“Cripes,” said Mutanski. “What is wrong with you, Jake? You’ve been nice for, like, a week now.”
“I’m not being nice,” Jake said.
“Yeah you are. It’s annoying,” said Mutanski.
“Here’s an idea, Laura,” Mom said. “You could be nice, too.”
“Ha!” said Mutanski. “Not gonna happen.”
“Give your brother some credit,” Grandpa said. “Maybe he’s just growing up. Sure, Jake, that would be great if you helped her out. We can talk more tomorrow.”
After dinner, Grandpa, Mom and Jake turned on the TV while Mutanski cleaned up the kitchen. “Now who’s being nice?” Jake asked.
“Not me,” Mutanski said. “I just think anything’s better than watching football.”
Jake never told me about helping Mrs. Rossi at her store, but it must have gone pretty well. His sweat stopped smelling so nervous after that. His color came back. He was rude to Mutanski again.
Soon it was December, and it seemed as if the weather would be cold and gray till spring. How did Oscar and Johanna like the winter, I wondered? I wished we could finish making our plans.
On the other hand, I really really like being warm, comfortable and well-fed.
One day when Jake came home from school, I noticed that smell of fear again. What he told me that night explained why.
“Anthony’s started up with me, Strudel,” Jake said as he lay on top of his covers, staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t quite bedtime yet. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes. I was beside him in the crook of his arm. “He and Richie have a new assignment for me,” he said. “That’s what he called it, ‘an assignment,’ like it was homework or something.
“I told him I was kind of busy, and he grabbed the neck of my T-shirt. He didn’t hurt me; he let go right away. He even smiled, which was almost the worst part because I got the point, Strudel. He’s bigger than me. And stronger. And braver. Not to mention he has Luca . . . and tough as you are, Stru, you are no match for Luca.”
In the tight space, I wiggled my tail as best I could.
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That’s what you think! Let me at him!
“I don’t know what’s gonna happen, Stru,” Jake went on. “It seems like not that long ago, everything was great. I got you—my very own dog at last! All that reading we did helped me out in school, and I got to be friends with Lisa, too.
“Even working for Anthony and Richie was good at first. I had money of my own. But now that’s all turned terrible, and I don’t know what to do.”
Jake’s armpit smelled like boy sweat, meat loaf and mustard—delicious, in other words. I leaned over and gave him a smooch on the mouth for comfort. He said, “Yuck, Strudel!” and wiped off my slobber, but I knew he didn’t really mind.
“Homework done?” Mom was in the doorway. “And what are you doing with your shoes on the bed, Mister?”
“It’s done.” Jake swung his feet over the side and sat up. “Sorry.”
Mom frowned. “Sweetie? Have you been crying?”
Jake wiped his face with the back of his hand. “No, of course not, Mom. Strudel just licked me is all.”
“Well, okay, if you say so.” Mom didn’t sound convinced. “How about if I let you stay up a little late if you want to? I bet Strudel could use a story.”
I could! I could! I could! For all we know, the old home place has been stomped flat as a pancake!
Chief, Dog of the Old West
The palomino’s powerful legs moved like steam- powered pistons beneath his sleek and shining coat. Two miles outside of town, the sheriff came over a rise and saw the home place spread out in the valley below, an idyllic picture postcard on the scrubby brown expanse of rock, desert and cactus.
The sheriff saw something else, too—the cause of the stampede. It was not spontaneous as he had surmised. Rather, the cattle had been spooked by rustlers who, even now, were whooping and hollering alongside, goading the herd on.
“Well I’ll be dadblamed,” said the sheriff. “What do you make of that, Chief? Uh, Chief?” Sheriff Silver looked around and saw he now had an additional problem. His faithful dog was gone!
“Tarnation!” he cried, and then, “Giddyap, Ranger! Looks like we’ll have to save the day without him.”
Unbeknownst to Sheriff Silver, Chief had taken a shortcut through the sagebrush—a shortcut that put him directly in the path of the stampede. Now, choking on dust, he raced toward the southeasternmost hoof of the southeasternmost cow on the southeasternmost edge of the mass of rampaging beef.
The cow in question already had had a bad day, and this mutt was all she needed. Calling on unaccustomed agility, she do-si-doed to avoid his incisors, forcing the other cows to follow her lead.
Thus did Chief redirect the stampede to a course that missed the old home place entirely, except for a single zinnia whose stem was slashed by the hoof of a marginal heifer.
Sheriff Silver arrived at the house in time to see the stampede thunder past. When Chef Pierre and Rachel Mae realized how narrow had been their escape, they turned paper-pale and quivered like aspen leaves in a breeze.
“Sacre bleu!” cried Chef Pierre.
“I want revenge,” said Rachel Mae, “in the name of my decapitated zinnia.”
This was the end of the chapter, and ordinarily Jake would have closed the book. But both of us were eager to know what happened next.
Would Sheriff Silver get revenge?
“Let’s keep reading, Strudel,” Jake whispered. “Maybe if we’re quiet, Mom won’t hear.”
When at last Chief straggled home, Sheriff Silver was waiting at the gate. “Where have you been? I was worried sick! Do you know the Gingham Gang provoked that stampede? And now—heaven help us—Rachel Mae is devising a plan to bring them to justice. Those black-hearted outlaws have disturbed the peace one time too many. Lookie here what they did to this zinnia!”
Chief was sorry about the zinnia, but after a day spent chasing cows, he was too tired to do any thinking that night. Instead he gulped some water, ate an ounce of leftover pâté, circled three times, lay down and fell deeply asleep.
As was his wont, the big red rooster crowed shortly before sunrise.
Sheriff Silver sat up in bed. “I hate that bird,” he said. “I wish I could shut him up in the chicken coop for good.”
Shut him up in the chicken coop for good? That phrase got Chief to thinking, and quick as anything, he was on his feet and whining at the door.
Sheriff Silver observed his dog’s eagerness. “Just let me affix my spurs and silver star,” he said, “for I see you are a dog on a mission.”
The sun had just begun to paint the horizon when the sheriff, riding his palomino, commenced to follow Chief across the prairie. Their goal was Rockabox Canyon, location of the Gingham Gang’s hideout, a place no townsperson dared venture for fear of being greeted with a hail of gunfire.
Before noon, man, dog and horse arrived at Strawberry Ice Cream Spire, a striking rock formation that stood on the rim of the canyon, marking its only entrance. Early settlers had named the spire in honor of its pink boulders, which resembled giant scoops of ice cream.
Sheriff Silver shook his head. “I never realized till now how unstable that thing is. Why, one good push and it would topple right into the canyon!”
Chief had been thinking the same thing. Now, without further ado, he fetched a baseball-sized rock, brought it to the sheriff and dropped it at his feet.
The sheriff was puzzled. “We have miscreants to catch, Chief. Is this really the right time to play?”
Woof, said Chief.
“Well, all right.” The sheriff shrugged. “I guess we can spare a moment for recreation.” Sheriff Silver went into his windup and zinged a fastball or, more accurately, a fast rock. As luck would have it—and as Chief intended—the rock hit Strawberry Ice Cream Spire square in its midsection, dislodging three critical pebbles.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then from deep in the de
pths of the now teetering formation came the sound of an ominous rumble.
“Oops,” said Sheriff Silver. “So much for recreation.”
Blam-kablam-boomety-pow-crash-crash-crash! A hundred tons of strawberry-colored boulders spilled, slid and careened into the canyon below.
When at last the cloud of strawberry dust had settled, Sheriff Silver and Chief peered over the canyon rim. Just as Chief had anticipated, the rockslide had blocked the canyon’s lone egress.
The Gingham Gang was trapped!
Not wishing to expire of hunger and thirst, the gang soon waved the white flag of surrender. Later that day, leading townsfolk cleared the obstruction using a few deftly placed sticks of dynamite. After that, they trotted the Gingham Gang off to jail.
Once again, Chief had prevailed over evil, and peace and justice had triumphed.
Jake closed the book and turned the light off. Then he rolled over and scratched me behind the ears.
“Reading makes me feel better, Strudel,” he said. “I only wish real life was like that. I wish I could trap Anthony and Richie with a rockslide so they’d stop bothering me.”
I wished my human could do that, too, but I didn’t see how it would work exactly.
As for my own predicament with dirty rotten bad guys—cats, I mean—the Chief story had given me an idea.
Twenty-Five
When I trotted downstairs the next morning, Mom had the weather report on TV: clear and unseasonably warm, temperatures in the low 60s.
“That’s good news for you, Strudel.” Mom poured kibble into my dish. “You can spend the day outside in the sunshine. I wish I could do the same. Instead I’ll be inside inhaling cleanser fumes.”
As usual, it was Mutanski who put me out on the patio. Her goodbye was a two-handed rubdown from base of tail to collar. Awwww, it felt wonderful.
I love, love, love, love, love you, Mutanski!
“See you after school,” she said.
Once Mutanski was gone, I made my usual rounds. The pigeons were roosting elsewhere. The ants had retreated deep underground for winter. The smell of rat was faint. Had Oscar gone underground, too?
I curled up on my pillow and made some refinements to the plan the Chief story had inspired. Would it work? It would have to. It was the only plan I had.
Excited as I was, I must have dozed off. We dogs are very good at dozing. Finally a rustling in the hedge made me jump, and all at once my stomach clenched.
Had the gang returned?
But when I got a good whiff I relaxed.
“Wake up, canine!” Oscar’s beady eyes peered over the pillow at me. “Rise and shine! Like all your kind, you are a lazy bum.”
The rat was teasing me, and I teased back. “You’re just envious,” I said. “You spend your whole day grubbing for food, and still you can’t be sure of what you’ll find.”
“Variety is the spice of life,” said Oscar, “and besides, you can’t be sure of your next meal either, not when you’re paying tribute to the cats.”
“That won’t be for much longer,” I said. “I have devised a plan.”
Oscar fidgeted with his whiskers. “Do tell. And is there a part for me in this plan?”
“For you and for a pigeon,” I said. “You don’t even have to audition.”
Nervously Oscar swiped a paw over his damaged ear. “You remember that I am a meek, mild-mannered rat?” he said.
“I do remember, and I promise you won’t have to confront any cats directly. Your job is more behind-the-scenes.”
“In that case, I am willing to discuss it,” said Oscar, and at the same time we heard the fluttering of wings.
“Not to worry! Don’t worry!” cooed Johanna, gliding to rest on the bench. “What can I do for you, Strudel? Have you made a plan? Isn’t this a glorious sunny day, though? How I love the sun! Have you made the plan in question?”
“I have,” I said, and with that I laid out my plan in detail, with itemized action items numbered one through six.
“That’s it?” Oscar said when I was done. “That’s the whole thing?”
“What’s the matter with it?” I asked, a little hurt.
“I just expected something a bit more, uh . . . complex,” said Oscar.
Johanna, in contrast, showed her enthusiasm by marching in place and bobbing her head. “Elegance is often simple and simplicity often elegant. Do you follow? Follow me!”
Apparently unconvinced, Oscar cleared his throat. “I have another observation, if you will. This plan relies too much on the behavior of humans. In my experience, it’s always risky to count on them.”
Johanna disagreed. “We city animals all count on humans,” she said. “It’s humans that created the city. It’s humans that provide us most of our food and our shelter, our shelter and our food, that is. And of us three, who knows humans best? Who has studied them most closely? Strudel, that’s who. I say we count on him.”
“Well, ye-e-es,” the rat said thoughtfully. “And additionally, it’s true that the dog’s idea does take advantage of Capo’s Achilles’ heel.”
“Achilles? Who is this Achilles? I don’t believe we’re acquainted,” Johanna said.
“I know him only by reputation myself,” said Oscar. “He was a human warrior dipped as a baby in a magic river. The magic protected him from injury. But there was a problem. When his mother dipped him, she held him by one heel, so that heel was unprotected. It was his only weak spot.”
“His mother should have flipped him over and dunked his feet,” I said.
“Agreed,” said Oscar, “but if she had we would lack the useful and poetic expression ‘Achilles’ heel.’ In any event, Capo’s Achilles’ heel is his rotundity, his too-well-rounded shape, I mean—oh dear, Johanna! Listen to me! Now I’m talking like you.”
Johanna chuckled, a pleasant sound that combined coo, tweet and burble. “It happens. I’ve heard it happen,” she said. “Now when do we implement Strudel’s plan? Carry it out, I mean? I believe I can expect some help from the flock. The flock will help us, won’t you?”
The answering coos from above said yes.
Like her speech patterns, Johanna’s confidence must have been contagious, because now Oscar got over his hesitation. “The warm weather won’t last,” he said. “If we don’t act soon, we’ll have to wait for spring. I say we act the next time the gang pays a visit. Even today, if need be.”
“So soon?” I said, knowing there would be no going back once Johanna and Oscar got to work.
“I can get started right away,” Oscar said. “I had a generous helping of rotten meatballs from the alley for breakfast. I won’t need to scavenge again before lunchtime. Are you ready, Johanna? Is the flock ready?”
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” she said. “All for one, and one for Strudel!”
Twenty-Six
I had expected to have time to refine my plan further, or at least to give myself a final pep talk. But once the rat and the pigeon got going, everything moved fast. The sun had just peaked in the sky when Johanna and Oscar returned to tell me Parts One and Two were complete.
“Already?” I said. “I mean, I mean, I mean—that’s great.”
Oscar wiggled his whiskers and blinked his beady eyes. “The next part is up to you, Strudel. I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“I’ll be looking out for you, looking out,” said Johanna, “but from a safe distance away, safe and safely away, you might say. Having seen them in action, I have healthy respect for the weaponry of felines, their teeth and claws, that is.”
This reminder of the Pier 67 Gang’s viciousness made my old scars burn. I might have lost heart right then, but I remembered Chief. He had caught a gang of cattle rustlers in a box canyon. Surely I could catch a stray cat on the patio.
“Where did you stash the nesting materials?” I asked.
“Just the other side of the fence.” Oscar pointed with the tip of his tail. “Under an outcropping of ivy.”
&
nbsp; I started to ask how much they had collected. Were they sure it was enough? But I did not get the chance. From the power lines above us came the sound of the pigeon alarm. “Cats coming! Cats coming! Gang spotted at the head of the alley!”
Johanna hopped and fluttered into the air. “Good luck, Strudel! We’ll work as fast as we can.”
Forepaw to ear, Oscar gave a quick salute. “Curtain going up, canine! All eyes on you.”
I barely had time to turn around before feline stench filled my nostrils. It was ranker than usual that day. The cats must have been hungry enough to go Dumpster diving, something they usually considered beneath their dignity.
“My dear dog, how pleasant it is to see you again.” Capo emerged from the gap in the hedge. Over the fence came Pepito, Lamar and four cats I hadn’t seen before. These last cats posted themselves at the four corners of the patio as sentries.
One of the four, a black cat with a white nose and throat, was dangerously close to Johanna and Oscar’s current operation on the other side of the fence. What if he heard them? What if he sounded the alarm?
My plan would fail. The cats would win. I thought of what Johanna told me they’d done to her nest and her mate. This time it might not only be a few gashes in my flesh and humiliation. This time their revenge might be something much worse. It might even be deadly.
I couldn’t think of that now, though. If I did, I would lose heart, and I had a part to play.
“G-g-g-good afternoon, Capo.” My stammer wasn’t an act. It was for real. My heart was racing.
“We’ve just come by for a snack,” Capo said, “and perhaps to take a short rest. You have such a sunny spot here, and your pillow is just right. It’s kind of you to extend your hospitality.”
Pepito, as frail and dirty as ever, was already leaning into my food dish. Much as I hated the cats, this one’s appearance was so pathetic I almost felt sympathy. As for Capo, he seemed to feel nothing at all. Pepito had barely sniffed the food when the boss cat cuffed him across the face and knocked him out of the way.
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