.”
He lay on his stomach, his front paws extended in front of him, holding onto the branch. The rope was tangled in the branches below him; it was probably the reason Foxey wasn’t higher than he was. He couldn’t keep climbing because the rope held him back. Was it also keeping him from climbing down? If it was, I had a serious problem.
I turned off the flashlight, not wanting to call attention to myself. Now that I knew where Foxey was, I decided to wait awhile longer and see if he could get down by himself.
I sat against the tree again, and waited. My eyelids kept closing and twice I had to stand up and walk around the tree to keep myself from falling asleep.
I tried talking softly to Foxey, encouraging him to come down. After about forty-five minutes, I turned on the flashlight. Foxey now faced the opposite direction, with his head toward the tree trunk. But he wasn’t any lower.
I squinted upward, trying to see if the rope was the problem. I couldn’t tell.
Once when he was still a kitten, Foxey had gone up our neighbor’s chestnut tree and I had been afraid he didn’t know how to climb down. I wanted to call the fire department, but Mama said, “If the cat got up there alone, he’ll get down alone.” Dad said, “Don’t worry, Spencer. I’ve never seen a cat skeleton hanging in a tree.”
They were right. Foxey came down the next morning, but not until I had skipped supper and breakfast because I was too upset to eat.
This time, I couldn’t wait until morning. Once daylight came, I didn’t dare hang around this tree too long without someone wondering who I was and why I was not in school. And I couldn’t leave the tree and take a chance that Foxey would jump down and run away. Besides, Peppy’s owner would no doubt let him out again first thing in the morning, and he would probably beeline right over here.
I stuffed the flashlight in my hip pocket, and walked to the closest picnic table. I pulled on the table, hoping it wasn’t chained to a pol
e or cemented to the ground.
It moved. I yanked harder. It took all my strength to drag the picnic table across the grass. After I pushed one end of the table against the base of Foxey’s tree, I crouched under that end and stood up. My back helped my arms lift the heavy table and I leaned the raised end against the tree, centering the table on the tree trunk so the table wouldn’t wobble.
When it was as steady as I could make it, I climbed up the tabletop, the way little kids climb up the slope of a slide. Then I stood on the top end of the table, and stretched my arms above my head until I grasped the bottom branch of the tree. I pulled myself up, scraping both arms on the bark, and sat on the branch.
I shined the light on Foxey again. He had not moved.
I held the light against my chest so that it illuminated my face. I wanted to be sure Foxey knew it was me coming up the tree.
“Good boy,” I told him. “Good Foxey. You can come down now.”
I turned the light off, put it back in my pocket, and stood up, holding fast to the next branch up. It was three feet above the one I was on; I climbed up to it easily. From there on up the branches got smaller, with short branches sticking out from the main ones. I kept climbing.
“Meow.”
Foxey was only about six feet above my head when he greeted me. I was afraid to go any higher. The branches were thin up this high and I wasn’t sure they would support my weight.
I talked to Foxey some more. He meowed again, but didn’t move.
I took the flashlight out of my pocket and turned it on. I could now reach the end of the rope and, holding the flashlight under one arm, I began untangling it. Twice I had to break off a small branch in order to free up the rope. When I finally had it all loose, I tugged gently, urging Foxey to come down toward me.
Foxey scowled at me and stayed where he was.
I tugged again. On the third try, Foxey stood up, stretched, and hopped down to the branch next to my shoulder. I scooped him off the branch, held him against my chest, and buried my face in his fur.
After putting the flashlight in my pocket, I backed down the tree, holding Foxey with one hand and hanging onto branches with the other.
When I reached the bottom branch I sat down and let my legs dangle over. I could see the ground, but it was too far to jump, especially with my sore leg.
I wasn’t sure I could climb from the branch to the picnic table and hold onto Foxey at the same time. I decided to let Foxey go first. I tied the end of the rope around my wrist and, holding Foxey with both hands, I leaned over as far as I could toward the picnic table, and let go.
Foxey landed with a light thud and scampered down the table to the ground. As he did, I hung from the branch and jumped, feeling for the table with my feet. They landed too far to one side, and the table tilted away from the tree trunk.
Instead of sliding down the table, as I had planned, I jumped forward as the table crashed sideways to the ground. I landed on my hands and knees in the grass.
The noise and sudden movement startled Foxey and he bolted away. The rope yanked on my wrist, as Foxey thrashed wildly at the other end.
I scrambled to my feet and ran toward him, but as soon as there was slack in the rope, he took off again.
Fortunately, he ran toward the bushes beside the rest room, and when I reached the building, I reeled him in like a fish, picked him up, and held him close. I felt his heart thumping.
“I’m sorry, Foxey,” I whispered. “I’m sorry you got so scared.”
After he quieted down, I settled into the spot where I had been asleep earlier. This time I put Foxey in the box; I thought he might feel safer that way. I didn’t put the lid on, though, since the rope was still tied to us both. I lay on my side, curled around the box, petting Foxey.
It took me a long time to fall asleep. I kept listening for the jingle of dog tags.
CHAPTER
SIX
I awoke at dawn with a stiff neck. It took me a second to remember where I was. As soon as I did, I looked in Foxey’s box. It was empty.
I sat up, and saw him under a bush, watching a bird.
“How about some breakfast?” I said, as I opened the backpack. We shared bread and cheese, and I ate one of Aunt May’s apples. After a walk around the park, during which Foxey made good use of another molehill, I tied the box to the bike, put him in, and started on our way.
Although my leg still hurt, I peddled the bike at full speed, using both legs equally. There were a lot of cars on the streets, but the drivers paid no attention to me. They were no doubt on their way to work and thought I was on my way to school.
At noon, I stopped at a Plaid Pantry and bought a box of cat food ($1.69), a quart of milk ($1.10), and two Rice Krispies cookies ($1.50). Mama says you pay more at a convenience store, but I didn’t want to leave Foxey out of my sight while I walked through a big supermarket. At Plaid Pantry, I could see my bike through the front window the whole time.
I sat on the sidewalk in front of a French restaurant that didn’t open until three, and ate the last of my bread and drank the milk. I ate one cookie and saved one for later. Then I counted my money.
Yesterday morning, I had sixteen dollars and seventy-five cents. Fourteen dollars came from Aunt May’s purse; the rest was left from my lawn-mowing money. Foxey’s harness cost $3.20, and the bus to the King Street Station was seventy-five cents, so I had actually left Seattle with $12.80 in my pocket. Now I had only $8.51.
I put some cat food in Foxey’s box, but the traffic noise made him too nervous to eat. I poured the last bit of milk into the jar lid and put it in the box. While Foxey drank the milk, I studied the Washington map. I knew I couldn’t ride my bike on the freeway; I had to find other roads.
As the day wore on, my leg hurt more. After lunch, I rode for only an hour and then I had to rest. The second time I stopped, I was near an on-ramp for Interstate Five.
I stood near the freeway on-ramp, watching the cars approach. A traffic light controlled when the next car could merge, and a line of cars waited. It would be easy to hitchhike from here, I thought. Each car stopped briefly at the light; they were heading south, the way I needed to go. Maybe I should just go out on the side of the road and stick my thumb in the air.
The thought of hitching a ride scared me silly. What if I got picked up by a criminal or a drunken driver?
On the other hand, I would get to California a lot faster in a car, and without wrecking my leg. My bruised shin hurt more now than it had when I first fell. All the bike riding was making it worse.
I did some quick calculations. If a car went sixty miles an hour for four hours, and I was in it, I’d be 240 miles closer to Candlestick Park by dinnertime.
I stepped closer to the curb, looking at the vehicles in the line. I needed a big car, so that my bike would fit. And I needed a driver who did not look as if he had a police record.
The fourth car back seemed perfect: it was a full-size van, with a white-haired woman behind the wheel and a little kid in the front seat. Grandma and grandchild, I guessed. The back seat was down; my bike would fit easily.
I waited until the van was second from the stoplight. Then I put out my thumb.
The woman noticed me right away, and rolled down her window. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. The first one I tried was going to give me a ride.
But instead of telling me to get in, the woman started yelling at me.
“Does your mother know what you’re doing?” she shouted. “It isn’t safe to hitchhike, and it isn’t legal, either. What’s your name? Where do you live?”
The control light turned green. The pickup truck behind the van honked. “You go home this minute!” the woman called, as she drove onto the freeway.
The pickup honked again, and I realized he was not honking at the van; he was honking at me. The driver was a man in a red baseball cap. He jerked his hand toward the back of the truck, signaling me to hop in.
There wasn’t time to think it over. It w
as do it, or get left. I hoisted the bike into the back of the truck, and climbed up beside it. As the truck picked up speed, I untied the box from the bike, and held it on my lap so Foxey wouldn’t be riding along tipped on his side.
I scooted forward until my back rested against the cab. I wondered if the woman was right, that it’s against the law to hitchhike.
Foxey meowed, letting me know he wanted to get out of the box.
“Sorry,” I told him. “You’re safer where you are.”
But am I safe? I wondered. Was this a smart move or the most stupid thing I’d ever done?
I looked over my shoulder, through the window, at the driver. His chin had not been near a razor for several days. His T-shirt sleeves were rolled up and I saw a large tattoo of a dragon on the arm nearest me. Aunt May would take one look and scream. Mama would say he has an ax under the seat, for sure.
What if Mama was right? I had put out my thumb for the grandma in the van, not for this man; why had I been so quick to hop in his truck?
I decided that the minute the truck got off the freeway and stopped, I would jump down and take off on the bike. But what if he didn’t stop until he was in some remote area? I began to envision a cabin in the wilderness, where kids are tortured.
Twenty minutes later, the truck slowed. As it exited the freeway, I quickly tied Foxey’s box back on the bike and slid over to the tailgate, ready to make my getaway. The driver turned at the first corner, pulled over, and stopped.
I jumped down and opened the tailgate. Before I could get the bike off, the man came around to the back of the truck. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t leave Foxey.
“This is as far as I go,” the man said, as he helped me lift the bike to the ground. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I said. I took a deep breath, and felt my knees shaking with relief. “Thanks for the ride.”
He climbed back in the truck and drove off.
You were lucky this time, Spencer, I told myself, but you might not be so lucky again. I made up my mind that I would not hitchhike anymore, even if I had to crawl to Candlestick Park on my hands and knees. It was just too risky.
