by Bill Wallace
At the base of the tree I stopped. Instead of climbing, I rubbed against it to scratch the itch on my side. “I still don’t know what bored is. How can I keep from getting something when I don’t even know what the something is I got?”
His big mouth flopped open. He looked at me. He frowned and tilted his head from side to side.
“Huh? What did you just say?”
“I said . . .” My tail flipped—a couple of quick jerks. “I said . . . I don’t know what I said. I just don’t understand bored.”
With a sigh Willy sat down.
“Okay, cat,” he began. “It’s kind of like this. People animals and cat animals are used to doing things. But when they do the same thing all the time, they get tired of it and want to do new stuff. They like to explore and meet new friends and find new places and—”
“You said people animals and cat animals,” I interrupted. “Don’t dogs like to explore and meet new friends?”
Willy plopped down on his stub tail.
“Well, sure, but we don’t usually get to.”
“Why?”
“Well, when we’re puppies, our people play with us a lot. Only when we get old, they kind of forget about us. They don’t play with us or take us on walks. Dogs get used to being bored.” He glanced at me. “That’s why it’s hard to explain.”
“So what do you do when you get bored?”
Willy shrugged his ears and his big shoulders, both. “If I get bored, I just stay bored. I’m used to it.”
The fur on my back rippled. “What do other dogs do?”
“Some dogs dig when they don’t have anything to do. Other dogs bark. A few chase their tails. No matter what you do, you get in trouble. Best thing to do is just sit around and get used to it.”
I tilted my head, way to the side. Looked at him out of one eye. “Why don’t you do something?”
“Like what?”
“Well, like go for a walk or go explore. We could even go to Luigi’s Italian Restaurant. He fixes the greatest spaghetti and meatballs and—”
“Just how am I supposed to do that?”
“Well, we could climb up in the tree. See that big branch? I’m not big enough to jump from it and get over the fence, but as big as you are you could probably hop from there and—”
There was a loud growling sound when Willy cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon.”
“Huh?”
“I think you might have forgotten, but I’m a dog.” He held out a paw and wiggled his short, blunt claws at me. “We don’t climb trees or hop. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” I shrugged and tucked my tail. “I forgot.”
His enormous chest heaved a sigh. “You’re bored. You’re a cat. You’re not stuck here like me—a dog. Go explore or go eat spaghetti and meatballs with Luigi. I’ll be here when you come back. I’ll still be your friend.”
I sat there a moment, thinking it over. I did need to do something, to go someplace. There just had to be more to life than taking catnaps. Playing chase with a Rottweiler was too dangerous to be much fun. But being alone . . . going places by myself or seeing new things without someone else to share it with . . . It just wasn’t the same. It wasn’t fun.
Suddenly my whiskers sprang up. I was bored. Willy was bored. We were friends. So . . .
“Come on!” I called with a jerk of my head. “Follow me.”
Willy was right behind me when I raced to the back fence. I felt around with my paws. The whiskers on both sides of my face sprang up when I found a soft spot. I started to dig. I dug and clawed the ground. Grass and dirt flew between my hind legs. Willy just sat there, watching.
“What are you lookin’ at?”
“You,” he answered. “I never saw a cat dig under a fence before.”
“Well, don’t just sit there. Help me.”
“No.”
I frowned at him. “Why not?”
His big head ducked low. “I get in trouble for digging under the fence. The Mama people will get mad at me and call me ‘bad dog.’ ”
I looked around. There was a big shrub in the corner of Willy’s yard. I raced to it. Squeezing between it and the fence, I started digging again.
“Now what?” he asked, coming to join me.
“We’ll dig here,” I said. “We’ll dig a hole behind this shrub. Your Mama won’t be able to see the dirt. The leaves will hide it.” Hard and fast as I could, I began to dig.
“Chuck.”
I dug harder.
“Chuck!”
“What?”
Again he sat down. “Can you see how big I am?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, I’d have to move a mountain of dirt to get under the fence. There would be so much dirt, it would be higher than the bush. There’s no way she’d miss it.”
My hind end sank to the ground. My tail stuck straight out. It didn’t even flip. I sat for a long time, thinking. Finally a smile tugged my whiskers.
“Come on.”
Willy followed me to the other corner of his backyard. I sat for a moment, studying the fence. It was what the Mama and the Daddy people called a “privacy fence.” I knew the name because they had talked about building a “privacy fence” around our yard. I guess it was called that because the up-and-down boards were so close together that no one could see through—so it made it private. But the boards just couldn’t stand there by themselves. The up-and-down boards were about as wide as Willy’s head, but only as thick as one of my paws. They were nailed to big pieces of wood, about as wide as both my paws put together. There were two of these boards that ran level with the ground. One was about as high as my ears, the other was up near the top. Every six feet or so these were nailed to big, heavy posts that stuck into the ground. They held the whole fence up.
“What are we doing?” Willy asked.
“We’re gonna climb the fence.”
“No way!” he scoffed. “I can’t climb that.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“No, but—”
“Well, at least try. Come on. Stand on your hind feet, right here in the corner. Okay, reach up with your front paws as high as you can. See the big piece of wood, where your nose almost touches? Now, see the other big boards that run level with the ground?”
It was amazing how big he was. With his hind feet on the ground, his front paws almost touched the big board near the top of the fence.
“Now put your hind feet on the bottom rail. The one the fence boards are nailed to.”
Willy lifted his hind foot. He peeked under his armpit, but he was so close that he couldn’t see. So I helped guide his foot to the board with my paw. “Okay. Now the other foot.”
He gave a little hop. His paw reached for the board about three times before he finally got his foot on it.
“Great!” I stood on my hind feet with my front paws on his enormous rump. “Now see if you can get hold of the board and pull. . . .” I helped him. With my paws on his hind end, I shoved. “Get hold of the board and pull yourself.”—I pushed—“up. See if you can grab.”—I lifted, strained, shoved—“the top of the fence and drag.”—I pushed so hard I thought my eyes were going to pop out—“yourself up on the fence. Just a little more. You almost got . . . it . . . Now . . .”
Willy slipped.
CHAPTER 7
The whole world was wet and cold. I blinked. Struggled to force my eyes open. They fluttered.
I was on my side—but where? Where was I? What happened?
I remembered standing under Willy and trying to push him higher on the fence. I remembered his feet scraping on the boards, trying to help me lift. I was right under him when he slipped and . . .
Struggling to my feet, I coughed and sputtered. The sound of running water came to my ears. I looked around. So much of it dripped from my side, it looked like a waterfall. The water streamed down, splashing in a small pond. Made of white plastic, the pond wasn’t very deep. It only came about two inches over my paws.
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Yep. It was Rotten Willy’s water bowl.
I sprang from the water. It sloshed and sprayed around me, the little droplets going in all directions as I leaped.
“Man! I don’t believe this. Not again!”
The worried frown left Willy’s face and he smiled.
“You’re alive!” he yelped. “When I fell, I thought I killed you. You were hardly breathing. I was afraid—”
“Willy?”
“Yes, Chuck?”
“If you don’t quit plopping me in your stupid water bowl . . .”
I didn’t bother trying to finish. I didn’t bother shaking. I didn’t even bother trying to dry my fur with my tongue. Dripping, I sloshed across the yard, squeezed through the crack at the bottom of the gate. A trail of water followed me all the way to the edge of the concrete.
Having a Rottweiler land on me was like . . . well, it was like . . . well, I didn’t know what it was like. Nothing had ever happened to me that was bad enough to compare it to. I hurt all over. My head throbbed. My legs ached. My back felt like a pop can that the Mama squashed before she put it in the trash—like it had just been all crumpled together and my tail was about five inches closer to my head than where it used to be.
I arched my back about three or four times, to try and get some of the kinks out. I could hear the crack and pop inside my head. Still stiff and aching, I sat and began to dry my fur.
The hair on my chest and tummy was sopping. I could feel the wet on my back and the top of my head. But there was hardly any water left to drip from my sides. Frowning, I stared back at the path I left on the concrete.
Near the edge where I sat, there were just a few drops of water. But right under the gate, where I squeezed through, there was a regular lake. I frowned, studying it for a moment. Suddenly my eyes flashed and a smile made my whiskers wiggle.
“Willy. Willy,” I meowed. “Come here. Quick.”
I stuck my head into the crack between the two big wooden gates. Like always, my whiskers flattened against my cheeks. Our whiskers are the way us cats can tell if we can fit through something. If our whiskers can make it through a hole or a crack, the rest of us can get through. My whiskers didn’t fit through this crack. Still, for the past four months this is the way I came and went from Willy’s yard.
“What is it, Chuck?” Willy woofed. “Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No. Look.”
I stuck my head through the crack. Then I pulled it back out again. Then I poked it in once more.
He frowned.
“Watch.” I told him. I shoved, turned sideways, and wiggled my way through the gate. Once in Willy’s yard, I spun around and squeezed my way back outside. I turned again, stuck my head in, and smiled. “See?”
Now, I’ve always heard that dogs were dumb. It’s just a fact of life. But the look on Willy’s face . . . He didn’t frown. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look confused or curious or . . . well . . . it was the blankest look I ever saw in my life. He just looked.
“Don’t watch me. Watch the gate.” I tapped it with my paw. “Watch the one on this side.”
Again, I went out and came back. This time Willy smiled.
“It moved.”
“Right!”
I was so proud of the dumb mutt, I could hardly stand it. I rubbed against his legs and purred. The ground shook beneath my feet when he plopped down on his rump. I watched as he studied the big, wooden gates. Tilting his head one way, then the other, he looked it up and down for a long, long time. Finally he smiled.
“Thumb bolt’s broken off.”
“Huh?” I frowned.
“Thumb bolt,” he repeated. “One at the base of the right gate. It’s gone.”
I blinked a couple of times, then shook my head.
“The what . . . what’s broken?”
“See that metal thing near the top of the gate?” He pointed with his nose. “It’s what the people animals call a thumb bolt.”
When he saw the expression on my face, he kind of rolled his eyes. “Okay. The big toe on the people animal’s front paw is what they call their thumb. They use their big toe, or thumb, to do lots of stuff. A bolt is that long, solid, metal thing. See how it fits inside the hollow metal pieces? Well, people animals use their thumb to slide the bolt one way to open it—then they use their thumb to slide it the other way to lock it. Thumb bolt. Get it?”
Even sitting down, Willy was so tall, he was way above my head. What he was saying was way above my head, too. I kind of shrugged and shot him one of my helpless looks. Willy sighed.
“Never mind. See this thing?” He reached around my left side and jiggled a little metal rod with his paw. “See how it fits down into the concrete? That holds the bottom of the gate so it won’t open or jiggle around in the wind. Now, look over here.” He reached around my right side and tapped the wood. “See those four holes? That’s where the other thumb bolt is supposed to be. But it’s fallen off.”
He studied the gate for a moment—kind of nibbled on his bottom lip. He began talking to himself.
“Okay . . . the gate’s about six feet high and about five feet wide. But the latch is probably only five feet off the ground, so that cuts the angle down a bit. My shoulders are my widest part. Probably twelve inches across. The gate’s a rectangle, so that gives us right angles or an isosceles triangle. The square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides, so . . . oh, wait. No, that won’t work. I’m thinking plane. This is solid geometry. My shoulders aren’t flat on the ground, they’re about twenty-four inches up. Okay. What was that formula for figuring the base diameter of a cone? Let’s see . . .”
“Willy? What are you doing?”
“Geometry.”
“What?”
“My David used to do his math homework on the bed. I’d lay down and help him. But . . . well, I was a lot better at plane geometry than solid geometry. I can’t remember how to find the area of a cone.”
My head cocked so far to the side I almost fell over.
“Why are you trying to do that?”
“You don’t want me to get stuck, do you?”
My yellow eyes got so tight I could hardly see. All I wanted to do was go eat spaghetti and meatballs. And here’s Willy—dumb as a dog one minute, then trying to do some high-level math problem in his head the next. I couldn’t decide whether he was a total idiot or some weird kind of a genius.
“Stick your nose through the crack.”
“Huh?”
“Your nose.” I pointed with a paw. “Push it in the crack.”
“How’s that?” he asked. His voice was kind of high and whiny, like somebody was pinching his nose.
“Great,” I encouraged. “Now shove your head through.”
The wooden gate moaned and creaked.
“Now what?”
“You’re doing great. Just keep going.”
Willy got to his shoulders, then stopped. His claws made a scratching sound as he dug the ground. Pushing, shoving, straining, he couldn’t quite force the gate wide enough to slip his broad shoulders through.
I stood up and pushed on his rump with both paws. He tried harder. His muscles rippled. His feet began to spin on the concrete. I stepped back. I raised a paw. Claws sprang out.
CHAPTER 8
That hurt!”
Willy sat on one cheek. He had to bend himself almost double to reach around and lick the other cheek where I’d swatted him.
“Why did you go and stab me in the butt?” he whined.
“You’re my friend.” I shrugged. “You were stuck. I couldn’t just leave my friend stuck there in the gate.”
“It hurt!” he complained.
“It worked, didn’t it?”
His bottom lip stuck out. “It still hurt.”
I smiled and gave him a big, rough, cat tongue kiss right above his eye.
“Quit being such a baby. We’re out. We’re free. Come on. You’re gonna love Luigi.”<
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At the corner we looked both ways and trotted across the street. Willy wanted to see my house first, so we took a little detour to the right. We circled the house about three times. He sniffed at everything. He told me about the squirrels who visited and had pecans buried in the Mama’s petunias. He told me that the Mama and the Daddy were happy people and that they liked me, but they also missed My Katie. He told me that the Daddy worked at a place where there were lots and lots of people, but no dogs or cats.
“You can tell all that stuff just by sniffing?”
Willy nodded. “Dogs can tell a lot from smells. Like the place where the Mama works—there are a lot of little kids there. They all have their own separate smells. The smells get on the Mama’s shoes and clothes, then she brings them home with her. Most of the kids she is around are happy, but she has one little boy who is very sad.”
“The Mama teaches school,” I told him. “She likes her class, but I’ve heard her talk about a little boy named Sam. She says that his mama and daddy are real mean to him and hurt him. But I can’t tell all that by smelling.”
Willy frowned. “I thought cats had a good sense of smell.”
“We do.” I nodded. “But not as good as dogs, I guess. Our ears and eyes tell us just as much, if not more.”
“It’s our noses that tell us stuff,” Willy said. “Like food.” He stuck his nose up in the air and sniffed. “It’s coming from that direction.”
“That’s Luigi’s.” I bumped him with my shoulder. “Come on.”
While we walked to Luigi’s, I asked him about that geometry stuff he was doing. Willy told me that he came to live with his David boy when David was in eighth grade. He was supposed to have learned his math stuff, like multiplication facts, in fourth grade—only he hadn’t. “My David kind of cheated, I guess,” Willy confessed. “He used to count on his fingers and he was real fast and real sneaky about it.” But Willy told me how the Mama had figured it out and made his David learn. She got him these things called flash cards. Willy couldn’t read the numbers, but his David would say them out loud—like five times six equals thirty. Then he’d flip the card over and smile when he got the right answer.
