Ruff vs. Fluff

by Spencer Quinn

  And I did sleep well that night, at least at first. But then the fact of the unlocked door began to bother me. Not that we get a lot of break-ins here in snow country, and of course if we had a proper watchdog it wouldn’t have mattered at all. But we had Arthur. A proper watchdog would not be zonked out every night on Bro’s bed, but would be up and at ’em, on patrol. I rose and went downstairs.

  The house was not completely dark, instead had a reddish glow from the Christmas tree lights. I stood by the front door. It was tightly closed. I heard nothing except the wind outside, and perhaps the faint sound of Arthur snoring upstairs. What was his purpose around here again? Remind me.

  Since I didn’t feel sleepy, I decided to do some patrolling of my own, starting with the basement. Not my first nighttime basement visit. I like it down there at night, so quiet and shadowy. Lots of humans are afraid of the dark, Emma Carstairs for one, and Mom for two. In her case, it started around the time Dad left. But back to me. I’m not at all afraid of the dark. I’m part of it! One of the shadows! Yes, and the only shadow with a mind of her own. Right now that mind was thinking: Hi, fat little mousy! Wanna come out to play?

  But while there was plenty of fat little mousy smell around, there was no fat little mousy. I even climbed to the top of the old coal chute to make sure. Through the dirty window, I saw a very faint light moving around on faraway Mount Misty. Blink, blink, blink—and gone.

  I AWOKE TO FIND I HAD THE PILLOW ALL to myself, Bro for some reason lying sideways on the bed in a position that didn’t even look comfortable. I had no complaints, comfort-wise—in fact, no complaints at all! I stretched a nice big stretch and—

  “Hey, cut it out,” Bro said. Or something like that; hard to tell with his face so tangled in the sheets. Was he asleep? His eyes were closed and all crusty and he was drooling big-time, two for-sure signs of Bro sleeping. I was tempted to lick up that drool. What a crazy idea! Instead I got up, had another stretch, a real good one, head way down and butt way up, and set off for the kitchen. What a great day this was going to be! I just knew it.

  Often I’m the first one downstairs in the morning. I like to give Bertha a big warm welcome. But today we had kind of a mob scene: Bertha at the stove, Mom drinking coffee at the table, and Harmony, walking in just ahead of me, in her jammies and rubbing her eyes. Also there was one other party, sipping cream from a bowl in the corner. I’m not even a fan of cream, but suddenly I had a strong desire to—

  “Arthur!” Bertha said. “Don’t even think about it!”

  Me? But I wasn’t even thinking! This was so unfair. I hardly ever think. Bertha had to know that.

  “And get away from that bowl.”

  But I— Oops. I actually seemed to be surprisingly close to the cream bowl. When had that happened? I backed away, so fast that I might never have been near the bowl at all. Then came one of those golden-eyed gazes from this other party, the one with cream on her face. Which she licked up immediately, of course, in that oh-so-goody-goody tidy way of hers. I’m not a fan of that golden-eyed gaze, let’s leave it at that.

  I went over to Bertha and sat by her feet. She gave me a pat. That was a good start. At the moment, she was rustling up some eggs. What went with eggs? Bacon! Wow! How come my mind was so sharp today? I had no clue.

  Meanwhile Harmony was saying, “Any news, Mom?”

  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact,” Mom said. “Good news. Mr. LeMaire texted me not twenty minutes ago. He’s fine.”

  “Whew,” said Harmony. “Where is he? When’s he coming back?”

  “Actually, he’s not coming back,” Mom said. “He’s gone home to Montreal.”

  “But what about his things?” said Bertha. “Aren’t they still in his room?”

  “He’s handling all that,” Mom said, taking her phone from the pocket of her robe. “I’ll read you the text. ‘Sudden work emergency. Took the train back home. Friend will come for luggage. Many thanks. Pls keep deposit.’ ” Mom put the phone away. “He paid for two days.”

  “Well, then,” Bertha said. “That’s that. Anyone for bacon?”

  Later that morning we had hockey practice. That meant this wasn’t a school day, so it had to be the weekend or Christmas vacation, unless I was missing something. School days aren’t my favorite, since Mrs. Sidney, the driver, doesn’t let me on the school bus, something about “the rules.” I’d followed the bus to the school once or twice—or maybe more—but guess what: The school had the same rules! What were the chances of that happening? And so every time, Mom had to come collect me from the hall monitor—who turned out to be Mrs. Sidney’s sister!—and drive me home, always saying the same thing: “Arthur! Are you listening? Don’t let this happen again!”

  I listened my very best but it was hard, because all I could think was, Mrs. Sidney’s sister! Can you believe the luck?

  After breakfast, the kids packed up their hockey bags and we headed to the door. Then came a horrible surprise.

  “No, Arthur,” Harmony said. “You have to stay.”

  Stay? The meaning of that being … ? I got the feeling stay might be an important—what did humans call it? Suggestion, maybe? Something like that. Or was it—oh, no!—a command?

  “Why can’t he go?” Mom said.

  “Because of the last time,” Bro said.

  “But the walk’ll do him good,” Mom said. “Give him one more chance. Just make sure he understands the boundaries. You have to tell him multiple times.”

  So was I going or not going? A certain golden-eyed being—up on the grandfather clock and far out of range—was watching this whole back and forth in her usual irritating way. But then Harmony opened the door and said, “Come on, Arthur. Just remember—you have to be good.”

  And I bolted outside. I won! I won! This was going to be great. All I had to do was to remember to be … something or other. It would come to me.

  I like all sports, excepting basketball. The ball is simply too big and unmanageable, even if you soften it up a bit with your teeth. But nothing’s perfect, as humans say. Except for life itself! Wow! What an amazing thought! I was at my very best.

  The drawback in hockey is the ice, so slippery it’s hard to run on, even for me with my four sturdy legs and grippy claws. But the wonderful thing about hockey is the puck—cold and hard, yes, but when you bite into it, that hardness gives a little bit, sending a blissful feeling up and down your teeth. Which was why on this sunny morning, with fresh snow sparkling on the ground and in the trees, I couldn’t wait to get to the rink. The taste of puck!

  “Hey, Arthur, slow down!”

  “What’s with him?”

  “He’s going to make a grab for the puck again, I just know it.”

  Were they talking about me? I considered the idea for what seemed like a long time and decided it was unlikely.

  We have an outdoor rink in our little town—the name of which escapes me at the moment—in a park about halfway between the inn and the school. Our team’s called the Tigers. I had no problem with that until the day Bro and I were watching the Discovery Channel and it hit me that tigers were actually giant cats. After that I had a big problem. Why couldn’t Dogs be the team name? Go, Dogs, go! What’s wrong with that? Plus hockey’s a team sport and we’re team players, me and my kind. Ever met a cat—one single cat—who was a team player?

  Boards are a big thing in hockey. The puck often goes bouncing off the boards, and so do the players. I have a good view of what’s going on if I get up on my hind legs and rest my front paws on top of the boards. I used to sit with the players on the players’ bench, but that didn’t work out, for reasons I never got clear.

  Mr. Salming, our mailman, was the coach. He was a tall, broad-shouldered dude with eyes that looked the exact same color as the ice. Right now he had the kids in a circle around him and was giving them a pep talk. Mr. Salming’s pep talks never lasted long. He was one of those humans who didn’t say much. But in action, Mr. Salming could do things. Once he’d shown the
kids his slapshot. CRACK! And the sound of that crack was still in the air when the puck went whizzing into the goal and ripped right through the netting at the back.

  “Today we’ll start with some three-on-twos,” he said. “Any questions?”

  Silence. Then Foster Mahovlich said, “No questions, Harmony?”

  Harmony gave him a quick frowning look.

  “Usually you got questions,” Foster said. Foster was by far the biggest kid on the team. He even had a bit of a mustache.

  “Foster,” said Mr. Salming. “Any questions?”

  “Yeah,” said Foster. “How come Harmony got no questions?”

  “That’s your question?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mr. Salming blew his whistle. “Two minutes.”

  Foster’s eyebrows—the same color and thickness as his mustache—rose way up. “You’re sending me to the penalty box in a practice?”

  “Nothing wrong with your ears,” Mr. Salming said. Really? Nothing wrong with ears that small? But I gave Mr. Salming a pass. I liked Mr. Salming and tried to be outside whenever he came by on his route. There are two kinds of mail carriers: the ones with treats in their pockets and the ones without. Mr. Salming was the first kind.

  “But for what?” Foster said. “What’s the penalty?”

  “You got two minutes to figure it out.”

  Foster stomped over to the penalty box—not so easy in skates—took his seat, and slammed the door. Out on the ice, the kids started in on the three-on-two drill, Mr. Salming’s favorite, meaning I’d seen it many times. First the first line skated against the first defense, then the second against the second, then … well, you get the idea, all the kids rotating through real fast and Mr. Salming blowing his whistle practically nonstop, which hurts my ears like you wouldn’t believe. Did there have to be whistles in hockey? Once I’d even made a sort of play for that whistle of his, and for one brief shining moment I had it! And then not.

  Harmony played center on the first line. The center’s in the middle, between the wings. Humans may not be the fastest runners, but put them on skates and you’re in for a surprise. And here’s another surprise. Even though Harmony was one of the smaller players on the team, maybe the smallest, she was also one of the fastest. She came zooming down the ice, stickhandling the puck nice and easy, leading her two wingers down on the first defense, which was usually Bro and Foster, but right now was Bro and Bro’s buddy Mort, the best computer hacker in town! He’d even been investigated by the FBI, whatever that might mean.

  Back to the practice. Oops, not quite yet, because all of a sudden there was somebody standing right beside me, a short but real strong-looking guy. Hey! Our cousin Matty. He gave me a big smile—and Matty’s got the biggest smile in town.

  “A hockey fan, huh, Arthur?” he said.

  Well, more like a puck fan, but close enough. He scratched between my ears, his fingers powerful but gentle at the same time. Ah. What a day I was having, and it was still early.

  Meanwhile, out on the ice, the defense was skating backward. Yes! Bro can actually skate backward faster than Mort can skate forward. He won five bucks off of Mort proving that, but instead of the cash, Mort had done Bro’s math homework for the month. Hockey’s a team sport, don’t forget.

  Harmony skated right toward Bro, faster and faster. And he went faster and faster, too, Harmony veering to the side. Bro reached for the puck with his stick, but just as he was about to knock it away, Harmony zipped a pass to one of her wingers, free and open right down the middle. The winger flicked the puck into the net.

  “Got a head for the game, that girl,” said Matty, real quiet, maybe to himself. A good thing, because I didn’t get it at all: Didn’t we all have heads? I hated to even think what my life would be like without one.

  Mr. Salming blew the whistle. “Nice, Harmony. Hold, hold, hold, and don’t panic. Mental plus the physical. Real nice.” He skated over to Bro, put his arm on Bro’s shoulder. “Can’t overcommit, son.”

  “Huh?”

  “Meaning hold the position. Don’t let her lure you off.”

  “Just let her walk right in?”

  “She can’t—not if you hold your position. It’s all about the angles. Eventually she’ll have to come to you.”

  Bro thought about that. Hey! He was really thinking! Didn’t see that every day. “Angles?” he said. “Is that geometry?”

  “I suppose,” said Mr. Salming.

  “We haven’t gotten to geometry yet, Coach.”

  Mr. Salming’s eyes seemed a little less icy, just for a moment. “Then you’ll be ahead of the game.”

  “Perfect,” Matty said, again very softly. And then his phone beeped. He gave me a quick pat and hurried away, leaving only his smell, a lovely smell that reminded me of the forest after rain.

  Whistle. Rotation. And again. By the whistle after that, Foster’s penalty was over and he came storming out of the penalty box, taking over from Mort. Harmony wheeled around at center ice—her blades flashing over the tiger head painted under the face-off circle, always an annoying sight—and flew toward the blue line, wingers spaced out wide. Bro and Foster skated back, back, back, and this time Harmony veered toward Foster. He went toward her, the way Bro had done or even more so. Hey! Had he missed that whole hold-your-position thing? But unlike Bro, Foster didn’t make a stab for the puck, just kept coming and coming. Almost without effort—so smooth on her skates!—Harmony lofted a pass toward her winger, totally open, and once again he put the puck in the net.

  But what was this? Foster didn’t seem to realize the play was over? He kept charging and charging—Harmony not even looking, eyes on her winger instead—then lowered his shoulder and barreled right into her, crushing her against the boards. I felt the vibration in my paws, and I was on the other side of the rink! Harmony crumpled to the ice.

  Foster backed away, a little smile on his face. I told myself, Arthur, don’t ever forget that little smile. Meanwhile Bro came rushing toward his sister, ice chips flying off his skate blades. But Mr. Salming got there first. Harmony was already struggling upright. Her helmet with its face guard had been knocked clear off her head. Her face was very pale. I scrambled over the boards, and …

  But no. I ended up losing my grip and tumbling backward into the snow. Was that called a somersault? I thought so. My very first one, although this wasn’t the time. I was so mad! Next thing I knew I was somehow over the boards and inside the rink, trying to run but mostly skidding my way toward Harmony.

  “Foster, what in god’s name?” Mr. Salming was saying. “You know there’s no bodychecking in this league. What were you thinking?”

  “Well, Coach,” said Foster, still with that little smile on his face, “there’s checking next year. I was just helping Harmony get ready. Maybe she won’t be so big on hockey when there’s checking.”

  The expression on Mr. Salming’s face changed. Now he was angry, too, just like me. Was he planning on biting Foster? I sure was.

  “Wrong answer,” Mr. Salming said.

  Foster shrugged. “Best I can do, Coach.”

  That was when Bro, who’d been standing by Harmony, his hand on her arm, skated over, stopping right in front of Foster. Bro wasn’t much taller than Harmony, but he was quite a bit broader; still, nowhere near Foster’s size. He took off his helmet, dropped it on the ice, and looked Foster right in the eye.

  “You’re a dirty player,” he said. That weird clump of hair on his head was sticking straight up. Bro gave Foster this level-eyed look you saw from him sometimes—actually when he was at his best, in my opinion. And who knows Bro better than me? “I don’t like dirty players,” he said.

  “No?” said Foster. He, too, dropped his helmet and stared down at Bro, but not in a level-eyed way, more like hateful. “Wanna do something about it?”

  This was where you might think the coach would step in, but Mr. Salming did not. He just let it happen, and what happened was Bro rearing back and punching Foster bang
on the nose. There was a cracking sound, not loud, more like when Elrod breaks a stick in two for kindling, and then blood came gushing from Foster’s nose.

  He clutched his nose, screamed, “Oh my god! Blood!” And went down on one knee. Mr. Salming nodded, that little human nod that means everything’s shipshape, although what we had going on at the rink didn’t seem shipshape to me. I did notice that I’d lost the urge for biting.

  Mr. Salming blew his whistle. “Practice is over. Next game’s Thursday, nine a.m. Be here eight thirty sharp.” He tossed Foster a towel.

  We walked home, me, Harmony, and Bro. They had their hockey bags slung over their shoulders. I was carrying something, too, in my mouth of course, which is how I do my carrying. It was just a little round black something that had been lying on the ice, unnoticed in all the confusion.

  “You okay?” Bro said.

  “Don’t want to talk about it,” said Harmony.

  “Uh-huh,” said Bro. “But are you, like, fine?”

  “I said I didn’t want to talk about it. And I’m mad at you.”

  “Mad at me?”

  “I can fight my own battles.”

  “Huh?”

  Harmony turned on him. “You’re saying I can’t?”

  “No, I’m just—”

  “’Cause he knocked me on my butt?”

  “No,” Bro said. “You, uh, can do that—fight your own, whatever it was. I only—”

  Harmony whipped the hockey bag off her shoulder and thrust it at him. “Take this home. I’m going for a walk.”

  “A walk. Where? I’ll go with you. We could get hot choc—”

  “I’m going by myself.”

  Harmony turned on her heel and walked away. Bro and I exchanged a look. “What did I do?” he said.

  Popped Foster a good one! That was my takeaway on the whole morning so far. A morning with a happy ending, in my book. So why was I the only happy one?

  Bro hoisted Harmony’s bag on his free shoulder and headed for home.

  “Come on, Arthur,” Harmony said.