He leaps up, thrusting his fat glove way out to the side. Thwaaap! He snags it and claps the glove with his other hand.
“Yes!” Hattie cries. She dances around, waving her arms.
I start to pant uncontrollably. My humans are playing in the Dog Park while their loyal dog is trapped up here inside a boring room. They are acting happy, like they’re having fun. Like they don’t even realize that somebody important is missing. This is so wrong. I must do something!
But then, my ears pick up other sounds. From over the fence.
Clink! Jingle! Jingle!
Wowee! Talk about distracting. Right next to our Dog Park is another one just the same. With grass and bushes and a fence all around it. It doesn’t have a giant tree in the back, but it does have two dogs in it—a Golden Retriever and a white dog with black patches. Hey, it’s the ladies!
They look perfectly content, too. Goldie is sniffing in the bushes. Patches is rolling on the ground. Everybody is having fun, and I’m stuck here all alone.
Or am I?
“All-rite!” comes from nearby. Hey, somebody else is up here, too.
I turn way to the side, above the ladies’ Dog Park. Peeping out an open window the same level as mine is the head of a short human. With a cap and a long wavy tail. Angel?
She’s watching Hattie and Fetch Man. Grinning and pumping her fist.
Why is Angel up in the window when the ladies are playing down in the Dog Park? That’s not the way it’s supposed to be. It reminds me of Patches’s sad voice. “It’s so painful to watch. So very like our own sweet Angel with that same white ball, the same glove . . .”
Hattie hugs her own fat glove like it’s a used-to-be bear. Or an adorable dog.
Another human’s voice sounds from directly below my window. Food Lady!
Fetch Man turns and flips the ball to Hattie. She reaches forward and scoops it into her glove. She smiles again.
Fetch Man jogs toward the house and vanishes from view. I hear the door slide open and bang shut.
Hattie twirls around, happy as can be. She throws the ball up into the air and watches it fall—thump!—into the fat glove. Again and again.
My ears flop with sadness. My short human is playing by herself. It’s not right. Doesn’t she need me?
“Please, oh please, Hattie,” I whine. “Let’s play ball together like we did before.”
Hattie looks up. She scowls, one hand on her hip, then shakes her head. She goes back to tossing the ball. Like that’s the only thing she wants to do. Or cares about.
“Oh please, pleeeeease, Hattie,” I cry. “I’ll let you win. I promise!” I scrape my claws on the window ledge. I jump higher, my claws poking the screen . . .
Hattie snaps her head up in alarm. “FEN-way!” she shouts. She races toward the house and quickly disappears. I hear the door thud.
“Hooray! Hooray!” I fly off the box and tear around the empty room. “I knew she’d come!”
Soon Hattie arrives at The Gate. “FEN-way,” she scolds.
How am I in trouble? There isn’t even anything to do here.
When she scoops me up, I go crazy licking her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re back,” I bark between slurps. She tastes like salty sweat. And something else, too. Confidence again?
I’m so happy to be back in Hattie’s arms, I nestle against her neck all the way down the stairs and through the house. The more she speaks in that stern un-Hattie voice, the more I snuggle.
By the time we head out the sliding door, she’s stroking my back. I knew she couldn’t resist her super best friend. She sets me on the porch, and I dance around.
“Yippee!” I bark. “We’re finally going to play!”
But maybe Hattie’s had enough playing. The door closes, and she’s gone.
My heart crashes. What just happened?
I can’t go on like this. I have to get My Hattie back. For good.
I plop down for a quick scratch when suddenly I realize the opportunity I’ve been waiting for is sitting right next to me on the porch.
I stare at the fat glove for a second or two. I can’t believe I’ve finally come face-to-face with it. Prepare for certain doom, you no-good Glove! You are the cause of all the trouble.
Snarling, I bare my teeth. I take a running leap. I pounce!
Clenching it tightly in my jaws, I whip my head from side to side. The Glove is stiffer and heavier than I thought. And way more leathery.
I let it drop to the porch floor. Time for the real work.
I creep slowly around the perimeter of the Glove, my gaze firmly upon its smooth surface. Its weakness is here somewhere. And I will find it.
Aha! I spot a bit of string, like a leathery shoelace. It’s the perfect place to begin. And as I examine the Glove more closely, I see more of them.
Lots more. Probably millions!
Could this be the Easiest Job Ever? I chomp down on the nearest bit of string. I tug and tug with all my might. I will not relent!
But the string is not budging. I have to stop and rest, panting like a weakling. Until I spot a more vulnerable-looking piece right next to it.
I’ll get you, you other piece of string! My teeth have been preparing a lifetime for this very situation. Chomp!
I pull and pull. My jaws are tired, but they will not give up. I steady the Glove with my front paws and dig my weight into my hind legs. I tug my head back and back and back.
For a Long, Long Time, I keep at it. Now and then, I hear the ladies’ voices next door muttering to each other. “What’s going on over there?”
But there’s no time for socializing. Nothing will distract me from my goal. After more and more biting and pulling, I hear an encouraging ripping noise. Progress?
With each tug, the string rips a little more. I pull and pull and pull. At last, a bit of the end breaks off. I spit it onto the porch, panting and drooling.
I glare at the Glove, inspecting the damage. Other than a few teeth marks, it looks exactly the same as before. One thing is clear—there’s a lot more work to do!
Luckily, there are millions of strings left. I’m biting and chomping and chewing till my jaws are aching. I spit out more and more pieces. Others are fraying and tearing. They are no match for a determined dog like me!
I’m exhausted, but I have important work to do. I have to finish the job. I must!
Eventually, my tongue is slobbering. My lungs are panting. My sides are heaving. I stand back to admire what’s left of the Glove.
Most of the strings are ripped or gone. The fat leathery part is full of holes and tears. There’s no doubt about it—this Glove has been sufficiently attacked.
I sink down onto the porch. All I want is a well-earned nap in the sun.
But for some reason, the ladies choose that exact moment for conversation. “Fenway?” Patches calls, sounding concerned. “Is everything all right?”
Somehow, I find the energy to trot over to the fence. “Everything’s way better than all right,” I say, thrusting out my chest. “Actually, everything is perfect.”
Goldie snorts. “Really?”
“Hattie won’t be playing with that Glove anymore. And she probably won’t be climbing the giant tree, either. She’s going to be My Hattie again, just like always. Thanks to me.”
“You sound pretty sure,” Goldie says. “How can a dog change a short human?”
“Maybe you’ve never tried,” I say. “Or maybe you didn’t have the right plan.”
“Oh, and you do?”
“I don’t want to brag or anything. But let’s just say I’m not afraid of hard work.”
Goldie gruffs. “Are you calling us lazy?”
“Hey, I’m not judging you.”
“It’s just that we’d hate to see you get your hopes dashed,” Patches says.
&nbs
p; “Not that we’d know anything about that,” Goldie says.
“The fact that you lost your Angel and couldn’t get her back has nothing to do with me and My Hattie,” I say. “It’s like comparing balls and Frisbees.”
“Fenway,” Patches says, hesitating like she’s not sure she should continue. “We’ve been trying to be delicate. We’ve been trying to be understanding and supportive. But it’s time for you to own up to the truth. Nothing can bring a short human back.”
“Maybe you don’t want to admit that you failed with your Angel,” I say. “And you’re jealous that I’m going to get My Hattie back.”
“Now wait just a minute there, little guy,” Goldie says with a snarl. “We are not jealous.”
“We’re only trying to help,” Patches adds.
“Why don’t you save your helpfulness for somebody who needs it?” I shout. “My Hattie’s coming back to me. Everything will be the way it’s supposed to be. Just wait and see.”
“Humph,” Goldie says.
The sliding door thuds, and we all turn. Hattie! And Angel!
“Looks like we’re about to get that chance,” Patches says.
“Watch and learn,” I say to the ladies. I rush up the steps.
The short humans scamper onto the porch, wearing caps with tails of hair swinging from the back. Angel has a fat leathery glove on one hand.
“Hooray! Hooray! It’s playtime,” I bark, jumping and leaping at Hattie’s legs. “I’m so glad you’re back. I missed you so much.”
But instead of reaching down and petting me, Hattie stands up tall. She gives Angel a quick glance, then looks at me. “Sit,” she says in a commanding voice as I paw her shins. She points to the floor.
She’s trying to tell me something. But what? Are there treats on the floor? How could I possibly have missed them? I circle around and around, busily sniffing the area around Hattie’s feet. I must find those treats!
“Um-oh-kay . . .” I hear Angel say.
I keep on sniffing, but I do not smell any treats. What’s going on? All I smell are those leathery bits from the Glove.
Apparently, Hattie notices them, too. “What?” she cries, hurrying to the corner of the porch and grabbing the Glove. She turns it over, examining the destruction.
Angel joins her. She leans in, her hands on her hips.
Hattie’s whole body sags. Clearly, the Glove has let her down.
It worked! My tail goes nuts. Hattie won’t want to play with that Glove anymore. Now we can play chase. “Come on, Hattie!” I bark, bounding down the porch steps. “Try to catch me!” I start running through the grass.
Sure enough, she’s hot on my tail. Angel, too. I knew it was the Best Idea Ever, but I have to admit, it’s working even better than I thought.
“FEN-way!” Hattie yells.
Around and around we go, zigging and zagging all through the Dog Park. My ears blow straight back. My fur ripples in the breeze. My tongue lolls to one side. I sure hope the ladies are watching. I hate to say I told them so, but . . .
“FEN-way!” Hattie screams even louder, pretending to be mad and growly. She loves playing chase as much as I do. It’s our favorite game!
I’m racing around the giant tree when I see Angel coming at me from the other way. Ha! Does she think I’m an amateur? I instantly twist and reverse directions.
But when I come out the other side, there’s Hattie. And Angel’s still behind me. They’ve got me cornered!
It’s important to win, but there are worse things than being nabbed by My Hattie. And besides that, I’m officially trapped.
As she scoops me into her arms, I go to lick her cheek. She makes a sour face. And she smells mad. Super mad.
Whoa, I’m the one who lost the game. Why is Hattie upset?
She holds me up at arm’s length. She gazes at me intently, her eyebrows narrowed. “FEN-way!” she yells, louder and madder than ever. She keeps on yelling and yelling. She does not even sound like Hattie. She sounds like somebody I don’t know.
And she looks like somebody I don’t know, too. Her shoulders are tense and her hands are trembling. Her face is puffed and furious. Her eyes are pooling with wetness.
“Bad, bad dog!” she cries, her breath becoming uneven. Her voice is a horrible mixture of fury and grief. Tears start spilling down her cheeks. “Bad, bad dog!” she wails between sobs.
My ears are sagging, my eyes wincing. It hurts too much to look at her face. Even my fur is drooping with sadness. I try to shrink. I try to recoil. But she’s holding me tight, and there’s nowhere to hide.
“Bad, bad dog!” she cries over and over, like she’s the one who’s in pain.
Why is this happening? Why is Hattie angry at me? We were playing chase, her favorite game. We were having fun. I even let her win.
Hattie turns my face back toward hers so I can’t look away. She keeps saying those terrible words, “Bad, bad dog,” right into my eyes. Like somehow I’m going to understand.
“I can’t bear to watch,” Goldie mutters.
“Or listen,” says Patches.
And I was beginning to think things couldn’t get worse. The ladies were right. Hattie’s changed. And now on top of this horrible agony, I have to suffer humiliation, too.
All I want to do is run away. I try to wriggle out of Hattie’s grip, but she only clutches me tighter. It’s by definition the Most Awful Day Ever. I hang my head and whimper. When will it end?
And just like that, Hattie sets me down. She flies up the porch steps, charges into the house, and slams the door.
Angel gives a little cry of surprise, then bolts after her.
I curl up in the grass, covering my eyes. If I could get any smaller, I’d actually disappear.
“My heart is aching for him,” Goldie murmurs.
“I wish there were something we could do,” Patches says.
A bee buzzes overhead, happy as can be, like all that matters is the next flower. “Please go away,” I yelp.
I must have been lying in the grass for a Very Long Time because the sun is dropping lower in the sky. Food Lady opens the door. “Fenn-waay,” she calls like it’s any ordinary supper time.
Hey, maybe it is an ordinary supper time? Maybe whatever happened is over now. I trot inside and poke my head into the Eating Place.
My supper dish is filled with food all right. But it’s in the same spot as usual—on the Wicked Floor. And that’s not the only bad news. Fetch Man’s at the table, but where’s Hattie? Is she gone?
I must find her! I blast around the corner and fly up the stairs. When I get to Hattie’s room, I’m wildly out of breath. And wildly relieved.
Good news—she’s in there! I want to dance around in celebration, but something horribly suspicious is going on.
Hattie is opening drawers and packing things into a bag. I go to inspect them, but she grabs my collar. “Stop it,” she scolds, pulling me away. She grabs a rolled-up blanket from the closet. I chomp one end for tug-of-war, but Hattie sneers. “Stop it!” she yells again.
I slink back. Hattie’s upset. And she’s packing things. It can only mean one thing—she’s leaving!
She must be stopped. Food Lady and Fetch Man are either unaware or not up to the task. As usual, the job falls to me. If only I knew what to do.
Hattie grabs her cap and goes to toss it into the bag with her other stuff. But then she stops. She scowls and tosses it on the dresser instead.
She looks around the room as if searching for other things to pack. I follow her gaze to the bed. Aha! The used-to-be bear! That’s how to stop her!
I bound up and snatch it. I hop off and run around the room. Ha! Hattie can’t leave now.
Hattie hurls the bulging bag over her shoulder. She hugs the rolled-up blanket.
I prance in front of her, waggling the used-
to-be bear. I prepare to take off the moment she goes in for the chase.
But she barely notices. She heads for the door and races down the hall.
Whoa, how did that not work? I drop the used-to-be bear and race out of the room. It’s all I can do to keep up with her.
She dashes into the Eating Place, where Fetch Man and Food Lady greet her with concerned faces and lots of chatter. Fetch Man’s voice is soothing. Food Lady’s sounds more like pleading.
Hattie clutches the blanket roll to her chest. Her body is tense and trembling like her hackles are raised. She shouts angry words for a long time, tears sliding down her face. Finally, she stomps her foot. She glares at them, waiting for them to respond.
But they are quiet. Fetch Man hangs his head, then looks up at Food Lady with sad eyes. She gazes back at him, her hand on her forehead. Fetch Man opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t. Food Lady’s eyes get watery.
What’s wrong with them? Can’t they see that Hattie’s running away? They’re not even saying anything. Why aren’t they trying to stop her?
Food Lady shrugs her shoulders like she has no choice but to give up. Fetch Man sighs loudly and puts his arm around her. “Let-ter-go,” he says.
I have no idea what he just said, but they’re not doing a thing. They’re just letting her go. Hattie can’t leave. I must find a way to stop her!
Fetch Man speaks to Hattie in a warning voice. He goes to a cabinet and takes out a small light. Food Lady opens another cabinet and pulls out a bottle that I recognize right away. It makes an awful hissing sound and sprays a smelly, choky mist. I back off, even though there’s no way she can reach me.
Hattie marches to the sliding door. Fetch Man and Food Lady follow with the small light and choky spray. Are they actually helping her leave?
I have to do something. I can’t let my short human run away!
I’m running in circles, desperate for an idea, when I spot Hattie’s rolled-up blanket. And her bulging bag.
Right in the middle of the Wicked Floor.
How long before she realizes she’s forgotten them and heads back? I could steal that blanket. The bag, too! I could hide them where she’d never look!
Fenway and Hattie Page 8
