Fenway and Hattie

by Victoria J. Coe

  Fetch Man hovers next to Hattie, watching her intently. He has a hopeful look in his eye.

  “Hey, everybody!” I bark. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m stuck here and I can’t play.”

  They act like they can’t hear me. Angel winds up and hurls the ball toward Hattie and Fetch Man. Hattie stretches out to get it, but it bounces behind her and dribbles toward Food Lady and the dirt.

  “I’m on it, you guys!” I bark, leaping out as far as I can. It’s a whisker beyond my reach.

  Hattie jogs right past me, looking annoyed. Or discouraged. She scoops up the ball and heads back.

  “Unfair! Unfair!” I bark. I jump and twist, even though it’s no use.

  Fetch Man rests his hand on Hattie’s back. He talks into her ear, then stands aside, moving his arm like he’s tossing a ball.

  Hattie nods. She strokes her cap a couple of times. She pulls her arm back and flings the ball at Angel.

  Fetch Man starts clapping, but then stops as the ball sails over Angel’s head. It lands on the driveway and begins rolling toward the street.

  Hattie’s shoulders slump. Fetch Man pats her back, his face encouraging.

  Angel is about to head after the ball when strange sounds make us all stop in our tracks.

  Tinky-tinky-tink-a-too.

  Is it music, like fluty birds? It’s moving toward us. It must be exciting because Hattie and Angel drop their fat gloves and squeal with glee. Do they know what this is?

  Fetch Man does not appear the least bit curious. Food Lady does not even look up. She keeps on playing in the dirt like her sense of hearing is gone.

  The tinky-tinky-tink-a-too is getting louder. And closer. Hattie skips up to Fetch Man, who digs into his pocket. Smiling, he hands Hattie and Angel a couple of small flimsy papers.

  Clutching them tightly, the short humans scamper to the edge of the grass. Their heads turn in the direction of the noisy music. Waiting.

  Until . . . a truck turns the corner!

  My hackles shoot up. Is the Big Brown Truck coming for us again?

  No! It’s smaller. And whiter. And it’s playing the tinky-tinky music.

  Hattie and Angel hop up and down, their arms waving.

  “Hattie, stand back!” I bark, leaping and flailing. “This thing must be dangerous!”

  But she is not listening to my very obvious warnings. The truck stops right next to the short humans, who are not moving out of the way. He’s going to get them!

  “Go away! We don’t want you here!” I bark at the truck.

  Like the Big Brown Truck, this one has a human inside. He leans out the window. Hattie, full of energy, talks to him. So does Angel.

  “Run away!” I bark to the short humans. “Go inside, climb a tree, anything!”

  Can they not hear me? Fetch Man or Food Lady, either? Fetch Man is over at the dirt chatting with Food Lady like everything’s fine.

  Good thing I’m here to save the day. Except for the Very Big Problem of the leash. I pull and pull, but there’s no way I can reach Truck Man. All I can do is bark. “You’d better scram, or else!”

  Hattie gives him a flimsy paper. Angel does, too. And just like that, Truck Man disappears. Was he scared off by my dire warnings? Or the short humans’ chattering?

  Unfortunately, neither. Truck Man returns and shoves something at the girls. Angel bounces impatiently. She reaches her hand toward the window. Is she trying to push Truck Man back inside?

  “I told you to leave!” I bark. Even though it’s useless, I lunge with all my might and—snap!—the leash breaks off!

  I rocket across the lawn. I’m heading right toward that truck at full speed.

  Food Lady and Fetch Man spring up. They race over, too, like they suddenly realize the danger the short humans are in. “Fenway! Fenway!” they’re calling, as if I’m not already on the job.

  I arrive at the scene just as Angel has apparently figured out that she’s no match for the musical truck. She turns to me, her eyes wide. Hattie starts shouting and waving her arms.

  “FEN-way! Stop!” Food Lady and Fetch Man both scream.

  “Go away! Leave these short humans alone!” I bark, baring my teeth. I’m leaping higher than I’ve ever leaped before. I must reach that window!

  I leap extra, extra high, but I still can’t reach it. As I fall back down, I collide with Angel, who lets out a shriek. Next thing I know, white creamy globs are all over her clothes.

  Truck Man is yelling. Food Lady and Fetch Man are practically breathless. But somehow this does not prevent them from speaking very loudly.

  Angel pulls at her delicious-smelling shirt like it’s on fire. I taste a few drips as they fly off. Mmmmm! Sweet and frosty. I go in for a better lick.

  Angel jumps back. Her face is angry. “Bad dog! Bad dog!” she yells.

  Hattie squats down and grabs what’s left of my leash. She shakes her finger at me. “FEN-way!” she says with a very mad “you’re in trouble” voice.

  What’d I do? No time to find out. My nose is detecting an irresistible blob of ice cream on the pavement. Talk about a distraction. Mmmmm! Vanilla!

  The bright morning sun is shining through the window. I go to nuzzle Hattie, but she’s not there. And worse—this is not even her bed. Where am I?

  A quick glance around confirms the shocking reality—I’m in an empty room. Trapped by The Gate!

  Suddenly, I remember a horrifying dream. Hattie bossing me in here last night, brandishing The Gate. Wait a minute! Did that really happen?

  No! Hattie doesn’t boss. Hattie doesn’t brandish The Gate. I begin tearing around the room. Pictures are flying into my head. Images too awful to be true.

  Could I have actually spent the whole dark night alone in this strange room? Was I really curled up on this hard, wooden floor instead of in Hattie’s comfy bed that smells like mint and vanilla? With no Hattie brushing my fur and singing “best buddies” as I’m falling asleep? Did I even sleep?

  I’m panting and shuddering. I can’t stop racing in circles. It’s worse than a nightmare. Finally, I get ahold of myself. There must be something I can do.

  I rush over to The Gate. “Hello!” I bark. “I’m in a boring place, and I can’t get out!”

  I bark and bark, but nobody is coming. I pause and listen. Are those the sounds of my humans shuffling around downstairs?

  I must keep at it. I bark and bark some more. When I stop to listen again, my tail starts going nuts. Footsteps are coming up the stairs. I knew my plan would work!

  I leap up, trying to peer over The Gate. Those footsteps are getting closer, and then . . . Hattie appears. “Hooray! Hooray!” I bark, offering my head for the rub. But where is it?

  I fall back down. Hattie has her arms folded, her face a terrible mixture of irritation and disappointment. Why is she glaring at me like that?

  She definitely could use her adorable dog’s help to get rid of that frown. I jump and jump, trying desperately to lick her hand. “I have a great idea, Hattie,” I bark, cocking my head in that cute way she likes. “Let’s go to the Dog Park and have some fun!”

  She leans away. “Stop it,” she says in a sharp voice.

  I collapse in a heap of confusion. What is happening to My Hattie? My heart’s so heavy, I might sink right through the floor.

  Hattie talks in a serious and scolding voice. She does not sound anything like My Hattie. She sounds a little bit like Food Lady does when I climb on the couch.

  Hattie speaks and speaks, using lots of Human words I don’t know. They are pelting me like rocks. I can’t even look at her. All I can do is cover my eyes and sulk.

  When Hattie leaves, I’m alone for a Long, Long Time. But then, there’s good news—Hattie is back! She removes The Gate and scoops me into her arms. Yippee! She’s My Hattie again. I lick her chin and her neck and h
er ear.

  But my hopes quickly crash when we get outside. She sets me down and strides right over to that giant tree. She must be hibernating in the squirrel house, because after I’ve sniffed every inch of the Dog Park and peed on every shrub, she’s still up there.

  Eventually, there’s nothing to do but sprawl out in the grass and listen to the fluty, chirpy birds and buzzing bees. And wait for Hattie. It’s the Loneliest Dog Park Ever.

  I’m half snoozing when my ears perk in annoyance.

  “Chipper, chatter, squawk!”

  My fur prickles. It’s one of those nasty squirrels. This one is even bigger than the two from last time!

  He’s scampering across the tippy-top of the fence, along the far side of the Dog Park. Doesn’t he realize there’s a ferocious dog guarding the place?

  He’s obviously not very smart. Because every time he reaches the end of the fence, he pivots and darts back the other way. But then again, who ever said squirrels were smart?

  As he scurries along, his hissing grates in my ears. His twitching is almost too revolting to watch.

  But I can’t run away from my duty. I must defend my territory. I’m a professional.

  I spring up and trot closer. But not too close. “Get out of here, you disgusting rodent!” I bark. “A Dog Park is no place for squirrels!”

  He is not acting the least bit intimidated. He stops mid-scamper and bares his squirrel-ish fangs right at me. “Chipper, chatter, squawk!” he screeches. The sound is pure evil.

  I’m a few paces away but still within striking distance. “I said, ‘Go away!’” I bark, with more urgency this time.

  “Chipper, chatter, squawk!” he screeches again, as if he even has a chance against me. Digging his vicious claws into the top of the fence, he thrusts his hideous face in my direction. He’s going to fling himself right at me!

  I back up a little, every hair on my neck trembling. “You’re not welcome here, you cowardly beast,” I bark. “Now beat it before I destroy you once and for all!”

  But my serious threats do not drive him away. Next thing I know, that little monster flies off the fence, right into the Dog Park! As soon as his feet hit the grass, he scampers toward the giant tree.

  Ha! If that’s how he wants to play, he picked the wrong opponent. “I’ve got you now, you nasty creature!” I bark, taking off after him.

  His fat, fluffy tail swishes tauntingly as he runs. I can already taste that disgusting fur in my jaws. I’m about to snap when he flees up the trunk in an ominous racket of clickety-clacky-clacks. Uh-oh! Hattie’s up there!

  I paw the bark of the giant tree, snarling and growling furiously. “Leave Hattie alone, you menace!” I bark. “Or you’ll have to answer to me!”

  Fortunately, the rustling and swaying branches tell me he has enough sense to avoid the squirrel house. I drop down in the shade and curl up for a well-deserved rest.

  Then my ears detect familiar sounds through the fence. The jingling of dogs. If only I could get excited.

  “Is that you, Fenway?” Patches’s lovely voice calls.

  I slump a bit lower.

  “He looks like he lost his best bone,” I hear Goldie mutter.

  “Poor guy,” Patches says. “It reminds me of the first time our sweet Angel left the leashes on their hooks, forgetting all about them. You parked yourself at the door and sulked and stewed and didn’t move. Not even at supper time.”

  “Me?” Goldie huffs. “I believe you were the one who whimpered and carried on like a puppy when she went out without us that day. She practically shut the door on your nose, like you weren’t even there.”

  Patches sniffs. “She ran out without giving us so much as a pat.”

  “Well, a dog can’t keep living in the past,” Goldie says. “What’s done is done.”

  Patches sighs. “Still, I can’t help but remember the good times.”

  “What’s the point?” Goldie says, then calls over to me. “Hey, Fenway. Do yourself a favor and move on without that short human. You’re only making yourself miserable.”

  “Have a little sympathy,” Patches says. “Can’t you see the pain he’s in?”

  It’s all too much to bear. “Leave me alone,” I cry.

  “See?” Patches says.

  “Hey, I’m only trying to help,” Goldie says. “Is it my fault if the little guy won’t listen to my advice?”

  “There’s advice and then there’s wise advice,” Patches says.

  “And I suppose yours is wise?” Goldie grumbles.

  “Fenway,” Patches says kindly, “we know from experience how hard it is to move on. But believe me, life without your short human isn’t as bad as you think.”

  “That’s your wise advice?” Goldie says.

  Patches ignores her. “Listen, Fenway, at first, we couldn’t accept it. But as time went on, we got used to entertaining ourselves.”

  “That’s right,” Goldie says. “Instead of swimming in the pond, now we lie in puddles.”

  “You mean we splash in the wading pool,” Patches corrects.

  “Speak for yourself,” Goldie says with a growl. “I lie in puddles.”

  “In any case,” Patches goes on, “we’ve found ways to adjust. And you will, too.”

  I want to ignore them, but a sense of fury rises up through my fur and consumes my entire body. In a flash, I’m charging over to the fence. “Maybe that’s working for you,” I say. “But I could never live without My Hattie. I am going to get her back.”

  “Now, Fenway, I know you’re determined, but . . .” Patches says, her eyes sad and wincing. “Have you actually thought about what a gargantuan task that would be?”

  “Hey, maybe he’s some kind of super dog,” Goldie says with a sneer.

  “I know you both think I can’t do it,” I say. “But I can! I will! Maybe I just need more time. Or better ideas. Or something. But I’ll do it. Just you wait.”

  “Would you listen to him?” Goldie murmurs.

  I jump up and scratch the fence. “And who knows?” I say, feeling a surge of power. “When I get My Hattie back, maybe I’ll get your Angel back, too.”

  Patches gasps, but then her face falls. “If only we could have our precious Angel back,” she says sadly. “It’s all I wish for.”

  “Too bad it’s impossible,” Goldie says, then looks away suddenly. Like she doesn’t want us to see her drooping ears.

  I know I’ll do it. I have to. All I need is a plan.

  Just then, the sliding door bangs, and I jump. Fetch Man is on the porch, his fat leathery glove on his hand and a familiar cap on his head. He tosses a white ball into the air and catches it. Okay, he’s no Hattie, but playing ball with Fetch Man is my second favorite thing to do. “Excuse me, ladies. I have a game to play,” I call over my shoulder, trotting to the porch.

  “Go knock yourself out,” Goldie says.

  “Goldie . . .” Patches scolds.

  Fetch Man grabs another fat leathery glove off the porch. He bounds down the stairs, holding it out in the direction of the giant tree. “Hattie,” he calls excitedly.

  I’m leaping at his side for a better sniff. And view.

  The glove on Fetch Man’s hand smells old and worn. It looks bigger than the other one, which is new and stiff. Fetch Man beams proudly. Like he’s found a bone that was lost for a Long, Long Time. “Hattie!” he calls again.

  Her face appears in the squirrel-house window, but she does not look happy. Hattie grimaces and shakes her head.

  Fetch Man reaches out the glove, like he’s not sure Hattie saw it the first time. “Come on,” he begs.

  Hattie shakes her head more forcefully.

  Fetch Man sighs loudly. Then he chatters in a voice that sounds like a combination of coaxing and pleading. Like he’s trying to get her onto the cold, scary scale in t
he vet’s office.

  Next thing I know, Hattie’s face vanishes from the window. Her sneakers appear beneath the leafy leaves. She’s coming down!

  “Hooray! Hooray!” I bark, romping over. “We’re all going to play fetch. It’s the Best Day Ever!”

  Fetch Man’s right behind me. The instant Hattie’s feet touch the ground, he hands her the glove.

  “Oh no,” I hear Goldie say.

  “I can’t bear to watch,” replies Patches.

  “It’s okay, ladies,” I say, prancing near the fence. “I’ve got this. Just you wait.”

  Patches looks like she wants to say something but changes her mind. Goldie drops down and scratches.

  I charge back over to Hattie. “I’m so ready! I’m so ready!” I bark, leaping on her legs.

  “FEN-way,” she snaps. She turns to Fetch Man, whose voice has changed from coaxing and pleading to serious and guiding.

  Really, Fetch Man? You think Hattie doesn’t know how to play fetch? It’s one of her favorite games!

  “Let’s go! Let’s go!” I bark, circling their feet. “What are we waiting for?”

  “FEN-way, stop,” Hattie snaps again.

  Hey, can you blame a dog for being impatient?

  Hattie trudges back to the porch and grabs her cap. She tucks it on, pulling her bushy tail through the back. “Ready,” she says. But she sure doesn’t sound like it. Or look like it. For one thing, she’s standing way too close to Fetch Man, giving me a huge head start.

  I trot into the middle of the grass, waiting for Fetch Man to wind up and send the ball flying toward the back fence.

  But instead, Fetch Man leans in. He flips the ball gently toward Hattie’s chest.

  She slaps at it with her fat glove, but it bounces off and lands in the grass. Hattie hangs her head.

  “I’m on it!” I bark, speeding after the ball as it rolls behind Hattie’s feet.

  She can’t resist the chase. She snatches it practically right out of my jaws—in a way that is not very playful.