I give myself a vigorous shake. Yippee! I’ve been liberated! I knew all that effort would pay off!
I glance at my supper dish, then at my itchy white paw, and then finally at that wonderful crumble of meat near the table leg. I hardly know what to go after first!
Apparently, Hattie wants to decide for me. She slides my supper dish right up to my snout. “Here, Fenway,” she sings, her voice sweet and inviting. “Yum-yum!”
Whoopee! That food looks absolutely scrumptious! My mouth waters with excitement. I’m about to chomp when I stop short. I detect something besides the meaty kibble. Something unexpected. Sniff . . . sniff . . . Yucky drops? Sprinkled on my delicious supper?
“Yum-yum,” Hattie says again, practically shoving the dish at me.
It doesn’t take a Bloodhound to know my food has been tampered with! I gaze up at Hattie’s face, and my tummy lurches in dread. Her expression is eager and happy. But her eyes are wary. And she smells nervous. A sure sign of deception!
It’s all so horrible. I need to eat my supper without all that yuckiness. I stick my snout into the dish and rummage through the kibble. Sniff . . . sniff . . . Chomp! Chomp! Chomp! I manage to gobble a few bites that smell delicious and not yucky.
I root around some more, sniffing and chomping. Soon half the food is gone. What’s left in the bowl smells yuck-yuck-yuck!
I glare at the rest. What a waste. It’s all so—Hey! I can lick my itchy white paw!
Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . . aaaaah! That’s what I’m talking about!
“FEN-way, no!” Hattie shouts, her voice alarmed. Dropping the sheet of plastic, she lunges for me, her hands grabbing.
No way, Hattie! I didn’t come this far to let you win. I skitter toward the doorway, Hattie hot on my tail. She’s fast, but I have a huge lead. Even on three legs, I easily beat her down the hall.
I want to lie down and lick my paw, but from the look on Hattie’s face and the way she’s shouting “NO!” it’s pretty clear she’s determined to stop me. There’s only one thing to do—keep on running.
As I scamper into the Lounging Place, Hattie starts gaining on me. I crawl under the low table. All I need is a safe place to hide. Where Hattie can’t reach. And I don’t have much time.
Because she races right up to me. “Fenway!” she coaxes. “Come!”
My gaze wanders around the Lounging Place, focusing on the puffy chair, the small table—aha! I shimmy out the other side of the low table and dive straight under the couch. Whoa. It sure is dark under here.
But I feel something. Are those Hattie’s fingers brushing up against my tail? I creep along the dusty rug through the darkness, around a rumply sock, past a crumpled sheet of paper, a pencil, and a couple of kernels of buttery popcorn. Chomp! Chomp! Mmmmm!
I huddle in the way back. Hopefully there’s less chance that Hattie can reach me back here and ruin everything.
Which is exactly what she’s trying to do. She lifts a corner of the couch skirt, her face peeking through the dim light. “Fenway,” she calls, one arm reaching under the couch.
I scrunch up against the wall. When I’m sure she can’t get me, I start licking that itchy white paw. Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . . aaaaah! Sweet relief!
“Fenway, no!” Hattie yells, her arm extending, stretching . . . But she’s still far from reaching me.
Whew. I’m safe!
Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . . Oh, my paw! My itchy white paw! How I’ve longed to lick, lick, lick you! Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . .
“Fenway, no! No! No!” Hattie shouts. It’s obvious she wants me to come out so she can put that Cone of Doom back on. Or worse—shove those yucky drops down my throat. And it’s equally obvious she’s not going to get her wish. She tries to reach me some more, but she quickly gives up. With a very loud groan, she scrambles away and pads out of the room.
Aaaaah! Alone again at last. I keep on licking until my paw is thoroughly soaked. Though still itching! I get back to work, giving it all I’ve got. Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . .
Moments later, I hear Hattie’s footsteps approaching. And by the sound of it, she’s got Food Lady and Fetch Man with her. Reinforcements!
The couch skirt lifts again, and I look up. In the shadowy light, Hattie’s face appears. “Fenn-waay,” she coaxes. Her eyes are excited. Her tone is sweet. But she can’t fool me. Even from back here I can smell her frustration. And panic.
I go back to licking. Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . .
“Fenn-waay,” Hattie coos again. But this time, when her hand reaches under the couch, my nose gets a whiff of something yummy.
A treat?
My mouth waters. My tummy rumbles. Wowee, that treat smells tasty. And not yucky at all. I inch toward Hattie’s hand for a better sniff.
Sniff . . . sniff . . . It sure smells like a treat all right! I start to go for it but immediately pull back. It’s probably a trick! As soon as I munch that treat, she’ll snatch me, and that’ll be the end of the lick-fest.
Hattie’s hand withdraws. I hear a sigh, then Hattie and the tall humans chattering. Which is probably a bad sign. Why don’t they go away and leave a poor, itchy dog in peace?
Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . . The couch skirt lifts yet again. Hattie’s face reappears, even more determined this time. “Oh, Fenn-waay,” she sings. I wait for her hand to reach under the couch with that tantalizing treat, but it’s not coming.
Or is it?
My nose detects its yummy scent. It’s coming closer. But the hand I see is not Hattie’s. It’s Fetch Man’s.
And it’s reaching all the way to my snout. Sniff . . . sniff . . . mmmmm! I open my jaws and—chomp! Whoopee! Is that ever tasty!
Fingers grip under my collar. I’m skidding across the rug, out from under the couch. Hey! And I’m in the brightness of the Lounging Place. My humans hover over me. Hattie’s arms reach around my neck. Snap! The Cone of Doom is snug on my head. Licking time is over.
I swivel from Fetch Man to Food Lady to Hattie. All of them are frowning and shaking their heads. Maybe the cone really is some kind of punishment. “What’d I do?” I bark.
The rest of the night is terrible. With the Cone of Doom snug and tight, I can’t lick my white paw, which, besides being itchy, is wet and sore, too.
Hattie carries me up to her room despite my very clear protests. The whole upstairs reeks of wet paint. It’s overpowering!
With this cone on my head, I can’t even bury my snout in the minty, vanilla-smelling blankets. This is all so wrong! Me and Hattie and the used-to-be bear are supposed to be snuggling in bed, and instead my head is resting against cold, hard plastic. I whimper.
I stare up at her pained face. Clearly, she hates seeing me suffer. “Hattie, I’m in agony here!” I whine. “I can’t stand it anymooooore!”
“Aw, Fenway,” Hattie says. Her voice is gloomy like she’s the one with a Very Big Problem. “Best buddies, best buddies,” she sings, kissing my brown paw.
I tuck the white one under my chest. I can’t even yowl the song.
But I can’t give up. She’s caving. I know she is. I roll onto my back and cock my head. “Look, Hattie!” I moan. “Your poor dog is sooooo miserable!”
Hattie’s eyes are sad and glossy. “Awwwww!” she coos. I’ve obviously gotten to her.
R-r-r-r-rip!
Whoopee! The Cone of Doom is off! I give my head a couple of shakes. I pounce on Hattie’s chest and lick her cheek. “Thank you, Hattie!” I bark. “I knew you’d come through.”
As she strokes the top of my head, I go to wrap a paw around the used-to-be bear. But Hattie pulls it away.
“Hey,” Hattie murmurs, studying his face. She runs her finger over his remaining button eye, then feels through the blankets as if she’s searching for something. “Aha.” She holds up a tiny butto
n.
She springs up and sets the used-to-be bear and the button on top of the dresser. Then climbs back into bed.
I want to ask what she did that for, but then I realize I have something more important to do. Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . .
When the room is filled with morning brightness, my eyelids pop open. My nose breathes in that horrible paint smell. I burrow under Hattie’s rumpled blankets, which are awfully damp and slobbery for some reason.
And whoa, is my white paw ever itchy! I get back to licking. Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . .
“Fenway?” Hattie mumbles, rubbing her eyes.
Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . .
Hattie scrambles out of bed and grabs a curved sheet of plastic off the floor. She reaches around my neck and—snap!
“Hey!” I bark, stumbling through the blankets. What is this Cone of Doom doing back on my head?
Hattie lifts me up and we head downstairs. Ah! It smells good and normal, like eggs and toast.
I beg Hattie to take the cone off, but all she does is make sad faces at me. Why isn’t she helping me escape this thing? Do I have to work my tail off every single time?
While my family eats breakfast, I plop near the screen door. “I need to lick my paw, Hattie!” I whine, raising it up for her to see. “It’s itching worse than eeeeever!”
Hattie sneaks a few sorry-looking peeks at me, but she doesn’t help. She keeps right on eating her toast while Fetch Man and Food Lady chatter away like their pathetic dog isn’t even here. Don’t they notice how badly I’m suffering?
After the dishes clatter in the sink, Fetch Man and Food Lady hurry upstairs. Hattie rushes over to me as I hear the Friend Gate creak open and bang shut.
I spring up and peer through the door. My tail swings in happy expectation. Our friends are coming! Maybe the ladies can help me out some more.
“Angel!” Hattie cries, and I follow her out onto the porch.
Angel makes a sad face when she sees me and gives me a quick pat. She and Hattie head straight for the Nana-box and start fishing through the toys. I swivel my cone-head, scanning the Dog Park. Where are Goldie and Patches?
After hobbling past the vegetable patch and tending to some daily business, I scout along the side fence. Is it my imagination? Or is that heavy breathing?
I position the Cone of Doom over a gap in the fence. Two black noses appear in my face. Four glossy eyes stare back at me.
“Ladies!” I cry, hopping back in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Goldie says. “We’re keeping a watch on things.”
“Not that we wanted to be nosy, of course,” Patches explains before pausing to swat at a fly with her paw. “We actually had a little debate about it.”
“Really?” I know the ladies like to argue about everything. But when it comes to their best friend and the sorry state I’m in, I’d like to think the decision to check on me would be a no-brainer. “Well, I did manage to escape this cone at supper time and then again at bedtime. But sadly, it came back.”
Goldie blinks a few times. “We can see that.”
“Though actually what’s more worrisome at the moment is our precious Angel,” Patches says. “She was in such a hurry to get over there this morning, she must’ve forgotten to bring us along.”
“Um, I wouldn’t call it forgetting,” Goldie says. “She slammed the gate and told us to stay. It’s pretty clear she wants to keep us away from you.”
“What?! Why?” I whip my cone-head toward the porch. Hattie’s wearing that same tall hat and cape. She’s holding a little ball and rolling it around in her fingers. Angel flips a small, clear box over and over in her hands.
“Maybe Angel’s afraid we’re a bad influence on you,” Goldie huffs.
“Now, we don’t know anything for sure,” Patches chimes in. “But Angel did mention your name, Fenway. And come to think of it, she may have waggled a finger when she said it.”
Normally, I’d protest. I’d tell the ladies they can’t be right. But then I look over at the short humans again. Could keeping me and my friends separated have something to do with the other terrible things that’ve been going on?
Even if it doesn’t, it means more misery. If the ladies can’t come over, I can’t play. I already can’t chase down rodent-y crooks. I can’t eat. I can’t lick my paw. I can’t do anything!
Eventually, the ladies mosey away from the fence. Apparently to have fun without me. I slump down in the grass, watching Hattie and Angel.
They play a game with that tiny ball and box over and over, even though neither of them looks to be enjoying it. And every time Angel drops the ball, Hattie winces and studies the little book with her brow furrowed. She must be concentrating very hard. Or maybe the book has angered her somehow. Angel seems more interested in munching on peanuts.
When the short humans head inside for lunch, I follow them into the Eating Place. Hattie and Angel wolf down delicious-smelling grilled cheese sandwiches and juicy peaches. They chat with Fetch Man and Food Lady, who once again reek of wet paint.
I’m firmly focused on that grilled cheese, but then rustling noises out in the Dog Park steal my attention. And my tail rises in alarm.
I trot over to the door. That thieving chipmunk is headed this way! He scampers up the steps and scurries across the porch like he’s not being watched. Doesn’t he realize a ferocious dog is right on the other side of the screen?
My fur bristles. I bare my teeth. “Stop, thief!” I bark.
But that criminal-in-stripes keeps on roaming through the porch as if he’s not even the least bit threatened. He hops around the Nana-toys, his head twitching from side to side, obviously searching for loot to take.
Thanks to this Cone of Doom, I can only get so close to the screen. I swipe it with my paw, but ouch! Stifling a yelp, I turn on a growl. “You’ve been caught in the act, robber!” I bark. “You’ll never get away with it!”
He really must not be able to hear, because he continues casing the porch for the heist. He circles the fake flowers, darts around the metal rings, then pounces on a peanut shell. I bark ferociously as he pecks and pecks, his cheeks ballooning with hot property.
“FEN-way!” Hattie snaps. She pulls me away from the door like I’m the one who committed a crime.
That thieving chipmunk might’ve won another round. But he’d better watch his back. Because if he thinks I’m going to give up because of a Cone of Doom, he’s totally nuts!
The humans finish eating, and instead of trudging upstairs toward that stinky paint, Food Lady and Fetch Man come outside with us. I get the feeling something is about to happen because they are full of anticipation. I watch them set up chairs in the grass, facing the porch. Then they plop down, chatting happily and waiting, with curious expressions.
Hattie and Angel fiddle with the Nana-toys on the porch. Hattie sweeps into the flouncy cape and plunks the tall hat on her head. As Angel sets the toys on top of the Nana-box, Hattie ducks back inside the house. But she doesn’t go anywhere. She just stands on the other side of the door like she’s waiting for something, too. Or hiding.
I start limping up to the door to check it out when Fetch Man calls out, “Here, Fenway!” and my cone-head turns. Fetch Man slaps his leg, his eyes sparkling.
Yippee! I know that look! Does he have a stick to throw? My tail wagging, I stumble down the porch steps—ow! My white paw is throbbing. And when did it get so big and puffy?
By the time I’ve hobbled over to Fetch Man, he’s apparently forgotten all about playing fetch and that’s fine with me. I have a painful paw to lick!
I sink down beside Fetch Man, twisting my neck and batting the cone. I have to reach that paw! But no matter how hard I try, it’s not enough. All I manage to do is tire myself out.
I stop for a rest, and just in t
ime. It sounds like we’re about to find out what’s happening. Angel sashays across the porch, her arms gesturing toward the door. “Hattie-the-Grrate!” she cries.
Hattie saunters out, her cape fluttering behind her like wings. Angel rushes up to her, an excited look on her face. She extends her arms at Hattie and shouts, “Ta-da!”
Hattie smiles weakly and takes a bow. Even from down here in the grass, I can smell how nervous she is.
Fetch Man and Food Lady whistle and clap, full of enthusiasm. Hattie responds by wringing her hands and fidgeting.
I’m almost afraid to find out what she’s up to. But I sit up tall, determined not to miss a trick, even though my paw is throbbing.
Hattie hovers over the Nana-box like it’s a table. She grabs the clear plastic box, its lid, and the tiny ball and offers them to Angel.
Angel examines the little box and ball like she’s never seen them before, even though she spent the whole morning playing with them. She pokes a finger inside the box as if to show everyone how empty it is.
Angel passes the toys back to Hattie.
Hattie places the ball inside the box. Clunk! She gives Angel the lid.
While all eyes are on Angel studying the lid, Hattie fiddles with the box. Appearing satisfied, Angel hands it back to Hattie. Hattie plunks the lid onto the top of the box and quickly drapes a cloth over it. She waves the skinny stick through the air. “Abracadabra!” she says.
Fetch Man and Food Lady hold their breath, like they’re expecting something to happen. Hattie sets the abracadabra stick down. She pulls off the cloth and stuffs it in her pocket.
The clear plastic box is empty again. In unison, the tall humans gasp. Angel joins them, clapping and cheering. Food Lady stomps her feet. “Brah-voh!” Fetch Man yells.
Hattie grins. She holds the box up as if to demonstrate exactly how empty it is.
My cone-head swivels from Angel to Food Lady to Fetch Man. They look puzzled, like they don’t know where that tiny ball went. But at the same time, they’re acting thrilled, like something spectacular just happened.
Fenway and Hattie Up to New Tricks Page 5
