Chihuawolf

by Charlee Ganny

  Paco realized that being two small dogs instead of two bigger ones put them at an advantage. They would be hard to spot, and chances were, if the werewolf did hear any rustling or catch a glimpse of something moving, he would think it was one of the large, hungry junkyard rats. He certainly wouldn’t be expecting a rescue party, especially one made up of a Chihuahua, a Jack Russell terrier, and two skinny cats.

  Carefully, quietly, the two dogs slunk close to the ground, crawled on their bellies, and made their way toward the spot where Natasha lay. Her head rested on her paws. Her ears folded down. Her eyes squeezed closed. She looked as unhappy as a dog could look.

  Paco and B-Boy stopped behind some rusted corrugated roofing not ten feet away from their captured friend. Paco clearly detected her scent now. Its sweet fragrance lifted his spirits. He didn’t stop to think that she would be able to smell him too.

  But she did. All of a sudden, Natasha’s ears stood tall. Her eyes snapped open. She lifted her nose and sniffed. She twisted her head around and looked right at the spot where B-Boy and Paco hid. A bark of joy came out of her mouth. She leaped to her feet.

  Ay, ay, ay, thought Paco. This isn’t good.

  The bark caught the werewolf’s attention. A puzzled look crossed over his ugly face. He curled his lip and showed his huge white fangs. He took a step toward Natasha. Paco tensed. He got ready to charge the huge beast. He’d fight, even if he could never win.

  All of a sudden came the clear high sound of a meow.

  Another meow rang out, this one defiant and taunting. The werewolf’s head whipped around. He spotted two cats swishing their tails back and forth at the edge of the clearing.

  “Hey, homely looking!” the black cat yelled.

  “I’ll get you!” the creature growled.

  “Bet you couldn’t even catch your own mother!” Norma-Jean spat at him. She turned tail and ran as fast as she could, Little Annie at her side. They scooted across an old washing machine. They jumped over a bicycle with only one wheel. They zigged and zagged, going one way, then switching course and going another.

  The werewolf roared. He got madder and madder as they outran him. He couldn’t catch those two doggone cats, who were—yes, they were—laughing at him.

  Not wanting him to give up the chase, Norma-Jean and Little Annie slowed down so that the beast could nearly grab them. When he got very close, they made a beeline for a mud puddle. They easily leaped over it. The werewolf splashed through, getting even dirtier and getting his feet very wet. Now, he made a squishy sound when he ran.

  Next, the cats scampered up a huge, gooey mountain of old newspapers and rotting vegetables. They stopped at the very top. “Yoo ooo! Mr. Funny Looking. Where did you learn to run? At a turtle race?”

  The werewolf bellowed, “I’ll get you! I’ll get you right now.” He started climbing up the pile of garbage. But his feet were wet. He slipped and slid all the way up the mound. When he reached the top, he took a mighty swipe at the cats with his long arms and razor-sharp claws.

  They just giggled and jumped away, heading down the other side of the garbage hill, graceful as gazelles.

  The werewolf plunged after them. He didn’t realize until it was too late that his wet feet acted like skis, pulling out from under him. “Aiiiiii!” he screamed.

  Whack! He fell, coming down hard on the slimy mountain of trash. Suddenly his body acted like a sled on ice. He zoomed out of control down the garbage hill on his back. At the bottom, he smacked into a discarded entertainment center. His feet smashed into the screen of an old TV set.

  He pulled himself loose and stood up. He roared. His temper exploded. He thought about nothing but getting hold of those two cats. He’d tear them to pieces. He’d munch on their bones. They’d never laugh at him again.

  But they were laughing at him now. Laughing and pointing at a potato peel hanging off one of his ears.

  He raced after the cats, going farther and farther from the clearing, toward the row of trees along the white road.

  Paco and B-Boy didn’t waste a second. They rushed to Natasha’s side. Her face brightened with joy, and her eyes filled with tears. “I knew you’d come. I knew you would,” she said. “It was all I had to hope for.”

  “Shhh, shhh. We’re here.” Paco gave her face a lick on one side, and B-Boy gave her a lick with his little pink tongue on the other side, just to make her feel better.

  “Get me loose, please,” Natasha pleaded.

  “But how?” Paco said. “I didn’t bring a knife. Maybe we can chew through the rope.”

  “There’s no time for that,” Natasha told them. “I think you can unbuckle my collar, though. You have such small teeth, Paco, I know you can do it. It’s my favorite designer suede collar, but I don’t care. I just want to go home.” A sob choked her, and she couldn’t say anything else.

  Paco had unbuckled lots of things. He had attacked many a shoe. He had undone several purse straps. He was a professional safecracker when it came to buckles. His lips turned up in a happy grin. He certainly could do it.

  “Lie down Natasha, so I can reach it,” he told her, and she did.

  “Hurry, Paco, hurry!” B-Boy raced around and around the two dogs. His nerves jangled. His feet needed to move. He thought he was going to jump out of his skin.

  Paco hurried. He grasped the leather of the collar where it went through the buckle. His teeth were just the right size to do it. He tugged. He pulled. He got the toggle out of the hole in the leather. He pulled again. It was easy for Paco, yes it was. Being a small dog meant he could do things a big dog couldn’t. In a few seconds, Natasha’s collar fell to the ground. She was free!

  She stood up and shook herself. “Thank you, Paco.” Her voice rang out like silver bells, music to his ears.

  “Okay, let’s go!” B-Boy yelled.

  “Wait!” Natasha said.

  “Wait?” Paco cocked his head to one side as if to ask why?

  “You two climb on my back and grip my fur in your teeth. I can run faster than you. I am an Afghan hound. My breed can run like the wind. Now come on, get on!” And they did.

  Down the winding path through the broken appliances, past the huge cement culverts, around the piles of pipes, Natasha ran, the two little dogs riding her like jockeys on her back. She ran until she reached the white gravel road. She turned downhill and began to run toward the trees.

  All of sudden, they heard a terrible howl. They heard a roar. They heard an angry feline yowl. Actually, they heard two of those.

  Then they saw the werewolf, shimmying up a big tree.

  Ay, ay, ay, thought Paco. He hadn’t planned on the werewolf being able to climb.

  The werewolf went higher and higher, up through the foliage, up to where the trunk was very thin.

  The two small cats sat perched way out on a tiny branch, at the very tip-top of the tree, where they hoped the werewolf couldn’t reach them. But maybe he could. He was getting very high, and his front legs were very long, and his huge claws were very sharp.

  “I’m going to dash right past him,” Natasha said. “I can run faster than he can anyway. He’s really quite clumsy and slow. Hang on now!”

  “Alto!” Paco cried.

  Natasha halted. “What’s wrong?”

  Paco let go of her fur and slipped to the ground.

  “Paco, what are you doing? He can catch you.” Natasha looked at him, her eyes filled with concern.

  “You go on ahead. Go as far as the highway. If you don’t see me coming in a few minutes, start for home. The children are following us, and they may be almost here.”

  Natasha’s whole body stiffened. “The children? Victoria too? Coming here?”

  Paco nodded solemnly. “Yes, so go quickly. You need to go.”

  “But why are you staying?”

  “I have to stop the werewolf. And those
cats in that tree? Those are my cats, Little Annie and Norma-Jean. I’ve gotten them into this trouble. I have to get them out of it. They’re my family, you see.”

  Natasha shook her head that yes, she did see. “Take care, my little friend,” she whispered, and then, in a great burst of speed, with B-Boy on her back holding on as tightly as he could, she streaked down the road, past the tree where the werewolf climbed, and was gone.

  The children were indeed getting closer to the lair of the werewolf. The rain of gull poop had slowed them down. The turkeys had made them take a detour. But even with the delays, they quickly reached the hiking trail that ran along the highway. The path was paved and well kept. They traveled northward at a fast pace. Every now and then, they stopped their bikes and let Victoria use the megaphone to call Natasha’s name.

  “Natashaaaaa!

  “Natashhhaaaa! Come, girl, Come on!” she cried, her voice echoing through the trees.

  No dog answered her call with a bark or a woof or a howl. The children would wait a moment before getting back on their bikes and traveling on.

  None of them noticed the small bird with the black cap on the top of her head flying along with them, calling dee dee dee, dee dee dee. She sounded like any other chickadee. But she wasn’t. She was a chickadee spy.

  Pedaling fast, racing the clock, the children were soon far from town. Each of them, although they didn’t say it out loud, felt a bit discouraged. Olivia thought the whole journey was a mistake, and that she would get in trouble when she got home. Sandy worried about the omens and what dangers might lay ahead. Tommy thought that if they didn’t find Natasha, he would stop looking like a hero in Victoria’s eyes.

  Yet Victoria, who became sadder and sadder as they went farther and farther from home, wouldn’t give up, not yet. She needed to try. Her Natasha was out there alone. She pleaded with her friends each time they stopped. Let’s go on, just a little longer, oh please.

  And so they did.

  In fact, they were very close to Mount Diablo when the bird above them changed her song from dee dee dee to a two-note whistle that went fee beee, fee beee.

  The children, intent on moving ahead, didn’t even notice.

  Speeding along, wanting to go faster and faster, they rounded a sharp curve—where suddenly they put on their brakes so hard that their bikes skidded. Sandy nearly fell.

  Smack-dab in the middle of the path stood two skunks, their backs to the children, their tails raised in battle position. Two more skunks strolled out of the woods. One stopped on the far side of the path, and the other stopped on the near side, keeping anyone from trying to go around the first two skunks. With a gleam in their licorice-colored eyes, they also turned around, raised their tails, and did a little dance up on the toes of their hind feet. All four were ready to attack with their smelly weapons.

  “Go back! Push your bikes back!” Tommy yelled to the others. “They’re going to spray!”

  The children scurried backward and stopped. Their mouths open, their eyes wide, they stared at the four skunks lined up like soldiers in their path.

  “What are we going to do now?” Olivia asked. “We can’t pass them. They’ll get us.”

  “What are they doing here?” Victoria cried. “Are they rabid? Why are they in the path?”

  “It’s another omen. It’s the third,” Sandy explained. He read a lot of books, and he knew about the power of three things. “The third omen is the final warning. We need to go home or something terrible will happen.”

  “No!” Victoria cried with the saddest of cries and burst into tears.

  “But what else can we do, Victoria?” Olivia said gently. “We can’t get around the skunks without getting sprayed. And maybe they are rabid. Maybe they will bite us.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know,” Victoria sobbed. “But Natasha is out there somewhere. I know she is! I can’t leave her!”

  Sandy tried to think. Tommy tried to think. Olivia did think.

  “Well, you know what?” Olivia’s voice was kind. “If you think she’s close by, let’s stay right here for a while. Use the megaphone and keep calling her. We have a little time. Your voice will carry a long way, and we’ll just wait. Will that do?”

  Victoria pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose. Her voice was trembling. “OK. Let’s try that. Yes, let’s.”

  So the children got off their bikes. The skunks stayed in the path, but they lowered their tails and turned around. Now they simply sat down, watching the children while Natasha used the bullhorn to call in the saddest of sad voices, Natashaaaa. Natashhaaa, over and over again.

  Up on the mountain Natasha streaked by the tree that held the two yowling cats and one snarling, fearsome creature. She disappeared with B-Boy into the darkness of the tunnel of trees. Only then did Paco do what he had planned. He gave the victory signal, V in Morse code: three short yips and a long bark. Three short yips and a long bark.

  From the very tip-top of the tall tree, the cats responded: “Mew mew mew, Meow!” Then came another plaintive feline call that needed no translation or Morse code. It was “Heeeelllllp!”

  When he heard that, something snapped inside of Paco. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t feel scared. He took off running toward the tree. He ran fast, faster than he had ever run before, his tail rigid, his small teeth bared, his anger in flames…and when he got to the tree, his momentum carried him straight up the trunk until the creature’s fur bottom was right in front of his face.

  Paco did the obvious thing: he bit the werewolf—hard—in the hindquarters and held on.

  Or, if we tell it the way the story goes in the legend told by the wild creatures from that time forth, the tiny Chihuahua with the big, brave heart bit the monster right in the butt. Paco bit him so hard that the werewolf roared loud enough to shake the ground. Paco bit him so hard that the beast let go of the tree trunk and started to fall.

  Paco let go and fell too, rolling over as he hit the ground so he wouldn’t be crushed by the huge werewolf. And being light and small and landing on the grass, he came down without a sound and without a scratch.

  The werewolf, being big and heavy, hit the rocky road with a crash and a loud grunt. However, also being very hairy, he wasn’t hurt. The great beast leaped to his feet, turned his burning red eyes on the little dog, and growled. “I’ll get you for that. And I’ll eat you when I do.”

  Paco heard the threat loud and clear, but what he yelled back was—“Run, kitties! I’ll catch up.”

  With that, Paco turned away. He took off toward the junkyard path.

  The monster took chase. His heavy footsteps banged against the earth. His fetid breath stank up the air. But he was, as Natasha had noticed, big and clumsy and not very fast—and Paco was running for his life.

  Paco plunged deeper into the junkyard, his legs moving like mad.

  The werewolf stayed right behind him.

  Paco would never give up. But he would soon be tired. His legs were very short. He didn’t have much of a chance. He couldn’t win a fight with a werewolf—unless he heard the sounds he was waiting to hear.

  And then he did.

  He heard the buzzing of bees. He heard the thundering of hooves.

  Help had arrived.

  The little dog scooted toward a large culvert. He dashed inside and slowed down enough to make sure the werewolf had come in too. The cement of the walls echoed every terrible sound. The werewolf snarled and panted. He yelled that he’d catch Paco, eat him up, and suck on his tiny bones.

  But words couldn’t scare Paco now. He focused on the plan.

  He ran out the other end of the culvert. He dashed straight into another, slightly smaller one.

  The werewolf came after him. He hunched over and held his head down when he rushed in.

  At that point, Paco gathered up all his courage and purposely went slower. Yes
, he went slower. He stayed just a few feet in front of the sharpest, biggest, most awful set of claws that ever was. He wanted the monster to believe he could grab him. Paco wanted the werewolf to stop thinking about anything but catching the pesky little Chihuahua. If he did, he would fall for the most brilliant trick Paco had ever devised…

  Now, mere inches from the terrible claws of the werewolf, Paco raced out of the far end of the culvert. He burst into an open space in the junkyard.

  And there they were.

  A large herd of deer stood like a living wall before him. Dozens of hooves pawed the ground. Dozens of antlers lowered and prepared to charge. And in the sky above, a swarm of hornets buzzed. Stingers at the ready, they circled and swooped.

  The werewolf emerged from the big cement pipe. He kept his eyes on Paco, who scooted straight ahead. He never saw the hornets diving like fighter planes until it was too late.

  Buzzzzzz! Buzzzzzz! Buzzzzzz!

  The swarms of hornets struck. And as the werewolf tried to swat them away, he ran right into the backside of the huffing, snorting deer.

  He screamed again. He changed direction, still pawing at the buzzing hornets.

  A deer moved in behind him, lifted his hind legs, and kicked. He hit the werewolf with such force that the beast flew through the air and plopped down in front of an old front door, hanging on one hinge from a doorframe. It was shakily propped up like a gate between two massive piles of pipes.

  And this door contained something very special, something critical, something that could save them all, something that Paco knew very well: a doggy door—a rubber flap in a frame.

  In that doggy door stood Paco. He barked loudly so that the werewolf heard him. The werewolf charged.

  Paco waited until he felt the monster’s breath on his back. He waited until he felt the air move as the monster reached out to snatch him up with his needle sharp claws. He waited until the very last second before he dove through the doggy door and bounced onto the ground on the far side.