Bow Wow

by Spencer Quinn

  Around then was when Birdie spoke up. “His name is Bowser,” she said.

  All my confusion went away. You had to love Birdie, and I do.

  BOWSER, SCHMOWSER, WHATEVER,” MR. Kronik said. “No dogs on board.”

  And just like that, I was right back smack-dab in confusion. Schmowser? There was a dog named Schmowser suddenly in the picture? I saw no dog, and neither did I smell one, which should have done it for me. No dog, case closed. But the thought of a new buddy is always exciting, as I’m sure you know. And don’t forget the smack-dab-in-confusion part. Combine confusion and excitement and what do you get? In this case: Bowser in midair.

  Yes, me in midair, off the dock, across a narrow strip of water, and onto the lower deck of the houseboat, sticking that landing perfectly, with not a wobble and hardly even a sound. Although there were sounds to be heard—don’t get me wrong about that! Those sounds were human sounds, a rising hubbub of confusion and excitement. Confusion and excitement? Wow! As though the state of my own mind was spreading to others! Like my mind was taking over the whole world! My mind had never done anything like that in the past, not even close. I felt so full of joy I can’t even tell you, like I could take off and fly, which is sort of what I did, charging down the deck of the houseboat, paws hardly touching down, hell-bent in pursuit of … of … of Schmowser, that was it! Almost forgot! Hell-bent in pursuit of Schmowser, my new best pal. And what a pal he was going to be, unseeable, unsmellable. The fun we were going to—

  OOMPH!

  Oomph? Maybe I haven’t described where I was very well, but, in truth, I hardly knew myself. The main thing was that I was running along the deck, a stretch of deck at the bow, with handrails on one side and the wall of the house on the other, a wall with windows and flowerpots on sills, and doors. Doors were the important part because with no warning one of those doors opened and out stepped a boy, squarish and thick-necked, busy with something on his phone, his stubby nose practically touching the screen.

  Now, back to oomph. OOMPH! I barreled into this squarish boy full speed, an enormous collision that sent the two of us flying—me actually upside down for a bit, my face to the sky, an interesting sensation—up, up, and over the top bow rail, clearing it by plenty, followed by a long, slow fall, down and down and into the lake, splash, splash.

  I hadn’t actually planned on a swim, but swimming is something I love—and am very good at, even though I never had one single lesson. So when I bobbed up to the surface, I started paddling around a bit, using the dog paddle, one of the greatest inventions of me and my kind. I was trying to think of another when I became aware of a big commotion going on.

  On the top deck of the houseboat, Mr. Kronik was jumping up and down and screaming, “He can’t swim! He can’t swim!”

  Which was crazy! I’m a natural-born swimmer, as I was demonstrating at that very moment. Meanwhile, on the dock, the sheriff was handing Grammy his gun belt and Birdie was shouting, “Bowser! Bowser!” Not sure why, but there was no time to figure it out, because the kid—hair now plastered over his head and his phone still clutched in one hand, which struck me as kind of odd—came bursting to the surface, sputtering and gasping.

  “Holden can’t swim! He can’t swim!”

  I got the picture! It was this kid who couldn’t swim, not me. All the kids I knew—Birdie, Nola, Junior, Rory, and lots of others—were good swimmers, but if this kid was not, then there was nothing to do but edge up against him, keep his head up and out of the water, and herd him over to the dock. I edged up immediately, and that was when the kid noticed me, his eyes opening wide in fear—and they were already opened wide in fear to begin with, so this was fear to the max.

  Was this kid the son of Mr. Kronik? He kind of looked like him, and he certainly screamed like him.

  “A dog! A dog!”

  No arguing with that. I was as doggy as they come, and proud of it. I got myself positioned nicely against the kid’s shoulder. Our eyes met, mine sending a message that everything was cool, and his … well, his were sending some other sort of message.

  “Arrrgh! Arrrgh! A dog!”

  Up on the top deck, Mr. Kronik was still jumping up and down. “He’s petrified of dogs! He’s petrified of dogs!”

  Petrified meaning what exactly? Good or bad? No chance to find out, because Holden—if I’d caught his name—had started thrashing around. Thrash, thrash, thrash, and then he sank suddenly from sight.

  “Sheriff!” shrieked Mr. Kronik. “Don’t just stand there, you moron! I can’t swim, either!”

  Mr. Kronik couldn’t swim, either? But Sheriff Cannon was the moron? I tried to make sense of that as I dove down, grabbed Holden by the collar, and hauled him up to the surface. Was he pleased about that? Sputter, sputter, and then, “A dog! A dog!” Around that point was when the sheriff came swimming up. We steered Holden over to the dock, the sheriff and I. Birdie and Grammy pulled the kid out of the water. The sheriff scrambled out on his own, and so did I.

  One funny thing. Just as I was almost on the dock, half on it and half of me still in the water, I felt something brushing past my tail. Just a light touch, hardly there at all, but somehow it sent a big and mighty message. I hopped onto the dock, gave myself a long and very energetic shake, the kind that usually gets humans laughing. And maybe some humans somewhere were laughing, but not any of the humans in my vicinity, not even Birdie.

  “Now, Holden,” said the sheriff, dressed in civilian clothes he’d had in the trunk of the cruiser, “I’d appreciate it if you’d tell Miz Gaux here the whole story in your own words.”

  “Who else’s would I use?” said the kid, wrapped in a towel and sitting in a nice sort of living room at the stern of the houseboat. Stern is boating lingo for the back: You learn stuff like that living in bayou country.

  Meanwhile, had this kid, Holden if I was following things right, just sent some sort of smart-ass remark the sheriff’s way? From the expressions on the faces of the sheriff and Grammy, I would have thought so, but Mr. Kronik seemed to be smiling in a proud-dad sort of way. Kind of confusing. Whoa! Confused again, and so soon? I considered another round of sprinting and possibly even swimming. No way, of course, not in my immediate future, first because I was on the leash, highly unusual in an indoor situation, and second because Birdie—sitting right beside me on a chair in this living room at the end farthest from all the others—had told me I was in the doghouse. I used to get excited at that thought: a house of my own! Treats galore! But it turned out that every mention of a doghouse was followed by an unpleasant period—like being on the leash indoors, for example, or not being included on an outing with Birdie and her friends. And the truth was I didn’t really want a house of my own. I preferred things the way they were, living forever with Birdie at 19 Gentilly Lane.

  Meanwhile, the sheriff was saying, “… so you went fishing in the bayou?”

  “Yeah,” said Holden. “I rowed out in the dinghy.”

  “Out where?” said the sheriff.

  “Into this lake or whatever it is,” Holden said. “Then I dropped the thingy in and waited.”

  “Thingy?” said the sheriff.

  “You know—to attract the fish.”

  “Lure,” said the sheriff.

  “Whatever,” Holden said.

  Grammy folded her hands. “Done much fishing?”

  Holden shook his head. “That was my first time.” Then came a silence, and he added, “But it’s not rocket science.”

  Whatever that was about, Grammy and the sheriff didn’t like it. Their faces—so different—made the exact same frown. How interesting was that? And then I happened to take in the expression on Birdie’s face, and she was also doing the exact same frown! This little get-together must have been going badly, but I didn’t know why.

  “So,” said the sheriff, “you’re waiting with the thingy in the water.”

  “Yeah,” Holden said. “Bo-ring. Then the mosquitoes came and all these other pests you’ve got down here, and
I was just thinking of bagging the whole thing when it happened.”

  “When what happened?” the sheriff said.

  “When the bull shark attacked me. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

  The sheriff gave Holden a look you couldn’t call friendly. “Describe this attack.”

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Kronik. “You’re saying attack in quotes—like you don’t believe my son.”

  “Oh?” the sheriff said. “Must be our local accent down here.”

  “No problem with the accent,” said Mr. Kronik. “Customers calling in are going to love it—down-home, unthreatening. That’s what our research tells us.” Mr. Kronik looked down his nose at the sheriff. A stubby nose, maybe not ideal for the full looking-down effect, but Mr. Kronik made the best of it. “No need to remind you that we’ll be creating two hundred and fifty jobs, minimum.”

  The sheriff started to say something but stopped himself. Grammy nodded, like she was agreeing with what he hadn’t said. Humans could be so complicated! And then she herself spoke. “No need.”

  Mr. Kronik shot her a narrow-eyed look. Grammy raised her eyebrows at him, maybe meaning, Go on—let’s hear it. Hey! Were Grammy and Mr. Kronik about to throw down? My money—of which I have none—was on Grammy.

  Nothing like that happened, maybe because Holden brought things back to him.

  “Hey! Do you wanna hear or not?”

  “I do, for one,” Grammy said.

  Holden turned to her. “So I was jiggling the lure thingy and all of a sudden this huge head comes blasting up out of the water. Like … like a monster. Just that head was longer than the whole dinghy. And the mouth—wide open! Teeth like this, maybe bigger.” Holden held his hands far apart. “And then—chomp!—it snapped up my rod and dove down out of sight.”

  “You must have been scared,” the sheriff said.

  “Hello?” said Holden. “Almost getting eaten alive?”

  “Terrible thing,” the sheriff said. “What happened after that?”

  “I rowed right back here and told my dad.”

  Mr. Kronik nodded. “Then we matched Holden’s description to our Fish of the Gulf of Mexico Field Guide.”

  “Bull shark,” Holden said. “For sure. They can live in freshwater, as you may or may not know.”

  “And your particular bull shark was kind of special, wasn’t it, Holden?”

  Holden nodded.

  “Special?” said the sheriff.

  “It had a scar on one side of its mouth,” Holden said. “Like it was always grinning this lopsided grin.”

  “Lopsided grin,” said Mr. Kronik. “The boy’s own description.”

  Did I hear Grammy utter a very soft “Pah!” at that moment? I wasn’t sure; no one else could have possibly heard it.

  The sheriff turned to Grammy. “Any questions, Miz Gaux?”

  “What brand was the rod-and-reel combo?” Grammy said.

  Holden shrugged.

  “Orvis,” said Mr. Kronik. “I ordered it from the Orvis catalog.”

  “How much?”

  “Nine hundred bucks. On sale.”

  “Whoa,” said Birdie, very softly.

  Grammy took a notebook and a pencil from her pocket.

  “What are you doing?” said Mr. Kronik.

  “Making a sketch.”

  Grammy could make sketches, whatever they were? This was new.

  “Sketch of what, Grammy?” Birdie said.

  Why didn’t we simply amble over there and see? Birdie’s hand tightened on the leash. A puzzling moment. Before I could sort things out, Grammy came to us and held up the sketch.

  “That’s so good,” Birdie said.

  I eyed the sketch. A big fish of some sort. And all at once, it came back to me! The pelican! And what had happened to it. At first, I thought this was the same kind of fish, but it was thinner and the mouth was not nearly so wide, plus the head was more snakish than bullish. What was going on? I was lost.

  Grammy took the sketch over to Holden. One glance was all he needed. “Yup. That’s it.”

  “Sure?” Grammy said. “Don’t be hasty.”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “Much obliged,” said Grammy. She turned to Mr. Kronik. “An easy mistake to make, especially for a newcomer.”

  “Huh?”

  “This here’s a member of the gar family, a primitive species we’ve got down here. Purely a freshwater species, I should point out. This particular kind is called the alligator gar. Not any kind of gator, you understand—just the biggest of the gars.”

  “Huh?” said Holden again.

  One thing I knew: The human who got another human to say “huh” over and over was the one who was winning.

  “Wait a minute here,” Mr. Kronik said. “You’re trying to tell me that Holden saw a gar or whatever the heck this is? Not a bull shark?”

  “If the child saw anything at all,” Grammy said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “No way any bull shark would come this far up the bayou—have to get past at least two shallows on the way, depending on the time of year. And losing such an expensive rig would be upsetting to anybody, regardless of age.”

  Silence fell in this fancy-pants living room on board Mr. Kronik’s fancy-pants houseboat. One other change was the color of Mr. Kronik’s face, which went purple.

  “Are you calling my son a liar?”

  “I’m no name caller, sir.”

  Mr. Kronik glared at Grammy. He was still glaring at her when he spoke to the sheriff, a strange moment, from where I sat.

  “This is just what everybody warned me about before I came down here—all your second-rate, backwater ways. So, not unexpected, and in fact, I’m already working around you.”

  “Working around me?” the sheriff said, his face on its own way to purple.

  “Since you won’t do your duty and hunt down the killer bull shark,” Mr. Kronik said, turning toward the sheriff in a slow but aggressive way. “Yesterday I put out a bounty on that monster—fifty grand to whoever brings in the body, no questions asked.”

  “Fifty grand?” said the sheriff.

  “We’ll get some good publicity out of it,” said Mr. Kronik. “And my accountants assure me the expense is tax deductible—looking out for worker safety. So it’s a win-win, Sheriff. I’ll let you show yourselves out.”

  He looked down his nose at the sheriff again, but now with the sheriff—a much taller man—on his feet, he didn’t get much mileage out of it.

  “Not sure I fully understand your take, Miz Gaux,” the sheriff said as we drove back to St. Roch.

  “It’s a fish story,” Grammy said. “I’ve heard ’em all.”

  “Meaning that snot-nosed little—meaning the kid saw an alligator gar? Or nothing at all?”

  “Nothing at all, most likely. He lost his rig somehow—probably just careless—and made up the whole story so’s his daddy wouldn’t tan his hide.”

  We drove on for a bit and then Birdie spoke. “Grammy? I’m not sure they’re the kind of family that goes in for that.”

  “In for what?”

  “Tanning kids’ hides.”

  “Well, neither are we, now that you mention it. I just meant it as an expression for some kind of strict punishment. We’re talking about a nine-hundred-dollar rig!”

  We drove on a bit more and Birdie spoke again. “I’m not sure they’re the kind of family where nine hundred dollars matter.”

  Grammy didn’t say anything to that, just sat up front, very still.

  After a while, the sheriff spoke up. “Two hundred and fifty jobs. And now I’ll have bounty hunters all over the bayou.”

  “When are you up for reelection?” Grammy said.

  “Next spring, and I hope I have your support.”

  “Won’t help you much,” said Grammy.

  Back in St. Roch, the sheriff dropped us off at Gaux Family Fish and Bait. We walked up to the door. The red sign was up, meaning we w
ere closed. Grammy unlocked the door. No one inside, that no one including Snoozy.

  “What in the name of—” Grammy began, and then her hand went to her chest and she sagged against a stacked-up display of hibachis. Most humans would have knocked all those hibachis right over, but most humans were a lot bigger than Grammy. The hibachis didn’t budge.

  GRAMMY?” BIRDIE SAID, RUSHING OVER TO her and taking her arm. “Are you okay?”

  For a moment, Grammy seemed to lean her weight on Birdie. She said something that was soft and croaky, then licked her lips and tried again. “I’m … just fine. Need a moment, that’s all.”

  “Sure, Grammy. How about sitting down?” Birdie reached back with one foot, hooked the leg of a nearby stool, and slid it closer. What a cool move, and without even looking! There’s no one like Birdie.

  She got Grammy seated on the stool, fetched her a glass of water, tilted it up to Grammy’s mouth. Grammy drank. Color came back to her face, which had gone all pasty and gray.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Thank you, Birdie.”

  “Oh, good,” said Birdie. “But what happened?”

  Grammy took in a breath. It made a slight wheezing sound. “Nothing to speak of.” Grammy held the glass on her own, drank more water. “I’ll be back to normal in a flash.”

  “Oh, good,” Birdie said again. “But Grammy? Have you been taking your pills?”

  Grammy’s voice changed, got much closer to its normal don’t-mess-with-me self. “What a question! Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know,” Birdie said. “But Dr. Rajatawan says it’s important for you to take all your pills and at the right times and in the right order.”

  “Easy for him to say.”

  “Mama thinks he’s the best doctor we’ve ever had in St. Roch.”

  “Annoying busybody!”

  Birdie’s eyebrows—so beautifully shaped, the prettiest eyebrows you’d ever want to see—rose up. “Mama?”

  “Of course not Mama! Mama’s no busybody—she’s one of us. I meant Dr. Rajatawan. In fact, I just decided this very moment to get myself one of those second opinions.”