by Tor Seidler
Gulliver hid under a parked motorcycle and stared longingly at the warm, smoky glow in the café windows. Human diners went in and out, and now and then sweaty-faced kitchen workers slipped outside to cool off or have a smoke, but every time Gulliver made a dash to follow someone inside, he was either too slow or got shooed away. At around ten o’clock it started to drizzle. A man in a black leather jacket and a helmet came out of a nearby apartment building and hopped on the motorcycle and took off, forcing Gulliver to find shelter under a compact car parked directly across from the café. It was actually drier there, but as the rain intensified, the tires of passing vehicles squirted him, and by the time Madame Courgette came out and locked up the café, he was soaked. What with the wet sidewalks, Madame Courgette was carrying Chloe under one arm, and at the sight of the Maltese’s pretty face, Gulliver’s heart skipped a beat. But he didn’t bark. The Rodney experience had shaken his self-confidence — and besides, he knew he must look like a drowned rat.
Madame Courgette and Chloe got into the very car he was crouched under and nearly squashed him with a back tire as they pulled away. He dashed into a doorway and shook himself dry. Once he calmed down, he curled up for warmth, and the memory of Chloe’s face lifted his sodden spirits a bit.
At one point in the night a drunk took over the doorstep, forcing him to move. But at least the rain had stopped, and after warming himself a while on a manhole cover, he found another doorstep to curl up on.
By morning, the clouds had blown away, and when the sun peeked over the garrets, the whole neighborhood sparkled. At ten o’clock sharp, the compact car pulled up across the street from the café, and out stepped Madame Courgette. But, strangely, no Chloe. In July, Madame Courgette always brought Chloe along to the café.
From his doorstep Gulliver watched the kitchen staff straggle in to work. The sun warmed things up, and eventually the French doors were all thrown open and a swarthy young man wearing a turban started setting the outdoor tables for the lunch crowd. At a little before noon, Madame Courgette emerged and got into her car and drove off. Ten minutes later, the little car returned. Out came Madame Courgette, this time followed by Chloe on a leash. Chloe had two brand-new pink ribbons in her hair. Madame Courgette must have dropped her off at Cheveux de Chien on her way to the café. Gulliver opened his mouth to bark a greeting, but nothing came out. Had he caught laryngitis overnight? But as soon as Madame Courgette and Chloe were in the café, he tried again and produced a bark. Just nerves, apparently.
A pair of businessmen in dark suits sat down at one of the outdoor tables, and a rail-thin, red-vested waiter who often waited on Professor Rattigan appeared to take their order. Soon, Gulliver realized, the café would fill up with lunchers, so he couldn’t dillydally. He scooted around to the side of the café and ducked inside through one of the open French doors.
There Chloe sat, at her usual place by the door to the kitchen, looking even more bewitching than he remembered. Madame Courgette was on a stool at the zinc bar, going through yesterday’s receipts, while the bartender was pretending to be busy polishing the cappuccino machine with a cloth. Chloe’s eyes widened as Gulliver crept over to her.
“Hi, Chloe,” he whispered.
She looked alarmed.
“It’s me, Gulliver.”
“Gulliver? Truly?”
“Of course it’s me.”
“But what are you doing here? It isn’t the summertime.”
“I crossed the ocean just to see you! I missed you so badly.”
She wrinkled her adorable nose. “You don’t smell very good, you know. And you look horrible.”
“Wait till you hear what I’ve been through!”
“Where’s the man with the beard?”
“My professor? He got together with that woman he always eats here with. They’re living in his apartment in New York.”
“Now I know you’re telling stories.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was here for dinner just last night. With another man.”
“That’s impossible. It must have been a look-alike.”
“How did you get here from New York City without him?”
“We’ll need hours for that. But first . . . do you think she would take me to the groomer?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
Chloe gave a little yap. Madame Courgette looked around and instantly started cursing in French, pointing at Gulliver. The bartender came running around the end of the bar with a mop and chased Gulliver out of the café. Tires screeched. By a whisker he missed being flattened by a French police car.
Gulliver huddled behind two green plastic garbage cans down the block. Frightened and horrified as he was, he made three more attempts to see Chloe that afternoon. However, Madame Courgette had alerted the entire staff to be on the lookout for a mangy dog who wanted to get at her precious Maltese. Gulliver didn’t so much as lay eyes on Chloe again.
At the end of his tether, he finally dragged himself back to the tourist boat. But he didn’t slip on board to hunt for food. He just sat by the river’s edge, staring into the water, wondering how long a process drowning actually was. Then he heard a tongue cluck and looked up to see a man identical to the one in the photo in the Ponsons’ apartment in Queens.
Roberto wrote his article about Gulliver’s adventures on the flight back to New York, and the piece appeared in the Daily News a week later. The following night Consuela invited the Ponsons, who’d played such a pivotal role in the story, to join them for Roberto’s favorite dinner: barbecued baby back ribs with onion rings and corn on the cob. It was late in the season for fresh corn, but Consuela managed to find some, and though the weather was a bit cold for using the outdoor grill, Carlos decided they could fire it up one last time before putting it away for the winter.
Usually Carlos did the grilling. But as a rule he got home from work at six. Since he still wasn’t back when the Ponsons came down at six-thirty, Roberto volunteered to do the honors. It was a Thursday night, which meant he was missing his acting class, but he didn’t really mind.
Gulliver kept him company by the grill. Back in the garret apartment in Paris, it had finally dawned on Gulliver that he wasn’t dreaming, that Roberto had come all the way across the ocean to find him. There had been no tranquilizer for the flight back, however, and while Gulliver had been through so much over the past weeks that being stuck in his carrying case in the plane’s hold for eight hours didn’t seem nearly as terrible as it would have in former times, he’d been so grateful to see Roberto’s familiar face by the baggage carousel at JFK that he’d left his side as little as possible since.
When they first got back, Juanita kept grabbing Gulliver and hugging him. And of course Pogo had given him many lickings and carried on about how much she’d missed him. But he’d been able to sleep out in the hut with Roberto, and three times already Roberto had snuck him wet-food treats. Though none of them, Gulliver had to admit, had smelled as delicious as these baby back ribs.
“Mmmmm,” Roberto said as his mother came out with another of his favorites — one of Mrs. Sewinski’s homemade kielbasas.
“For appetizers,” Consuela said, tossing it on the grill.
The smell of the sausage made Gulliver a bit seasick, taking him back to the Dutch trawler, but he remained by Roberto’s side. Roberto was starting to take the food off the grill when Carlos came out the back door.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, kiddo. Sorry you got stuck with that.”
“No problem. Something wrong?”
His father looked glum. “Well, I know you’ve gotten attached to Gully. And now it looks like we’ll have to give him up.”
“What do you mean?” Roberto said, setting the two-pronged fork on the platter.
“That’s what held me up. Dr. Rattigan asked me to come up to his place for a drink. Seems things
didn’t go so well between him and his lady friend. They had this big blow-up, and now the wedding’s off and she’s gone back to France. So he misses Gully. He called a car service to bring us out so he could take him back.”
“You mean now?”
“I didn’t know what to say. I mean, it’s his dog.”
“But he gave him to us! I bet it’s because Gully’s famous now.”
“He hasn’t even seen the article. He reads the Times.”
“So he’s in there right now?”
“Yeah. Why don’t you take Gully inside, I’ll finish that.”
Roberto felt like squirreling the dog away in his hut. But of course that would be childish.
“Come on, boy,” he said sadly, slapping his thigh as he headed for the back door.
His mother was deep-frying onion rings in the kitchen, but everyone else was packed into the living room: Pedro playing with his Game Boy, Juanita modeling her Nutcracker costume for the younger Mrs. Ponson, the elder Mrs. Ponson stroking the cat in her lap while the cat glared at Pogo and Frankie. Pudge was napping in Gulliver’s bed, as was his custom, and on the sofa Mr. Ponson was describing his Parisian brother to Professor Rattigan, who had yesterday’s famous Daily News in his hands.
“So here’s the amazing dog!” Professor Rattigan said. “And the investigative journalist!”
Gulliver stopped at the threshold, stunned to see his professor. Roberto slouched up and shook the offered hand.
“This is incredible,” Professor Rattigan said. “I can’t believe he managed to cross the ocean! And you . . . I’m going to reimburse you for your trip, young man.”
“Oh, that’s all right, sir,” Roberto mumbled. “I got to see Paris. And I got the story out of it.” He’d also gotten a pen pal. Though Felice from the boulangerie had been shy about speaking English, she’d studied it in school.
“Well, you definitely have a letter of recommendation for Columbia, if you want one. Carlos told me you’ve sort of taken Gulliver under your wing. I really appreciate it.”
“He’s a cool dog.”
“Mm, I’ve missed him dreadfully. I hope you don’t resent my taking him back?”
Though Roberto couldn’t help resenting it, he just shrugged.
“But Gully’s mine!” Juanita cried.
“He is not,” Pedro said.
Carlos, who’d just brought the grilled food into the kitchen, heard this last exchange. He and Consuela appeared above Gulliver in the doorway to the living room.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Rattigan,” Carlos said. “You can see we’ve got enough animals on our hands.”
“I know you’re having a celebration,” Professor Rattigan said, “so I’ll just — ”
“You’re most welcome to join us for dinner,” said Consuela.
“Why, thank you. But I’ve got a driver waiting. And I earmarked tonight for reading midterms.”
Catching a glimpse of Gulliver out of the corner of his eye, Roberto had a horrible feeling he might do something dumb like start sniffling, so to get things over with as quickly as possible he pulled the carrying case out of the closet.
“Get out of there, Pudge!” he said, booting the big dog out of Gulliver’s bed.
Professor Rattigan stooped down and opened the door to the carrying case. “Come on, boy. Time to go home.”
All eyes turned to Gulliver. Pogo trotted over to him and started licking his left ear. Instead of squirming away, as he usually did, he sat there and let her. Her moist, warm tongue actually felt comforting.
“Come on, Gulliver,” Professor Rattigan said.
Only when the professor stepped toward him did Gulliver move. For the first time in ages, he dove under the La-Z-Boy.
“Will you look at that,” said old Mrs. Ponson.
“Gulliver?” Professor Rattigan said. “What are you doing?”
“He likes it under there,” Carlos said diplomatically.
Professor Rattigan actually got down on his hands and knees and reached under the chair. The groping hand touched Gulliver’s collar, but Gulliver managed to worm away.
“Maybe he wants to stay here,” Roberto suggested.
This idea came as a nasty shock to Professor Rattigan. He felt like dragging Gulliver into the carrying case, but instead got to his feet with as much dignity as possible.
“Gully,” Carlos said, clapping his hands. “Come out of there, boy.”
Gulliver crouched in the dusty shadows, his eyes shifting from the professor’s shiny tasseled loafers to Carlos’s scuffed doorman’s shoes to Roberto’s triple-striped Adidas.
Carlos ducked back into the kitchen and cut off a little piece of the kielbasa, which he took out to Professor Rattigan.
“Try that, sir.”
“Why, thank you,” Professor Rattigan said, taking the greasy bit of sausage dubiously.
He squatted down by the La-Z-Boy and held the sausage out.
“Here you go, Gulliver.”
But Gulliver had had more than his fill of sausage on the Dutch boat. And even if the offering had been filet mignon, he wouldn’t have budged.
Professor Rattigan’s face was red when he stood back up.
“Sorry, guess he’s not hungry,” Carlos said, taking the bit of sausage back.
“Gully wants to stay with us!” Juanita cried triumphantly.
“He’s been through so much,” Consuela said, “maybe he’s gotten a little skittish.”
Pogo lay down by the La-Z-Boy and poked her snout underneath. “You’re going to stay with us, aren’t you?” she asked.
Gulliver said nothing.
“Yo, Gully,” said a tiny voice.
“Excuse me?” Gulliver said.
“Where you been, man?” the tiny voice said.
“J.C.?”
It was none other. The gerbil dropped down out of the chair’s springs onto Gulliver’s back.
“How’d you get here?” Gulliver asked in amazement.
“After that sucky day at the beach, I ended up back inside. Back in prison, man. Then that hit-man she-cat tried to put me in a sandwich. I was a gnat’s eye from being a goner. But I got away, and since then I’ve been holing up in this dump. Once everybody’s conked out at night, I go out and grab a bite. But it ain’t much of a life.”
Gulliver took in this information. “Your feline friend’s here now, you know,” he said.
“You think I don’t know that? I could smell her a mile away. So, dude, what you been up to since the beach?”
“It’s kind of a long story. How about I tell you later?”
“That mean we’re a team again?”
Looking out at the tasseled loafers, Gulliver thought how he’d dug under the fence and braved a packed subway to find the professor because loyalty is the hallmark of the well-bred dog. Shifting his eyes to the scuffed black shoes, he recalled with shame how he’d once thought of Carlos as “only” a doorman. Then he looked at the Adidas, and he was back in the carrying case in Pierre Ponson’s flat in Paris, the familiar hand stroking his belly, the familiar handsome boy with the close-shaved head grinning in at him.
“I guess we could give it a trial run,” he said.
Gulliver had never made it to Cheveux de Chien in Paris, and he hadn’t been to Groom-o-rama since returning to this side of the Atlantic. But Roberto had given him several good brushings, so his mane was fairly silky, and J.C. was only too happy to nestle into it.
Professor Rattigan, meanwhile, was feeling even more stunned than after his first big fight with Madeline de Crecy. But what could he do? He could hardly force Gulliver to come with him. His only option was to apologize for barging in on the celebration and say his good nights.
“I’m really sorry, Dr. Rattigan,” Carlos said.
“It was Gulliver’s choice, not yours,�
�� he said, trying not to sound bitter. He turned to the boy who’d flown to France to fetch Gulliver back and forced a friendly smile onto his face. “As for that letter of recommendation, young man, it’s still yours if you want it.”
“Thanks, Dr. Rattigan,” Roberto said.
About a minute after the tasseled loafers disappeared out the front door, Gulliver slithered out from under the La-Z-Boy. The cat hissed, smelling J.C., but the human beings all applauded, as if Gulliver were taking a curtain call at the end of a brilliant performance. Even Pudge and Frankie growled their approval. As for Pogo, she came straight for him. Gulliver ducked behind Roberto to avoid another licking.
Roberto scooped him up and gave him a hug. “You’re the best, Gully,” he whispered, “you know that?”
The elder Mrs. Ponson grinned at them. “Look like famous transatlantic dog settle down in Queens,” she said.
It really was remarkable how rarely the old woman was wrong.
The Dulcimer Boy
Terpin
A Rat’s Tale
The Tar Pit
The Wainscott Weasel
Mean Margaret
The Silent Spillbills
The Revenge of Randal Reese-Rat
Brothers Below Zero
Brainboy and the Deathmaster
Toes
Gully’s Travels
