A Tale of Two Tails

by Henry Winkler

  Disappointed? Did I say disappointed? That’s what my dad always tells me. That he is disappointed in me. And here I was, telling the very same thing to Cheerio.

  Wow. It was as if my dad had come flying out of my mouth!

  CHAPTER 5

  We decided to take Cheerio to Riverside Park for a quick first training session. He wasn’t too excited to go, because he was still pretty focused on taking a chunk out of that strudel. I had to use my scarf to cover his nose and eyes to get him away from Mrs. Fink’s counter and into the elevator. When we got in, the delivery guy from Yang Chow’s Chinese Restaurant was just getting out to drop off dinner at Tyler King’s apartment.

  When Cheerio got a whiff of that kung pao chicken, he lunged for it, scarf and all. That poor delivery guy, all he saw was a green-and-black striped scarf hurtling toward him. It made him very nervous, which I can understand. I mean, most people wouldn’t want a panting, sniffing scarf attacking them. So he got out of the elevator faster than you can say moo goo gai pan (which I also think I detected in that bag).

  When we hit the street-level lobby, we attached Cheerio’s leash to his collar, pushed open the door, and headed off down the street toward Broadway. After Broadway comes West End Avenue, and after that is Riverside Drive, where the park is. And right on the other side of the park is the Hudson River, named after some explorer who I guess was named Mr. Hudson, but I’m really not sure. If you’re just dying to know, you can look it up in a history book, which I would do, but I don’t have time now because as I said, we were on our way to train Cheerio and we had to start right away.

  “Wait a minute, guys,” Ashley said, taking my arm and pulling us to a stop. “If we’re going to train Cheerio, we need treats. He’s got to get rewarded every time he learns something new.”

  “What ever happened to just saying ‘good dog’ and giving him a pat on the head?” Frankie said.

  “Obviously, you’re not used to thinking like a dog,” Ashley said.

  “Ashweena’s right,” I chimed in. “Cheerio responds best to meat and cheese.”

  “Right, Zip. Like I just happen to have some meat and cheese in my jacket pocket.”

  “Frankie, you’re talking to a Zipzer. As in the son of a mother who owns only the greatest deli on the west side of New York, which happens to have a wide selection of meats and cheeses, and also happens to be across the street from where we are standing at this very second.”

  “Zip, when you’re right, you’re right. Let’s do it.”

  We crossed the street, walked a half a block, and there it was, the Crunchy Pickle. My mom took over the deli from my grandpa, Papa Pete, and she’s worked really hard to . . . as she says . . . bring it into the twenty-first century. Mostly, that means substituting soy stuff for anything that might possibly taste good. Luckily, all the old recipes that Papa Pete created are still on sale there, too, so the business hasn’t been totally ruined.

  We went inside and I asked Carlos, who was working the sandwich counter, if he could give us some scraps of roast beef for Cheerio. My mom, who was in the back refilling the potato-salad bin, came out when she heard my voice. She can hear my voice from a million miles away. She says it’s Mom Radar. I say it’s annoying.

  “What are you kids up to?” she asked. She was wearing a big white apron with an arrow pointing to her stomach that said, “Baby below!” At least it didn’t say, “Claudius below,” so that was good news.

  “We’re going to the park to teach Cheerio some new tricks,” I told her.

  “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” a familiar voice boomed from one of the turquoise leather booths. “Take it from me, I know.”

  It was Papa Pete, my grandpa and favorite tall adult in the whole world. He was having a coffee and Danish, and reading the sports section of the Post. Frankie, Ashley, and I all smiled at the same time. You can’t be around Papa Pete and not smile. In fact, you can’t even hear his voice without smiling.

  “And you’re certainly not giving that dog roast beef,” my mom said. “I’m trying to watch his cholesterol. Here, I’ll chop up some soylami for him. It’s an excellent meat substitute and much gentler on his tummy.”

  She took out a knife and grabbed a loaf of some greyish, brownish, fakish meat and started to chop it into pieces.

  “I’m not comfortable with you kids being in the park without adult supervision,” she said.

  “Then can you take us, Mom? This is really important.”

  “I have work to do. We’re doing party platters for Mr. Kim’s mother. She’s arriving from Korea to celebrate her eightieth birthday.”

  Papa Pete got up from his booth and walked over to the three of us. He has this way of putting his arms around all our shoulders at once. It’s sort of like a group hug, only not as gushy.

  “You keep working on the trays, Randi,” he said to my mom. “If my grandkids don’t mind, I’ll escort them to the park. I could use some fresh air.”

  “Mind?” Ashley said. “Why would we mind?”

  “Yeah, you’re the coolest,” Frankie agreed.

  Papa Pete zipped up the jacket of his favorite red tracksuit that makes him look like a big strawberry bear, put his plaid cap on his head, and we were off. I slipped the baggy full of soylami into my jacket pocket and sealed it tight, so the fumes wouldn’t knock me out. No offense to my mom or anything, but her soylami smells like Nick McKelty’s bad breath, which could peel paint off your bedroom wall.

  Riverside Park is mostly a narrow strip of grass that runs for miles along the river. The part near my apartment has a grassy hill that we sled down when it snows, and next to that are basketball courts used by the older kids. There are some benches scattered around, and when we got to the park, Papa Pete plopped himself down on one of those and immediately struck up a conversation with Officer Quinn, our local policeman, who was walking by. I saw him pull a Danish out of his pocket, tear off half, and hand it to Officer Quinn.

  As Papa Pete peeled the top off his coffee, he and Officer Quinn talked bowling and basketball. I liked the way Officer Quinn could carry on a total conversation without ever taking his eyes off everything that was going on in the park.

  Frankie, Ashley, and I got right to work with Cheerio. We took him over to the strip of grass and gathered in a circle around him.

  “Okay,” I said, “he knows how to sit and lie down on command. What should we teach him next that will impress the competition judges?”

  “Let’s start with the basics,” Ashley suggested. “How about rolling over?”

  “Great,” I said. “I saw a dog do that once on television. His trainer made a circle in the air with his finger, like this, and the dog rolled over twice.”

  “Go for it,” Frankie said.

  I held out my pointer finger, asked Cheerio to pay attention, and made a circle in the air.

  Nothing.

  I did it again, and this time said, “Roll over, boy.”

  Nothing.

  So I tried a third time, twirling my finger faster and making a bigger circle. This time, Cheerio did something, but it had nothing to do with rolling over. He jumped up, licked my finger, and then scratched his rump with his back paw.

  “Let’s go to Plan B,” Frankie suggested.

  “Like, right away,” Ashley agreed.

  “Great idea,” I said. “Anyone have a Plan B?”

  We all thought a minute, then Frankie spoke up.

  “How about if you do the finger twirling thing to me as if I’m Cheerio,” he suggested, “and I roll over on the ground. You know, to give Cheerio an idea of what he’s supposed to do.”

  “That could work,” Ashley said.

  Frankie dropped onto the grass, and I got Cheerio’s attention.

  “Watch this, boy. Over here. Look at Frankie. Your friend. You like him.”

  I twirled my finger in the air, and Frankie rolled over twice in the grass, barking as he did it. He was into it. For a minute there, I thought I was look
ing at a very tall, dressed version of Cheerio. Then Frankie sat up, panted, and gave a little yip.

  Two teenagers who were playing basketball on the court right next to us stopped right in the middle of a shot and burst out laughing.

  “Nice trick, dude!” they yelled. “What else can you do?”

  Frankie is a very cool guy and is not in the habit of getting laughed at. So all he could do was give them a stupid little wave, and under his breath say to me, “You owe me, Zip. Look what I do for you. If this gets around school, I’m toast.”

  The problem was, it was all for nothing, anyway. Cheerio wasn’t even looking. He was watching an ant try to climb up a blade of grass. I don’t know why he developed that sudden fascination with bugs, but he sure couldn’t take his eyes off the little critter.

  “Let’s use the treats,” Ashley said. “We forgot all about them.”

  I unzipped my jacket pocket, reached in, and pulled out the baggy. I took out a piece of soylami, held in front of Cheerio’s nose, and pulled it back very slowly. Then I made a circle in the air.

  “Roll over, boy, and you’ll get this treat. Mmmmmmmmmmm.”

  Nothing. As in big, fat nothing. As in, he didn’t even blink.

  All of a sudden, he did do something else. However, it had nothing to do with our training. In fact, it was what you might call the opposite of what we were going for in our training.

  CHAPTER 6

  TEN THINGS CHEERIO DID AT THE PARK THAT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH OUR TRAINING

  1. He chased a squirrel up a tree—that is, as far as Cheerio can go up a tree, which is about an inch.

  2. He did a belly flop in the fountain and scared all the goldfish that thought he was Godzilla Dog.

  3. He chased a flock of pigeons until they took off. He tried to flap his legs as if they were wings, and went exactly nowhere. No surprise.

  4. He attached himself to Papa Pete’s tracksuit and tugged so hard he almost pulled his pants down. (I never knew Papa Pete wore racing-car boxers!)

  5. He jumped into an empty baby stroller, swiped the baby’s rattle, stood up on his hind legs, and did the cha-cha.

  6. He fell in love with a miniature schnauzer that for some reason was wearing four little red rain boots, and it wasn’t even raining.

  7. He peed on six rocks, nine shrubs, five lampposts, one fire hydrant, and one little old lady who didn’t notice until it was too late.

  I can’t go on with this list, because I got so mad at him that when he ran by me, I stepped on his leash, picked him up, and said, “That’s it, we’re going home.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Cheerio must have known he was being a bad boy, because when I finally caught him, he stuck his wet nose followed by the rest of his face into the crook of my elbow and whimpered.

  “Let me just say this, mister,” I told him in a stern voice. “Your apology is not accepted.”

  “You were embarrassing, Cheerio,” Ashley said. “And you wasted a lot of time.”

  “Listen to you guys,” Frankie said. “You’re worse than parents. The little guy feels bad on his own. He’s just a dog.”

  “Yeah, he’s just a dog who’s being irresponsible,” I said.

  Uh-oh. Dad voice alert. There it was again.

  “Hey, kids,” Papa Pete called out from the bench. “Look who’s here.”

  It was Nick McKelty, lumbering into the park on his tree-stump legs. You could almost hear the ground rumbling beneath his size-twelve feet. Next to this gigantoid, whose neck resembled three flagpoles tied together, was the smallest dog you’ve ever seen. I mean, officially it was a Chihuahua, but I’m here to tell you, that dog was just a step up from a mouse in a rat suit. If Nick didn’t watch where he was going, he could mistake his dog for a pitless cherry and crush it into a fruit cocktail.

  “Hey, Zipperbutt,” McKelty called out to me. “You better hold on to that mutt of yours, because my dog Fang is a trained commando attack dog.”

  “What’s he attack?” I said. “Butterflies?”

  Ashley and Frankie cracked up.

  “You better not laugh,” McKelty said, “because Fang is trained in the ancient dog art of rip and tear.”

  “Fang!” Frankie laughed. “If that dog is Fang, then my name is Bernice!”

  Cheerio lifted his head to glance over at Fang. I mean, not one other muscle moved except the ones he used to open his eyelids. Fang let out the wimpiest whimper you’ve ever heard and shot behind McKelty’s leg, grabbing on to his ankle for dear life.

  “Wow, McKelty, we are all just shaking in our socks,” I said. “That Fang is deadly.”

  “You just wait until he warms up,” McKelty told us. “He’s back there right now sharpening his claws for the attack.”

  “Really?” I said. “Because it looks like there’s a puddle forming at your heel.”

  “And it’s weirdly yellow,” Ashley said.

  We lost it and started to laugh. Cheerio joined in, howling at the top of his lungs.

  “I can’t waste my time talking with you morons,” McKelty announced. “I’m just going to let the contest do the talking. See if you’re still laughing when Fang becomes the mascot of PS 87 for the next three hundred and sixty-five.”

  “Right, and my name is Bernice,” Frankie repeated.

  Frankie’s been saying that Bernice thing since he was seven years old, but it still makes us laugh. Apparently, it works on Cheerio, too, because he started laughing even harder. It was so cute the way his lips curled up into a smile, showing his upper teeth, which reminded me that I should brush them sometime soon so he doesn’t get cavities and have to go to the doggy dentist. Then they’d have to drill and that would hurt and then I’d have to go get him some special biscuits that he couldn’t chew because of the novocaine and then he’d drool all over the place and . . .

  “Earth to Hank,” I heard Ashley saying. “Papa Pete is talking to you.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Sorry, I didn’t hear. I was lost in my brain taking Cheerio to the dentist. But we’re back now.”

  “I was just saying,” Papa Pete said, “how nice it is to see all you kids getting along so well.”

  What land was he living in? Oh, I know. It’s the All-Kids-Get-Along-with-All-Other-Kids Land. I hear lots of grown-ups go there.

  “How’s your father, Nick?” Papa Pete asked.

  Nick’s father owns McKelty’s Roll ’N’ Bowl, which is one of Papa Pete’s hangouts.

  “He’s great,” Nick said. “In fact, he’s meeting with the manager of the Yankees right now. They want him to play first base.”

  “That’s strange,” Papa Pete said. “Because I thought I just saw him ordering a salami sandwich at the Crunchy Pickle.”

  “Oh yeah,” Nick said. “He was probably getting sandwiches for all the Yankees. They love salami.”

  That McKelty thinks he can talk his way out of anything. Papa Pete is just nice enough not to nail him on his lies.

  We were all very tired from chasing Cheerio around the park, so we decided to cut the training short and make our way home.

  “So the training didn’t exactly take off today,” Papa Pete said as we headed out of the park and over to the sidewalk. “Maybe Cheerio needs a little time to learn the commands.”

  “Well, while he’s working on that, we still have plenty of other things to do to win the competition,” Ashley pointed out.

  “Like what?” Papa Pete asked. We told him about the research paper on the history of the breed that we had to do.

  Papa Pete stroked his mustache.

  “That’s a lot of work. When are you going to get started on that?”

  “Sometime soon,” I said.

  Frankie nudged me. “Like, now, Zip. The library’s only a few blocks away. Let’s swing by there and get some research books.”

  “Great idea,” Ashley said. “We’ll divide them up and all take a section.”

  “One problem,” I said. “They don’t allow dogs in the library. So I�
��ll take Cheerio back and you guys go get the books. We can meet in the clubhouse after dinner. If that’s okay, I’ll see you at home.”

  As soon as Cheerio heard the word “home,” his little ears perked straight up and his little legs took off as fast as they could, pulling me to the curb, across the street, and up the hill toward Broadway.

  “See you later,” I hollered. But I don’t think they could hear me because we were already halfway to our building.

  Let me tell you this. When a dachshund wants to get somewhere, you better get out of the way. They’re short, but mighty. Come to think of it, so am I.

  CHAPTER 8

  Papa Pete stood on the corner and watched me go into our apartment, then walked Frankie and Ashley to the library. This worked out fine because he doesn’t actually like to drop me off right in front of our apartment. He’s always afraid of running into Mrs. Fink, who winks at him and invites him in to watch her DVD collection of championship bowling matches.

  As I went into the building, Cheerio was still full of energy. He practically dragged me into the elevator and then spun around and around in a circle until we got to the tenth floor. The minute we reached the door of our apartment, he jumped up as high as he could and started scratching on it.

  When we got inside, he bolted for the dining room table, where Emily and Robert were deeply engrossed in a project. I didn’t know what it was, but I was sure it was something that they thought was smart-o-rrific, like figuring out why penguins are classified as birds even though they can’t fly.

  As soon as Cheerio got within four feet of Robert, the bony little kid’s allergic reaction to dog hair kicked into high gear. Robert sneezed fifteen times in a row, blowing all their research papers off the table.

  “Robert, I told you to number them first,” Emily said. “Now we’re going to have a hard time putting them back in order.”

  “Achoo,” Robert answered. “Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!”

  “Wow, Robert,” I said. “I’ve never met anyone who defends himself in nose speak.”