It’s almost like they think the ball just disappeared. Are they really that gullible?
Hattie takes a bow. A deep one this time. The others keep on clapping and clapping. “Hattie-the-Grrate!” Angel calls.
Is it possible that none of them knows what happened to the ball? It’s right there in Hattie’s pocket. Why aren’t they at least looking for it?
One thing’s for sure—something strange is going on. Maybe my humans can’t smell the ball. Maybe they need a Jack Russell Terrier to save the day. I do know a few things about fetching balls.
I limp up the porch steps on three legs, my sore white paw curled under my chest. I can’t let throbbing pain stop me.
I hop over and leap on Hattie. My white paw is puffy and hurting, but it can still claw Hattie’s pocket. Where the ball and cloth are hiding.
“FEN-way!” Hattie yells, brushing me off. She sounds annoyed.
“What? I’m only trying to show everybody where the ball—yooooow!” I frantically wave my paw, hopping around Hattie. “It’s on fire again! My paw is back on fire!”
Hattie shrieks and scoops me up. “Fenway!” she cries, staring at my paw. Her eyes are surprised and panicked.
Suddenly, I’m surrounded. The humans are all talking at once. They smell worried. And there’s another smell, too. Sniff . . . sniff . . . Sour garbage? Rotting meat?
The odor is coming from my fiery paw. And no matter how far I stretch, I cannot lick it.
As Hattie hugs me tight, I can almost see it over the edge of the cone. Whoa! Is it ever puffy!
Next thing I know, me and Hattie are in the back seat of the car. And we’re zooming out of the driveway.
The trip is frantic. I squirm and twist every way I can, my neck stretching, my tongue thrusting and reaching. I need to lick that puffy white paw! But I can’t get to it no matter what I do. I have to keep trying. I must have relief!
Hattie rocks me. She sings to me. She whispers in a gentle voice. Does she think this is snuggle time and nothing is wrong?
It’s great that she’s so devoted to me. But if she really wanted to help, she’d take this Cone of Doom off my head again. “Hattie, can’t you see? Everything is wrong!” I whimper and thrash in her arms. “My paw’s on fire! I must lick the puffiness that smells sour and rotten!”
“Shhh,” she murmurs, stroking my back. Is that supposed to make me feel better?
I won’t stop protesting until she gets the message. I’m struggling and whining as the car stops and goes quiet. Hattie carries me out of the car. My tail wags hopefully. Are we headed someplace wonderful and soothing?
We follow Fetch Man into a building that looks awfully familiar. My tail sags with a terrible memory. We enter an open space lined with chairs. It smells like dogs and cats and bunnies and birds. And also like misery and fear.
It’s so horribly familiar. Like a nightmare, only real.
Fetch Man goes to the counter and speaks to a lady human.
Me and Hattie lag behind. “Shhh,” she murmurs, even though I’m not making any noise.
I consider my options, but there’s only one thing to do—make a run for it! In a flash, I spring out of her arms and onto the cold, hard floor. Ouch! I bolt toward the door, or at least I do the best I can on three legs.
“Fenway!” Hattie rushes after me, but I’m already halfway there. I have to get away. No way am I going back to the torture chamber with pokes and pricks. And the Table of Panic!
Hopping as fast as I can, I’m almost to the door. It’s closed, but I can smell freedom on the other side.
“Fenway, come!” Hattie swoops me into her arms as I kick in protest. “No-no-no!” she coos, like “no” is the Sweetest Word Ever.
I keep on kicking. “You obviously don’t remember, Hattie,” I bark. “But this place is bad news. We’ve got to get out of here!”
She looks at me with a pained face, like maybe she’s beginning to get it. But right then, we’re interrupted by a howling that can only be described as dreadful. We turn toward a white Husky who’s slumped around her human’s feet.
“Oooooh,” she howls, her eyes drooping with sadness. “I’m sooooo miserable.”
“I am, tooooo,” a huge black dog chimes in in less-than-perfect harmony. He looks like a cross between a Rottweiler and a Lab. And his face is the picture of gloom. “I want to get out of heeeeere.”
“Rrrrraaaaarrrrr!” A painful meow spews from a carrier on an old lady’s lap. And then, “Hsssss!” As if the already-depressing melody could get any more grating.
My ears wilt in sympathy. I wiggle. I kick. “Listen, Hattie, it’s unanimous. We need to ditch this place!”
But all she does is rub my back some more, like that’s somehow helping.
“Okay, Fenway.” The lady from behind the counter ushers me and Hattie and Fetch Man into a tiny room and closes the door.
Uh-oh.
The odor hits me first—terror and agony. I zoom in on the wall and the Table of Panic. I remember scraping claws, sliding paws. I start trembling with dread.
Fetch Man gives Hattie a look of reassurance. He pats her shoulder like she’s the one who’s horrified.
“Aw, Fenway,” Hattie sings. She dances and sways. “It’s okay . . .”
I nuzzle into her shirt, the Cone of Doom resting in the crook of her elbow. Maybe she’s not getting my need to escape or lick my paw, but at least one thing is clear—Hattie is overflowing with devotion. She’s always on my side, especially now. All she wants to do is shower me with extra love and attention.
Paw or no paw, cone or no cone, all that matters is Hattie’s love for me. When she’s got my back, I can handle anything.
The side door opens and a lady walks in. She’s wearing a white coat. Dark hair’s piled loosely on top of her head. She smiles with wide, kind eyes. “Fenway?” she says.
I respond by shaking.
Because she’s moving toward me. She’s looking me in the eyes. And her breath smells spicy, like cinnamon.
I know this lady. I faced her before. And I did not win.
I squirm with new urgency. “Hurry, Hattie! Before it’s too late!”
Hattie stays put. She rocks me some more, like it’s just the two of us, upstairs in her bed, and Spicy Breath isn’t there.
Except she is here. My mortal enemy is mere steps away. She’s hovering like a scary dark cloud. Are loud boom-kabooms coming next? Or something even worse?
I whip my cone-head from side to side. “Help, Hattie! Help!” I have to make her realize how terribly I’m suffering, how much I need her. It worked before. It has to work now!
“What are you waiting for?” I bark. Spicy Breath is reaching for me! “There’s no time to lose! We have to make a run for it like RIGHT NOW!”
I feel Hattie’s weight shifting, her arms moving. Something’s happening. Is she headed for the door? Are we about to make our escape?
I lift my head. The Cone of Doom tilts and wobbles to one side, just in time for me to see . . .
Spicy Breath’s face! Her wide eyes are peering down at me!
“Hattie! Hattie!” I yelp, thrashing and kicking hysterically. “Let’s gooooo!”
But instead of going, Hattie stays where she is. And even worse, I feel two other hands close around me.
I jerk and jolt and kick with all my might. “Get your paws off me, lady! Or you’ll be sorry!”
One pair of hands releases its grip. I turn my cone-head toward Hattie, desperately hoping that she’s the one still holding me. But the sorry look in her eyes tells me I’m wrong. My heart smashes to pieces.
I’m in the hands of the enemy. Why didn’t Hattie save me?
I look back at her. “How could you do this to me, Hattie?”
She drops her gaze like she can’t bear to look at me.
I know
how she feels.
Spicy Breath lowers me onto the Table of Panic. She clutches me tight. Fetch Man stands on my other side, leaning in. I’m trapped.
R-r-r-r-rip! The Cone of Doom falls off my head.
WOWEE! I did not see that coming! I shake and shake, cool air rushing through my fur. What a refreshing feeling! I glance around the room, almost happy.
But one second later, I realize that while the cone may be off, everything else is terrible. Spicy Breath seizes me again. Fetch Man bends over, gripping my hind legs. And my white paw is still on fire and throbbing, and I still can’t lick it!
Then, out of nowhere, a sharp odor burns in my nostrils. Eeeee-yew! It smells like the spray bottle that Food Lady uses in the kitchen. I whip my snout from side to side trying to get away from that obnoxious scent.
Spicy Breath holds my front leg. Owwwww! A wet cloth wipes my fiery paw. I pull and pull, but Spicy Breath and Fetch Man are on me and I can’t even budge. Where is Hattie? Why isn’t she helping me?
I know why. My whole body sinks with the sickening realization—Hattie’s the one who handed me over.
My own short human. The girl I swore to love and protect. The one I’m always on guard for. The one I fight battles for every day. She let me down.
I shudder with the horrible truth.
Spicy Breath talks to Fetch Man and Hattie in a gentle yet bossy voice. “In-fect-id,” she says. Whatever that means.
“Soke-it,” she commands. She takes a carton out of a cabinet and hands it to them. It looks like milk, only it didn’t come from the tall frosty box where hot dogs and mayonnaise live.
Fetch Man gazes at Hattie, one eyebrow raised.
“Okay,” she says.
Spicy Breath wipes my paw some more with that stinky cloth.
“Owwwww!” I yelp. It’s all too clear—this battle is over. And I’ve lost.
“Look,” Spicy Breath says. She opens a little plastic bottle. Out rattles a tiny morsel that doesn’t smell anything like a treat. Or a peanut. She shows it to Fetch Man and Hattie.
Spicy Breath tilts my head up to the ceiling. She obviously wants us all to look. What’s so interesting up there? All I see is a plain, boring ceiling.
I continue searching, when suddenly my jaws are pried open and a tasteless morsel drops in. Before I can even gag. Spicy Breath’s hand clamps my jaws shut. Fingers caress my throat in downward strokes that are anything but soothing.
As soon as I swallow, my jaw releases. I’m about to growl, but—what’s this? Spicy Breath is holding a treat!
“Give me that!” I bark.
It works! She tosses it into my mouth. Chomp! Mmmmm, yummy! “More, please!”
As I swallow again, Spicy Breath smiles. “See?” she asks Fetch Man and Hattie.
Hattie nods in agreement. Or approval. Is she surprised that I can stand up for myself?
Spicy Breath twists the cap off a tube that looks like toothpaste. She grabs my white paw and smears creamy goo on the bottom. “Ow! Cut that out!” I bark, recoiling. “Or else!”
She backs away. I puff out my chest. Apparently, I can still be intimidating when I put my mind to it!
The humans focus on Spicy Breath as she talks and talks and talks. She scribbles for a moment, then thrusts a piece of paper at Fetch Man with a very serious look.
Something changes, though I’m not sure what. Fetch Man and Hattie exchange concerned looks. Wiping a tear, Hattie nods with determination.
Everybody’s still alarmed, yet calmer somehow.
Including me. When Fetch Man releases my hind legs, Spicy Breath backs even farther away. Best of all, the Cone of Doom is gone. There’s just a curved sheet of plastic lying on the counter.
But it’s probably going to reappear when I least expect it. No point in taking chances. “Stay away from me, Cone of Doom!” I bark. “If I never see you again, it will be too soon!”
“Shhh,” Hattie murmurs as Spicy Breath begins talking some more.
My white paw is still puffy and hurting. The Cone of Doom has been defeated. And the humans are clearly distracted by Spicy Breath. This can only mean one thing—Opportunity. I drop down on the Table of Panic for a good, long lick.
Slurp . . . slurp . . . slurp . . . eeeeewwwww! Paaaaatooey! My paw tastes awful—bitter, like lemons! Paaaaatooey! Paaaaatooey! Paaaaatooey!
“Aw, Fenway,” Hattie coos sadly, stroking my neck.
I gag some more, but the horrible taste is still there.
Hattie nuzzles my ear. “Sorry,” she whispers.
I turn away. Me too.
Back in the car, I’m curled up near one window, and Hattie’s strapped in beside the other.
She can’t take her sad eyes off me. Clearly, she feels bad about what happened. She’s liable to let me get away with anything right now—chewing the upholstery, bounding into the front seat with Fetch Man, searching for snacks in her bag.
The trouble is, I don’t want to do any of those things. All I want to do is lick away my paw’s awful soreness. But I can’t put my tongue on something that tastes so bitter! Talk about an obstacle!
I need to find a way around it. Hattie hates seeing me suffer, like Goldie and Patches said. Somehow I need to use this to my advantage. After all, I’m all about pouncing on Opportunity.
By the time the car goes quiet in the garage, I’m determined to turn things around. Hattie carries me out of the car and into the Eating Place. I give myself a vigorous shake. At least that Cone of Doom has disappeared. Hopefully for good!
Food Lady glances up from the counter. She’s still dressed in raggedy clothes and reeks of wet paint. Fetch Man must not mind the odor because he breezes over and kisses her cheek.
Hattie chatters at her, apparently explaining what happened, because all eyes are focused on me. Food Lady looks surprised. Did she not expect me to trounce the cone?
Fetch Man pats Hattie’s shoulder, then sets the carton, tube, and little rattle-y bottle on the table. He reaches into his pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. He stares at it, speaking in a serious tone.
Hattie nods, full of determination, and strokes my head. My family’s paying way too much attention to me. They’re obviously up to something. And from the intense looks on their faces, it’s not playing with toys or fetching balls out in the Dog Park.
Hattie nuzzles my ears. “Soke-it,” she says. She must be apologizing again, because she smells sad and her voice sounds like a promise.
Does this mean everything will be better from now on?
“Thanks,” I bark, licking her cheek. “I’ll take it.”
With the carton hooked on one finger, Hattie carries me out of the Eating Place, down the hallway, and into the Washing Room. My fur prickles. Oh no! This is not a good sign!
I squirm desperately. “Let’s go someplace else,” I bark. “Like the Dog Park?”
“Shhh,” Hattie murmurs, calm as can be.
As if there’s anything to feel calm about. “Bad news, Hattie! It’s called the Washing Room for a reason! Can’t we go play outside?”
She acts like she either doesn’t get it or doesn’t care. She puts the carton on the counter and opens it.
Normally, I’d trust that any carton or box or package that Hattie opens is something wonderful, like a snack. But right now, my guard is up. And with good reason. Hattie’s motives are clearly suspect. Snacks do not belong in the Washing Room. This carton doesn’t smell like any snack I’ve ever smelled before. It smells like Spicy Breath.
I kick more vigorously. “Put me down!” I bark. “You can’t fool me. I know you’re up to no good.”
“Shhh . . . shhh . . .” she murmurs again. Her grip on me tightens even more and water starts whooshing into the sink.
Another bad sign. When water whooshes into the sink, Hattie usually stands over it rubbing her ha
nds or brushing her teeth while I wait safely on the floor or out in the hallway. Right now, none of those things is happening.
She’s got a plan. Clearly, it involves that water. And me.
My fur ripples in panic. “Please, no!” I wriggle. I thrash. I’m desperate to get loose. “I’m not even dirty!”
The whooshing continues. The water level rises higher and higher. Hattie’s obviously planning to torture me with that water, no matter how badly I try to convince her otherwise.
I keep up the squirming and wiggling anyway. “What did I ever do to deserve this?” I yelp.
My protesting must finally be getting through to her, because Hattie touches the faucet and the rushing water stops. Whew! That was a lot of hard work. Now if only I could convince her to loosen her grip, too, I could bolt on out of here.
But she’s got me good and tight. As much as I kick and twist, I can’t move a single inch.
Hattie tips the carton and pours glittery crystals into the water. They look like the sugar that Food Lady sprinkles on cookies. But they smell like salt. Talk about curious. Are we going to drink it? Is it some kind of game?
“Let’s go, Fenway,” she coaxes sweetly.
Does she know something I don’t? Is there something very interesting about this water?
I lean over for a better look, and then—Plop! Splash!
What the—? My paws churn and thrash in the warm, salty water. My whole coat is soaked through. No—not a bath! I hate baths!
Hattie wipes a strand of wet hair from her eyes. “Stop, Fenway!” She grabs my white paw and tries to dunk it. Apparently, it’s the only part of me she wants to bathe. But all of me is wet, wet, wet!
I twist my paw away from her. “Let me go!” I yelp, my hind legs scrambling. I’m slipping and sliding. Water sloshes everywhere. Hattie’s hair and clothes are as wet as I am.
“FEN-way!” Hattie jumps back, pulling on her soaked shirt. Obviously distracted, she releases her grip.
Ha! My big chance! I spring onto the edge of the sink and vault onto the counter. I’m about to leap off, when I pull up short. Uh-oh. The floor is a long way down.
Fenway and Hattie Up to New Tricks Page 6
