The table’s completely empty, except for one tiny crumb of toast. It’s way across from us.
I’m about to sneak onto the table and get it when familiar scents swarm around me like flies. Fetch Man’s arm swims into view. Food Lady’s shirt. Uh-oh.
They’ve spotted us! Now we’re in trouble! I cower against Hattie’s chest, bracing myself for the yelling and shooing me off Hattie’s seat.
But there are no yells. No shoos. When the tall humans do speak, their voices are kind.
“Fenn-waay,” Food Lady says, her worried face peering into the cone.
Fetch Man peeks in, too. “Hey, fella.” His smile is a little too forced.
I shrink back. Something is wrong with this picture. Why are my humans being so nice to me? I’m sitting at the table, an unforgivable offense. Usually, punishments come after the crime. Is the Cone of Doom a punishment in advance?
That doesn’t make sense. But what could be its purpose? And why aren’t my humans shooing me away from the table?
There’s no doubt about it—something very suspicious is going on.
And I’ll figure it out right after I lick my white paw, which is suddenly itching like crazy. I try to bring it up to my mouth and—Hey! The cone is in the way. Now I really have to ditch it. Like right now!
I swipe at the cone, but it’s still not going anywhere. How hard could it be to slip out of this thing?
I’m about to ask Hattie for help again when Food Lady says, “Treat?”
My tail thumps. “Yes, please!” We’ll get the cone off right after I eat.
Hattie carries me over to the counter. Fetch Man opens a little box. It’s awfully small for a box of treats. And it doesn’t smell like treats. What could it be?
Fetch Man pulls out a tiny bottle and twists off the top, revealing a dropper. I give it a few sniffs.
Ewwwww! I know what this is—yucky drops!
I turn my head in protest. I’m about to tell Fetch Man there’s no way I’m going to gulp those things down when I hear a much more promising sound.
Hattie opens another, much bigger box. The right kind of box! The one that rattles. And smells like beefy treats!
My tail comes back to life. A treat really is coming. Hooray!
Hattie grabs a crunchy-looking, delicious-smelling treat. My tongue drips. My tummy rumbles. “I’m so ready! I’m so ready!” I bark.
Her eyes full of pity, Hattie tosses the treat into my mouth.
Chomp! Mmmmm! Wowee, it sure is tasty. “More, please,” I bark.
Right on cue, Hattie grabs another treat. My tail goes berserk. But instead of tossing the treat into my watering mouth, Hattie offers it to Fetch Man. Huh? Is he going to eat it?
“Here, Fenway,” Hattie says in a sweet voice. She turns me around.
Hey, I can’t see Fetch Man. What if he wolfs down my treat?
Hattie thrusts her fingers inside the cone and waves the treat in front of my nose.
Ew! It smells yucky! My jaws clamp shut. What happened to that perfectly good treat?
“Fenn-waay . . . Fenn-waay . . .” Hattie says, even more sweetly this time. “Yum-yum!” She waggles the treat against my mouth. Which is closed tight.
I turn away. What can Hattie be thinking? Why is she trying to coax me into eating that yucky treat?
“Mmmmm-mmmmm, Fenway,” Fetch Man hums, much too eagerly.
“Come on, Fenway,” Food Lady chimes in.
I twist in protest. Why is everybody ganging up on me? Do they really think I’m that gullible? Don’t they know I can smell how yucky it is?
Fetch Man taps his foot. Food Lady sighs.
Hattie speaks to them in a frustrated tone. She sets the yucky treat on the counter.
At last, she’s given up! I swivel back around. Or has she? Fetch Man hands her the tiny bottle. He gives her an encouraging look. “Go on,” he says.
Hattie smells determined and anxious at the same time. She takes out the dropper and points it at my mouth.
“Oh no you don’t!” I bark, squirming and curling away. “Those drops are not coming anywhere near me!”
“FEN-way!” Hattie scolds, gripping me tight.
Fetch Man grabs me by the neck. He forces my cone-head around, toward that pointy dropper!
I thrash wildly. “No! No! You can’t make me!”
My jaws clench, but it’s too late. Hattie somehow shoved the yucky dropper in. Before I realize what’s happening, slimy liquid oozes into my mouth.
Eeeee-yooooow! Is that ever yucky, yucky, yucky!
“Okay, fella,” Fetch Man says, patting me on the back like everything’s fine. I hear him and Food Lady shuffle out of the Eating Place and pad upstairs.
Hattie’s putting the dropper back in the bottle when tap! tap! tap! comes from the back door. “Hattie?” Angel’s voice calls through the screen.
Hattie sets me down and rushes over to her.
Paaaaatooey! I gag those drops right out of my mouth.
Once every bit of those yucky drops is on the floor, I hobble after Hattie and out the door. I turn the Cone of Doom toward the sky and quickly turn away, squinting. How did the light get so blinding? And why is the breeze ruffling my coat but not my ears?
Chipper, chatter, squawk!
My hackles shoot up. Those sounds can only mean one thing—a squirrel! I turn my head one way, then the other, but there’s no sign of him. All I can see is what’s right in front of me.
I swivel my cone-head to check out the porch, one tiny section at a time. The Nana-box is wide open. Balls, rings, and fake flowers are strewn all over the table. More stuff is piled on the floor.
“Ta-da!” I zero in on Hattie’s voice. She picks up the tall hat and plops it on her head, squishing down her bushy hair. She bows, the cape whipping over her shoulder as Angel claps and cheers.
Hattie smiles like everything is right and nothing is wrong. I shudder. What was the deal with the yucky drops? Why is she acting like that never happened? And has she not noticed that there’s a cone on my head that needs to come off?
“Fenway?” Angel says. My cone-head snaps in her direction. She’s speaking to Hattie, but she’s looking at me. And saying my name.
My hopes soar. Are they going to play with me? Or better yet, are they about to rescue me from this Cone of Doom so I can lick my itchy paw?
Yippee! I hobble toward them on three legs—oof! I bump into something . . . a chair? Where did that come from?
As soon as I turn around, Hattie is already distracted by the Nana-toys. She picks up the abracadabra stick and flips through the little book with great interest. While her dog is right here, needing help! Has she forgotten about me?
I’m about to remind her of the problem when I hear Patches’s lovely voice. “Fenway?”
In the Dog Park next door, tags jingle. Paws lope through the Friend Gate. Hooray! Hooray! The ladies are coming!
I rush down the porch steps, and—whoa-oh-oooooh! Splat! I belly flop onto the grass.
I hop up and give myself a good shake. The cone shifts, smacking me in the face. Ow! Bad news—it’s still on tight.
I hear Goldie pad over. “Wow, that’s quite the cone you’ve got there.”
“Oh my goodness, Fenway,” Patches says after they’ve both given me a round of sniffs. “Look at you.”
I give my head another shake. “This Cone of Doom won’t come off!”
Patches cocks her head and studies me for a moment. “Well, I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to.”
I drop down and bring my itchy white paw for a good licking, and—oof!—it bangs into the cone. Again!
Goldie noses in. “So what happened?”
“That’s a great question.” I gape at the ladies, trying to remember. “There was a ride in the car . . . and a place . . . with
panicking animals.” I shiver at the scary memory. “The wall had a picture of dogs with bones—inside their bodies! It—it—it reeked of fear and torture!”
Goldie and Patches exchange a look of disbelief.
“Believe me, it was the Worst Place Ever.” My mind is swirling with horrible images, each one more terrible than the last. “There was a Spicy Breath in a white coat—no, wait! There were two or maybe even three of her. And they all had gigantic fangs and claws and sharp, sharp needles!”
Goldie scrunches her face. “Spicy breaths? In white coats?”
Patches gawks. “Gigantic fangs? And claws?”
“I’m telling you, it was worse than a nightmare!”
Goldie looks at me sideways. “Or maybe it actually was a nightmare?”
“Look at me! This Cone of Doom is proof.” I thrust out my chest. “My paw was on fire even though I licked and licked. And before I could make it better, Spicy Breath came at me with her wicked fangs and claws. It was horrifying!”
Patches gazes at me with kind eyes. “Sounds like you were awfully upset.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” I gulp as it all—or at least some of it—comes back to me. “I wanted to run away, but there was no escape. They grabbed me, held me down, and then . . . Well, I can’t remember everything. But it was all very, very bad. And my head ended up trapped in this cone!”
Goldie glances up at the porch, then back at me. “And where were your humans during this horrendous experience?”
I blink a few times. “Why, Hattie was with me, of course.”
“And she tried to help you escape, right?” Goldie asks. “Don’t tell us she just stood by and watched.”
“Naturally she tried to help! Why would you even ask?” I practically shout. “And she’d take this cone off me right now, if she could.”
“You think so?” Goldie asks, her voice more than a little bit skeptical.
Patches gives her a look of disapproval, then turns to me. “Maybe you shouldn’t focus so much on getting it off, Fenway. It’s not really so bad, is it?”
I glare at her. “Easy for you to say, Patches. I don’t see a cone on your head!”
“Oh, but I do know,” she says gently. “We’ve all been there—waking up with a cone, furless spot on the belly, humans fussing and saying a strange word. ‘Spade,’ I believe it was. But in any case, the time passes quickly. And then, before you know it, the cone is gone and everything is back to normal.”
“Speak for yourself,” Goldie says. “You slept the whole time. Me, I stared out the window, wondering why we weren’t going out to play.”
Patches frowns. “Yes, but you told me you enjoyed all that extra love and attention. You said our precious Angel couldn’t do enough for you, remember?”
Goldie cocks her head. “I said that?”
“This is totally different!” I yell. “My belly isn’t furless. My paw needs to be licked! And—Wait, did you say something about extra love and attention?”
“Why, yes,” Patches says. “It’s a well-known fact that short humans hate to see a dog suffer. But the point is—”
“So you’re saying I can use this to my advantage?” A brilliant idea forms in my mind.
Goldie starts grumbling. Patches begins a speech. Something about patience. But I turn away. I’m too busy thinking . . .
A few moments later, I’m about to thank the ladies for their help and rush over to Hattie when I hear a horrible sound. Coming from the porch.
Chip-chip-chip!
My ears tingle. I know that sound—that thieving chipmunk! I limp toward the porch, my whole body on high alert.
As I approach, he shoots out from under the porch. His tail straight up, menacingly. His cheeks fat and bulging—obviously filled with loot!
“Halt, you crook!” I bark. “Or pay the consequences!”
He races through the grass, ignoring my vicious warning. He’s heading for the bushes. What a lame strategy! We’ve played this game before.
Maybe I can’t run, but I can head him off. I get to the bushes first, baring my teeth. “Let’s see you get past me, coward!”
Apparently, that’s what he’s about to do. He heads straight at me, darting to one side, then zipping to the other. And suddenly—Hey! Where’d he go?
I swivel my head, but he’s vanished. I hear him . . . I smell him . . . which can only mean one thing—he’s under the bushes.
I go to dive in after him, but—oof! The Cone of Doom won’t fit through the branches. Talk about an obstacle!
“Poor guy,” I hear Patches mutter.
“He’ll have to learn the hard way,” Goldie says.
I tune them out. They are not helping. Besides, chipmunk sounds are assaulting my ears. From the other end of the bushes.
Chip-chip-chip!
Does that thieving chipmunk think he can outsmart a professional guard dog like me? I hobble over—Whoa! My paws buckle under and—splat! I’m crumpled in the grass.
But not for long. I spring up and limp to the other end of the bushes. I have a job to do!
I stop and listen. This end of the bushes sounds different.
Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz!
Uh-oh. Something tells me I’m better off going the other way.
I start to hobble back to where I was before and—ow! I stumble over a stick—then I hear a very different sound.
I turn in the direction of Hattie’s triumphant voice. “Abracadabra!” she shouts, her voice full of importance. She reaches into her cape and pulls out a bunch of fake flowers. “Ta-da!”
Angel hoots and claps, looking impressed.
Why? She’s seen those same flowers loads of times. Is she really thrilled to see Hattie pull them from her cape? Did she think they were gone?
Or could this be some kind of trick?
At supper time, I remember what the ladies said. This Cone of Doom could actually be good for something—extra love and attention.
And it won’t be hard to show Hattie how badly I’m suffering. Right now, “suffering” is my middle name!
The marvelous fragrance of sloppy joes has taken over the Eating Place. My family gathers around the table just like always. I’m perched in my usual spot near Hattie. I smack my chops. Those sloppy joes smell sweet and zesty and oh-so-meaty!
I eagerly watch Hattie’s every move, whining in despair. Sure enough, her fingers appear by her leg and a delicious-smelling crumble of meat falls to the floor. Wowee, I love delicious-smelling crumbles of meat!
I’m ready to devour it. But where did it go? Did it somehow vanish?
I sweep my cone-head over the area around Hattie’s sneakers and—ouch! The cone bangs against the chair leg, and I readjust.
Sniff . . . sniff . . . That irresistible scent is so close by. I creep under the table, panting and drooling. Aha! It’s right there, next to the table leg, sitting in a lovely splotch of sloppy joe sauce. And it smells sooooo good!
My tongue dripping with anticipation, I lunge and—crash! The Cone of Doom bangs on the floor, my mouth inches from the wonderful crumble of meat.
I back up and try again, my jaws snapping, but—crash! The cone bumps against the floor again.
I try over and over, but each time it’s the same. My tongue isn’t long enough to slurp that delightful bit of sloppy joe.
“Unfair! Unfair!” I whine, backing out from under the table. The pain and injustice make my problems all the worse. “I can’t chomp that tasty-smelling meat! I can’t lick my itchy sore paw! And this Cone of Doom is stuck on my head!”
Hattie leans down and gives me a pat. “Aw, Fenway,” she says, her voice filled with pity.
I gaze up, my eyes drooping with misery. “I’m suffering,” I wail. “Can’t you see how badly I’m suffering?”
Hattie gazes back at me. Her face is full of agony. �
��I’m hurting! I’m in pain!” I whine. “I’m completely miserable!”
“Aw . . .” Hattie croons. Her eyes are glistening with tears. Clearly, she feels just as bad about the situation as I do. So why isn’t she doing anything about it?
My humans keep on eating those delicious-smelling sloppy joes like nothing is wrong. I keep on writhing and moaning at Hattie’s feet. My paw is sore and itchy. My tummy is rumbling. I wallow in the horrible mixture of helplessness and hunger. It’s the Worst Supper Time Ever.
Eventually, Hattie sets down her fork. She shifts in her seat. So does Food Lady. Whoopee! My supper is coming!
Is my hard work starting to pay off? I spring up, my tail wagging hopefully. I limp behind Food Lady’s feet to the counter. Hooray! Hooray! I hear the wondrous sounds of kibble rattling into my dish. My tongue drips in happy anticipation. “I’m so ready! I’m so ready!” I bark.
But when Food Lady sets the dish in front of me, there’s a Very Big Problem. I go to dive in and—ouch! the cone bangs the floor, and my mouth can’t reach the food.
I stretch my snout as far as I can. My tongue thrusts out, ready to lick that tasty supper. But it won’t reach. I stare up at my humans’ confused faces. “Bad news!” I whimper. “I’m staaaaarving and I can’t eeeeeat!”
Hattie looks at Fetch Man and Food Lady, her eyes full of concern. They all chatter in anxious voices.
Hattie’s starting to cave. I know it! Time to get back to work. I cock my cone-head and gaze up at her with my saddest, most pitiful face. “Hattie, I need my supper!” I moan. “You don’t want me to go hungry, dooooo you? I’m just a little dog! I need my foooood!”
Hattie turns to Fetch Man and Food Lady again. I must be getting through to her because she’s practically moaning with frustration.
I give it all I’ve got. I hang my cone-head, my whole body sagging in despair. “I can’t go on like this,” I whimper. “I’m sooooo hungry!”
I hear shuffling noises. Hattie squats beside me, sniffling. Her fingers graze my neck. R-r-r-r-rip!
It works! Hattie’s got a sheet of plastic in her hands. And my head is cone-free! The rush of possibility is overwhelming!
Fenway and Hattie Up to New Tricks Page 4
