Bark vs. Snark

by Spencer Quinn

  “Not so you’d notice,” said the man. All of a sudden he sounded kind of old, his voice thin and scratchy.

  “Well, now I’m here, so—Arthur? What are you doing?”

  Me? Why, nothing, nothing at all. I backed away from those tassel loafers double-quick, my tongue possibly gliding over the toe of the shoe but completely missing out on the tassel itself. Life is full of frustrations. You just have to find a way to deal. I lay down in the nearest corner, and found to my surprise that the tip of my tail was lying quite close by. Almost saying, “Gnaw on me.” What a stroke of luck! Lucky strokes are how to deal, in my experience. I got busy on my tail.

  “Don’t mind Arthur,” Mom was saying to the white-toothed guy. “He means well.”

  Of course I did! Many thanks to Mom for pointing it out, but that didn’t stop the man from shooting me a glance that might have been a teensy bit on the unfriendly side. There must have been some mistake. Doesn’t everybody like ol’ Arthur?

  “So what can I—” Mom began.

  “I want a room for five nights,” the man said. “A quiet room, far from”—he glanced my way again—“any disturbance.”

  “Do you have a reservation?” said Mom.

  He gazed around the front hall and raised one of those shaggy white eyebrows. “Do I need one?”

  There was the tiniest pause before Mom spoke. She pauses like that sometimes. I have no idea what it means, but it always gets my attention.

  “It’s usually better,” Mom said, “but in this case we do have the Daffodil Room available.”

  “How much?”

  Mom said some number I missed. Numbers are very missable in my experience, and maybe in yours, too. The man handed over his credit card. What is a credit card? I have no idea, but they always get passed back and forth when a guest checks in. I know the routine, better believe it! Could I run the front desk all by myself? Wow, what a thought!

  “Welcome, Mr. Ware,” Mom said, handing him a key. “I don’t know if you have any interest in county fairs, but ours starts tomorrow.”

  “I have no interest in county fairs.” He picked up his suitcase and headed toward the broad staircase that led to the guest rooms on the second floor. The suitcase gave off a very faint smell of cotton candy. I’d only come across cotton candy once before, and that was on my one and only visit to a Halloween party, sometime in the past. A very short visit, possibly because of an incident involving me, my nose, and a big vat of cotton candy. The point is I know the smell of cotton candy. Smells I know can sort of pull me along. For example, the smell of cotton candy was now pulling me to my feet, across the hall, and up the stairs, close behind Mr. Ware. When he came to the door of the Daffodil Room I was right behind him. He unlocked the door, went in, kicked the door closed with his heel, a heel that just missed my head. But who’s luckier than me? There I was in the Daffodil Room, hot on the cotton candy trail.

  Meanwhile Mr. Ware didn’t seem to be noticing me. He heaved his suitcase onto the bed in one easy motion—pretty good for an old guy—and then opened it and took out a black cloth bag, made, as I knew right away from the smell, of velvet. I forgot all about cotton candy and started concentrating on velvet, which is lovely for both licking and chewing, as you may know already. Also velvet doesn’t stick to your nose like cotton candy. I made a big decision, then and there: velvet yes, cotton candy no.

  Mr. Ware took the black velvet bag to a small table against the wall, the kind of table with a mirror for putting on makeup. He sat down and gazed at himself in the mirror, actually seemed to be staring into his own eyes. That gave me a bad feeling, so I was glad when he stopped doing it and reached up, maybe to pat his wild white hair into place.

  Only that wasn’t what happened! Instead he reached his fingers deep into the whole white mess and … and pulled it off! Oh, no! He’d pulled off all his hair? That must have hurt so bad! Once I’d had a little incident with my tail and a pot of superglue, so you can trust me on this.

  But Mr. Ware did not seem to be in any pain. He sort of folded up his hair, still somehow in one piece, like the whole patch of skin underneath had come off, too—oh, how horrible!—and shoved it into the velvet bag. That was when I saw that Mr. Ware hadn’t lost any skin from his head, now covered in dark hair, cut very short, and not bleeding or anything like that.

  He went back to gazing at himself in the mirror. How strange he looked! Was he thinking the same thing? Was he about to say, “How strange I look,” and put his hair back on?

  Mr. Ware did neither of those things. Instead he reached out and pinched the end of one of his shaggy white eyebrows between his finger and his thumb and … and ripped it right off his face! Again no cry of pain, no blood. Underneath the shaggy white eyebrow lay another eyebrow, not shaggy, and brown in color. Was Mr. Ware going to rip that one off, too? At that moment I wanted to be out of there. I glanced at the door, but it was shut tight. Once Bro had tried to teach me how to turn a doorknob with my front paws, but that ended up being a little too hard—I had to stand on only my back paws at the same time!—even though he promised me a whole sausage the instant I got the knack. Should I mention that somehow that sausage found its way into my mouth later that same day? Life is good at the Blackberry Hill Inn.

  Although maybe not in the Daffodil Room. This new Mr. Ware, again staring at himself in the mirror, was kind of scary. I wanted the old Mr. Ware back. The old Mr. Ware’s face wasn’t quite so hard. Was this a good time to sidle a little closer, let him know I was on the premises and now wanted out? I was just about to do that when Mr. Ware ripped off his other white eyebrow. He put both eyebrows in the black velvet bag. That was when I was hit by a memory, a sort of tremendous one: I’d see this dude before. I mean the younger one. He’d stayed at the inn some time ago. How long ago? That was a tough one, not the kind I’m good at answering, so I didn’t even try. Why make yourself unhappy?

  But the point was I’d seen him. I don’t forget a face. And even if I do, I hadn’t forgotten this one. And here was something amazing: He’d been wearing tassel loafers that time, too! Tassel loafers stick in the mind. Not only that, but a bunch of mountain bikers had been staying with us at the same time. Mr. Ware and Harmony and Bro watched them ride off early one morning, right on the front step, where I’d been at that moment, real close to those tassel loafers. Harmony had said, “Would I love a mountain bike or what?” And Bro had said, “Are they expensive?” “Oh, yeah,” Harmony had told him.

  Wow! What an interesting day I was having, just staying in my own mind. And then came an interesting question. How come he’d turned himself into the old Mr. Ware? I waited. No answer, meaning it was another tough one, and you already know how I handle tough ones.

  Meanwhile he was fishing around in his velvet bag, and soon pulled out a small red squishy sort of ball. Balls are always interesting. You can play fetch with them, of course, which would be so much better if humans did the chasing, but there’s also simply chewing on a ball to one’s heart’s content, always a good way to pass the time. Was there a chance Mr. Ware would now notice me, hand over the ball, and open the door so I could leave, taking the ball with me? Yes, there was every chance! It was about to happen for sure!

  Instead something happened I’d never dreamed of. Most of my dreams are about food, although sometimes I dream about napping, but that’s not the point. Mr. Ware took that soft squishy ball and stuck it on his nose!

  A loud, high-pitched, possibly even frightened bark seemed to shake the walls of the Daffodil Room. Mr. Ware’s head whipped around in my direction. He didn’t appear to be barking so it had to be me. There you see a little something about how I roll. Even though I was possibly the slightest bit frightened—although fear is something that never ever gets into the heart of ol’ Arthur, except if something really scary is going on—I could still keep a cool head and figure out who was doing the barking. Wow! I can be pretty impressive, as maybe you hadn’t known. But now you do!

  Mr. Ware rose
from the stool he’d been sitting on and came toward me. “What are you doing in my room, you dirty dog?”

  Whoa! First of all, I lived here! Maybe not in the Daffodil Room, but certainly in the inn, and the room was in the inn, so … I lost the trail of where I was heading, but then I remembered the second of all. Dirty dog? He’d called me a dirty dog! No way! We have a little pond in back of the old barn, and Bro and Harmony had shampooed me in it just the other day. I couldn’t have been cleaner! Who likes to be called dirty when they’re clean? Not me, my friends. I barked right in Mr. Ware’s face, really let him have it.

  Mr. Ware’s eyes narrowed in a mean way. And then he reared back on one foot and … and kicked me with the other one! I leaped out of the way, lightning fast. Actually the lightning-fast part—and maybe the whole leap—happened only in my mind. But Mr. Ware’s kick missed anyway. Was he expecting me to be lightning fast? Had I outthought him? Ha!

  “Go on,” he yelled. “Git.”

  He strode to the door and flung it open. I trotted out, in no particular hurry, the clear winner. But wouldn’t you know? Mr. Ware tried to kick me again! This time he got me, although not squarely, more like his foot brushed my side. Which made his tassel loafer fly off! I ran toward it, but Mr. Ware, turning out to be pretty speedy himself, got to the loafer ahead of me and snatched it up. As he did that—a real quick bend and snatch—there was a big and possibly very nice surprise. His red nose ball fell off and bounced down the hall toward the stairs. Do you waste time thinking in a moment like that? You do not! You race after that ball, you grab it, and you take off for parts unknown.

  Which was exactly what I did.

  “Stop!” hissed Mr. Ware. “Get back here! Heel!”

  Heel? Was that one of the commands I was supposed to know? Before I could get a handle on that, I heard Mom calling from downstairs.

  “Arthur? What are you doing up there?”

  Well, it was kind of complicated. I glanced back. Mr. Ware’s face was not a pleasant sight. I had to admit to myself that he might not be a fan. Holding the tassel loafer in one hand, he backed into the Daffodil Room and closed the door. At the very same moment, Mom appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Arthur? What’s in your mouth?”

  Why, nothing! Nothing was in my mouth. That was my first reaction. And then my mouth sent me a message: It was holding a ball, namely Mr. Ware’s red nose ball. What luck! I darted past Mom and down the stairs.

  “Arthur!”

  Down the stairs I went! From behind I heard Mom’s knock. “Mr. Ware? Everything okay?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Ware, now speaking in his scratchy old man voice.

  “Has Arthur been bothering you? I think he has something in his mouth. I hope it wasn’t yours.”

  “I’m fine. And busy at the moment.”

  “I won’t bother you,” Mom said. “Call the desk if you need anything.”

  No answer from Mr. Ware. By that time I was in the front hall, sprinting toward the door. It happened to be closed, and I was realizing that was going to be a problem, when suddenly it opened and in came Elrod, the handyman, carrying a surprising number of big paint cans in his huge hands. He saw me and I saw him, both of these sightings a little on the late side.

  “Arggh!” Crash! Bang! Bangitty bang-bang, that bangitty bang-bang being the paint cans. Were the lids not quite securely fastened? This was no time to hang around. I ran out the door, headed for the backyard, zoomed past the shuffleboard courts, and finally came to a stop in the tomato garden, completely out of breath. But on my in-breaths, I took in the lovely smell from all the fat red tomatoes hanging on the vines. Hmm. Those tomatoes reminded me of something. What was it? I thought and thought, and just when my head was starting to hurt, it came to me: the red nose ball! And would you believe it? There it was, still in my mouth! Wow! Without another thought, I buried it nice and deep in the soft brown earth of the tomato patch.

  THE HOUSE WAS QUIET, A SPECIAL sort of quiet that only happens in the middle of midsummer nights. I’m fine with quiet. In fact, the center of the quiet is me, the quietest thing around. Not thing. I shouldn’t have said thing. I’m no thing. I’m … how to put it more accurately? Accuracy is important. I’d never want to mislead anyone. I know you’d be upset to think of me as a thing. And I care about your feelings! Even if they’re rather predictable and boring, if you’ll allow me to be honest. Without honesty, what have we got in this life? Therefore, in the interest of honesty, when you think of Queenie, don’t think of a thing. Think of … of … of a goddess! Yes, a goddess. I knew it would come to me. Thanks for your patience.

  My hearing is very sharp, and in the quiet of the night it’s at its sharpest. For example, from my place on the grandfather clock, I could hear that the inn was not quite fast asleep. From upstairs came a single soft footstep, a man’s footstep. Did we have a man guest at the moment? I don’t pay attention to details like that. I know Mom’s happier when we have guests, and Mom’s happiness is important to me—within limits, of course—but I prefer no guests. If you’re headed this way, look into other inns. I’m sure there must be some.

  Meanwhile, other faint sounds rose from the basement. We have a large and complicated basement, some of it new, some very old. These faint sounds came from the old part, faint scurrying sounds, sneaky but very busy, sounds that could only be made by a mouse. All at once, even though I’d had a very full day, mostly curled up right here, I was no longer the slightest bit sleepy. I’ve been on many hunting trips in my life, day or night, good weather or bad, and never regretted a single one.

  I glided down to the floor and became one with the night, just one of my many tricks. Arthur, as you may know already, has one trick and one trick only—playing dead. Playing dead or becoming one with the night: You be the judge.

  There are several routes to the basement, one or two known only to me. I was headed for the kitchen, where the door to the back stairs never quite closes properly, when I heard a car coming up the road in front of our place. Not unusual, even late at night, especially in summer. I heard the soft crunch of gravel, meaning the car had turned into our circular driveway. It crunched to a stop, the engine purring, as humans sometimes say about engines, a very annoying way to describe the sound made by a bunch of metal parts banging around. Also annoying was the fact that we had a car sitting outside our place for no apparent reason. This was the moment for the dog of a household to step up and bark an angry bark or two, sending that car on its way, but this household did not have that kind of dog. We had the kind of dog who was fast asleep, most likely in the family quarters, sprawled across Bro’s bed, or Harmony’s, or Mom’s, shifting now and then to get more comfortable, but otherwise a log, more or less.

  I turned and went back to the front hall. Through the tall, narrow window by the front door, I saw a car parked at the top of the circle, headlights off, but I see well at night, much better than you, and could make out a woman behind the wheel. She had short blond hair of the very pale kind, like the white of the moon, and wore lots of lipstick, which made her lips look coal black in the greenish light from her dashboard. She also wore glasses of the kind called cat’s eye, a bit of a puzzle to me. Did humans who wore them think they were somehow catlike? Good luck with that.

  I was considering making a mental list of all the things I do better than you, when I heard soft footsteps coming down the main stairs. I, already a shadow, moved in among the bigger shadows by the umbrella stand.

  Down the stairs came a man, a shadowy sort of man. I couldn’t make out his face, but his movements were … were actually somewhat catlike! That was a big surprise, especially since I’d just been thinking about this very thing. I’m not surprised very often, so whatever was going on couldn’t be good.

  The man crossed the hall, headed toward the door and therefore my way. A moonbeam angled through the narrow window and lit his face. Then came another surprise. This was an old man, with shaggy white eyebrows and wild white hair. An ol
d man who moved like a much younger man, and not only that, but a catlike younger man? Was this the kind of guest we needed?

  He went right by me—a stony look on his face, made stonier by the moonlight—opened the door, and went outside, leaving the door slightly ajar. Through that opening, I watched him walking toward the car. Was he leaving? That was my hope.

  The driver’s side window rolled down. The woman with the black lips and cat’s-eye glasses spoke in a low, angry voice. “How could this have happened?”

  “Sorry, babe,” he said. “Not my fault.”

  The woman in the cat’s-eye glasses glanced at the inn. “Keep your voice down.” She stuck a small package out the window, about the size of one of the boxes fast-food burgers come in. The sight of those fast-food burger boxes brings out the worst in someone I’m sure I don’t have to name.

  The white-haired man took the package. The woman drove off. The man turned and started back toward the inn. I stepped toward the door, rested one of my front paws against it, and leaned in. The door swung shut, closing with a satisfying click. He was not the kind of guest we needed.

  Now, where was I? Ah, yes, my little mousy pal, having some nice mousy playtime down in the basement. What a treat he had in store—a playmate appearing out of the blue, taking the trouble to keep him company! Who doesn’t like a bit of company? I don’t actually, but never mind that. Mice lead boring lives. How kind of me to liven things up for them!

  I turned toward the kitchen, but hadn’t taken a step before a commotion started up on the other side of the door. At first, a quiet commotion: some twisting of the knob, and then a “Huh?” A forceful kind of huh, not the sound you’d expect from an old guy, and neither would you expect those catlike movements. Humans can be very puzzling when you stop to think about it. But why waste your time? I took another step toward the kitchen, but the human on the other side of the door didn’t seem to be going away.

  “What the—?!” he said. And “Can you believe this?”