what would come tumbling out
after
his two
opening
sentences.
“My sign talks about dog parks.”
Alex held up a huge sign that said
DOG PARKS FOR DOGS!
FREEDOM FROM LEASHES!
“Dog parks for dogs!”
Lia chanted.
“Freedom from leashes!”
Everyone joined in,
“DOG PARKS FOR DOGS!
FREEDOM FROM LEASHES!”
The Dog-Park Pack was as loud
as the sign was big.
Mark thought about Charles Larue
standing
right here
beneath the oak tree
last night.
Mark looked over his shoulder
toward the iron gate,
where the man had appeared.
Nothing.
Still, a chill traveled along his spine,
and his gaze skittered
to the tower.
Was a shadow lurking there,
leaning
close
to the window?
“Let’s go,”
he said to his friends,
and he ushered everyone
ahead of him
down the street.
Not that he was in a hurry
to get there.
He was only in a hurry
to leave.
Trent and Fido led the parade.
The rest followed.
“THE DOG-PARK PACK!”
everyone shouted.
Once more
they pumped their fists
in the air.
Thunder muttered and growled.
The storm
moved
closer.
When the parade went by
the corner of Fifth Avenue
and Walnut Street,
Buddy woke.
Her head popped up.
Her airplane ears flared,
gathering in the sound
of all those dogs,
all those boys and girls.
She tipped her head
to listen more closely.
Then she rose,
gave herself a shake,
and crawled out
from beneath the porch.
Maybe her boy would be there,
in all that good commotion.
She trotted off,
following
the parade.
Another drumroll of thunder
announced the Dog-Park Pack
as they marched
down the stairs
and into the basement
of the Catholic Church,
where the town council met.
When they entered the room,
the entire council looked up,
startled.
The mayor looked up,
startled
too.
The Dog-Park Pack
kept marching.
They had work to do,
important work.
Trent,
leading the parade with Fido,
circled the room.
Everyone else followed
until dogs
and boys
and girls
(and Fido, of course)
surrounded
the town council
and the mayor.
The mayor narrowed her eyes,
looking hard at the signs.
A crease dug
into the pale space
between her eyebrows.
Then she looked
at her son.
“Mark?” she said.
Thunder rumbled again,
louder,
closer.
Mark stepped forward.
He looked at each member
of the town council,
and then he looked at the mayor,
his mother.
He squared his shoulders.
He lifted his chin.
He opened his mouth.
No words came out.
It was like his dream.
His mouth seemed to be stuffed
with sand.
In fact,
he had to look down
to make sure
he wasn’t standing there
naked.
Thunder again.
Closer.
Louder still.
A blam.
A roar.
A rattling explosion.
Mark’s hair stood up
even more stiffly
than usual.
He opened his mouth
once more.
He was going to say it:
“Dogs need to run and play.
Kids need to run and play with their dogs.”
But before the words
could find their way
to his tongue,
something else happened.
And the something else that happened
was Buddy.
The small black and brown dog,
following the parade,
following the girls
and boys
and dogs
and the tantalizing orange-marmalade cat,
pranced down the stairs
and into the church basement,
where the mayor
and the town council
and the boys
and girls
and dogs . . .
and Fido
waited.
She held her head high.
She held her tail high.
Her eyes sparked,
and she lifted each paw
as though she were performing
a dance
before an admiring crowd.
She didn’t look
a bit
like a lost little dog.
She looked like a dog
in pursuit of a dream.
And to everyone’s amazement—
and to the horror
of those who knew Fido—
Buddy pranced across the floor
and right up
to the orange-marmalade cat.
Perhaps Buddy was thinking
of her own cat,
the stuffed one she tossed
into the air
and caught again,
the one she liked to lay her chin on
at night
when she slept.
Who knows
what the little dog might have been thinking?
Maybe she didn’t even know
that her toy
was a cat.
It might have been only Fido’s color
that drew her.
Or it could be that Fido,
who was,
after all,
a very in-charge-of-the-world cat,
had simply commanded her
to come close.
We will never know.
What we can know,
what you already know,
is that Fido couldn’t abide dogs
who hadn’t learned proper respect.
He had taught all his dog friends
how to approach him . . .
head down,
eyes down,
ears down,
tail down.
And here came this stranger,
ears flying like airplane wings.
Here came this stranger
without a shred of respect
for a living,
breathing,
in-charge-of-the-world—
at least the world of Erthly—
orange-marmalade
cat.
Fido arched his back.
He lowered his head.
His fur spiked all along his spine.
His tail stiffened like a bottle brush.
And he opened his pink mouth
with its pointy teeth
&nb
sp; and said, Shaaaaaah!
right in Buddy’s face.
Buddy went still,
astonished
at the rude greeting.
But even more astonishment
awaited
the little dog.
Because Fido reached out
with a curved claw
and slashed Buddy’s tender nose,
right down the middle.
What did Buddy do?
Exactly what you would do
if a claw suddenly tried
to turn your one precious nose
into two.
She yelped.
She squealed.
She hollered.
And she bolted from the room,
her whiplike tail
tucked against her belly.
(I know that,
if it were you,
you’d have no tail to tuck,
but you get the picture.)
Buddy ran so fast,
in fact,
her tail glued
so tightly against her belly,
that you couldn’t even see
the sweet ruffle of brown fur
on her bum.
Fido,
however,
wasn’t finished
with the conversation.
In one mighty spring
he tugged the leash from Trent’s hand
and followed.
Thunder blammed again,
so loudly this time
that even the basement
of the Catholic Church
shook.
The room tumbled
with boys
and girls
and dogs.
“Look out!”
“Where’d he go?”
It scattered
with members of the town council.
“Wait!”
“Stop!”
It erupted
with the mayor.
“What is the meaning—”
But even though she was the mayor,
no one answered,
because no one knew
the meaning of anything
at that moment.
Especially not Mark.
He,
like all the rest
of the Dog-Park Pack
and their dogs
and the entire town council,
was too busy bolting up the stairs,
rushing onto the street,
following Fido.
What could the mayor do
but follow too?
And Buddy,
the lost little dog,
ran,
ran,
ran
down the street,
away from furious Fido,
who
ran,
ran,
ran
too!
So here’s where this story has brought us:
The mayor
and the town council
were tearing down Walnut Street,
chasing the Dog-Park Pack.
The Dog-Park Pack was chasing Fido.
Fido was chasing Buddy.
(Buddy was clearly in the lead,
though where she was heading—
except for away from Fido—
no one knew,
probably not even Buddy herself.)
If you don’t mind,
however—
perhaps even if you do—
I’m going to pause this interesting scene
for a moment
to fill you in
on another part of the story.
While this great chase was going on,
something else was happening.
Do you remember the shadow
Mark had glimpsed
at the tower window,
the glimpse that had sent him scurrying
on his mission?
That was,
of course,
Charles Larue,
standing in the tower,
watching,
the way he watched every lonely evening
over Erthly.
This particular evening
he had found the watching
more interesting than usual.
He’d seen a parade with signs,
boys,
girls,
dogs,
and an orange-marmalade cat.
He’d even seen a little dog
with wide-flung ears
crawl out
from beneath the porch
of the brick house
on Walnut Street and Fifth Avenue
and trot along
after
the
parade.
Meanwhile,
when everyone had disappeared
in the direction
of the Catholic Church,
Charles Larue continued to stand,
gazing
out of the tower window.
And the storm
continued to roil into town.
The water tower
at the edge of town
captured a zig of lightning
and sent it plunging
into the ground,
where it could do
no harm.
Another blast
zapped the swing set
in the park.
The bolt sizzled
down the metal chains
and melted the rusty swings
into lumps.
(Don’t worry about the swings.
Insurance would soon replace them
with bright new ones
without a speck
of rust.)
Then,
a few moments later,
a final bolt assaulted the tower
where Charles Larue stood,
setting the witch’s-hat roof
glimmering.
That was the strike
that made even the basement
of the Catholic Church
tremble.
Flashes of blue,
white,
red,
orange,
a touch of green,
danced
over Charles Larue’s head.
For an instant he stood,
transfixed
by the colors.
Then he jolted,
as if from a dream,
and ran
down
the winding
stairs,
through the double doors,
across the wide porch,
along the walk,
and through the gate
in the iron fence,
the one with spikes.
(He had to unlock it,
of course,
but,
fortunately,
he always carried the key
in his pocket.)
He stood in the middle of Walnut Street
and cried,
“Fire! Fire!”
And indeed,
behind him
the peak of the witch’s-hat roof
had bloomed into flame
like a birthday candle
on a giant cake
touched
by a giant match.
“Help! Fire!”
Charles Larue shouted again,
and he reached out his arms
as though to some saving force.
To his own surprise . . .
the force came!
Perhaps it wasn’t a saving force.
Perhaps it was a force looking to be saved.
But suddenly Buddy,
who—
I know you’ll remember—
was dashing down the street
trying with all her might
to stay ahead
of furious Fido,
clambered up Charles Larue’s legs,
scrabbled into his arms,
and gave his
great beaked nose
a grateful lick.
All the town,
it seemed,
dogs
and cat
and boys
and girls
and council
and mayor
came after.
Can you imagine
how amazed Charles Larue was
to find a dog
tucked inside his arm?
But though he had never owned one,
he found that he knew
exactly what to do.
He cradled
the trembling Buddy
against his chest
in a gentle but firm embrace.
And if Buddy was amazed
to discover that she had climbed a man,
she knew what to do too.
She tucked her sore nose
beneath the stranger’s chin
and closed her eyes
as tightly as any little dog could.
Perhaps she thought that
if she couldn’t see Fido,
he couldn’t see her,
either.
But Fido could see her.
His eyes were narrowed
to golden slits,
but he could see very well.
And he was still running,
fast.
When he arrived
at the feet of the man
who had rescued Buddy,
he did the same thing Buddy had done
a moment earlier.
He kept right on going.
And the only place to go was up
into Charles Larue’s other arm,
directly across from Buddy.
Fido glowered at Buddy.
He lowered his head.
He flattened his ears.
He twitched his tail.
He growled deep in his throat.
And he unsheathed his claws,
ready
for another encounter
with Buddy’s nose.
Buddy
just squinched her eyes even tighter
and tried
to disappear
beneath that sheltering chin.
So here we are:
flame sprouting
from the witch’s-hat roof
on the tower
of the mansion.
The mayor
and the town council
and the Dog-Park Pack
all running up Walnut Street
toward Charles Larue.
And Charles Larue standing
with Buddy in one arm
and a furious Fido
in the other.
Can you guess what’s going to happen next?
More slashing?
More yelping?
Some of the yelping
coming from poor Charles Larue?
That is,
indeed,
Fido’s plan,
if a cat could be said to have a plan.
But there is another plan going here,
the story’s own plan.
And in aid of that,
something more has been set
into motion,
something besides Fido and his fury.
What’s that, you say?
Why,
the racketing storm,
of course.
Until this moment
thunder and lightning
had been banging through Erthly
without a whisper of rain.
Now,
Little Dog, Lost Page 6
