Guinea Dog 2

by Patrick Jennings

  Fido’s lying on her side on a blue baby blanket. She lifts her head when she sees us peeking into the hole. She looks right at me. Her eyes seem dull and wet. Is she sad? Tired? Sick?

  “Fido?” I say. “You okay? Come, girl! Come!”

  She doesn’t.

  “She’s busy with her babies,” Mom says.

  “Where are they?” I ask. It’s hard to see inside the box. It’s really dark in this corner of the basement, even with the lights on.

  “Behind her?” Dad suggests. “I hope there aren’t a lot of them.”

  “We know, Art,” Mom says, patting his arm. “You’ve said so a dozen times.”

  “What do we do?” I ask. “Should we carry the box up to my room? I’m sure she needs food and water.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Mom says. “But maybe we should call Lurena. She’s the expert on these things.”

  “Do we have to?”

  I’ve seen and heard an awful lot of Lurena lately.

  Then again, she did help me look for Fido. She has been a kind of an okay friend.

  “I guess we can call her,” I say. “Maybe she can tell us about the bloodstains. Though I know she’ll run right over when she hears what we found.”

  “It’s seven thirty on a school night,” Dad says.

  True.

  I call her. She picks up on the first ring.

  “Did you find her? How many babies? Can I have a couple? I prefer the females, of course.”

  “Down, girl,” I say, and fill her in on the situation.

  She says the blood is normal, and it’s okay to carry the box up to my room, but to do it carefully.

  “Really? Because I was thinking I’d just stand at the bottom of the stairs and chuck it.”

  I’m being sarcastic, but actually, my throwing it might be safer than carrying it upstairs with this medical boot.

  “Have your mom carry it up. You have that boot, remember?”

  She’s kind of psychic. Also, kind of psycho.

  “I wish I could come over and help. I’m sure my parents won’t let me.”

  Phew. “We can handle it.”

  “Be sure to give her some food and water right away. And not just meat, Rufus. Give her some fresh grass. When she comes out of the box to get it, you can count the babies. Oh, I hope she had a lot of them!”

  “That’s exactly how my dad doesn’t feel.”

  “I get two sows, okay?”

  It occurs to me that the babies might become a problem. Every kid in town is going to want one. Murphy wants one. Lurena expects two. Dmitri will want all of them.

  I sure hope Fido had a lot of pups.

  25. One.

  That’s how many we find in the box after Fido comes out to eat and drink. One guinea pup.

  Dad is so relieved.

  The pup looks a lot like Fido, only smaller. Quite a bit smaller. Fido looks huge next to it, in fact. The pup is more yellow than orange, but it does have its mom’s spiky white mohawk. It’s also feisty like its mom. It scurries around the nest, stopping occasionally to rise up on its hind legs and look around, then goes back to its scurrying. It’s making that rubbery, gobbly sound we heard, nonstop.

  I have to say “it,” by the way, until it grows bigger and Lurena can check to see if it’s a sow or a boar.

  I notice Fido looks skinnier as she nibbles at the leftover salmon and fresh grass I bring her. She’s also looks tired. Too tired to come when I call her. At least I hope that’s why she won’t come. I hope that she’s not mad at me, that she’s forgiven me.

  But I don’t push. She’s been through quite an ordeal. That’s what my mom says, anyway, and she should know. She must have gone through quite an ordeal when I was born. Dad is always saying what a gigantic baby I was, as if I had anything to do with it. It’s not like I was pigging out on pizza and ice cream in there.

  I’m glad I’ll never have to go through the kind of ordeal Mom and Fido did.

  After Fido finishes her dinner, she waddles back into the box to her baby.

  “Couldn’t you just die?” Mom asks in a squeaky voice. “It is so cute, I could just die!”

  Again, does cuteness kill? Am I missing something?

  “I’m just glad there’s only one of them,” Dad says. “We are certain there’s only one, aren’t we? We have thoroughly searched the box for others, yes?”

  “There’s only one,” I say, glad I can make him glad.

  I did thoroughly search the box, pulling out little pairs of pajamas with pictures of rockets or dinosaurs or bulldozers on them, and a tiny red baseball cap with an R on the front (for my name, I assume), and a miniature black T-shirt with white letters reading BABY TALK STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. My guess is Dad bought that one. I also found a pair of baby cowboy boots, and a pair of baby overalls. I didn’t find any extra baby guinea dogs.

  Which was disappointing, actually. If there had been more, and they ended up acting like their mom, there would be lots of guinea dogs to go around. That would mean more satisfied classmates, who would leave me alone.

  “What are we going to do with it?” Dad asks. His face says he doesn’t want to keep it. One guinea pig is his limit.

  “Oh, let’s not think about that now,” Mom says. “She’ll need her mother for weeks, I’m sure. That will give us plenty of time to decide.”

  It’s Fido’s turn to be laid up awhile, and my turn to take care of her, like she did for me. I like the thought of that.

  “Let’s leave them alone then and get downstairs and clean up the kitchen,” Dad says.

  Mom must see my disappointment, because she says, “Art, how about we let Rufus stay here with the guinea pigs? I know he’s excited to see Fido again, not to mention her adorable little baby. We can do the dishes.”

  Yay, Mom!

  Dad doesn’t like it, but he lets me stay. The two of them head downstairs.

  I pull my blankets and pillow down from my bed and make a little nest for myself next to the box. I watch Fido through the hole, nursing her baby. She lies on her side as the pup burrows happily into her belly.

  “I missed you,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry about the way I treated you. It was stupid … and selfish. I want you to be exactly the way you are. Okay?”

  She doesn’t raise her head or look at me. My heart sinks. I guess she’s still upset at me.

  Then I notice her rear end wagging ever so slightly. She’s wagging her nonexistent tail.

  I think we’re good.

  26. “No.”

  It’s a short word, easy to say, except when it isn’t. Sometimes it’s the hardest word in the world to say. But I promised myself I’d say it.

  “Can I come to your house and see the guinea dog?”

  “No.”

  “Can you take a picture of me with your guinea dog?”

  “No.”

  “Will you sell me your guinea dog?”

  “No.”

  “Can I have your new baby guinea dog?”

  This is Lurena. She promised not to tell anyone about the pup. Only she, Murphy, my parents, and I know about it, and that’s how I want it to stay. But her promise doesn’t stop her from asking this question whenever no one can hear her.

  “No,” I say.

  We’re walking home. Actually, I’m walking home. She’s following me home. Uninvited.

  I honestly don’t know what I should do with Fido’s pup. I know Dad won’t let me keep it. I wish Fido would tell me somehow. I doubt a mother ever wants to give up her baby.

  For the first time I think about Fido having a mother. She had to have one, of course. Everybody has to. I wonder if Fido thinks about her. Misses her. I would.

  “My mom says no to a ground squirrel,” Lurena says. “She says they’re not tame enough and that they have sharp teeth.”

  “Maybe they’re right.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Lots of pets have sharp teeth. Dogs. Cats. Snakes. And lots of people have ground squirrels for pets these
days. They’re totally safe. Safer than a lot of other pets, that’s for sure. It’s not like I want a dog. Did you know dogs hurt more people than any other mammal?”

  “Not all dogs.”

  “But my mom says no ground squirrel, and no means no. That’s what she always says anyway.”

  “She’s right. No does mean no.”

  “I don’t think one should take no for an answer from someone who’s being unreasonable, do you?”

  “No.” I’ve never taken Dad’s noes about a dog seriously. He’s being totally unreasonable.

  “So what do you say? The guinea pup would be an excellent substitute.…”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?”

  “Okay, okay. Goodness, what a grouch! Can I at least come in and visit it?”

  We’ve arrived at my house. She’s talked the whole way.

  “I guess,” I say. I’m still not as good at saying no as I want to be.

  We go in.

  “Dad! I’m home,” I call.

  He doesn’t answer. Must be in the middle of a sentence. That’s what he tells me: Can’t talk. I’m in the middle of a sentence.

  We walk into the kitchen. Mom’s there. And Murphy. And Dmitri.

  “Surprise!” they say.

  27. It’s not my birthday.

  Maybe that’s part of the surprise?

  What isn’t surprising is that Mom forgot I didn’t want a party. Or ignored that I didn’t. Or maybe she didn’t hear me. I really do think she needs her hearing tested.

  She prances over and hugs me.

  “Oh, happy birthday, my big little boy!”

  I peek over my shoulder and see Lurena smiling, Murphy winking, and Dmitri smirking with delight. Great.

  I cannot believe Mom invited Dmitri. Talk about clueless. And Lurena helped with the guest list. This is what happens when these two put their heads together.

  “It’s tomorrow, Mom. My birthday’s tomorrow.”

  “What’s all the noise?” Dad asks, stepping into the room, and looking as surprised as I am. “I’m right in the middle of a sentence.”

  So this was all Mom’s idea. It’s like when she bought Fido. She makes decisions involving all of us, and we find out about it later.

  “It’s just a little birthday gathering,” she says, and smiles at me. “It’s not a party.”

  So I guess she did hear me.

  She just didn’t listen.

  “I do have a cake,” she says, finally releasing me from the hug. “But we don’t have to sing if you don’t want us to.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  She wilts a little, but quickly perks back up. “Your friends are staying for dinner. We’ll have a pizza par … a pizza part of the gathering later on.”

  “Nice save.”

  I notice several wrapped presents sitting on the table. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

  “Where’s Fido?” Dmitri asks.

  No, it’s bad.

  Murphy and Lurena look away. They know I don’t want Dmitri to know about the pup. The problem is my parents, as it so often is. They could easily give it away. Especially my mom.

  “I’m sure she’s resting, Dmitri,” she says.

  “Why?” he asks.

  Murphy steps in, wraps his arm around Dmitri’s shoulders, and steers him away from my bigmouth mother.

  “Why do you think?” he asks. “Roof’s dad took her on a run today. Six miles. Say, have you heard about the new phone that takes X-rays?”

  He leads Dmitri toward the living room, and Dmitri goes happily. Cool electronic devices and Murphy Molloy are two of his favorite things.

  “I took Fido on a six-mile run?” Dad asks. “I don’t run.”

  It’s true. He doesn’t.

  “I don’t want Dmitri to know about the pup,” I whisper.

  Normally, Dad frowns on deceit. That’s how he puts it: I frown on deceit. But this time he seems down with it.

  “I understand,” he says.

  I look at Mom.

  She nods. “Fine. But I think open communication is always the best—”

  “Mom,” I interrupt, “Dmitri is not my friend. He’s mean to me pretty much all the time. The only reason he comes over is because he wants Fido.”

  “Oh,” Mom says, looking a bit stunned.

  “If he finds out about the pup, he’ll want it, and when I say no, he’ll tell everyone at school about it, and everyone will want one, and everyone will drive me nuts, and I’ll be ever so sad. I may even have to run away from home. Like, forever.”

  “Okay, I get it,” she says. “Try to calm down, Rufus.”

  I guess I am a little worked up. I have part of her sleeve gripped in my fist.

  “Sorry,” I say, releasing it.

  “It should be easy enough to keep it a secret from him,” Lurena says. “All you have to do is keep him out of your room.”

  “But he wants to see Fido.”

  “We’ll stick to our story about the run,” Dad says.

  “As if you could run six miles!” Mom laughs.

  For once, it’s not me who gets the Stony Stare.

  “Why don’t you order the pizza, darling?” Mom says in reply.

  Dad nods and goes to the phone.

  “Rufus, go out back and tell the boys it’s cake time,” Mom says.

  “Before the pizza?” Lurena asks.

  “Well, it’s too early for dinner, so I thought we’d have the cake first. I didn’t think you guys would mind.”

  I didn’t mind.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” I say. “I’ll go tell them.”

  “Lurena, will you help me carry the cake and dishes out?” Mom asks. “Rufus can’t with the boot and all. Besides, it’s his birthday.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Lurena says. “But may I go up and peek at the baby a minute first?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Oh, please. I’m dying to see it.”

  “So die already. It’s too risky.”

  “Just for a second? Murphy will keep Dmitri amused.”

  “A second can’t hurt,” Mom says.

  “Thanks, Raquel,” Lurena says.

  I don’t like it when these two get together.

  “Okay, one second,” I say. “I mean it, Lurena. One. Not five. Not two. And don’t let Dmitri see you going up.”

  “Thanks!” she says, and flies up the stairs.

  “She wants the pup, too, you know,” I say to my mom.

  She smiles. “I’m sure she’d take good care of her.”

  So that’s who my mom thinks should get the pup.

  I wonder who I think should.

  28. Singing is for the birds.

  I don’t like doing it or having it done to me.

  I stare at the little flickering flames until the singing is over. I don’t make a wish. I never do. I just close my eyes and pretend to. A long time ago I wished no one would ever sing “Happy Birthday” to me again, so obviously wishing on candles doesn’t work. I blow them out, and everyone applauds, like blowing out birthday candles is some great achievement.

  Mom lifts them out of the frosting while they’re still smoking, licks each one, then cuts the cake. It’s my favorite: chocolate with chocolate frosting. She also got my favorite ice cream: chocolate chunk with cookie dough. Except for the singing, and the worrying about Dmitri, I’m really enjoying my birthday gathering.

  We finish our cake in about twenty seconds, then I start opening my presents. Lurena’s is a bike bell. It’s an old-fashioned one, the kind that looks like half of a chrome yo-yo laid on its side, only this one has a orange guinea pig face painted on it. Yes, it has a white mohawk.

  “I painted it myself,” she says proudly, though no one asked.

  “It’s beautiful!” Mom gushes.

  I’m not going to put it on my bike. It’s a little girly. And you don’t put bells on a BMX. That’s ridiculous. But it probably did take time and effort to buy and t
o paint the guinea pig on it, so I say thanks. It’s the polite thing to do.

  Murphy gives me a striped tail on a stick, which is a weird gift. I hope it’s not a real tail from a real animal.

  “It’s a coatimundi tail,” Murphy says. “A real one.”

  “What’s a coatimundi?” Dmitri asks.

  “Why not look it up on your phone?” I say.

  He shrugs, but takes out his phone, asks how to spell it, and starts thumb-typing. If a coatimundi is a real animal, I want to see it, so I lean over to look.

  “Back off,” he says.

  “Hey, I’m the birthday boy.”

  “Your birthday is tomorrow.”

  “This one’s from Dmitri,” Mom interrupts, and hands me a white plastic grocery bag with a knowing look. “He said he didn’t have time to wrap it.”

  Dmitri doesn’t even look up from his phone.

  Inside the bag is a digital speedometer. It’s not in a box. It’s not in a package. It’s not new. It’s been used. Still, it’s pretty cool.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Here it is,” he says. “It looks like a skinny raccoon with a long tail.”

  He’s right. It does.

  “Yeah, except coatimundis are venomous,” Murphy says.

  “Like ducks?” I ask.

  He ignores this. “It’s way cooler to bike down the street with the tail of a venomous coatimundi fluttering behind you than with the tail of some ordinary, garbage-eating raccoon, like most people do.”

  “Is that what most people do?” Lurena asks.

  Suddenly, it hits me what’s going on.

  Bell.

  Speedometer.

  Tail on a stick for my wheel.

  I look up at my mom, and she’s grinning ear to ear. I think she’s actually grinning wider than that. Dad’s nodding at me. Murphy and Lurena start laughing out loud.

  Guess who got a new bike for his birthday!

  “It’s in the garage,” Dad says.

  I run as fast as a kid in a medical boot can.

  It’s a single-speed road bike, green as mint ice cream, with bullhorn handlebars wrapped in brown tape, and skinny tires with white rims. It’s totally different from my BMX, which is perfect. I’ve been dropping hints to my parents that I wanted a road bike for months. I told them I needed one because riding a BMX on the street is dangerous, but the real reason is speed. I want to go faster.