Still, I needed a favor. “If you don’t mind coming down here,” I went on, “I will tell you. It shouldn’t take much of your time.”
The pigeons responded with a burst of staccato cooing that sounded suspiciously like laughter. First the cats had laughed at me, now this. Were the ants in their anthill laughing at me, too?
“Word on the wire says you’ve got cat trouble, that’s the word,” the small hen said.
I was astonished. “How do you know?”
The second pigeon answered. “We make it our business to know.”
“But we don’t gossip,” the third pigeon added.
“Never gossip, never.” The small hen turned her head to consult with the other three. “Shall I chance it with this dog? Chance it, you think?”
“See what he wants, but don’t get too close,” the second bird advised.
The small hen dropped from the wire, spread her wings and glided to a landing on the picnic bench above me. When I jumped up and leaned my paws on the bench’s edge, we were eye-to-beady-eye. I could see the hen was nervous. The pulse in her throat beat fast.
She was also surprisingly pretty, with lustrous gray feathers, brilliant red feet and a snazzy purple rainbow on her neck.
“I’ll get right to the point,” I said. “Where is the Pier 67 Gang’s hideout?”
Above us, the pigeon chorus fluttered their wings and coo-coo-cooed. Were they still laughing? But the small hen only bobbed her head. She seemed to be more curteous than the others.
“Pay them no mind,” she said. “What’s obvious from the sky may not be obvious from the ground. The cats’ hideout is at Pier 67, the 67th pier down on the river.”
If a dog could blush, I would have. Where else but Pier 67 would the Pier 67 Gang’s hideout be?
Not that I knew where Pier 67 was or, for that matter, what it was.
The pigeon hen seemed to sense both my embarrassment and my ignorance. “Pier 67 is on the Delaware River. Ships used to dock there but they don’t anymore. The wicked cats have taken it over, those wicked wicked cats.”
“And how far away is Pier 67?” I asked.
“As the pigeon flies?” the hen asked. “It’s half a mile, half a mile, not more. Those that travel on paws not wings would find it somewhat farther.”
Above us, the pigeons on the wire continued titter-cooing. “Thank you for not laughing,” I told the small hen. “I really appreciate your help.”
“De nada, it’s nothing, it’s niente,” she said. “We birds know a lot, you know.”
“What more can you tell me about the cats?” I asked.
The pigeon hen marched in place, turned full circle and pecked at something in her feathers. Then she settled in as if she had a story.
“The cats sleep in boxes brought by foolish humans; foolish humans bring bags of cat food, too. But it’s never enough, for the cats it’s insufficient. They gobble that food then gobble up more—the pups, chicks and eggs from every nest. In their wake they leave a trail of blood, only a bloody trail. They’re hated and feared by the riverbank creatures, for they not only kill, they torture.
“It’s rumored they have no souls!”
Her words made me think of those glowing eyes, and I shuddered.
What might those cats be capable of?
“I just have one more question,” I said after a moment. “The broken slat in my back fence leaves a hole that’s open to the alley. Is that how Capo gets in and out?”
“That’s it, the hole in the fence, that’s it.” The small hen bobbed her head. “But he’ll be stuck if he gets fatter than he already is—any fatter and he’ll get stuck. Is that all you want to know, you know? I have flying to do today, flying and spying to do today.”
“Yes, thank you, Miss Bird,” I said. “I hope I wasn’t rude before. I see that till now, I did not have proper appreciation of your kind.”
“Nor I of yours, I’m sure,” said the bird politely. “The name’s Johanna, by the way. And yours is Strudel, I think?”
Without waiting for my answer, the pigeon looked toward the sky and flapped her wings. “We birds don’t like cats either,” she cooed as she rose to join her friends. “Perhaps we ought to form an alliance.”
As I watched Johanna depart, I felt a peculiar sensation. For the first time in my life, I envied a creature that wasn’t a dog. If I could fly, those cats wouldn’t stand a chance.
Sixteen
I felt better after I talked to the pigeon, but not for long. How was I going to use the information she provided? I didn’t have a plan. Unlike Rachel Mae, I didn’t even have a pencil.
All day I stared forlornly at the food in my dish, fearing what the cats would do to me if I ate it. By late afternoon I was so hungry there was only one thought left in my head: Any dog afraid of cats is a disgrace to his species.
That day the cats never showed, and when Mutanski came home from school she was surprised to find my food dish full.
“You okay, Strudel?” She gave me a belly rub—awwww. “Not getting sick, are ya?”
Mutanski’s lipstick was black, and so were her fingernails. She looked like one of the evildoers in Random Apocalypse. But she smelled normal. And she brought my food inside for me. Safe in the kitchen, I settled down, ate lunch at last and felt much better.
Then Jake got home, and he had bought me another present—a red rubber porcupine that squeaked if you bit it hard.
“What do you think, Stru?” He threw it for me to catch.
What do I think? Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! Who cares about cats? Come on, let’s play!
But Mutanski was determined to spoil our fun. “What odd job did you have to do to buy that?” she asked her brother.
If Jake answered, I didn’t hear. My new toy was pretty loud. I dropped it at Jake’s feet, and Mutanski asked another question: “Do you know what those guys are up to? Something sketchy, I bet.”
Jake picked up the porcupine but didn’t throw it. “Lay off me, wouldja? Come on, Strudel. Time for a good long walk.”
That day was Thursday, and Arnie came over for dinner. He had his own key so, as usual, he came in through the front door and hollered hello.
Mom wasn’t home. Jake answered, “Hello,” from the kitchen. Mutanski, next to me on the living room sofa, didn’t answer at all. Arnie usually got a can of beer from the fridge, then sat in the kitchen till Mom arrived. For weeks, I had stayed out of his way by keeping to the living room anytime he was over. According to Mutanski, Arnie had no attention span and a faulty memory. If I was lucky, he had forgotten I even existed.
Unfortunately, what happened next reminded him.
Crossing toward the kitchen, Arnie stepped on my red porcupine toy, which went squeeeeak, causing Arnie to jump—“A mouse!”—and step on Jake’s shoes, and then . . . fall over backward. It truly takes a unique talent to be laid low by a pair of shoes, but this was just the kind of talent Arnie possessed.
From her spot next to me, Mutanski had seen the whole thing. Arnie started to curse; she started to laugh.
“It’s not a mouse, it’s a dog toy!” Mutanski said. Then she grabbed the porcupine from the floor and waved it in Arnie’s face.
Scowling, Arnie got to his feet and rubbed the seat of his pants. “Who the heck has spare cash for dog toys in this house, I’d like to know? Especially toys for a sissy dog like that one.”
“He is not a sissy dog, and don’t call him that,” said Mutanski.
Thank you, Mutanski.
“Sissy dog, sissy dog, sissy dog!” Arnie repeated.
“You know what I admire about you most, Arnie?” Mutanski faced him, her hands on her hips.
“What?” he asked.
“Your impressive level of maturity,” said Mutanski.
“Uhhh, thanks,” said Arnie. “I think.”
“Yeah, you do that if you can,” said Mutanski.
“Do what?” Arnie asked.
“Think,” said Mutanski.
Arnie f
rowned, opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind and returned to his original plan—getting himself a beer. Soon after that, Mom arrived home. She made meat loaf for dinner, and at the table Arnie brought up dogs again. I was in the living room as usual, but I could hear the conversation.
“If you gotta have a dog, it oughta be a real dog. Like my nephew Anthony’s dog, Luca.”
“Luca is a very pretty dog,” said Mom.
“Pretty?” Arnie snorted. “He’s strong as a bull and fierce when he has to be—he’s the enforcer!”
Fierce? What a joke! Luca is the biggest sissy dog I know.
Mom said, “Enforcer of what?”
“Let’s just say that Luca helps Anthony and his pal Richie with their business,” Arnie said.
“I wasn’t aware they had a business,” Mom said. “They’re only thirteen. What kind of business is it?”
“Yeah,” Mutanski joined in. “Jake and I have been wondering the same thing.”
“Leave me out of this!” said Jake.
There was a pause. Maybe Arnie was chewing. Then he said, “Sales, I guess you’d call it. And the presence of Luca keeps certain people from trying to take advantage.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” said Mom. “Are you encouraging those boys? What are they selling?”
“Nothing that’s strictly illegal,” said Arnie. “You might call it participation in the great American free enterprise system. Some other kids I know might learn from their example.”
He meant Jake and Mutanski. Even I, the dog in the other room, knew that. Mutanski’s reply was a grunt, and Jake’s was to shift his feet.
Jake wasn’t talkative that night before bed, either. Instead, he pulled Chief off the bookshelf and settled back against his pillow. When I curled up beside him, I closed my eyes and imagined the story like a show on TV playing out before me.
Chief, Dog of the Old West
Rachel Mae’s plan required Sheriff Silver and Chef Pierre to travel by hot-air balloon across Deadhead Swamp, spot the hideout with a spyglass and drop a net on the bank robbers to trap them.
“But, darlin’,” Sheriff Silver said, “there’s not a hot-air balloon within a thousand miles o’ Groovers Gulch.”
“Nor net nor spyglass neither,” added Chef Pierre.
“These items can be ordered from Sears and Roebuck, then delivered by Wells Fargo stage,” Rachel Mae said. “I have taken the liberty of dog-earing the pages in the catalog.”
“Alas,” said her father sadly, “by the time the order arrives, the outlaws will be halfway to Abilene.”
Rachel Mae never did cotton to being contradicted. Her retort was pert indeed, but no one heard it over the sound of the mournful howl that at that moment pierced the night.
“A werewolf!” cried Sheriff Silver from his hiding place under the table.
Chef Pierre peered out the window. “It is but our faithful canine, Chief. He is howling at la lune.”
Chef Pierre was not entirely right. It was Chief’s mournful howl they heard. But la lune, that is the moon, was not its object. Rather, it was a passing eagle he’d met some months before when their interests aligned over a prairie dog. Acquaintance renewed, Chief and the eagle conducted a confab, the results of which were to play out the next day.
Even before the rooster crowed the next morning, Chief was rested and raring to go.
Seeing his eagerness, Sheriff Silver announced: “The canine has a plan.”
“Oh fine,” said Rachel Mae. “Go with your dog and not your daughter.”
“There, there, mademoiselle,” said Chef Pierre. “Eat some oatmeal, and you’ll feel better.”
Meanwhile, Sheriff Silver saddled up and headed out with Chief in the lead. What the sheriff never noticed was the silhouette of an eagle flying high above them in the azure sky and pointing the way.
That evening, as the setting sun made peppermint stripes of the clouds, Sheriff Silver and Chief returned home, battered but triumphant.
“Pa, I have ordered the balloon and the spyglass and the net,” said Rachel Mae by way of greeting. “They will be here in six months.”
“No need for all that now,” said the sheriff. “Thanks to Chief, the bank robbers are locked up tight, and the townsfolk’s savings are secure.”
“C’est merveilleux!” said Chef Pierre. “What happened?”
Sheriff Silver rubbed the manly stubble on his chin. “I reckon I’ll never rightly understand just how my faithful canine accomplished it. But this morning he led me straightaway across Deadhead Swamp, and thereafter on a zigzag track through the badlands until at last we reached the outlaws’ hideout in the rocks.
“Fortunately, I had taken the preemptive precaution of recruiting a posse of leading townsfolk. With the element of surprise on our side, we soon had the robbers surrounded. Seeing the situation was hopeless, those outlaws surrendered without so much as a wasted bullet. Now the gang awaits swift frontier justice in the hoosegow.”
“Vive le Chief!” cried Chef Pierre.
And even Rachel Mae had to admit that the canine had done his job well. Besides, she had her hot-air balloon, her spyglass and her net to look forward to. Surely they would come in handy for something.
Jake closed the book, put it back on the shelf, then scratched me on the back. “What do you think, Strudel? Could a dog and an eagle really be friends?”
I was lying on Jake’s pillow with my tail squished against the wall. There was no space for wagging, but I managed a wiggle.
Sure! Sure! Sure, they could! Why not? I made friends with a pigeon, didn’t I?
Seventeen
With winter on the way, the next few days were gray, damp and cold.
Yessss!
Bad weather meant I could stay indoors during the day—safe, warm and well-fed.
Unfortunately, at the same time, Jake became distracted. He didn’t bring any more presents. He didn’t want to play fetch-the-porcupine. Even our walks were shorter than usual.
What was going on?
After dinner on Wednesday, I was dozing on the bed while Jake sat at his desk. He was supposed to be doing homework but instead he was staring at the wall, wiggling his leg, tapping his pencil and scratching his head. After a while he jumped up, went to the bathroom, came back and began to pace—three steps one way and three steps the other.
When I raised my head and woofed, he dropped his hind-quarters down onto the bed next to me. “What am I going to do, Strudel? It’s not even my fault. I never did one thing wrong, honest!”
This did not sound good. I leaned over and licked his hand.
Poor human. Tell me all about it.
“Anthony told me it was some errands,” Jake said. “He said he’d pay me. I thought why not? Mom was after me to pay her back for the garden hose anyway.”
Uh-oh.
“Besides,” Jake went on, “I’m a little afraid of Anthony . . . and that big dog of his. Did you know he has a burn scar on his leg? Anthony, not the dog. He shows it off all the time so everyone knows how tough he is. He won’t say how he got it.”
I stretched out and got comfortable. This was sounding like it might be a long story.
“So anyway, the first time I worked for him, all I did was take an envelope to Richie at the doughnut shop. I had to be sure to give it to Richie, nobody else. Before that, I never met Richie. He goes to a different school. At the doughnut shop, I found him. He’s kind of round and his job is cleaning up. I told him who I was, and he wanted to know if he could trust me, was I reliable?
“I said, ‘Sure, I guess so.’ And he grinned and said, ‘Good man!’ Then he opened the envelope, pulled out a five-dollar bill and gave it to me. ‘Buy something for your girlfriend,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a girlfriend, right? Anthony says you’re sweet on that girl Lisa.’
“That’s a lie, Strudel. I’m not sweet on anybody. Lisa and I are friends is all.
“But Richie laughed like he’d made a hilarious joke. And
besides, what did I care? I just got five dollars for walking two blocks!
“Now I wish I would’ve wondered about what was going on. Why was there cash in an envelope? How’d Richie and Anthony get that much money? But I didn’t, because I liked having money in my pocket, Strudel. I liked buying stuff for you, too. Mom was too busy to ask about it. Only Mutanski did.
“Then last week Anthony asked me to do something different, something bad, something I would never ever do. When Anthony asked me, it must’ve showed on my face I was scared, ’cause he said, ‘This is no big deal, punk. Even if you get caught—and you won’t if you do what I tell you, but even if you do—you’ll get off easy. Being just a little dude, you’ll get nothing but a ride home from the cops.’
“I said, ‘Okay, if it’s no big deal, how come you can’t do it?’ And he said he and Richie have been in trouble before. The cops know them. If they got caught, it would be YSC for sure. That’s what they call jail for kids around here, in case you didn’t know.
“I tried to tell Anthony it wasn’t just getting caught that worried me. It was also that I didn’t want to do it. It’s mean, Strudel. It’s something so bad I don’t even want to say.
“Finally I told him flat no. I told him I didn’t have to. And you know what he said, Strudel? He said, ‘You’ll do it because I asked you to, and I asked very pleasantly, didn’t I? No bad language. No threats. Nothing like that . . .’
“The way Anthony said it, I knew he meant it wouldn’t be so pleasant if he had to ask again. And here’s the thing, Strudel: He gave me a week, and the week is almost up.”
Among dachshunds’ many fine qualities is sensitivity, particularly to a human in distress. I felt terrible about what Jake was telling me, and more terrible because of my own predicament with the Pier 67 Gang. Just like Anthony was bullying Jake, Capo was bullying me.
Anyway, it’s my dachshund sensitivity that accounts for the tummy upset I experienced that night. I won’t be disgusting with the details. I’ll just mention that yet another mess was left on Jake’s rug.
Strudel's Forever Home Page 6
