by K. Kibbee
Sam maintained his spot, but his head snapped backward to face Theodore. “Waddaya mean?” he asked. “This dog’s comin’ at you! He keeps barking! And heck—do you see the size of him? I think he’s fixin’ to make you into Corgi kibble!”
Theodore bunched his muzzle into a confused little knot. “Nuh uh!” he defended. “He’s tellin’ me about how he and Robin Hood are buddies—besties, even. Didn’t you hear him? He’s not gonna eat me!”
The plucky Corgi gave a little huff and then snaked around Sam’s legs—out into the open space at the hound dog’s feet.
Sam seemed too stupefied to move.
“So you and Robin—you’re friends, huh?” Theodore asked of the lumbering dog, shooting a little glare back at Sam as he did so.
“Thick as thieves!”
“Oh, that’s great—absolutely great! Do you think you could help us find him then?”
The bloodhound’s saggy face seemed to lift slightly as he attempted a smile, but his weighty wrinkles tugged it back down again, leaving him with an enthused yet confused expression. “Sure I could! Sure as I took a sheep-sized bite outta Nottingham’s backside!”
“Excellent!” was Theodore’s only reply as he turned to face Sam. He boasted, “See, told ya’!” and his little chest swelled, so that a curly wisp of hair on his sternum stuck out, revealing a pronounced cowlick that neither Theodore, nor his master, had ever seen before.
“Told me what?” Sam snipped. “He didn’t eat ya’—yet—I’ll give you that much!”
Theodore only glowered in reply, and an epic dog versus man stare-down ensued—the tension of which could only be broken by the hound dog’s ceremonious interjection.
“Why you’s talkin’ to that man?” the perplexed hound dog inquired. “And why is it that he’s seemin’ to understand everything what you’s sayin’?”
Theodore’s left eyebrow jerked up as his right eye narrowed. His soft little mouth opened, but then snapped back shut again. He stood still, between Sam and his befuddled new friend, volleying his head back and forth between the two. Before long, quiet words joined the whoosh of his swiveling head—“He thinks you’re barking. You think I’m barking mad,” Theodore puzzled aloud, as much to himself as his companions. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh went the head, and “Yup, yup, yup,” went the Corgi. “That’s it!” he finally exclaimed. “It’s just like it was back at the bookstore, back at the shelter, back at my old mum’s—dogs can’t understand people, and people can’t understand dogs. Only dogs can understand dogs.”
Sam’s suddenly meek tone sounded almost childlike as he whispered, “But I can understand you?” from his spot behind Theodore. The shopkeeper crouched down and the Corgi swiveled his long body around, so that the two were facing each other. Sam’s eyes were sparkling.
“Pretty neat, huh?”
Sam smiled. “Yeah, pretty neat.”
“Durn it if that isn’t the most curiousest thing I’ve ever seen,” came from the hound’s direction, but his words drifted away along with his immense shadow as he retreated to the bushes. He returned just moments later, wearing a bycocket cap identical to the one that Theodore and Sam had seen earlier, on Robin Hood. The feather was a little off, though—not the brilliant, bright red of the original. This looked more like a chicken feather that had been rubbed in clay so as to make it appear red. It was disheveled, too—perhaps plucked from a chicken who’d experienced a nasty case of mites, or who’d been so troubled by the prospect of becoming Sunday supper that he’d worried himself bald. The hound dog seemed proud of his cap nonetheless, and made an awkward bow as he appeared with it on. “You can call me Robin Hound.”
Theodore stifled a giggle. He’d never seen a dog wear a hat before. Well, certainly not by choice. “I’m Theodore,” he offered, still half-laughing. “And this,” he explained, glancing towards Sam, “is my master—Sam.”
Sam stepped up beside the Corgi. “Not master,” he said softly, smiling down at Theodore. “Friend.”
Robin Hound righted himself with a creak, his long lips swaying with the labored motion, and regarded the twosome with warm eyes. “Nice to meet’chya—Theodore and friend, Sam.”
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Robin Hound claimed to know Sherwood Forest better than any living creature—man, dog, or otherwise. He “know’d all the hidey places, the scary spaces, and everything in between,” and boasted that he could guide them through “super-secret shortcuts” which would lead directly to Robin Hood’s camp—on the far northern border of the forest. He advised against the well-travelled paths, “fur the sake o’ safety,” and, with his plum-sized snooter, sniffed out an overgrown patch of woods that looked to have been plucked straight out of a horror film, before urging them towards it. “’Dis it, ‘dis the one,” he decided, beaconing them into the shadows.
Theodore wondered if the heavy wrinkles bunched around the hound dog’s eyes were obscuring his vision more than he let on. “You sure?” the little Corgi asked. “This looks a little . . . err . . . rough.”
Sam was holding up the rear of their caravan and muttered, “Rough doesn’t even cover it,” under his breath.
“Nope—nose is never wrong. ‘Dis it. ‘Dis the one that takes us to Robin Hood,” the hound decided. He then lumbered into the brushy undergrowth, mowing it down with his wide chest as he
went. Theodore trailed behind, thankful for the flattened pathway, but he’d still managed to gather a nice collection of brambles in his fur after only a few minutes.
“Never realized what a good mop you make,” Sam chuckled in the background. Theodore forced a growl in response, but Sam pointed out that it sounded “like the mew of a miffed kitten,” and laughed a little louder.
They made slow progress with Robin Hound at the head, and as the dog continued on, struggling with the heavy swaths of brush that impeded them, Theo wondered aloud, “If you and Robin Hood are such chummy friends, don’t you come this way pretty often? Why’s it so overgrown?”
“Err—” and “Ummm—” came along with a fluttering of the hound’s velveteen cheeks, but after he explained that he didn’t “come ‘round this way most a’ da’ time,” they returned to flouncing up and down with the dog’s long strides.
Theodore only nodded his head at Robin Hound’s ample backside and tootled along, but soon found himself translating the dog’s response to appease Sam’s curiosity. The shopkeeper seemed less contented by the explanation and expressed a mounting unease as his eyes darted around the heavy forest, which appeared to be swallowing the three of them in darkness. “I don’t know,” Sam piped up, his voice a-quiver. “It’s getting dark, and I sure don’t see any signs of camps, or trails, or—anything.”
Robin Hound froze in an instant, and Theodore nearly planted his pointy nose in the dog’s derriere. “What’s the man sayin’?” he asked.
“Sam, Robin wants to know what you mean.”
Sam too had stopped and was glancing around at the ominous stands of trees and clumps of tangled bushes that the receding sun had bathed in blackness. Sam explained, “I just . . . I mean, I keep hearing things. And it sure isn’t a camp of Merry Men,” he stammered. “Could be all kinds of creepy crawlies out there.”
The hound remained still, but his massive, droopy eyes had begun to scan the shadows. “Creepy what’sa’s?”
“Crawlies,” Theodore echoed. “You know, critters and what-not.”
“Critters?” the hound blubbered. He jerked and Theodore noticed that the hairs between his shoulder blades had pricked up. “Like what kinds a’ critters?”
“I dunno. Why’s it matter?” Theodore replied. He ticked his head to the side and upward, until he could get a better view around Robin Hound’s ample derriere. He was nearly certain that a few of the hound’s wrinkles were trembling, so he continued on, “I’ve caught a few varmints in my day, and surely you’ve wrestled with plenty in these woods!”
; “B—. Bu—. But not in the d-da— Dark,” came out like the sputter of a cold engine, and was followed by a wail so gut-rattling that it could’ve come from a banshee. The hound dog leapt into the twilight sky in that same moment, and despite his girth, managed to catch air.
Sam startled in response and came a few inches off of the ground himself, before touching down with a girlish shriek. “What was that?”
Theodore was about to ask Robin Hound the very same question, but the dog had already lit off into the brush. A curdled “Touched me! Sunthin’ touched me!” ushered off his loping strides as he faded into the inky pitch of the nearest tree line, and then vanished.
It wasn’t long after the hound’s cries had died away that the sounds of the forest filled in to replace them—little scratches, and gnaws, and . . . was that . . . breathing? Theodore backed towards Sam as the menacing chatter grew louder. His rear scuffed Sam’s shoe, and the shopkeeper bent down, scooped the Corgi up, and drew him in close.
“What was that? What was he baying about?”
“Said somethin’ touched him,” Theodore offered, his bespectacled eyes fixated on the trees that had gobbled up his new friend.
Sam gulped and squeezed Theodore a little tighter. Meanwhile, the forest chatter had intensified to become almost deafening. Theodore could feel it weaseling into this brain and nesting there. It was a maddening sort of noise—all the clawing, and hissing, and gnawing—combined into one spooky chorus. It grew louder and nearer with each passing second, until the bushes all around them seemed to be teeming with the vibration of ill-tempered creatures. Growls and grumbles called from the shadows, like the whole forest had come to life and planned to devour this man and the little dog who had dared to trespass upon it.
And that’s when it happened. Theodore decided. He decided he was powerful. He decided he’d do anything to protect his friend. He decided to fight. He leapt from Sam’s arms and into the darkness, baring his bright, white teeth so daringly that they lit the night.
Part Three
Roars & Grumbles, Sniffs & Snuffles
Theodore’s spectacles helped him to see things he’d never seen, and do things he’d only ever dreamed of doing, but in the thick soup of blackness that enveloped him as he dove into the brush, they showed him only unending darkness. Still, the brave little dog kept his lips curled and his growl fierce, despite the beasties he imagined might be closing in around him.. The ominous sounds that had boomed from the bushes moments before seemed to die to a soft rumble as Theodore cast his gleaming teeth about the void—roars and grumbles ebbing to sniffs and snuffles.
A quick little motion tugged at the corner of Theodore’s right eye and the fearsome Corgi followed it just in time to find a toaster-sized hare darting from one patch of undergrowth to another. The animal caught Theodore with its enlarged, frightened eyes, and then scampered away as quickly as it had come.
“Theodore! Theodore! Are you okay in there?” Sam bellowed from the pathway.
“I’m fine,” Theodore answered back, watching as two rotund hedgehogs ambled out of the bush into which the hare had just darted. The small creatures also glanced at him, with wide, frightened eyes, and then hurried—much as meatballs with legs could—into the shadows. Theodore sniggered and then backed from the underbrush like an overlong RV, beeping, “Nothin’ in here but lil’ critters,” as he went. Before he’d extricated himself entirely, another disturbance in the foliage announced the return of Robin Hound, who was wearing a crown of shame made of broken twigs and leaves. The hound’s head was hung low and, judging by the balm of mud that coated the right side of his droopy face, he’d taken a tumble or two in his hurried retreat.
“I ‘pologize,” he brooded upon approach. “I got a lil’ carried away with myself there.”
Theodore studied the hound with kind eyes. “It’s alright,” he soothed. “I know what it feels like—being scared.”
“I weren’t scared!” Robin Hound spat back, straightening himself. “Were that thing that attacked me! Powerful nasty lil’ buggar. Only thing to do was ru—.”
The hound stopped short, as if he was chewing the words up before they had a chance to escape his mouth. He grew quiet for a moment, took on a thoughtful expression that resembled constipation, and then picked up where he’d left off. “Only thing to do was scare it off. Ya’ know—so as it didn’t get the two of you.”
Theodore looked sideways through his spectacles and choked down a chuckle, but said nothing. Sam seized upon the momentary quiet to ask, “What’s he on about?”
“He . . . err . . . ummm . . . he’s explaining how he scared away whatever was attacking us before.”
Robin Hood straightened another degree. “Darn toot’in I did.”
“Oh,” came from Sam with an uncertain tone and a stroke of his chin. He eyed the hound dog as he did would-be shoplifters in his bookstore, but shrugged after the brief examination. “Well, that’s good,” he decided. He then drew his attention back to Theodore. The shopkeeper’s eyes were big now, and shone like lit lighthouses behind the glass of his bifocals as he crooned, “You sure were brave back there, Theo. Didn’t know German Shepherds came in miniature.” He then added a wink that made Theodore’s tiny heart swell in his chest.
Theodore was so contented, in fact, that when they bedded down in a motley, makeshift campsite under an old oak and a blanket of stars, he slept soundly all through the night. On occasion, the little Corgi found himself awakened by a whimper or a spooked gasp from the hound dog, but he was quick to return to his own dreams. The following morning, Sam speculated that Theodore “must’a been dreamin’ of running a marathon or auditioning for Dancing with the Dog Stars,” in his sleep, because he’d spent pre-dawn “kickin’ up a storm with those lil’ legs.”
Theodore wrinkled his nose at this remark and glared at Sam through his upturned spectacles, with an expression that was equal parts snide and studious. He felt momentarily superior until a long, low growl billowed from his stomach and set everyone to laughing.
“Sounds like you need some breakfast!” Sam observed with a chuckle.
“I can rustle us up some grub,” Robin Hound offered, mid-stretch. The gawky bloodhound’s rear end was pointed at the heavens while his front half skimmed the ground, causing the better part of his wrinkles to slide to his face and bunch into folds that engulfed his eyes. He gave a long, slow wag of his tail along with the offer, batting nearby bushes with it until their leaves fell to the ground like confetti.
Theodore narrowed his eyes by a few millimeters. “What kinda grub?”
The hound dog straightened up and his wrinkles migrated back to their designated areas. His eyes seemed to pop from his head as they reemerged. “Well, how’s you feel about hot cakes, sizzlin’ bacon, and spit-fired honey ham?”
The Corgi’s mouth instantaneously began to water. Now it was Theodore’s eyes that popped.
Robin Hound pulled the wrinkles on his lips up into a tightly drawn bow, and began to laugh a deep, hearty bellow. “Well, friend, we ain’t got none o’ that! Bah! Where’d you think I was keepin’ all that business—in my castle up yonder hill?”
“What’s he saying?” Sam needled from the sidelines.
Theodore only grumbled as the hound dog continued on with his simpering, and then he barked, “Nothin’!” back at Sam.
Meanwhile, Robin Hound’s merriment had intensified, so that his great, goopy wrinkles flounced up and down with the escalating laughter. He choked on a reply of, “Oh, ain’t nothin’,” and then turned and sauntered into the tree line, nearly stumbling over his giggles as he went. As his meaty back end squeezed through the trunks of two willow trees, he hollered back, “Foller me!”
Another grumble from Theodore ushered on Robin’s shameless exit as he explained, “C’mon, Sam. We’re supposed to follow him. Says he’ll find us somethin’ to eat.” And then Theodore copied the galumphing dog’s path into the wood. Beyond the willows, the
forest thickened and, if not for the wide swath the hound dog had created with his battering ram of a chest, Theodore probably wouldn’t have been able to follow him at all. But, as it was, the wee Corgi reasoned that, “Being a big galoot has its advantages,” and soon caught up to Robin Hound, who’d paused at a small rise in the landscape that overlooked a shallow valley just below.
“Shhhh—,” the hound warned as his two companions approached. “There’s a plump lil’ rabbit down there, just waitin’ to become breakfast.”
Theodore crouched into stealth mode—the varmint-catching lineage that flowed through his veins flooding his mind and body with all the moxie and know-how to trap, skin, and probably fine-fillet anything small and furry. Sam copied him, slinking down behind the trunk of a downed tree which lined the ridge. “What are we hunting?” he asked at a whisper.
“Wabbits.”
Sam stifled a giggle as Theo hunkered down beside him. Robin Hound’s shadow soon eclipsed them both as the dog settled in beside the Corgi, rested his wide head on the tree’s trunk, and fixed his eyes on the valley. Only a handful of silent seconds passed before Theodore’s hackles began to wilt and he quietly inquired, “Where is it?”
“’Twas right—,” was cut short as the hound dog perked at the sight of a brindled brown rabbit, no bigger than an eggplant, that materialized from a bush on the far side of the valley. Theodore became instantly alert—ears a-twitch and pupils swollen. He tensed at the ready, laser-focused on the unsuspecting animal. A great hush fell over the trio as the rabbit ventured nearer to their hiding spot. But then, amid the stoic silence, there was a soft and unmistakable whimper.
Theodore glanced to his left to find Robin Hound big-eyed and staring at a black beetle ambling along the log behind which they’d perched. The beetle could’ve been a ball bearing—round and shiny as it was—if not for the formidable pinchers set between its beady eyes. The hound dog glanced nervously in the insect’s direction as it drew nearer. Short as its legs were, the little thing was scampering at quite a nice clip, and already nearing Robin’s muzzle. The hound’s whining seemed to grow louder with each inch of the beetle’s progress, and Theodore warned, “Shhh—. You’ll spook the rabbit,” as quietly as he could manage.
