Invasion of the Dognappers

by Patrick Jennings

  “Seven thirty-four,” he said softly, then pulled the glasses back down over his eyes and recorded the time on the clipboard. Beside it he wrote “Sandwiches” and the weather conditions: “Gray.

  Breezy.” He did some quick figuring in his head, then muttered, “Fifty-one minutes before the bus comes.”

  He raised the binoculars to his eyes. They clinked on his sunglasses.

  “Dumb glasses,” he muttered, taking them off, folding them, and balancing them on a low branch of the tree. He then peered through the binoculars at the scene in front of Sandwiches.

  People came and went on foot, by bicycle, in cars and trucks. The customers entered the store empty-handed and emerged with groceries, newspapers, and, especially, white paper coffee cups with black plastic tops that had a small sipping hole through which steam escaped. Some of the customers also held muffins, croissants, or bagels with cream cheese and alternated between biting and sipping.

  People left their dogs outside on the sidewalk, tied to a pole or a sign or the bike rack; some trusted their dogs and left them untied. Some of the dogs sat on the sidewalk and calmly waited. Some squirmed and whined. Some wagged their tails when people stopped to say hello.

  (These people usually spoke to the dogs in high-pitched baby talk.) Some of the dogs licked hands with their long, wet tongues. Some licked themselves, right there on one of Nelsonport’s busiest corners.

  Logan recorded it all. Every person, every dog, every bagel, every detail. He put the time beside each observation.

  He was hoping to observe the man he’d seen the day before, the man who had petted the dog just before it vanished. Logan had noticed some distinctive traits in the man: he had spoken to the dog with an unfamiliar accent; he carried dog treats; and he was hairy. Very hairy. Hairy face. Hairy neck. Hairy hands.

  To his disappointment, Logan did not see a hairy, accented man carrying dog treats in the fifty-one minutes he cased Sandwiches.

  When his bus eventually pulled to the curb, it took Logan a few seconds before he realized he was not standing where he should be.

  “Wait! Roberta, wait!” he yelled, and bolted for the bus without bothering to stow his gear. His camera and binoculars bounced on his belly; his unzipped backpack banged against his back. He clutched his clipboard and mechanical pencil in his hands.

  It wasn’t until he was on the bus and blocks away from Sandwiches that he realized what he’d left behind.

  “Stop the bus!” he yelled. “Stop the bus! I left my sunglasses on the branch!”

  “Sit down, Logan,” Roberta said, eyeing him in her big mirror.

  Logan’s friends were clustered together outside their classroom, excitedly talking.

  “What’s going on?” Logan asked, penetrating the group. “What happened?”

  Everyone immediately stopped talking and stared at him.

  “You guys talking about me or something?” Logan asked.

  They continued to stare, which caused Logan to lose his patience.

  “Tell me what’s going on right now,” he demanded. “Right now. Tell me.”

  “Kian’s mom’s dog’s disappeared.” Thatcher said, and patted Kian on the back sympathetically.

  “It’s just Chloe,” Kian said.

  They all knew Chloe, the pint-size, yapping Yorkie Kian’s mom toted around like a teddy bear. She was not the group’s favorite pooch.

  Logan pulled his clipboard out of his bag, and asked Kian, “When was she last seen?”

  “I don’t know,” Kian said. “Last night? I was at my dad’s house. My mom called my dad about it and he told me.”

  “Any suspicious characters seen lingering about?” Logan asked after writing “Chloe” and the previous day’s date on his chart.

  “You mean aliens?” Kian asked. “Were there any aliens about?”

  “Precisely,” Logan said, not catching Kian’s mocking tone.

  “I forgot to ask my mom about it,” Kian said, continuing to pretend he was taking Logan seriously.

  Thatcher wasn’t fooled. He and Kian had been best friends a long time.

  “Come on, Kian, you got to admit that it’s weird your mom’s dog disappeared.”

  “There’s no proof the dog at Sandwiches was stolen,” Aggy interrupted. “Or even missing. And we don’t know whose dog it was, so we can’t find out.”

  “I didn’t see the owner,” Logan grumbled. “But I did see the dog disappear, Aggy.”

  “Just because it wasn’t there anymore when you looked out the bus window doesn’t mean it disappeared.”

  “What about the collar and leash?” Logan asked.

  “Yeah!” Thatcher said.

  “How do we know they belonged to that dog?” Aggy asked. “Maybe they’d been lying there all along.”

  “Yeah,” Kian said. “Probably from some other dog that got beamed up.”

  “Dude, you are wicked!” Thatcher laughed, and lunged at Kian.

  Because Kian was shorter, he ducked Thatcher easily. He then tried to scoot away, but Thatcher twisted and caught Kian in a headlock. Kian bent at the waist, catching Thatcher off balance and lifting him off his feet. He wasn’t strong enough to hold the much bigger boy, however, and they both crashed to the ground.

  “It was the same collar and leash,” Logan said, oblivious to them. “The dog was dognapped, and so was Chloe.”

  “How do you know that?” Aggy asked.

  “I know aliens,” Logan said.

  Everybody groaned, even Kian and Thatcher, who were wrestling in the grass.

  “I’m going to investigate Chloe’s abduction,” Logan said, slipping his clipboard back into his bag. “If anyone wants to assist me, let me know before the end of class.” Then he walked away.

  6. The Intergalactic Canine Rescue Unit

  “Did you see anyone peculiar hanging around your house?” Logan asked Kian’s mom.

  She looked at her son, who, with Thatcher and Aggy, had come along on Logan’s investigation.

  “Peculiar?” she asked Logan. She glanced at the binoculars and camera that hung around his neck, his clipboard and pen, and, perched atop his head, his dark glasses, which he had retrieved from the dogwood tree. “No,” she said. “I didn’t see anyone peculiar.”

  “No one new to the neighborhood?” Logan went on. “No strange men? No hairy ones?”

  “Hairy?” Aggy asked, looking up from her book.

  “No, Logan,” Kian’s mom said, eyeing Logan skeptically. “I didn’t see any hairy men.”

  Logan scribbled a note. “When was the last time you saw Chloe, ma’am?”

  “‘Ma’am?’” Aggy asked.

  “Please stop interrupting my investigation, Aggy,” Logan said, casting her a sharp look. He turned back to Kian’s mom. “Ma’am?”

  “I guess it was before dinner last night,” she said. “I always put her out before we eat.”

  “You put her in the yard, ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the yard fenced, ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it secure, ma’am?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess, ma’am? You’re not sure? It’s possible Chloe could have gotten out on her own?”

  “I suppose….”

  “Do you mind if we inspect the yard, ma’am?”

  “We don’t need permission to go into my own backyard, Logan,” Kian said.

  He led them through the kitchen and out the back door.

  “Fan out and look for possible escape routes,” Logan said.

  “Sure thing, captain,” Kian said.

  They fanned out, but before long Kian and Thatcher were tussling in the grass again.

  “This fence is pretty low, ma’am,” Logan said to Kian’s mom.

  “Chloe’s pretty low,” she replied.

  “What I mean, ma’am, is somebody could have easily reached over this fence and abducted your pet.”

  “I suppose they could have. But she’s pre
tty noisy, especially when strangers go by the house.”

  “That’s true,” Thatcher piped in from across the yard, where he was sitting on Kian’s back. “She always barks like crazy at me.”

  “What are you trying to do?” Kian grunted. “Hatch me?”

  “Yeah! I’m Hatcher! Get it? Not Thatcher. Hatcher!”

  “That’s very funny,” Kian said, without meaning it. “Can you please get off me, large boy?”

  Logan ignored them. “Did you happen to hear any barking last night during dinner, ma’am?” he asked Kian’s mom.

  She glanced upward, trying to recall. “I don’t remember her barking. But she barks so much, I don’t know if I’d have noticed.”

  “How about you, Kian?” Logan asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kian grunted. “I forgot to keep a record of her barking habits last night, Logan. Sorry.”

  Logan wrote more notes on his chart.

  “Will you boys stop that roughhousing before someone gets hurt?” Kian’s mom asked.

  “We’re outside, Mom,” Kian said. “We’re roughyarding.” He twisted and Thatcher toppled onto the grass.

  “There aren’t any escape routes back here, ma’am,” Logan said to Kian’s mom with a grim expression. “I’m sorry to inform you of this, but Chloe has been abducted by aliens. Don’t worry, though. The Intergalactic Canine Rescue Unit is on the case.”

  “The what?” Kian’s mom asked.

  “The Intergalactic Canine Rescue Unit, ma’am. The ICRU. We’ll get Chloe back.”

  Thatcher heard this and jumped to his feet. He flipped his hair out of his eyes and said, “Oh, yeah! The ICRU. That’s us. We are so on the job!”

  7. Pickles

  The next morning Logan woke up early again, ate his breakfast, packed his gear, and headed to Sandwiches to resume his surveillance. There was a light drizzle falling, though the sun was shining, a typical occurrence in April in Nelsonport.

  A block before Logan reached the store, he spotted a flyer on a telephone pole. On it was a color image of the dog he was sure he’d seen abducted by aliens. Above the picture were the words LOST DOG.

  Across the street, he saw another copy of the poster tacked to another telephone pole. And another down the street. Logan peeked left and right, then reached up, ripped the flyer from the pole, and stuffed it into his bag.

  He removed it later at school, and smoothed it out on the table for his fellow operatives of the Intergalactic Canine Rescue Unit.

  “That’s the dog,” he said.

  “The one that vanished?” Thatcher asked. “The one you saw from the bus?”

  Aggy looked up from her book and said, “Hmm. You sure this is the dog, Logan?”

  “That’s the dog,” he answered.

  “Maybe she was taken after all,” Aggy said, studying the poster carefully. “Her name is Pickles. Looks like some sort of spaniel mix.”

  “Pickles?” Thatcher asked. “A dog called Pickles? Who calls a dog ‘Pickles’?”

  “Trudy does,” Aggy said, pointing at the woman’s name.

  “Let’s call her and tell her an alien took her dog,” Kian said with a straight face.

  “Yeah!” Thatcher said.

  Aggy looked up at them. “It wasn’t an alien.”

  “Yes, it was,” Logan said. “I have a sense about these things.”

  “And how many times has that sense of yours been correct?” Aggy asked.

  “Nineteen,” Logan said. “I’ve just never apprehended one, that’s all. They’re not easy to catch. You ever caught an alien, Aggy?”

  “Nope.”

  “I haven’t, either,” Kian deadpanned.

  “That’s because they’re not easy to catch,” Logan said.

  “Not easy to throw, either, I bet,” Kian said, and threw his pencil at Thatcher. It bounced off his chest.

  “Ow!” Thatcher said, and cocked his fist to reciprocate when Nathan appeared at their table.

  “How’s the astronomy project going, guys?” he asked.

  “Good, Nathan,” Kian said.

  “We’re going to put on a skit,” Thatcher said. “I’m going to be a meteorite.”

  “Not a black hole?” Kian asked.

  Thatcher kicked him under the table, and said, “Kian’s going to be a dwarf star.”

  Kian stared daggers at Thatcher. He didn’t like cracks about his height.

  “Sounds good,” Nathan said. “What about you, Logan?”

  “I’ll be portraying an organism of superior intelligence from a faraway galaxy hurtling through space in a spacecraft made entirely of ice,” Logan said.

  “I come along and smash into him and turn his ship into ice cubes,” Thatcher said.

  “Not crushed ice?” Kian said.

  “Better!” Thatcher said.

  “Actually, no,” Logan said. “The alien destroys the meteorite with a cryogenic torpedo.”

  “No way,” Thatcher said. “I dodge that.”

  “Okay, some good ideas,” Nathan said. “But get them down on paper, too. You should be making costumes and rehearsing by now.”

  “Costumes?” Thatcher asked. “We have to make costumes?”

  “Produce!” Nathan said, and walked away.

  “Who cares about a stupid skit,” Logan said. “We have more important work to do.”

  “I’ll help you find the dognapper,” Aggy said.

  “Yes!” Thatcher said, pumping his fist. “The ICRU to the rescue!”

  “I don’t like the ‘Intergalactic’ part,” Aggy said. “Can’t we just call it the CRU?”

  “I created this task force,” Logan said, “and I say it’s the Intergalactic Canine Rescue Unit. The I-Crew, if you like.”

  “I won’t be involved, then,” Aggy said, opening her book. “And I’m the only one with a cell phone.”

  Logan scowled at her. “Okay,” he said. “The CRU.”

  “Yeah!” Thatcher said, doing a little hip-swiveling dance in his chair. “The Crew!”

  8. Yes, Ma’am

  After class, the boys of the CRU huddled in the parking lot around Aggy as she switched the call with Trudy to speakerphone.

  “My name is Aggy, and I’m calling about your lost dog.”

  “Oh, have you seen her?” the woman asked eagerly. “Did you find her?”

  “No,” Aggy said, “but my friend might have been nearby when she disappeared.”

  “Vanished,” Logan whispered.

  Aggy glared at him.

  “In front of Sandwiches?” the woman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did your friend see someone take her? You see, her collar and leash were left behind, which was strange….”

  “My friend didn’t see anyone. I’m sorry.”

  “Tell her about the hairy man,” Logan said, reaching for the phone. “Let me talk to her.”

  Aggy pressed it to her chest. “Shut it or I hang up.”

  Logan stepped back, scowling.

  “My friend did see a man petting Pickles before she disappeared,” Aggy said into the phone. “A man with a bushy beard.”

  “That’s funny,” Trudy said. “I met a man with a beard in the store that day.”

  “Ask her if he had an accent,” Logan said loud enough for the lady to hear.

  “Yes, he did,” Trudy answered. “Who said that? Is that your friend?”

  “Yes,” Aggy said with a sigh. “That’s Logan.”

  “Hello, ma’am,” Logan said, moving closer to the phone.

  “The man with the beard did have an accent,” Trudy said.

  “And then he went into the store, ma’am?” Logan asked.

  “Will you knock it off with the ‘ma’am’?” Aggy said.

  “I like it,” Trudy said. “It’s polite. Respectful. Not too many young people these days are polite and respectful.”

  Logan stuck his tongue out at Aggy.

  “Before he spoke to me,” Trudy went on, “the man asked another woman
if it was her dog tied up outside. I told him Pickles was mine.”

  “So he was looking for the dog’s owner?” Logan asked.

  “Yes. I don’t know why. But he said Pickles was adorable and asked me her name.”

  “Did you tell him?” Logan asked.

  “I did,” Trudy said. “Shouldn’t I have?”

  Aggy shot Logan a reproachful look for worrying the woman, then spoke into the phone. “Of course you should have.”

  “He said, ‘Pickles? Like the cucumber treat?’ Then he laughed,” Trudy said. “I guess he thought it was a funny name. I don’t think so. My grandmother’s name was Pickles.”

  “A woman named Pickles?” Kian whispered to Thatcher.

  “Be nice,” Thatcher said, then punched him in the stomach. Kian fired a punch back, but missed.

  “I guess it’s not so common anymore,” Trudy said. “My grandmother was born in 1891.”

  “Whoa,” Thatcher said. “Trudy must be old.”

  “If we see Pickles, we’ll let you know,” Aggy said into the phone. “I hope you find her.”

  “Oh, I do, too,” said Trudy sadly. “She’s only my best friend in the whole world, especially since my husband died.”

  “Aww,” Thatcher said. “Poor old lady.”

  “Aww,” Kian mocked, then landed a knuckle thump to Thatcher’s sternum that knocked his breath away.

  When he could talk again, Thatcher said, “That was cold, dude!” and struck back.

  “Be quiet!” Logan commanded.

  “How many children are there with you, Aggy?” Trudy asked.

  “There are three little boys here with me, Trudy,” Aggy answered, looking at them in disgust.

  She and Trudy then traded good-byes, and Aggy closed her phone.

  “You guys are apes,” she said.

  “Speaking of which, we must find the hairy guy,” Logan said. “We have to find him now, before he takes any more dogs.”