Guinea Dog 2

by Patrick Jennings

  I hear my mom on the phone, calling the neighbors, asking them to be on the lookout for an orange guinea pig with a white mohawk. That’s when I get the idea to hang some posters around the neighborhood. My dad helps me design one on his computer—he’s good at making signs—then prints out a stack of them. It says LOST GUINEA PIG, and it has a picture of Fido and our contact information.

  “I’ll hang them tomorrow,” Dad says. “Better get to bed. It’s late. School tomorrow.”

  “I’m not sure I feel very good,” I say, with my hand on my stomach, like it doesn’t feel very good. Actually, it doesn’t feel very good.

  “I think that’s hunger. And worry.”

  “Maybe.” I look up at him. I want to tell him about how I treated Fido, too, but just say, “Good night.”

  Mom comes up to tuck me in. I’ve been telling her I don’t need her to do that anymore, that I’m too old for it, but tonight I don’t mind. She has a chicken leg wrapped in a cloth napkin.

  “I don’t know if it’s the chicken’s left or right leg,” she says.

  It’s a family joke, something I asked when I was little: “Is this the chicken’s left leg or its right?” Mentioning it usually makes me smile. Not tonight.

  “You really should eat. I’m sure Fido would want you to.”

  I’m not sure she would, but I take the drumstick and bite into the tender, juicy meat. Which gives me a scary thought.

  “You don’t think Fido went outside and a cat got her, do you? Or a dog?” That would be ironic. Ironic and horrific.

  “She can take care of herself,” Mom says.

  That’s true. Fido stands up to big dogs like Buddy and Mars. But I’m not sure about cats.

  I don’t finish the chicken. Mom wraps it up again in the napkin.

  “Get some sleep now,” she says, and shuts out the light.

  “But where will Fido sleep tonight? Outside?”

  I think about creatures that come out at night. Owls. Bears. Werewolves. Cats.

  “She’ll be fine,” Mom says. “She’s probably found some nice hiding place. And she’s got her fur to keep her warm.”

  “If she hasn’t already been flattened by a truck,” I say, coming up with yet another horrible fate for my little friend. Why am I being so imaginative all of a sudden? That’s Murph’s territory, not mine.

  “She hasn’t been flattened. Now good night, sweetie.” She goes out, pulling the door shut behind her, but not closing it all the way. For Fido, I suppose, when she returns. If she returns.

  “We left the doggie door open, too,” Mom whispers.

  She brought one home from work last week and installed it herself. She does most of the handiwork around here.

  I hear her bare feet walk along the carpeted hall and down the stairs. Then it’s dark and quiet. Soon my eyes adjust, and I see a beam of glowing light coming in my window and landing on Fido’s cage. Her empty cage.

  I climb out of bed, pull open the window, kneel on the carpet, and press my nose against the cold screen.

  “Come on, Fido!” I whisper-call. “Fido, come home!”

  16. I’m not in the mood to hear about hairy, clawed frogs.

  But Murphy keeps telling me about them anyway.

  “When they feel threatened, they break their own toes, which poke through their skin, and become—you’ll never believe it—claws!”

  Come on, Murphy. A frog with hair isn’t bizarre enough without having to add claws made of broken toes? What’s with the hard sell?

  Which leads me to wonder if it’s really true. Nothing is weirder than nature. Look at the platypus. Or Fido. But Murphy enjoys playing around with the truth. He loves convincing me that a made-up thing is real (once he got me to believe that poisonous ducks had descended on Rustbury) and convincing me that a real thing is made up (for example, polar bears have black skin).

  I wonder what I would have said if he had told me about a guinea pig that obeys commands, plays Fetch, and runs alongside your bike—a “guinea dog.” I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have believed him. Then again, Murphy is a champion persuader.

  So I listen to him talk about the hairy frog as we walk to school, even though I’m not in the mood. I told Dad I didn’t want a ride today, that I could make it on foot. I don’t have my crutches, even. Walking with the medical boot has gotten easier. I use the weight of it to propel me forward, then set it down lightly, and push off hard with the other foot. I probably look like Captain Hook, but at least it works. And Murphy’s with me, in case I fall on my face, or butt.

  “The problem is, they’re not only acting in self-defense anymore,” he says. “They’re going on the offensive. Slashing up fish in the lake. Slashing ducks.”

  “Poisonous ducks?” I ask.

  “No, regular ducks.” My sarcasm doesn’t slow him down. “You know the guy who works at the roller rink? The guy with the cobra tattoo on his neck? They got his Chihuahua. Cut him up pretty bad. We should go to the lake and see if we can find one. I’ve seen pictures of them online, and they’re freaky. They have hair growing around their waists, like they’re wearing hula skirts.”

  “Murph?” I interrupt, and point to my boot.

  “Oh, right. We’d never get there and back in time for school. We’ll go after.”

  “I’m going to look for Fido after school.”

  Murphy slaps his forehead. “Ack! Of course you are! I mean, we are. I’ll help you.”

  “My dad made this great poster. He’s out hanging them all over the neighborhood.”

  I pull one of them out of my bag. Dad asked me to pass some out at school, but I’m not going to. I know kids will make a big fuss, and I don’t need more fuss than I’m already getting. Plus, I don’t want kids who want a guinea dog to go looking for Fido, and maybe find her, and keep her. Finders keepers, and all that.

  “Cool!” Murphy says.

  “Yeah, my dad makes cool posters,” I say, then try to think of other cool things he makes. It’s not easy. He doesn’t make a lot of things. He makes good pie, but I’m not sure that qualifies as cool.

  “I’m sure someone will see Fido and call,” Murph says.

  “I don’t want anyone at school to know she’s missing, okay, Murph?”

  “Really? Why not? They can help look for her. The more eyes the merrier, you know?”

  “Believe me, if they see her, I’ll hear about it. But mostly it’ll just mean—”

  “More attention. I get it.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting enough.”

  “You can’t get enough attention.”

  “You can’t, you mean. I can. I’m sick to death of it.”

  Murphy shakes his head. “You’re crazy, but all right. My lips are sealed.”

  Yeah, right. Like they ever stay that way.

  17. DMITRI = DIMWIT.

  Almost.

  The guy doesn’t know right from wrong. Or he does and doesn’t care. He does wrong all the time, like he has special permission to, like he’s better than everyone else. Which he isn’t. He’s worse.

  He’s been telling everyone he shot secret videos of Fido doing tricks with his fancy, expensive phone. I think he’s lying. I never saw him shoot Fido doing anything dog-like, but maybe he hid in the bushes when I was trying to train the dog out of her. She acted like a dog anyway. Maybe he got that on video.

  Whether he did or not, I get extra mobbed at school. It’s as if I’m a drop of blood and my classmates are sharks. Ravenous sharks. I’m actually a drop of blood with a broken foot. So I can’t get away.

  “I can’t wait to see the video!”

  “Did you give Dmitri permission?”

  “Did you bring Fido to school?”

  “You should breed it!”

  “Is Dmitri going to post it online?”

  Oh, man, I hope not. I don’t want the whole world to know about Fido.

  “All right, break it up! Break it up!” Murphy says, locking my arm and pulling me through the crowd. I keep u
p the best I can with my ball-and-chain boot. “Go about your business! This is an unlawful assembly! Move away from the celebrity! Give him room! Let us through! Beep, beep!”

  The crowd stays with us all the way to the doors of the school. How do superstars stand this?

  Luckily, the bell rings. Like magic, everyone scatters and goes on their way.

  “Thanks,” I say to Murphy, “but you do realize this means you’re going to be on time to class?”

  “The price I pay for keeping the peace.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to murder Dmitri and his phone.”

  “As a peace officer, I have to warn you that, if you do, it is my sworn duty to prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law. But—off the record—I won’t blame you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Dimwit is waiting for me at my locker.

  “You guys want to see the videos?” he asks, holding out his sleek, black phone, which is protected by a thick rubber case with a camo design. It’s pretty cool, I must admit.

  I’m sure everyone has been begging to see the videos, but does he really believe I would be interested in watching them?

  Dimwit.

  “Delete them,” I say. “You don’t have my permission.”

  “Who says I need it? I can shoot anything I want. And no way am I going to delete them. I’m going to post them.”

  He smirks at me, like he’s totally won, but I’m just relieved he hasn’t posted them yet.

  “Have you uploaded them to your computer?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  I glance at Murphy, and he gives me a wink.

  “Got to get to class, boys,” he says, snapping a salute. He walks away, but not toward the classroom. Toward the office.

  Dmitri scoots after him, of course, calling, “Wait up, Murph!”

  This should work out perfectly. He’ll follow Murphy to the office; Murphy will pretend he wants to see the videos; Dimwit will take out his phone; and Tamra, the school secretary, who happens to adore Murphy (who doesn’t?), will confiscate the phone. Phones aren’t allowed at school.

  I’d love to watch all this happen, but with the foot I won’t have time. Murphy understands this. Plus, he doesn’t mind if he’s late. Or if Dmitri is.

  Good old Murphy.

  He’ll find a way to get Dmitri to delete the videos, too, I bet. He could probably get Dmitri to flush his fancy phone down the toilet. That’s how charming Murph can be, and how desperate for Murph’s attention Dmitri is.

  When I sit down at my desk, Lurena says, “I heard about the videos. That Dmitri’s got a lot of nerve. He can’t get a guinea dog of his own, so he shows off with yours.”

  She should talk. She wants one, too. Everyone does.

  Including me.

  But I like that she thinks what Dmitri did stinks.

  I’m tempted to tell her Fido is missing. Maybe she’s had guinea pigs disappear on her before and would know where to look. Can I trust her not to tell everyone?

  I doubt it.

  The bell rings again, and everyone settles into their desks. Everyone but Murphy and Dmitri.

  I lean over and, against my better judgment, whisper to Lurena, “Fido’s missing.”

  18. I am never in the mood to hear about guinea pig bloat.

  “Animals hide when they get sick,” Lurena says. “And she was getting fat. My theory is she has guinea pig bloat.”

  “I told you she was stuck in my room the whole time I was laid up, and that she ate a lot of people food, like sausages, and pizza, and tuna-fish sandwiches.”

  “Where would a bloated, or just plain fat, guinea pig hide, Lurena?” Murphy asks.

  Murphy and I walked home together. Lurena met us here after she stopped at her house to pick up her pet rodents. We’re sitting in the backyard, where no one can see us. Lurena is holding a rodent in each hand, and nuzzling them.

  Lurena shrugs. “Did you search the house?”

  “Oh, gee, should I have?” I ask sarcastically. I’m amazed she’d ask such a stupid question.

  “I mean, did you look everywhere? Your room is always a pigsty. I don’t know how you ever find anything, not to mention a poor, bloated guinea pig.”

  “She. Is. Not. Bloated. She ate too much. People do that every year on Thanksgiving, and no one dies. And I cleaned my room as I was searching. I looked under everything. I looked everywhere.”

  “Okay, okay. So how do you think she escaped?”

  “My dad must’ve let her out. He said he went in once to check on her because she was so quiet. Maybe she slipped out without his noticing.”

  “Why was the door shut?” Murphy asks. “You usually let Fido go wherever she wants.”

  I was worried this might come up. Murphy and Lurena both love Fido. How can I tell them that I’ve been trying to train her to be a plain old normal guinea pig? They’ll think it was mean of me to keep her locked up, to try to change her.

  “Especially since she’s gotten fat,” Murphy goes on. “Didn’t you want her to exercise? You know, run up and down the stairs? Play Fetch with your dad?”

  “Hey,” Lurena says, twisting her head side to side, “where’s Fido’s doghouse?”

  I might as well come clean. They’re both too smart.

  I tell them the truth.

  “Why would you want her to act like a regular guinea pig?” Lurena asks.

  Murphy nods. He’s figured it out. But he doesn’t tell Lurena. He’ll wait and let me say it. Or not say it. He knows it’s my choice. He’s a good friend.

  “Can we just find her?” I ask, and march away to one of my dad’s flower beds. (Yeah, he not only cooks and cleans, he gardens, too.)

  I pretend to look for Fido among the flowers, when really I’m just dodging Lurena’s question.

  I feel bad for …

  1. Trying to de-doggify Fido. She can’t help being what she is.

  2. Denying her food.

  3. Locking her in her cage, and in my room.

  4. Ignoring her whines.

  5. Dragging her doghouse into the garage.

  6. Not letting her sleep with me.

  7. Lying to my dad, my mom, my best friend, and even Lurena.

  8. Driving away the pet I love.

  “She’s not out here,” Lurena says. “Let’s check the house.”

  “I told you. She’s not in there. My dad and I both looked.”

  “Well, I haven’t.”

  19. Lurena turns the house upside down.

  It’s like she owns the place. She opens doors, drawers, cabinets. She dives into closets, under sinks, under beds. Her long, frilly, old-fashioned dress gets pretty dusty.

  Murphy and I keep an eye on her rodents. We sit with them on the living room floor. Sharmet, the hider, tries to climb inside my boot. She tries to shimmy up my pant leg. She tries to slip under my T-shirt. I block each invasion. I don’t want a hamster in my clothes. She finally gives up and grooms herself on my knee.

  I’m really glad Fido doesn’t act like a rodent. If I find her, I’ll stop trying to train the dog out of her.

  If I find her.

  “I love this chinchilla!” Murphy says. China C. is perched on his head, kneading his curly hair.

  Lurena passes by and walks up to the door of Dad’s study. She’s about to knock.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” I say.

  She does.

  “Who is it?” Dad answers sharply.

  “It’s me, Art. Lurena Shraits. I’m looking for Fido.”

  “She’s not in here. I have work to do.”

  “It won’t take a second,” Lurena says, in a singsong voice.

  “Oh, all right,” he grunts. I hear him stand up, stomp to the door, and turn the knob. The door swings open. His face is clenched like a fist. “You have two minutes.” He checks his watch.

  “Thank you,” Lurena sings as she steps by him. “That will be more than enough time.”

  Murphy and I stay in th
e hall, out of harm’s way.

  “She doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything,” Murphy says.

  “Nope.”

  “I bet she’d be afraid of a hairy, clawed frog.”

  “Got one?”

  He shakes his head. “We need to check the lake, see if we can find some.”

  I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s making the hairy-frog thing up, but I say, “Sounds great.”

  “No guinea pig in there,” Lurena says when she comes back out. “I didn’t even find droppings. Your dad keeps his study extremely neat and tidy.”

  “Yes, he is one excellent housekeeper. Any other ideas?”

  “The garage.”

  She searches it top to bottom, including inside Dad’s car and Fido’s doghouse. Her dress gets some grease on it. As do her pets. They get to work licking it off.

  When she finally admits failure, we go back to the house. Dad is in the kitchen, making us a snack. He sets homemade blueberry muffins and a pitcher of red iced tea on the table.

  “It’s hibiscus,” he says. “Unsweetened.”

  “How very kind of you, Art,” Lurena says.

  Murphy and I look at each other. Is it really very kind to give kids unsweetened herbal tea?

  Lurena puts her rodents in their portable cage, then goes to the bathroom to wash her hands. Dad glares at me till I do the same. Murphy comes with me.

  “Still believe this the-more-the-merrier baloney?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Absolutely!”

  We go back to the table and both grab for the biggest muffin at the same time.

  “Manners, Rufus,” Dad says, and takes a sip of coffee. No unsweetened herbal tea for him. I bet he put sugar in his coffee when we were in the bathroom.

  I sit back in my chair and let Murphy choose first. My dad and Lurena already picked theirs. I end up with the smallest one.

  “I think Fido might be sick, and hiding,” Lurena says as she pulls her muffin apart. “Rodents do that.” She takes a bite. “Yum! Fabulous muffins, Art!”

  “Thank you.”

  “But we’ve looked everywhere, Lurena,” I say.