Goldie drops down for a scratch. “They have more energy than bunnies,” she says as if reading my thoughts.
“I’d say they’re more like puppies,” Patches says. “Squirming, yapping, pushing.”
I rest my snout on my forelegs. Why do short humans get to have all the fun—not to mention tasty food—while dogs have to be cooped up with nothing to do?
The ladies slump down beside me in the soft, cool grass. Patches licks her hind leg. Goldie yawns. She looks like she’s too bored to move.
The image of another lazy dog swims into my mind. “Hey, ladies,” I say, perking up. “How long have you known that Chocolate Lab?”
Patches stops mid-lick. “Lucky?”
“Since always,” Goldie says. “Why?”
I lean my head against the table leg. “He’s pretty tough, right?”
“Look at him,” Goldie mutters. “He’s massive.”
“Why do you ask?” Patches says as a fly buzzes around her ear.
“I was just thinking.” I give my head a shake. “He was right there when Marcus’s backpack was broken into. And he’s big enough to knock over a Food—” I lose the thought as the mouthwatering aroma of fried chicken hits my nose. It’s all I can do to stop drooling.
“Look, Fenway,” Patches says, snapping me out of my chicken-y dream. “I hope you’re not accusing Lucky of anything. He’s as laid-back as they come. I can’t even imagine him taking something that wasn’t his.”
“What about last year?” Goldie says to Patches. “When June spilled that ice cream? He was all over it.”
Patches scowls, pawing at a squashed pinecone in the grass. “So? We would’ve done the same thing.”
Goldie sighs. “I’m just saying.”
Patches has a point. Every dog knows spilled ice cream is fair game. And somehow June seems like the type of short human that would happen to. I think of her falling on that egg during those strange field games. “Hey, where is June?”
Goldie points her snout toward the next table.
I crane my neck. It’s crowded like all the other tables, except at one end there’s a short human sitting quietly with her head down. I don’t have to see her up close to know it’s June with her eyes in a book. It probably has “yoon-ih-corns” in it. I think of Hattie’s cheek and wonder why she wiped the paint off.
When it’s completely dark and the crickets are chirping, me and Hattie snuggle up inside the tent. She smells like mint and vanilla and marshmallow. “Aw, Fenway,” she says, patting my head. She pulls out a flashlight and that notebook from under her pillow.
Hooray! Comm-ix! I can’t wait for another story!
I nuzzle against Hattie’s shoulder as she makes lines and curves on the paper. Her picture looks like a horse’s head with a long horn. And a girl with delicate wings.
As she draws, Hattie whispers to me. I don’t understand what she’s saying, but her words sound jumbled. Her face is scrunched up like she’s anxious. Or unsure.
After a while, she must get tired because she tucks the notebook away, and the flashlight goes out. She lays her head on the pillow and hugs me tight.
I’m pretty tired myself. But there’s no way I’m closing my eyes.
Creepy voices are chirping. Powerful wings are thwapping. I could’ve sworn I caught a strange gamy odor when we came back from dinner. And the woods are right on the other side of the tent.
I have to stay on guard. I have a short human to protect. I’ll stay alert all night if I have to. Nothing is more important than keeping Hattie safe. Especially now, when she’s so upset. Clearly, she’s afraid of sleeping so close to those wild animals for another night. They could’ve already struck once. Or twice! The rodents and birds smell bad enough, but every now and then I catch a musky whiff of strange creatures I can’t identify. Will they slink out of the woods with evil on their minds? Again?
Hattie needs me now more than ever. I cuddle up tighter against her as her breathing slows. Her minty, vanilla-ish pillow is so inviting, I lay my head down. Just for a second.
* * *
My body calms. All of a sudden, I’m out in the grass with the buzzing insects. My ears up and my tail out, no creature wants to mess with me. I’ll patrol the campsite forever if that’s what it takes!
Footsteps pad on the pine needles, twigs snapping. Are they headed this way? I strain to listen, my whole body shaking. Jingling. Jangling. Dog tags?
I leap out, my tail swooshing. New friends are here to play!
A three-legged German Shepherd, a big black Poodle, and a Dachshund run through the grass. A brown-and-white Corgi, a curly-haired Wheaten, and a dark brown Havanese with a little bow tie romp out from between two pine trees. Two black-and-white dogs—a Border Collie and a Boston Terrier—prance around the big oak.
I sprint toward them. “Hey, everybody! It’s me—Fenway! Want to go to the Dog Park? There’s a cool climbing ramp and an awesome crawling tube!”
The Wheaten, Kwanzaa, pulls to a stop, cocking her head. “We don’t play with intruders!”
The Border Collie glares at me. “You need to mind your own business.”
My ears droop and I back away. I was only trying to be friendly.
The dogs gather around, murmuring. Are they talking about me?
The Dachshund, Chorizo, nudges to the front of the pack. “Fenway nosed around where he doesn’t belong, right?”
Hugo the Havanese scowls. “Nobody wants to play with you.”
“We’re not friends with Fenway,” chorus the others. And they start to head off in every direction.
“Wait!” I go to stop them, but there are tons of them and only one of me! “I’m nice. I swear!”
In a split second, I’m alone. With the trees and the crickets.
My heart feels heavier than a boulder. Why don’t they believe me?
Another dog pops out of a backpack. Moonlight glints off her sparkly collar. Her eyes stare at mine, forcing me to look away.
“Go away!” Coco yells. “I didn’t invite you here.”
I have to get away. If only I could stop whimpering . . .
“Surprise!” booms another voice. Lucky?
He bounds out of the woods, his bandanna dangling from his neck. “Ohmygosh! Ohmygosh, Fenway!” he cries. “We can romp through the woods and make friends with vicious animals. They’re not afraid of me! And they won’t be afraid of you, either. We can watch them steal stuff from our families!”
“NO!” I moan, reversing direction. “You’ve got it wrong, Lucky.”
“Get lost, Fenway!” Coco howls. “Nobody likes you.”
“Yes, they do,” I whine. “Hattie likes me. I’m here to protect her. And make her happy. Because she’s worried. And anxious. And—”
I turn one way. Lucky grins and slobbers.
I turn the other way. Coco stares me down.
I’d leave, but I’m surrounded. So I burrow under the pine needles as deep as I can. They smell like mint and vanilla. And marshmallows.
The aroma of smoky bacon wakes up my nose. I crawl out from under the blanket and onto Hattie’s chest. “Get up! Get up!” I bark, licking her chin. “It’s breakfast time outside!”
“Aw, Fenway,” she says, her eyes fluttering open. Smiling, she gives me a scratch behind the ears.
Just like yesterday, it takes her longer than usual to pull on her clothes. It’s almost as if she can’t decide which shirt to wear. Aren’t they the same? I start to wonder if this is how it’s going to be from now on. “Come on, Hattie!” I bark, my tail swishing. “We’re missing out on the bacon!”
Finally, after running her fingers through her hair a whole bunch of times, she unzips the tent—vwoop!—and we charge outside. Even though the sun is shining, the air feels cooler. A bird peck-peck-pecks in a tree overhead. Fetch Man is taking the Food Box o
ut of the car. Food Lady sits at the wooden table sipping from a steaming mug. Hattie rushes over.
Normally, I’d go, too, but the smell of eggs and bacon lures me to the next campsite. Angel and Tool Man are standing over a sizzling Fire Space while Muffin Lady pours coffee and the ladies slurp thirstily from their water bowls.
I bound over to check out the yummy aromas. Angel pulls a plastic bag out of a Food Box. Mmmmm! Even before she opens it, I know it’s bacon! I leap on Angel’s leg, my tongue drooling with desire. “Hey, Angel! Don’t you want to share that bacon with your good buddy?”
She giggles and shoos me down. “Off, Fenway!”
I hang my head. It was worth a try.
Hattie must hear because she charges over. “Fenway!” She smells annoyed. “FEN-way, no!” she snaps.
Like I didn’t already get the message. Avoiding what I’m sure are her angry eyes, I wander over to Goldie and Patches. I hear her say “sorry” to Angel and Tool Man.
“’Sup, ladies?” I say, giving them each a friendly sniff.
“It’s about time you got up,” Goldie says, lifting her head from a water dish. Foamy water drips off her whiskers.
“We’ve already been to the Dog Park and back,” Patches says.
“What?” I surprise myself with a shudder. “How-how was it? Was everybody, um, friendly?”
“Oh, Fenway,” Patches says in her kind voice. She gives me a gentle nudge. “Don’t let Coco get to you. Any dog would want to be your friend once they get to know you.”
Good old Patches. She’s always so encouraging. But she doesn’t realize how bad it feels when other dogs call you names. “I don’t know about that,” I say. “Maybe it was good that I missed out.”
Goldie gulps down more water. “Actually, the place was practically empty.”
My ears perk up. “Really?”
Patches nudges me again. “Try not to worry, Fenway,” she says. “Things usually work themselves out if you’re patient.”
I look at her sideways. Easy for her to say.
I’m about to go over to the Fire Space and see Tool Man and Angel about that bacon when I hear Hattie’s voice across the clearing. She’s sitting under the pine tree with June, nibbling something. A granola bar? I love granola bars!
I romp over, my tail going nuts. My tongue starts dripping as I pick up the scent of peanut butter. My favorite! “How about sharing?” I bark, climbing onto her lap.
Hattie gives me a scowl-y look, but she still tosses a crumble into my mouth. Mmmmm! As I chew, I notice she’s given June her drawings from last night. She must’ve ripped a page out of the notebook.
June wraps her long braid around her finger as she takes the paper. “Thanks,” she mutters, not looking up. She folds the page and tucks it into her pocket.
Hattie smiles. She smells relieved, like the time she brought that bunny back to the neighbors across the street.
Waddling Lady waddles over, her hand pressed to her lower back. She speaks to June, and I catch a few words I know—“Lucky” and “Dog Park.”
June frowns, but Hattie smiles. “Yeah!” she says, getting to her feet as I hop off her lap. “Let’s go.”
We’re going to the Dog Park before breakfast?
Next thing I know, June and Lucky follow me and Hattie down the path by the big oak tree. I hear the ladies call from behind, “Good luck, Fenway!”
Spooky, wispy light glows through the pine trees like sprays of water. A gnarled branch hovers over me as if it’s a claw about to strike. Loud chitters and squawks sound as a couple of nasty squirrels clatter up a tree. My hackles bristle. These woods are full of danger. And after all the strange scents I’ve picked up lately, I’m not too excited about going along this trail.
Not to mention the unwelcome reaction from the park full of dogs at the other end.
June strolls ahead of Lucky, walking shoulder to shoulder with Hattie. The girls chatter about “yoon-ih-corns” and “fair-ees.” For once, I notice June’s not clutching her book. She actually sounds happy.
Lucky, on the other paw, sounds happy all the time. “Ohmygosh! Ohmygosh!” he says, his tail swaying back and forth. “Are you ready to romp?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, avoiding his gaze. Until I know for sure if he had anything to do with what happened to those treats, I have to stay alert around him. Plus, we’re not out of the woods yet.
As we close in on the Dog Park, the yipping and yapping and barking tell me it’s way more crowded than the ladies said. My fur prickles.
I can’t help but notice Coco. She’s smaller than most of the other dogs, but somehow she’s the most visible. Maybe it’s her poofy-ness. Maybe it’s the dogs following her around. Or maybe she just has a way of commanding attention.
Once we’re inside, Hattie and June slide onto the bench near the front gate. Lucky takes off, his bandanna flapping in the breeze. I’m in a Dog Park full of dogs and short humans, but suddenly I’m alone. I wander over to the giant water dish and start lapping, even though I’m not thirsty.
I hear jingling dog tags nearby. Should I glance up? Should I say hi? My tail sags and curls against my bum.
Dog voices murmur. Are they saying “that’s him” and “he’s the one”? Or is it my imagination?
By the time I have the courage to look, the dogs are gone. Or maybe they were never there.
The Dog Park is hopping with dogs climbing on the ramp, crawling through the tube, chasing balls and Frisbees. Coco is in the middle of it all, leading every game and not sticking with any of them for more than a few seconds. Wherever she goes, the rest of the dogs follow.
My heart thuds. This is not the way it’s supposed to be. But I know if I romp over there and try to join in, the other dogs will suddenly remember they have something else to do. Or worse.
The breeze ripples the leaves in that low-hanging branch of the maple tree. I see some short humans gathered under it. They’re all focused on one, who seems to be chatting and gesturing while the others look on, laughing and bumping fists. The crew. Even from here at the water dish, I know the leader is Marcus. He’s always the leader. And he’s up to no good. Like canine, like human.
I’ve never not known what to do before. Especially in a Dog Park. But I can’t keep slurping water all day. I look around for other options.
Dogs, short humans, more dogs, more short humans—Hattie! Why didn’t I think of her right away?
I scamper over to the bench where she and June are sitting. “Hattie! Hattie!” I bark, pawing her leg. “Let’s play chase!”
“Aw, Fenway,” she sings, patting my head and turning back to June. She does not get up.
I cock my head. Hattie loves to run and play. Did she really come to the Dog Park to sit on a bench? Maybe she needs more convincing. “Come on, Hattie!” I paw her leg again. More forcefully this time. “Don’t you want to play with your adorable dog?”
“Shhh, Fenway,” she mutters, her focus still on June. I hear her say “drag-un” and “fly-ing” and a stream of other words I don’t know. How can words be more interesting than romping around? Especially with her best buddy.
I have to convince her. I gaze up with my biggest, saddest eyes. “How can you resist this cute face?” I whine.
“Awww,” she says, thrusting out her lower lip. She reaches down and scoops me into her arms. She hugs me tight.
Being in Hattie’s arms is one of my all-time favorite places to be. But we can cuddle anywhere. Doesn’t she realize we’re in the Dog Park? Where are her priorities?
I’m about to wiggle out of her grasp when I hear the group of short humans headed this way. Led by Marcus, they’re squirming and jostling more than I ever could.
“Hey, Hattie,” Marcus says. He reaches his arm across June, his palm open.
Hattie’s breathing quickens and she smells worried. She smi
les weakly and slaps his hand. “Hey, Marcus,” she mutters.
There’s something about that Marcus I don’t trust. “Keep your distance!” I growl.
Hattie gasps. “FEN-way!” she scolds.
Marcus jumps back, his arms flailing. “Help! Help! A puppy!” he yells, laughing.
The rest of the short humans laugh, too. I don’t get the joke, but it feels familiar somehow.
Hattie’s cheeks get hot. She smells even more worried than before. She turns away.
Marcus waves his hand in front of Hattie’s face. “Cah-new-trip!” he says, which must be some sort of rallying cry because the other short humans suddenly start whooping and hollering. They gather around the bench, practically pressing in on us.
“Come on, Hattie,” one of them says.
“Yeah, Hattie,” another one says.
“The crew!” says another. He gives Hattie’s shoulder a little shove. “The crew!”
Hattie glances at June, whose brow is scrunched up. Hattie forces a smile. “Cah-new-trip?” Hattie murmurs.
June frowns. Clearly, she’s not interested in whatever Hattie asked her about.
Marcus waves his hand at Hattie again. “Yoon-ih-corn???” He says it the way Coco says my name. With disgust.
June slouches lower on the bench. Her scent is a mixture of doubt and fear.
Marcus folds his arms across his chest and rocks back on his heels. “Come on, Hattie.”
“Yeah, Hattie,” some of the others say. “Come on.”
“Come on, Hattie!” the rest of them shout.
A few start clapping their hands and chanting. “Hat-tie, Hat-tie, Hat-tie!” Pretty soon they’re all doing it. “Hat-tie, Hat-tie, Hat-tie!”
Hattie wraps her arms around me even tighter, her heartbeat thudding in my ear. Obviously, she needs some comforting. I nuzzle against her cheek. It feels hot again.
Right then, Lucky comes bounding over and leaps on June. “Ohmygosh! Did you see what I did?” he yaps. “I ate a whole stick!”
Fenway and Hattie in the Wild Page 7