Fenway and Hattie Up to New Tricks

by Victoria J. Coe

  “No. Well, yes,” Patches says. “I was thinking about the stranger who showed up in the tall hat and the black cape.”

  Goldie squints at the short humans. “The box he brought was much larger than that one,” she says. “But I do remember a similar black stick. And that funny word ‘ab-ra-ca-dab-ra.’”

  “And a white bird that popped out of his hat,” Patches says.

  “As I recall, it was a bunny,” Goldie corrects. “And the short humans whooped and cheered.”

  I shudder. A bunny’s the last thing I’d want to see pop out of anybody’s hat.

  “The point is they thought the animal appeared out of nowhere,” Patches says. “When the scent was obviously under the table the whole time.”

  “I knew the guy was putting on an act from the first moment I smelled him,” Goldie huffs.

  Patches gives her a nudge. “Was that before or after he bribed you with that cookie?”

  “What?” Goldie sounds shocked. “I’m pretty sure you were the one greedily wolfing down treat after treat.”

  “Who am I to refuse kindness from a stranger?” Patches says.

  “Well, what about when he stowed Angel in that fake cabinet?” Goldie says. “They all thought she was missing when she was there the whole time.”

  He put Angel in a cabinet? Gulp. That’s too much like Hattie stuffing me in the Nana-box and shutting the lid tight.

  Patches shakes her head. “When Angel popped out, everyone gasped with delight.”

  “Short humans are easily fooled,” Goldie says. “Dogs are too clever to fall for such silly tricks.”

  Silly tricks? Is that all it is? I peer over at Hattie tapping the tall hat with the black stick. “Abracadabra!” she shouts again. She reaches into the hat and pulls out the fake flowers.

  Angel laughs and claps just as hard as last time.

  I heave a sigh of relief. Hattie’s happy again. The ladies are right—short humans are easily amused. Dogs are too smart to be fooled by tricks, and besides, there’s no way I’m going back in that box. Clearly, there’s nothing to be worried about.

  I look at Goldie and Patches and drop down on my forepaws. “Now, how about a game of keep-away?” I chomp the twig and tear down the steps into the grass.

  They can’t resist! Tails flapping, the ladies take off in hot pursuit. The game is on!

  I run from one end of the Dog Park to the other, my fur rippling in the breeze. Goldie and Patches are going to need some serious legs to keep up with me! I’m whizzing along the bushes—which sound buzzy for some reason—when a blur zooms past. It’s kind of stripe-y, and its cheeks are fat and bulging. It’s that chipmunk! What’s he got in those cheeks, stolen goods?

  I drop the stick. “Time out, ladies!” I call, pivoting. I tear after that chipmunk as he plunges under a bush. “Stop, thief!”

  There’s no response. And no sign of him besides the stench. I paw the dirt and—

  Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz!

  Hey, what the—?!

  YOWZA!

  I back out from the bush, my white paw buckling under me. Bits of leaves and twigs cling to my fur. “Fire! Fire!” I howl. “My paw is on fire!”

  Goldie and Patches race over, panting. “I don’t see any smoke,” Goldie says. “Or flames.”

  Patches cocks her head and listens. “But there is definitely a lot of buzzing going on.”

  Goldie focuses on the bushes. “Probably bees,” she says, backpedaling.

  Bees?! Who said anything about bees? My paw is on fire! I leap—no, hop—frantically through the grass, my white paw refusing to move. And it’s throbbing. I give it a couple of licks. And then a couple hundred more.

  Patches trots up to me. “What’s with the paw, Fenway?” she asks.

  “I told you, it’s ON FIRE!” I scream. “My paw’s being burned to a crisp!”

  “Fenway,” she says gently. “I think you’ve been stung.”

  Stung? I don’t think so. I jump around on three legs. “It’s on fire, I tell you! Fire! Fire!”

  Goldie and Patches huddle together, talking. But they don’t do anything about the fire. What’s wrong with them? We’re all in terrible danger!

  I’m vaguely aware of Hattie and Angel calling from the porch. But I can’t stop to listen. All that matters is my white paw. It’s pulsing and burning. And what’s this? It’s puffing up! I drop down and lick, lick, lick . . .

  I give it everything I’ve got! That burn is fierce, but I’m fiercer!

  “Fenway!” Hattie is at my side. How long has she been here? Her voice is concerned, her arms are reaching.

  I hop away from her. “No thanks, Hattie! I’m way too busy to snuggle!” I howl. “The bottom of my paw is on fire and I need to lick it!”

  Hattie is undeterred. “Fenway!” she calls, more forcefully this time. She must really want to snuggle. I try to dodge out of the way, but her hands are too swift. They grasp my torso and lift me up.

  I start to protest but quickly stop with an amazing realization. In Hattie’s arms, my tongue can reach my paw pads more easily! Slurp, slurp, slurp . . . I must lick that terrible hurt!

  Suddenly, Angel is here, too. And we’re all rushing to the house.

  Craning my neck, I spot Goldie and Patches curled up near the giant tree in the back of the Dog Park. They look like they’re trying to disappear.

  Hattie cradles me in her arms. “Aw, Fenn-waay,” she says. Her voice is full of sympathy. She smells sad and hurt.

  Welcome to the pack, Hattie! I’m pretty sad and hurt, too! Ow-oh-ooooow! Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . .

  “Hattie?” Food Lady’s voice calls from the upper window.

  Hattie hoists me up. “Help!” she yells at Food Lady. “Uh-BEE!”

  Food Lady’s loud “Oh no!” drifts into the Dog Park as Hattie hurries up the porch steps. Next thing I know, we are tearing through the house.

  Fetch Man and Food Lady appear in the hallway, reeking of paint. Fetch Man reaches for my white paw.

  Ow! I yank out of his grasp, curling my paw against my throat. “Keep your hands to yourself!” I yelp.

  Hattie turns, shielding me from Fetch Man’s grabby hands. Thank you, Hattie! You’re the one I can count on. Slurp, slurp, slurp . . .

  I’m so focused on licking my paw, I barely see Fetch Man talking into his hand. “Now!” he snaps.

  Keys jingle. We’re in the garage. Fetch Man opens the car door. Me and Hattie bound into the back seat.

  Normally, riding in the car is very exciting—sticking my head out the window, the rush of air hitting my face, my nostrils pulsing with thrilling scents. Normally, I’d go nuts wondering where we’re going. Maybe someplace interesting. Or delicious.

  But none of those things is happening. This is no normal ride in the car. All I want to do is curl up in Hattie’s lap and lick, lick, lick that awful fire away. Slurp, slurp, slurp . . .

  We zoom. We cruise. We turn. We stop.

  Hattie flings the door open, and we race up to a building that looks like a store.

  But it doesn’t have big windows like a store. And it doesn’t smell like a store, either.

  It smells like dogs . . . and cats . . . and . . . FEAR.

  My fur tingles. This place reminds me of somewhere I’ve been before. Someplace scary. I think about making a run for it. But it’s too late. We’re already inside.

  A dog growls. “Let me at him!”

  A caged cat hisses.

  We go up to a counter with treats on it. Treats?

  A lady human greets us like she knew we’d show up. We trail her into a tiny room. And chills tingle up my spine.

  The room reeks of terror and agony and doom. On one wall is a picture of dogs with lots of bones—inside their bodies. And worse—another wall has a metal table with no legs.
r />   I know this table. It goes up and down. Claws scrape and slide on it. Like the Table of Panic at the vet’s office in our old neighborhood.

  Uh-oh. There couldn’t be more than one vet’s office, could there?

  Now I really want to bolt!

  But before I can make a move, the side door opens and in walks another lady. She’s wearing a white coat. Dark hair is piled loosely on top of her head. Her eyes are wide and kind. She smells friendly. She speaks to us with breath that smells spicy, like cinnamon. She’s gazing at me intently . . . in a way that’s disturbing.

  Extremely disturbing.

  Because she’s looking at my white paw. Just like Hattie and Fetch Man did at home. If Spicy Breath thinks she’s touching this paw, she’s going to be very disappointed.

  I press against Hattie’s chest. “Keep this lady away from me! She’s got evil on her mind!”

  Spicy Breath comes at me.

  But Hattie doesn’t move. “Shhh,” she whispers, kissing my head.

  “Can’t you see she’s headed this way?” I bark, my hind legs kicking. “Let’s get out of here! Before it’s too late!”

  Hattie still doesn’t move. She gazes at me, her eyes glassy and wet. She smells upset.

  And then to my gut-wrenching horror, she hands me over.

  I turn to my short human, my eyes pleading. “Help me!”

  But Hattie just looks away.

  Spicy Breath grabs me tight. She wraps me in a hug, like we’re friends!

  Hello! She’s clearly anything but! Besides cinnamon, she smells like fear—from other dogs, cats, and even bunnies. A terrifying combination!

  I thrash. I squirm. I must get free! “Release me! This is a big mistake!” I yowl. “I just want to lick my paw in peace!”

  Fetch Man calmly looks on. Hattie leans against him, her face sad and hopeful. Do they seriously not realize their dog is in trouble?

  Spicy Breath’s grip is so strong, there’s no way to escape. All my kicking manages to do is bunch up her coat.

  I growl and snap. “Put me down, lady! I mean business!”

  Next thing I know, I’m on the Table of Panic. The one that goes up and down! Spicy Breath leans in. Her grip tightens. Clearly, she’s got evil on her mind!

  “Fenn-waay! Fenn-waay!”

  I whip around. Hattie’s grinning at me. At last, she’s come to her senses!

  But her smile is way too huge. And she smells anxious. Very anxious. Talk about bad signs.

  Hattie’s fingers reach out. Sniff . . . sniff . . . Hmm, she has a treat. And she’s waving it right in front of my nose.

  Chomp! Mmmmm. That was so yum—Hey!

  Click. What’s this?! My jaws are clamped shut! My mouth won’t open. I’ve been muzzled!

  I swipe at the straps, but it’s no use. This thing won’t come off! How will I bark? How will I eat? And worst of all, how will I lick my burning paw?!

  I’m the very definition of panicked! I shake and shudder. I kick and thrash. I have to do something! I will not give up!

  Hattie hovers. “Best buddies, best buddies,” she sings, even though we’re not cuddling and it’s not bedtime. Her voice catches, and she doesn’t smell the least bit happy. She must feel bad. She must want to help!

  Is there still hope? I nuzzle her arm. I gaze up at her with pathetic eyes. But all she does is kiss the top of my head again. Like that could possibly change anything.

  All I can do is whimper. And shake.

  Because Fetch Man grips my lower body. Spicy Breath’s got me in a headlock. I feel a pinch behind my neck . . .

  Hattie scratches behind my ears. “Aw, Fenway,” she coos. There’s something awfully suspicious about her tone. And she’s acting funny, too. She keeps glancing up at Spicy Breath. Like a dog waiting for a command.

  Could that actually be what’s happening? Hattie taking commands from Spicy Breath?

  It’s too terrible to consider. Besides, I have to concentrate. I have to keep fighting. Which I must be doing pretty hard, because—whew. Am I ever tired . . .

  I feel myself relaxing, dropping down on the table. My eyelids droop. And then . . .

  I suck in a long, deep breath. I’m no longer on the Table of Panic. I’m lounging outside in the Dog Park, luxuriating in the lush, cool grass. Aaaaah!

  Lovely sunshine bathes my coat. A soft breeze tickles my nostrils. A bright light flashes in my eyes.

  Oh no! A flashing light means thundering BOOM-KABOOMS are coming!

  I brace myself for the horrible noises. I shiver with bravery. I must find the used-to-be bear. And a place to hide!

  But before I can make a move, I hear something that’s not loud at all.

  A sound that’s quiet. And soothing. It sounds like Hattie’s sweet voice.

  “Fenway!” she cries happily. She’s running through the grass, waving at me.

  Yippee! I bound toward her, my tail swishing with glee.

  Hattie crouches down. “Fenn-waay,” she calls, her outstretched arms inviting me to bound right in.

  I can’t wait to feel her embrace. To lose myself in her soothing voice. To bask in the glow of her loving devotion.

  She rushes closer. I catch a whiff of her special scent—mint and vanilla. And something else, too. Not wonderful dirt . . . something yucky. And spicy.

  Cinnamon?

  Why does Hattie smell different? Well, there’s no time to think. She’s almost here. I’m ready to leap into her arms!

  She’s so close. I want to bark for joy! I go to open my jaws . . . but they’re clamped shut. They won’t open! Where did this muzzle come from?

  And worse than that—where is Hattie?

  I stop in my tracks. She was just here. She couldn’t have vanished. Her smell is everywhere.

  My head swivels, searching . . .

  “Fenn-waay!” Hattie sings.

  I spin around. And around. And then—I spot her! Her head is poking out from the bushes!

  Hooray! She’ll get rid of this muzzle and then I can slobber her cheeks with love and appreciation! But first, I need to get over to those bushes.

  I bolt across the Dog Park, straight toward her beaming face. She’s obviously very excited. And why not? She wants to adore her loyal dog. And she’s about to get her wish!

  But as I cruise up to the bushes—poof! Hattie’s head disappears. I plunge under the low branches. I have to find her!

  I tremble with panic. My heart aches for Hattie. I need her! I have to find her!

  I’m running frantically around the Dog Park. I’m fearing the worst. But then I hear the door sliding open. It’s Hattie! She’s striding onto the porch!

  But as I spring up the steps, my heart drops to my paws. Hattie’s wearing a white coat. Her hair is piled loosely on top of her head. Her eyes are wide and kind. And she smells like dogs and cats and . . . fear. And where did all that cinnamon come from?

  I shudder. Because Hattie looks exactly like a certain Spicy Breath lady that I’d rather not think about. And also she’s staring at my white paw. With an expression of pure evil.

  I curl my paw in protectively. I limp away as fast as I can on three legs.

  But when I reach the bottom step—yikes! I’m face-to-face with Spicy Breath! I swivel back to the porch. Oh no! She’s there, too!

  There are two of her? No—three! Another Spicy Breath pops up behind me! I’m surrounded. And outnumbered!

  The Spicy Breaths have got me covered. I want to cry out. I want to protect myself. But my jaws are strapped shut.

  All I can do is huddle. Make myself into a tight ball. And whine.

  Hands close around my neck. Snap!

  And when I look up, my head is encased in plastic.

  When my eyes flutter open, I’m looking at smooth plastic. Everywhere.

 
And something’s stuck around my neck. A new collar? A really tall collar? It’s taller than my whole head.

  I swipe at it. I shake my head. I swipe some more, but this thing won’t budge. What’s going on?

  Where am I? I can’t see from side to side. I start to pant. My own steamy breath hits me in the face. I shake some more, and plastic bangs the sides of my head. This can only be one thing—a Cone of Doom!

  I’d heard stories back at the Dog Park. I almost remember when I was a tiny puppy . . . but I never—

  “Fenway . . .” Hattie’s soothing voice. Her loving hand on my back.

  Whew! Suddenly, everything is clear. We’re not outside in the Dog Park. And no Spicy Breaths are here. According to my nose, we’re in the back of the car and Fetch Man’s in front. And according to my ears, the car has just gone quiet.

  “Hattie, I’m so glad you’re here!” I bark. “There’s a—a—cone on my head!” It must be some kind of mix-up. I didn’t even do anything wrong.

  Humming softly, Hattie keeps patting my back. Clearly, she approves of my efforts to ditch the cone. Not that they’re doing any good.

  I twist my whole body so I can look at her. She’s the same old Hattie, smiling at me. I sigh with relief. She’s the same as always. And she smells like mint and vanilla, like she’s supposed to. Was I expecting something else?

  I try to shake a weird feeling. Why is my head trapped in the Cone of Doom?

  I rub against Hattie. “How about a little help?”

  The car door opens. Hattie springs out, holding me tight. “Shhh, Fenway,” she murmurs. I smell our garage. I hear the door unlatch.

  Hattie whisks me into the Eating Place, her concerned face peering into the cone. Her eyes are huge and sad. What does she have to feel sad about? I’m the one in the Cone of Doom!

  I wipe it on her shoulder. “In case you haven’t noticed, this thing won’t come off!” I whine.

  “Awwwww,” she says. Her hand reaches in and pets my snout.

  Next thing I know, I’m on her lap again. And we’re . . . on a chair? For real?

  Wowee! Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Me and Hattie are sitting at the table in the Eating Place. I’ve always wanted to be up here! Sniff . . . sniff . . . My nose goes nuts.