Guinea Dog

by Patrick Jennings

  “Did you bike here or board?” Murph asked.

  “Bike.”

  “Coolaroni. Let’s ride.”

  “Don’t you have to stay here and do homework?”

  “Nah. Totally optional.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positootly. Summon the hounds.”

  Stony Stare. “You know I don’t have a—”

  “Okay, the hound and the hog.”

  18. I had no idea guinea pigs could run so fast.

  Fido kept up with Buddy. She kept up with my bike! And I didn’t take it easy on her, either. I pedaled as fast as I could.

  “I’m telling you, Roof!” Murph yelled. “She is the coolest thing on four legs!”

  I shrugged, but I was grinning. Ear to ear.

  We dumped our bikes in the substation field and played with the dogs. (You know what I mean.) We played Fetch, then Frisbee, then we just let them run around together and hang out and stuff. It was obvious they really liked each other, which was so great. It was what I always dreamed of, minus the guinea-pig part. If Fido had been a golden retriever, it would have been total paradise. I wasn’t complaining, though. It was as close to total paradise as I’d ever gotten.

  “Let’s bike the trails,” Murph said.

  “Yeah, let’s do that!” I said.

  Total Paradise 2.0.

  We climbed on our bikes and rode for the woods. Buddy and Fido tore after us. Murph slammed on the brakes and skidded in the grass. So I did the same. I wiped out in the grass. Not so cool.

  “Stay!” Murph commanded to Buddy, and he stopped in his tracks. What a dog!

  “Stay!” I commanded to Fido, and she froze. What a pig!

  “Nice,” Murph said. “You trained her?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. I don’t know why. Sometimes it’s just easy. Sometimes it’s just fun. I should probably think about quitting, though. I mean, I know I should tell the truth, blah blah blah…

  “Sweet,” Murph said. “You know, I’ve been thinking. You wouldn’t want to trade, would you?”

  “Trade?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Trade what?”

  “Fido for Buddy.”

  I’ve never fainted before, so I’m not exactly sure how it feels, but I think I almost fainted.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  “You’re totally joking.” I mean, he had to be.

  “You can never tell with me,” he said with a smirk.

  I squinted at him. Was he joking?

  Of course he was!

  Wasn’t he?

  What if he wasn’t?

  What would I do?

  “Think about it,” he said. “For now, let’s BMX.” And he rode off.

  I pedaled after him. Buddy and Fido whined a little, but then went back to their playing.

  Murph and I rode hard. We screamed into the ditches and caught tons of air when we came back up the other sides, which was fun. Usually we yelled out some monster yell when we lifted off, like YAARRGGHHRRRR!!! We both wiped out a bunch of times, which was also fun. We got real sweaty and dirty and scratched up and had, like, the best time of our entire lives.

  Then we rode back out onto the field and dumped our bikes and fell on our backs in the grass, laughing our guts out and gasping for breath. Buddy and Fido ran over and mauled us and we rolled around in the grass with them and got all grass-stained and itchy and slobbery, and I understood right then and there what life was for.

  When we couldn’t take any more pawing and licking, we started throwing things for them to fetch, and the two of them raced after the stuff like they weren’t tired in the slightest bit. Dogs are great. They’re gods—anagrammed, anyway. I wondered what guinea pigs anagrammed was. I started working on it in my head, but that made me think of Lurena: Lurena looking for us; Lurena finding us; Lurena ruining paradise.

  I hated Lurena.

  “Why do you like girls?” I asked Murph.

  He laughed. “You don’t?”

  “No. If there was a girl here, she’d wreck everything. Girls don’t understand stuff like this.”

  “Some of ’em do. There’s all kinds of girls, Roof. And all kinds of guys.”

  “That’s true. Like Dmitri.”

  He laughed again. “Yeah. Do you like Dmitri?”

  “Like is such a strong word.”

  Again he laughed. Laugh, laugh, laugh. What a happy guy.

  “I don’t think it matters that much if a kid is a guy or a girl,” he said.

  “It just matters what’s inside?” I said in a deep, teacherlike voice. He couldn’t be serious with that cornball stuff.

  “Look at Fido,” he said, pointing.

  I looked. She was fighting over a stick with Buddy and growling like a bulldog.

  “You can’t judge a book by its cover, et cetera, et cetera,” Murph said.

  Exactly, I thought. Here he was, my idol, the guy with the perfect dog, the normal house, and the great parents, and he was flunking, and he wanted to trade his perfect dog for a guinea pig with a mohawk. Was no one what they seemed?

  Maybe Dmitri was different, too, “inside.” And Lurena. I was different than what the kids at school thought I was. I wasn’t sure what they thought I was, but chances were they didn’t really know who I was, mostly because I hid who I was so they wouldn’t laugh at me. Maybe other kids did that, too.

  Was that why Murph had so many friends? Did he somehow understand better than other people that nobody was what they showed on the outside, that everybody had good stuff on the inside, but a lot of it got all twisted up on the way out because people also were trying to be cool and popular?

  It’s not as if Murph didn’t care about being cool or popular. He sure liked attention. He liked it so much, he didn’t care who paid it to him. It made him happy. And people like happy people.

  Now he was in trouble, bad trouble, which had to make him sad, and he was hiding it. Why? Maybe he was afraid people wouldn’t like him as much if he wasn’t happy.

  I didn’t want to spoil our fun by bringing all this up, but, as his friend, I thought I should.

  “You’re going to have to work hard to catch up in school.”

  He nodded. “You’re going to help me, right?”

  He seemed serious, which was suspicious.

  I nodded. “Sure, yeah. Of course.”

  He grinned. “Cool. I don’t want to repeat. That would mean we wouldn’t be in the same grade next year. Which would make me cry.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, it totally would.”

  “Totally,” he said with a laugh, then he punched me in the shoulder.

  I punched him back, then Buddy and Fido saw us punching each other and ran over and piled on top of us.

  Total Paradise 3.0.

  19. If I made the laws, Mom would have been arrested.

  Why? She invited Lurena to come to the river with us on Sunday. She did it behind my back and without my permission.

  “I’d rather invite Murphy,” I told her.

  “Go ahead!” she said. “The more the merrier!”

  I shuddered at the thought of the three of us crammed into the tiny backseat of one of our hybrids. No doubt I’d be in the middle, pressed up against Lurena.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  “Lurena said to be sure to bring Emmeline along,” Mom said with a smile.

  “Fido, Mom!” I yelled. “It’s Fido! Fido, Fido, Fido!”

  She jumped half a foot in the air.

  “I think the animal’s name is Fido, Raquel,” Dad said. “And isn’t this supposed to be a pleasure trip, a time for rest and relaxation? How am I supposed to relax with a squealing pig around?”

  I thought this might be my out.

  “I’ll stay home with Fido so you can relax, Dad.”

  “No,” Mom said. “If Dad refuses to let her come with us, then I suppose we will have to leave her behind.”

  She looked at Dad with her head tilted slightly. Mom
’s head tilts were worth a thousand words. In this case, they meant, If you do not object to what I just said, I won’t speak to you for hours, if not days.

  “Fine,” Dad said. “Bring her. But keep her quiet, Roof.”

  “It’s Mom who wants to bring her,” I said. “And it’s not fair, Mom. Dad deserves some downtime from work to commune with nature. I really think I should stay home with Fido so she doesn’t drive him nuts. You’ll just have to call Lurena and tell her Fido and I won’t be going.”

  Mom smiled at me. Would it kill her not to see through me every once in a while?

  “This is a family picnic,” I moaned. “Lurena is not part of our family.”

  Mom laughed. I once heard a comedian on a talk show say that other people’s pain is funny. Mom must agree.

  “Lurena is your guest,” she said.

  “You invited her, not me.”

  “Tone, Rufus,” Dad said. “Keep it respectful.”

  “She didn’t even ask me, Dad!”

  “Really?” Dad said, looking at Mom. “In that case, I believe she is your guest, Raquel, this little Miss What’s-Her-Name.”

  “Lurena,” Mom said. “And I was just being hospitable. She’s so polite and so eager to be friends with Rufus.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I said. “Well, maybe I’m not so eager to be friends with her. Ever think of that?”

  “Tone, Rufus,” Dad said again.

  Mom sank into a chair and rubbed her forehead with her fingers.

  I flashed back to my talk with Murph out on the substation field about books and their covers.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “But next time, ask, okay?”

  Mom cheered up. Murph needed a mom like mine. No free passes with her.

  “It’s very conscientious of you to own a hybrid, Raquel and Art,” Lurena said.

  “Thanks, Lurena,” Mom answered. “Actually, we own two. Do your parents have one?”

  “Yes, they do. They also have an electric car for local trips.”

  Lurena was sitting behind my mom, who was driving. I was behind Dad. Mom always drove. Dad liked having the time to think. Plus, since she actually went places, Mom was the more practiced driver.

  Fido was standing in my lap, her front paws pressed against my door, her tongue and butt wagging, craning to try to see out the window. Her claws were making little squeaking noises on the upholstery.

  “Rufus, can you make Fido stop making that noise?” Dad said. “It’s like nails on a chalkboard to me.”

  “You’re close, Art!” Lurena said, laughing. “Nails on a car door! Ha!”

  Mom laughed. Only Mom. Well, Mom and Lurena.

  “Down,” I said to Fido. She looked at me with an expression like, Really? Do I have to?

  “Down,” I said again.

  She pouted and climbed down into my lap. I scratched her behind the ears to cheer her up. It worked. She fell asleep.

  “Did you train her yourself?” Lurena asked.

  I didn’t, but I nodded.

  “What other commands does she know?”

  “Kill,” I whispered.

  “Do you think you’re funny?” she asked with a squint.

  “Fido, kill!”

  Fido woke up and snarled at her. This startled Lurena. It might even have scared her for a second. I enjoyed that.

  “It’s okay, Fido. Down, girl. Down. Good girl.” And I scratched her neck.

  “You’re kind of a psycho,” Lurena said.

  “Takes one to know one,” I said.

  Mom chose a picnic table and started setting up lunch. Lurena offered to help and pretty soon was talking Mom’s ear off. Dad set up a lounge chair and stretched out on it and started reading some book—his idea of outdoor fun. Fido and I slipped away without anyone seeing us. In this case, the less the merrier.

  So I wasn’t Murphy, or Mom. Did I ever say I was? Do we all have to be?

  Fido and I walked down the steep path toward the river. You could really tell spring was coming, because everything was turning green and smelled damp. It was great. I felt totally alone in the wilderness, just me and my…

  It was no use. I tried to put the word dog in there, but I just couldn’t.

  There was no getting around it. Fido was a rat. A big, fat orange rat with a spiky white mohawk and creepy toes. No matter what Murphy said about her, no matter if he would really trade Buddy for her (no way), no matter how much Buddy or Mars liked her, she wasn’t a dog. She never would be. Yeah, she acted like one. A lot like one. Incredibly like one. But she wasn’t one. She was a guinea pig. I could pretend I was this supercool, superdeep, totally open-minded dude who would be just as happy with any pet so long as it played games, learned tricks, ran alongside your bike, and loved you more than anyone in the whole world. You know, a dude like Murph. I could pretend I’d be happy with an iguana that played Tug-of-War, or a parrot that slept at the foot of my bed, or a goldfish that caught Frisbees. But that wasn’t me. Bottom line: I wanted a dog.

  But I couldn’t have one. So I was making lemonade out of my fuzzy, fat lemon. If Dad could learn to live with her, if Murph could wish he had one just like her, if Buddy the perfect dog could make her a buddy, I guess I could learn to put my dreams away forever and try to accept her for what she was: a guinea pig that acted a lot like a dog. That was better than a dog that acted a lot like a guinea pig, wasn’t it? Yeah, sure, she definitely was. She was better than that kind of dog, anyway.

  Fido ran after some ducks on the bank of the river, and, for a second, I worried they might be poisonous. She barked at them, though, and they flew off, quacking. She enjoyed this so much, she went off hunting for more.

  Later, we played Crocs-in-the-Nile, which was a game I’d been playing since I was a little kid. The river was pretty shallow where we were and had big rocks in it poking out of the water. The object of Crocs-in-the-Nile was to jump from rock to rock without falling. If you fell into the water, that meant you were croc chow. For the first time in a long time, I had someone new to play the game with. I usually played with Mom.

  Fido followed after me at first, jumping the same rocks as me, and she was really good. She scrambled a lot when she landed on the rocks, which were slimy and slippery with green goo, but she never fell in the water. After a while, she was hopping around like nobody’s business and leading the way. In fact, she won the game.

  Why? Because I fell in and twisted my ankle. Hard. I couldn’t even stand up on it. So I sat down on a rock with my feet in the water. The coldness felt good on my ankle, though the pain was still intense. The pain was shooting up my leg, probably toward my heart. I figured I didn’t have long to live.

  I looked at the wilderness around me. Fido was hopping up and down on the shore, barking and whining hysterically.

  I had only one hope.

  “Go get help, Fido!” I commanded. “Get help! Go on! Get help, girl! Get help!”

  In hindsight, I was probably slipping into shock.

  Fido stopped barking and concentrated on my words or my tone or my face or something. She was very concentrated. Then she chirped, nodded quickly, and tore off in what looked like the right direction. I hoped help would arrive soon or I’d be a goner.

  A couple of minutes went by before it dawned on me that I was waiting to be rescued by a guinea pig. I began dragging myself toward the shore. This was not turning out to be the funnest picnic of my life.

  Before I got far, Fido returned—YAY! She was barking like crazy, and being followed by Lurena. My heart sank. Why did I have to be saved by her?

  Lurena was smirking, and I imagined the horror of this scene being told and retold at school.

  But Mom showed up a minute later, and I felt better. For about a second.

  “Oh, Rufus!” she bawled. “Thank God! Oh, my poor, poor baby!”

  Lurena’s smirk widened.

  Fido got to me first. She bounded up, bursting with pride, then leaped from the bank and landed on my chest, digging her claws into my
shirt—and, through it, into my flesh—to hold on. Big ouch. I didn’t complain, though. I was too darn proud of her. She scrambled up my chest (which hurt more) and licked my face.

  “That’s my good girl!” I said, laughing. “Good girl!”

  20. I didn’t break my ankle.

  I broke my foot. Murph’s dad fixed it. He’s a foot doctor, remember? That meant a cast, of course, and crutches. I had to stay home from school for a week—Mom’s orders, not the doctor’s. She wanted me to stay in bed as much as possible and keep the foot “elevated.” The crutches were to get me to the bathroom.

  Fido kept me company, and she was a real pal. She played games with me and did tricks and fetched things for me, like comic books and the remote. (Mom brought the TV and DVD player in from the family room to help keep me in bed.) I trained Fido to take out discs and put in new ones. It was pretty cool. She curled up in bed with me, too, watching the movies. She seemed to like comedies the best, especially if they had dogs in them. She hissed at any cats that showed up.

  Lurena came over sometimes, and when I was bored, I actually let her come up to my room and we played Scrabble. Why not? I figured. She’d already wrecked my life at school anyway by telling everyone about her going on a picnic with me, about me owning a guinea pig, and about Fido saving my life. She was pretty impressed with the tile collection, but felt it should be cleaned and organized, so I let her do that. I figured she owed me. She also liked my collection of paint stirrers with anagrammed Scrabble tiles glued onto them, and made a few of her own. Her anagrams were very different from mine. Mine were like: SLOW KELP KILL CRAB LIPS and POISON FART BISON; hers were like: LIMP SHRILL HUM IS NIGH and AN OWL ROMP A JAM LOVER.

  Sometimes she brought China C. Hill, her chinchilla, along to keep Fido company. China C. was about the same size as Fido, but more mouselike, with big ears and a tail. She had a weird, wrinkly gray coat and often stood up on her hind legs. She was always really nervous.

  Fido was pretty mean to her. Usually she growled and barked at her and chased her under my bookshelf, where China C. remained the rest of the visit. Lurena said it was just a game they played, but I was pretty sure Fido was trying to catch China C. and eat her, even if Fido wasn’t much bigger.