Guinea Dog 2
Page 1
Other Books by Patrick Jennings
Guinea Dog
Lucky Cap
Invasion of the Dognappers
My Homework Ate My Homework
EGMONT
We bring stories to life
First published by Egmont USA, 2013
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © Patrick Jennings, 2013
All rights reserved
www.egmontusa.com
www.patrickjennings.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jennings, Patrick.
Guinea dog 2 / Patrick Jennings.
p. cm
Summary: The laughs continue when Fido, the guinea pig that thinks she’s a dog, has a pup that behaves strangely, too. A sequel to Guinea Dog—eISBN: 978-1-60684-453-3
[1. Guinea pigs—Fiction. 2. Family life—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction.]
I. Title. II. Title: Guinea dog two.
PZ7.J4298715Guf 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2013000979
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and the copyright owner.
v3.1
For the stupendous
Ro Stimo
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1. I wanted a dog.
2. My guinea dog waits at the front door, her leash in her mouth.
3. I pity celebrities.
4. Speaking of freaks, here comes Lurena.
5. I’m almost positive guinea pigs can’t open car doors.
6. A person can’t run away with a broken foot.
7. Fido isn’t too fat to fall through sewer grates.
8. Our fun was ruined by a girl and her hamster.
9. What I Would Do if I Were Presidog of the United States of America.
10. Maybe you can unteach a dog tricks.
11. “You’d whine, too, if you were in jail.”
12. Yes, I wore earplugs to bed that night.
13. “Dude, I need you to train my guinea pig.”
14. Ten reasons a rodent can’t replace a dog.
15. I turn the house upside down.
16. I’m not in the mood to hear about hairy, clawed frogs.
17. DMITRI = DIMWIT.
18. I am never in the mood to hear about guinea pig bloat.
19. Lurena turns the house upside down.
20. Dad found me in the Dump.
21. The socks gave him away.
22. Dogs don’t build nests.
23. Piñatas are twisted.
24. Tiny turkeys.
25. One.
26. “No.”
27. It’s not my birthday.
28. Singing is for the birds.
29. The new bike is fast as lightning, if lightning goes sixteen miles an hour.
30. Proof my life is weirder than weird.
31. I’m too young to be a grandpa.
About the Author
1. I wanted a dog.
I got a guinea pig instead. At first I was devastated. How could my mom think a guinea pig could replace a dog? I knew she was just trying to be nice, but still …
Mom knew I was crushed that my dad wouldn’t let me have a dog. The guy doesn’t like dogs. Is that nuts or what? He has a long list of reasons why he’ll never let me have one. I have a long list of reasons why I want one. But his reasons always win. Why? Because he’s the dad. He works at home. He gets to make the call. He’s the umpire, and the dog is always out.
So Mom brought home a guinea pig, and guess what? Dad didn’t like it, either. What does the guy like? Quiet. Order. Perfect grammar. The guy’s as much fun as a standardized test.
He insisted we bring “the infernal creature” back to the pet shop, but when we did, Petopia wasn’t there anymore. In one day, it had closed up and disappeared for good.
So instead of a dog I got stuck with a guinea pig. I named her Fido, the name I’d been saving for the dog I’d been wanting all my life and, tragically, would never get.
But as it turned out, Fido is no ordinary guinea pig. She does a lot of strange things.
• She growls.
• She howls.
• She whines.
• She pants.
• She barks.
• She yaps when someone is at the door.
• She snarls at the mail carrier.
• She bites the mail carrier.
• She obeys commands. She sits, heels, speaks, and rolls over when I tell her to.
• She licks herself.
• She licks my face.
• She licks my face after she licks herself.
• She eats dog food.
• She begs for table food.
• She eats meat.
• She eats cheese.
• She eats pie.
• She eats poop.
• She eats dead things.
• Her breath smells like meat, cheese, pie, dead things, and poop.
• She runs up to me when I come home from school.
• She chews up my homework.
• She chews up Dad’s shoes.
• She chews bones.
• She buries bones.
• She buries Dad’s shoes.
• She sleeps at the foot of my bed.
• She dreams she’s running. Her little paws wave in the air.
• She snores.
• She walks on a leash.
• She wears a collar with tags. (A cat collar, actually, but she doesn’t know that.)
• She marks her territory.
• She runs alongside my bike.
• She chases cats and squirrels.
• She plays with dogs.
• She sniffs them.
• She gets in fights.
• She gets fleas.
• She plays Fetch.
• She plays Tug-of-War.
• She catches Frisbees.
• She sleeps inside a little doghouse with her name painted on it.
• She runs for help when I fall in a river and break my foot.
• She takes care of me when I’m laid up with a broken foot.
• She defends me from evil.
• She’s loyal, steadfast, and true.
• She needs me.
In other words, she acts like a dog.
She isn’t a dog, though. She’s a fat orange guinea pig with a white mohawk. My best friend, Murphy, calls her a guinea dog.
After Fido rescued me from the river and took care of me and kept me company while I got better, I stopped minding that she wasn’t an actual dog. I didn’t care that she was a guinea dog. She was my guinea dog, and I wouldn’t trade her for anything.
Then my foot got better, and I was forced to go back to school.
2. My guinea dog waits at the front door, her leash in her mouth.
“Sorry, Fido,” I say. “We’re not going for a walk. I have to go back to school.”
She whimpers and paws at my bulky black medical boot, which fits over my cast and helps me walk. I’ve been getting around okay using it and my crutches, so long as Fido doesn’t trip me up.
“I’ve got her,” Dad says from behind me. He kneels down and scoops her up. “We’re going to be just fine today without Rufus, aren’t we, Fido?” He tickles her fat orange neck. She pants.
Dad has sure changed his mind about Fido since Mom first brought her home. Somehow she won him over.
&nbs
p; She did the same thing to me.
We climb into Dad’s hybrid. Mom already left in hers to go to the hardware store, where she mixes paint for a living. Fido stood on my armrest all the way to school, her nose out the window, her mohawk fluttering in the wind.
“Be careful today on those crutches,” Dad says. “You don’t want to end up missing more school.”
I don’t?
“Roof!” Murphy calls out when we pull up in front of the school. He runs up to the car and tickles Fido under her chin. She licks his fingers. “Hey, girl! You coming to school, too?”
Fido’s rear end wags like crazy. She looks back at me as if she’s asking, Can I? Can I? Please? Can I?
“Now look how worked up she is,” I say, scowling at Murph. “Don’t lead her on like that.”
I hand her to Dad, then open my door. It’s not easy getting in and out of a car with a cast and crutches, let me tell you. It’s funny how many simple things I took for granted before I broke my foot. Stairs, for example. I used to run up and down them without a second thought. Not anymore.
“Eager to get back to your education, I bet,” Murph says, giving me his hand.
“I’ve been keeping up on my classwork,” I say. “Have you?”
“Keep an eye on him, will you, Murphy?” my dad asks before Murph answers. “Remind him to stay off that foot whenever possible.”
Murph smiles. He’s glad Dad changed the subject. Which means he’s probably not keeping up.
Murphy’s one of the most likable kids in school, but not exactly one of its best students. He’s practically failing. I’ve been trying to help him, but it’s not easy getting him to take something seriously.
“You can count on me, Art,” he says. Art is my dad’s name. It’s short for Arthur. “But I have a feeling he’s going to get hoisted onto people’s shoulders and carried around instead of having to walk. The guy’s practically a hero at Rustbury Elementary.”
“What?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”
“Everybody knows you broke your foot crossing a raging river filled with snapping turtles …”
Which is not what happened. Kaiser Creek is shallow and slow, and there aren’t any snapping turtles.
“… and everyone knows your trustworthy guinea dog saved you.”
Murphy loves making up stories. It’s one of the reasons everyone likes him. He has a way of making everything more fun. But sometimes he goes too far.
As if to prove my point, a group of kids call out my name, then rush toward us. My face feels as if it’s on fire. I’m not used to getting attention. I’m used to Murphy getting it all.
My instinct is to hide. But first I need to hide Fido. No dog likes being rushed by a mob of kids. Not even a guinea dog. And judging by the crazed looks on these kids’ faces, I need to get Fido to safety.
“Go!” I say to my dad and slam the door.
He drives off just as the kids reach us. More like hit us. Wham! I try to stay upright, but it’s impossible.
The mob bombards me with questions:
“Does your guinea pig really act like a dog?”
“Does it bark?”
“Does it bite?”
“Does it do tricks?”
“Did it really save twin babies from a burning building?”
“And stop a bank robbery?”
“And rescue a man buried by an avalanche?”
“And chase an escaped circus lion back into his cage?”
“Can I come over to your house and see it?”
“Where can I get one?”
“All right! All right!” Murphy says loudly. “Back up! Move back! Let’s not break any more of the kid’s bones!”
They listen to him, as always.
“This is being hoisted?” I yell at him from the ground. “This is being carried around like a hero?”
“This, my brave young friend,” he says, pulling me up, “is the price of fame. Get used to it.”
3. I pity celebrities.
Especially the ones with broken bones. Olympic athletes. Super Bowl quarterbacks. Everywhere they go, people mob them, even when they have casts and crutches. I can relate.
I’ve never had a harder time getting into the school building. Murphy holds my arm and guides me through the crowd, yelling at them to move away. You can tell he’s enjoying himself. He’s getting the attention he lives for. And I think he likes that I’m getting some, too. I don’t know why. I don’t like the attention, which includes being rammed by some kid and twirling around like a ballerina on the toe of my medical boot. A ballerina with crutches. Not so graceful.
Actually, that would be one of the few ballets I wouldn’t mind seeing.
Thankfully, Murph catches me before the twirling results in a crash landing. I glare up at him as he holds me in his heroic arms. I am not supposed to be doing pirouettes. I’m supposed to be staying off my bad foot, and it’s his need for attention that has gotten me into this stupid situation.
“Your dad asked me to remind you to stay off that foot,” he says, pretending to be dead serious. “So … stay off it.”
He turns to the crowd. “You guys’ve got to give this guy a break. Oh, I forgot! He already has one!”
The crowd laughs. I don’t understand why. Puns aren’t funny.
“Seriously?” I ask. “This is the time for jokes?”
He lifts my arm, tucks his head under my armpit, then stands up straight, supporting me.
“Man down!” he says. “Clear a path! I’ve got to get this man to safety! Step back! Man down! Step back!”
They obey him again … for a few seconds … then swoop back in for another attack. Dmitri is in front.
“I want a guinea dog, dude,” he says through gritted teeth. “Get me one. I’ll pay. You can name your price.”
He sounds annoyed. He must be frustrated that he can’t get what he wants when he wants it.
If Murph is my best friend—and today he’s testing it—Dmitri is my worst. He came to my house a couple of times when I was laid up, after he found out about Fido. He’s the kind of kid who has to have the coolest stuff in the world, so naturally, he wanted Fido for his collection. I wouldn’t let him have her, of course, so he got mad and said that Fido couldn’t be the only guinea dog in the world. He said she wasn’t special. Which made me mad.
“Couldn’t find one online, eh?” I ask.
He seethes, which is no big deal. The guy’s a natural-born seether. Like a car radiator on a scorching summer day, you never know when he’s going to boil over.
“No time to chat,” Murph grunts at him. “Got to get this man out of harm’s way.”
Dmitri boils over, but Murph keeps us moving on toward the cafeteria’s double doors. Students are allowed to hang out in the cafeteria before school, but usually I spend the time on the playground. Murphy never arrives before school. He’s always late. So this will make a nice change for both of us.
If we ever get there. I’ve never wanted to sit down more in my life.
I don’t like being crowded. I don’t like being knocked down. What’s the matter with these people anyway? Can’t they see I’m on crutches?
I also don’t like having so many people prying into my private life. And my pet’s private life. I don’t get into their faces and ask tons of questions about their pets. They act as if Fido were some sort of freak. She isn’t.
Well, maybe she is.
But who isn’t?
4. Speaking of freaks, here comes Lurena.
She’s the weird girl in my class who dresses like an American Girl doll: long flowery dresses, belts, vests, hats with fake flowers. She was with my family and me the day I broke my foot. My mom invited her to the river, completely without my permission. When I was laid up, Lurena kept dropping by our house, uninvited, to see how I was. She usually brought along her rodent pets—her hamster and chinchilla—to play with Fido. Fido snarled and chased them under the furniture. She doesn’t like rodents. Other than
herself.
“Will you leave him alone?” Lurena yells. “What is the matter with you? He has a broken foot! Get away from him!”
She runs toward us, her blond curls bouncing and her face all red.
The crowd backs off a bit, like they’re scared of her. Even the boys.
“Are you crazy or what?” she asks, shoving Dmitri, who rushed in when the others stepped back. “He’s on crutches, for crying out loud!”
This is awkward. I mean, I appreciate her taking my side, but Lurena is a girl, after all.
Dmitri loves it.
“See you got a girl to fight your battles for you,” he snarls.
“Battles?” I ask. “I’m just trying to get into the building without breaking another bone or two.”
“And I just want a guinea dog,” Dmitri shoots back.
“Well, you’re out of luck,” Lurena says. “Now go kick a kickball or something and leave this poor boy alone.”
Dmitri and a couple of other boys snicker.
“Okay, poor boy,” Dmitri says, stepping away backward. “We’ll leave you alone, you poor, poor boy.”
A few of the boys follow him toward the playground, pointing back at me and snickering all the way.
“Thanks so much,” I say to Lurena.
“You’re welcome,” she says, not getting my tone. “What a bunch of lunkheads. I mean, really!”
“They are lunkheads,” Murph pipes in. “Their heads are lunks. Great big lunks.”
“What’s a lunk?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not completely sure.”
“Stop fooling around, Murph, and let’s get him inside,” Lurena says. “What are you doing here so early anyway? You’re never on time for school.”
Murphy checks his wrist. He doesn’t wear a watch. “Why, I’m early! I’ve got to get home!”
He lets go of me suddenly, and I start to tumble to the ground. Lurena catches me.
“Get back here!” I yell. “You got me into this, and you’re going to stay by my side all day! Like a loyal, trustworthy friend!”
“Of course I am!” he says, and slaps his forehead. “What was I thinking! You must resume your education before your brain starts going all soft and mushy!”
“Just help me, will you?” I glare at him, trying to open his eyes to the fact that Lurena is cradling me in her arms.