“Not anymore,” said Grandpa. “Ray’s a police officer, and Tommy works for a trucking company. They both finished college.”
“And I didn’t,” Mom said. “You never miss a chance to point that out.”
Grandpa pushed his chair back. “I didn’t mean anything.”
“Oh?” said Mom. “Then why bring it up?”
Two more things happened during the first few weeks at Jake’s house: I learned about video games, and my memory of the calamity began to come back.
Jake played video games most nights after his homework was done. That means he sat on the sofa with a plastic controller in his hands, and he pressed buttons on it and waved it around.
There are many mysteries about humans, and video games is one.
The video game Jake played most was loud and ugly. The first time I was around it, I had another of those flashback events and started to tremble. Jake was so busy he didn’t notice until I scrambled under the coffee table to hide.
“Is it too loud, Strudel?” he asked. “Here, I’ll put on headphones.”
Without taking his eyes from the TV, Jake scratched my back one-handed—awww—and then fiddled with some cords. The TV went silent. When I calmed down I worked up the courage to look again.
In front of me on the screen, buildings were blowing up, humans were shooting with guns and falling down; bombs and tanks flashed and flamed.
Suddenly a few scattered memories from the night of the calamity came back. It was an awful boom that had awakened me from sound sleep on my soft, familiar pillow. After that there had been more booms, each one of which seemed to echo in my skull, and then came flashes of unnatural light throwing black shadows on the wall.
Terrified, I had leaped off my pillow and run around my home, searching everywhere for a place to hide, but no corner was safe from the awful noise and light. I howled and howled and no one came to help. The pain in my head was awful. I had no choice—I had to escape!
In desperation, I threw myself against a window screen, which tore with the force of my body’s impact.
I was free!
But no . . . the screen’s sharp corner had caught my collar. For anguished moments I struggled and whined, until finally the collar broke and I dropped a few feet to the hard, wet ground outside.
I thought I had escaped, but I was wrong. The terrifying noise and light continued. Worse yet, it was raining. I saw tree branches whipping and waving in the wind, and the oncoming headlights of cars. I heard brakes squealing, and the bone-rattling booms all around.
I ran across the boulevard near my home. I ran toward tall buildings in the city. The more I ran, the quieter it was. Finally the flashing sky grew dark.
Jake’s video game was called Random Apocalypse. Apocalypse means the end of the world. Had I endured an apocalypse myself?
And what had happened to my former human?
Each night after video games, I had two more jobs to do: listen to Jake talk before he fell asleep, and lick his face if he was sad.
Sometimes the things Jake told me were like stories. But his were different from Chief’s. There was not necessarily a hero or a happy ending. Peace and justice did not always triumph.
From Jake I learned that Grandpa worked in a bakery, and sometimes Jake helped out. The job he liked best was making an Italian pastry called cannoli that’s stuffed with sweet creamy cheese.
I learned about Jake’s dad, too. His name was Tyler and he lived in Germany. He was serving with the United States Army. He and Jake’s mom had been a couple for a while, but they never got married.
Jake heard from his dad on his birthday and Christmas. Usually there was a funny card and money in an envelope, usually twenty dollars.
Jake told me he was worried about the money he owed his mom for the garden hose. He hoped his dad would come through with cash at Christmas. Otherwise, maybe Anthony would give him the job he had talked about that time.
“I’m a little scared of Anthony,” Jake said, “but I would take his money.”
Thirteen
The weather got colder. Most days I was allowed to stay indoors when Jake and Mutanski went to school. Then one night Mutanski left the bathroom door open, and I ate a half roll of toilet paper for a snack. Catching it and killing it was fun, but the taste left something to be desired. Anyway, the next morning, Mom shut me out on the patio “just to be on the safe side.”
Luckily the sky was clear, and Jake had positioned my pillow in a sunny spot. After I made my usual rounds, I dozed off thinking about my previous human. What had happened to him during the apocalypse? Was he up in heaven missing me? Could he look down and see that I was happy?
I hoped so.
After a while, my nap was disturbed by a stomach-churning odor, the putrid unmentionable stench of (please forgive my language) cat!
My first thought was for my food dish.
I opened my eyes and saw my worst nightmare come true: A cat as big as a fox terrier had his face in my dish and was chowing down as if he had every right to be there!
Faster than you can say “Get away from my food, you flea-brained feline!” I was on my feet snapping and growling, a display of canine firepower that should have sent the intruder fleeing in terror. . . .
But it did not.
Instead, the cat looked up lazily, wiped a paw over one eye, licked his whiskers, blinked and said, “My dear dog, do please quiet down.”
His voice was low and smooth and creepy. My hackles were up, but I felt a chill. There was only one explanation: the Pier 67 Gang.
“Your humans ought to buy you a better brand of chow,” he continued. “If I were you, I’d be shopping for a new and improved family.”
Oh, now that was just insulting!
So what if the gang’s fearsome reputation was everywhere? The trouble was obvious. No one had taught this cat a lesson! Without further ado, I went straight for his fat, furry throat.
Only instead of the satisfying crunch of feline bone and flesh, I felt a piercing pain in my right flank, followed by a piercing pain in my left.
Owwww! I howled and spun on my toenails. Behind me I saw—this was not good—two emaciated cats, one young, sleek and black, the other white, one-eyed and filthy. Both had my blood on their claws. Both were singing evil, ululating feline songs.
Both were ready to strike again.
A single cat is no match for a dog, but now I confronted three—all of them tough, ugly strays hardened from life on the streets. The gashes on my backside stung like fire. I wanted more than anything to check out the damage, do a little licking, get some relief from the pain . . . but I dared not let down my guard.
“All right, boys, that will do,” said the big cat, the one apparently in charge. He was delicately removing bits of my food from his whiskers with a claw. “If we hurt him too badly, the humans will know we’ve been here, and there might be complications. Now go ahead and eat your share of the spoils. Don’t ever let it be said that I am greedy.”
While his henchmen finished off my kibble, the boss washed up. All I could do was watch in misery.
At this, finished eating, the black cat licked his lips and spoke for the first time. “I guess you’ve heard of the Pier 67 Gang?” My patio had been invaded and my backside bloodied. My stomach was empty. Still, I had my pride. “Nope,” I said. “I never have.”
These words were hardly out of my mouth when, from behind me, I heard a rustling sound.
What now?
Warily, I looked around and saw a terrifying sight: cat eyes, an entire constellation, glowing hot in the leafy gloom of the boxwood hedge.
At last my courage failed. “H-h-how many of you are there?”
“Enough,” the boss replied coolly. “And now, my dear dog, we need a favor. From this point forward, please leave your food for us. We may not stop by every day. We have a variety of dining options. But when we’re in the neighborhood, we will expect to enjoy your ungrudging hospitality.”
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��H-h-how did you even know I was here?” I asked.
“One of my patrol sentries got a whiff of your food this morning,” the cat said. “He reported to a lieutenant, the lieutenant reported to me. Our feline network is extensive and unstoppable. You’ll forgive me, but I’ve forgotten your name. It’s something sweet, is it not? Cupcake? Dumpling? Doughnut?”
I would have given anything not to answer, but I still felt the painful sting of feline claws. “My human calls me Strudel,” I said.
“Strudel!” There was a chorus of ugly feline laughter.
“What’s your name?” I asked the boss, trying to change the subject.
The big cat swished his tail. “You may call me Capo, director-in-charge of the Pier 67 Gang. My associates here are Lamar and Pepito. And just so you don’t forget, here is something to remember us by.”
Capo blinked at the black cat, Lamar, who unsheathed his cruel claws with blinding speed and raked my unprotected nose.
I couldn’t help it. I squealed, “Aiii!”
Lamar removed a drop of my blood from his paw with a delicate flick of his tongue. “You want I should do it again?” he asked Capo.
“Not now,” said Capo. “It’s time we moved on. But do not worry, my dear dog. We will return soon to sample your hospitality. We would never want you to be lonely.”
Fourteen
I turned to watch the three cats depart. Lamar sat back on his haunches, gracefully leaped over the hedge and landed lightly on a wooden crossbar of the fence. There he balanced for an instant before climbing up and over.
Pepito, the scruffy white cat, did the same thing, but it wasn’t nearly as pretty. Capo did not make the jump to the crossbar at all. Instead, he slinked through a gap in the hedge. The last I saw of him was the jet-black tip of his tail.
As for the other cats, the ones whose eyes I had seen in the gloom, they had vanished without a sound.
Grateful to be alone, I took a deep breath, circled twice and dropped down on my pillow.
This would never have happened to Chief, I thought. Chief would have taken on those cats and dispatched them three at a time.
But I wasn’t Chief, was I? I was frightened, bloodied, hungry and humiliated.
I was also puzzled about one thing. How did Capo get in and out of my domain, anyway? He was too fat for jumping.
To find out, I left my pillow and trotted to the gap in the hedge. Here my short legs were an advantage. Bending my knees and elbows, I forced my way beneath the foliage and inch by inch moved forward.
I couldn’t see well in the shadows, and the twigs and branches scraped my back, especially—ouch—the tender places the cats had scratched. But, true to my determined hound-dog nature, I kept going until finally my nose bumped something solid—the wooden fence.
There had to be an opening somewhere. I twisted my neck until I saw it—a hole created by a rotted section of board less than a foot above my head. A loose-limbed, squishy-bodied cat—even a fat one—could squeeze between hedge and fence, then wriggle through the hole. My own canine physique, on the other hand, was too sturdy for that kind of contortion.
Covered with dirt and leaves, I backed out from under the hedge. I had answered my own question. I had found Capo’s entrance and exit.
But so what? I had no way to keep the cats from returning, and when they did I would be at their mercy.
When Mutanski got home, she washed me gently with shampoo (bleah!), then doctored my wounds with a spray that made my nose and backside sting all over again.
I knew she was trying to help, but this was awful!
I bore up bravely till finally she toweled me off and set me free. Then I scooted away fast and sat down by the front door to wait for Jake.
He was carrying a paper bag when he came in. He had a big smile on his face . . . till he saw me. “Oh my gosh, Strudel, what happened?”
Mutanski, lying on the sofa watching TV, spoke without looking up. “I think he went after something by the fence, and the boxwood bushes scratched him. He was dirty and bloody and sad when I got home.”
“You cleaned him up?” Jake said.
“Yeah, well.” Mutanski glanced at her brother. “I didn’t think you’d do it right.” Her lips were gold that day, and in spite of the cool weather, she was wearing shorts and sandals. Her toenail polish matched her lips.
“Yeah, I would’ve,” Jake said, “but thanks.”
Mutanski shrugged. “Whatever. What’s in the bag?”
“Present for Strudel. Maybe this’ll make you feel better, buddy. Look!”
When I saw what was inside, I forgot how bad I felt and spun myself dizzy. Then I made a round-the-world circuit of the living room—sofa, coffee table, plaid chair and back.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
“I think he likes them,” said Mutanski.
Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! Do I!
They were the most beautiful objects ever, my very own dog dishes at last—white and made of pottery, with blue paw prints for decoration. The days of plastic cereal bowls were over. I was a real member of the family now!
“Where’d ya get the money?” Mutanski asked.
“I did like Mom said. I got an odd job,” Jake said. “I paid her back for the garden hose, too.”
“The job must be super odd if they hired you. Hey, wait”—now Mutanski turned her head to look at her brother—“this doesn’t have anything to do with that Anthony kid, Arnie’s nephew, does it?”
Jake frowned. “What if it does?”
“Look, little bro,” Mutanski said, “I can’t tell you what to do. But just be careful. He and his homey Richie both, they are bad news.”
That night when Jake climbed into bed, I curled up on the pillow by his head. But instead of telling me about himself, he said, “How about if we read some Chief, Strudel? My teacher’s been bugging me to read more. And besides, I don’t feel that much like talking. There’s so much stuff buzzing around my head, I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Chief, Dog of the Old West
On the day the bank was robbed, Sheriff Silver’s rooster awoke with the sun: cock-a-doodle-doo!
The sleeping square-jawed sheriff opened his eyes and sighed. “I hate that bird.”
At breakfast time the happy homestead was further disturbed when leading townsperson Millie Bly Bumsted burst in the front door, hollering, “The bank’s been robbed! The bank’s been robbed!”
Sheriff Silver was seated at the kitchen table, coffee cup in hand. “We heard you the first time,” he said.
And Chef Pierre added, “In France, the tradition is knock first, enter later.”
“There ain’t no time for niceties now,” said Millie Bly Bumsted. “The dirty rotten polecats were last seen riding out of town. If you hurry, you can cut them off at the pass!”
“Which pass did you have in mind?” asked Sheriff Silver.
“Any ol’ pass! Now hop to, Sheriff! My savings are in that bank and so are yours!”
Recollecting that Millie Bly Bumsted was right, Sheriff Silver leaped to his feet, at the same time dropping his coffee cup, which hit the pine-plank floor and smashed.
“Second one this week,” Chef Pierre observed.
“Never mind coffee cups!” Sheriff Silver said stoutly. “There are miscreants to catch and cash dollars to recover!”
In a trice, the sheriff had strapped on his holster and affixed his silver star to his vest. “Ready, Chief?” He looked to his faithful dog.
Woof, said Chief.
And out the door they dashed.
Many anxious hours passed around the old home place till at last a downcast and dejected Sheriff Silver returned. Behind him came his faithful dog, ears and tail drooping.
“What can be the matter, Pa?” asked brainy, blue-eyed Rachel Mae. “Is it possible you’ve failed?”
“Both possible and a fact,” said Sheriff Silver. “At Deadhead Swamp, the trail went cold.”
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��Do not despair!” said Rachel Mae. “I will devise a plan!”
Sheriff Silver’s smile was wan. “You do that, Rachel Mae.”
The sheriff’s daughter sat down with her pencil. Sheriff Silver sat down with a cup of tea. Chief took to his bed and cogitated. His keen nose had failed him. Now how would he locate the bad guys’ lair?
What was needed was a bird’s-eye view.
And come to think of it, Chief knew just the bird.
Jake read the first sentence of the next chapter, but a big yawn cut the second sentence short, and he closed the book. “I’m too sleepy to keep reading, Strudel. But what do you think? Will Chief and the sheriff find the hideout?”
I had a feeling they would, and wagged my tail to show it.
Also, Chief had given me an idea.
Fifteen
The weather stayed good the next day, and I was put out on the patio. As usual, I had a bowl of kibble, but the thought of those glowing cat eyes kept me from eating so much as a morsel . . . no matter how my stomach protested.
Part of the neighborhood’s regular background noise was the coo of pigeons. Having lived all my life in the city, I was used to it and rarely paid attention. Birds, as everyone knows, are unreasonable and silly and not worth your time.
Now, though, thanks to Chief, I realized birds might have their uses.
Roughly twenty feet above me on the power line sat four pigeons. I had never spoken to a bird before, but fear of the cats made me desperate.
“Excuse me,” I woofed. “Feathered friends? Does one of you have a minute to spare? The truth is”—admitting this was embarrassing—“I could use your help.”
This got the pigeons’ attention, and a small hen answered: “With what, dog, our help with what?”
It is obvious to dogs that birds are our inferiors, so I had assumed that birds knew it, too, and would greet me with appropriate respect. “Esteemed canine” would have been nice and “Mr. Dog” acceptable, but plain old “dog”? That was just bad manners.
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