Ribsy

by Beverly Cleary

  Beverly Cleary

  Ribsy

  Illustrated by Tracy Dockray

  Contents

  1. Ribsy and the Hungry Flea

  2. The Cleanest Dog in the U.S.A.

  3. Ribsy and Mrs. Frawley

  4. Ribsy Becomes a Mascot

  5. Ribsy Goes to a Football Game

  6. The Famous Dog

  7. Ribsy and the Apartment House

  About the Author

  Other Books by Beverly Cleary

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Ribsy and the Hungry Flea

  Henry Huggins’s dog Ribsy was a plain ordinary city dog, the kind of dog that strangers usually called Mutt or Pooch. They always called him this in a friendly way, because Ribsy was a friendly dog. He followed Henry and his friends to school. He kept the mailman company. He wagged his tail at the milkman, who always stopped to pet him. People liked Ribsy, and Ribsy liked people. Ribsy was what you might call a well-adjusted dog.

  This did not mean that Ribsy had no troubles. He did have troubles, and high on the list were fleas, particularly one mean hungry flea that persistently nipped Ribsy right under his collar where he could not get at it no matter how hard he scratched with his hind foot. If it had not been for that flea, things might have been different for Ribsy.

  Ribsy’s troubles began one Saturday morning in October when he was sitting out in front of the Hugginses’ square white house on Klickitat Street keeping an eye on the brand-new station wagon to make sure the family did not drive away without him. The Hugginses had owned the new green station wagon almost a week, and not once had Ribsy been allowed to ride in it.

  “We’re going to keep this car clean,” vowed Mrs. Huggins. “No more muddy paw prints on the seats. No more smudgy nose marks on the windows.”

  Ribsy knew the Hugginses were getting ready to go someplace, because he could hear Mrs. Huggins tapping around in high heels, a sure sign that she was about to leave the house. He had also sensed an air of hurry that morning. Henry had dumped half a can of Woofies Dog Food on Ribsy’s dish without stopping to scratch him behind the ears. Nosy the cat had been fed and hurriedly shoved outdoors. The Hugginses had not lingered at the breakfast table. All this meant the family was going someplace, and this time Ribsy did not intend to be left behind.

  While Ribsy kept an eye on the station wagon he amused himself with his soggy old tennis ball, wet from last night’s rain, which he dropped at the top of the driveway and caught as it rolled to the bottom. Then he sat down and, with a great jingling of license tags, scratched. He dug in with the toenails of his left hind foot, starting under his chin and gradually twisting his head until he was scratching the back of his neck. Then he switched to his right hind foot and scratched the other half of his neck. All this scratching did no good, because his collar got in the way of his toenails. He still itched. The mean hungry flea knew exactly the spots that Ribsy could not reach.

  Henry came out of the house wearing his raincoat and helmet. He stopped to pat Ribsy on the head. Then he scratched his dog behind the ears at the point where the hair became soft and silky. “Want to play catch?” he asked, picking up the ball and throwing it across the lawn.

  Ribsy caught the ball on the first bounce and dropped it at Henry’s feet before he had to sit down and scratch again. That flea was driving him crazy.

  Henry’s friend Beezus, whose real name was Beatrice, and her little sister Ramona came running down the street. “Can you go to the park?” Beezus asked Henry. “Mother said we have to get out of the house awhile before it starts raining again.”

  “Nope,” said Henry, picking up the tennis ball. “We’re going down to the shopping center to buy some paint and new jeans and a bunch of stuff.”

  Beezus held out her hand to Ribsy. “Shake hands,” she said. Ribsy agreeably held out his left paw and allowed the girl to shake it. “Isn’t he ever going to learn to use his right hand—I mean paw?” asked Beezus.

  “There are left-handed people. Why shouldn’t there be left-pawed dogs?” This seemed reasonable to Henry.

  Ramona ran to Ribsy, dropped to her knees even though the ground was wet, and threw her arms around his neck good and tight. Ribsy knew what to do about a small girl like Ramona. Patience was the answer. Just stand still long enough and she would go away. It sometimes took quite a bit of patience to get rid of Ramona.

  She pressed her face against his and said, “Don’t I look cute? Daddy ought to get a picture of this.”

  “Oh, Ramona,” said Beezus crossly. “Daddy can’t take a picture of everything you do. Come on. Stop choking Ribsy, and let’s go to the park.”

  Patience had worked. Ribsy was free of Ramona.

  “So long,” said Henry to Beezus, as his mother and father came out of the house and climbed into the front seat of the station wagon. Henry threw the ball down the street and started to climb in after them. This time Ribsy did not chase his ball, which he knew was perfectly safe lying in the gutter. No one ever bothered his soggy old ball no matter where he left it.

  When Ribsy was a few feet from the station wagon, the mean hungry flea gave him an extra hard nip. Ribsy could not stand it. He had to sit down for one quick scratch.

  “Henry, don’t let that dog in this car,” said Mrs. Huggins.

  Henry hopped in and slammed the door. “Sorry, old boy,” he said to his dog, who had finished scratching and was wagging his tail.

  The car started and Ribsy was left behind. Ribsy was not a dog to give up easily. He could be almost as persistent as his flea, and now he started running down the street as fast as he could after his family’s new car. This had happened before with the old car, and he knew that by running fast he could catch up at the first stop sign. He managed to stay close enough to get thoroughly drenched with muddy water when the car drove through a puddle. As he expected, he made it to the stop sign, where he stood panting and looking hopefully at his family.

  Henry pushed the button that lowered the window. “Ribsy! Go home!” he called out.

  Ribsy answered with a short, sharp bark that meant, No, I don’t want to go home. When the car started up, he continued his chase. Water spattered as the tires sucked at the pavement. He caught up at the second stop sign, three blocks away.

  “Wuf!” said Ribsy, wagging his tail. For a middle-aged dog Ribsy could run pretty fast.

  “Ribsy, go home!” said Henry, speaking less sharply this time.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” said Mrs. Huggins. “Just ignore him, and he’ll go home when he gets tired.”

  “That dog can run twenty miles an hour,” said Mr. Huggins, who had been clocking Ribsy with the speedometer.

  As the car started, Ribsy gathered all his strength and, even though he was getting tired and that flea was chewing away under his collar, he managed to catch up at the third stop sign.

  “Don’t even look at him,” said Mrs. Huggins. “Just pretend he isn’t there.”

  “Aw, Mom,” protested Henry. “He’s getting tired. He’s panting so he can’t even bark.”

  “Good,” said Mrs. Huggins, who was usually a kind woman. “Now maybe he’ll go home. He’s not going to ride in our clean new car.”

  Mr. Huggins went on, and so did Ribsy, his tongue flapping like a flag and his feet scissoring back and forth as fast as he could make them go. Henry’s worried face watched him from the tailgate of the station wagon. Ribsy barely made it to the next stop, which was a traffic light at a busy intersection. He stood panting with his sides going in and out like bellows.

  “But Mom, he’ll get run over,” Henry was saying. “He wants to come with us so much he isn’t even paying any attention to the other cars.”

  Mrs. Huggin
s glanced unwillingly at Ribsy. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Just this once. But keep him on the floor. I don’t want him on the seat with those wet paws, and I don’t want any smeary nose prints on the windows.”

  Henry opened the door, and Ribsy, the winner, jumped in. The first thing he did was shake himself. Muddy drops splattered over the new plastic upholstery. Silently Mrs. Huggins handed Henry a Kleenex, and without a word he wiped the spatters. Until Ribsy had caught his breath he was satisfied to stay on the floor, even though he did not like the strong smell of the new car. As soon as he was breathing normally he tried to climb on the seat, where the smell was not so strong, and where he could ride with his nose out the window and smell more things faster.

  “No, Ribsy,” said Henry, shoving his dog off the seat. “Down, boy.”

  And so Ribsy was forced to ride on the floor of the station wagon. He could not see a thing, and the new-car smell—a mixture of new rubber, plastic floor matting, and lubricating oil—was strong. Ribsy did not like it. He preferred the odors of wet earth, fallen leaves, cats, food cooking, and boys, particularly his own boy, Henry Huggins. However, Ribsy was a dog who always tried to make the best of things, and this was a good chance to scratch again. He began under his chin with his left hind foot, and finished on the other side with his right foot, but no matter how hard he scratched, no matter how hard he jingled his license tags, he could not reach the bites under his collar.

  Henry Huggins was the kind of boy who understood. “Here, let me help,” he said, and removed Ribsy’s collar.

  Ribsy enjoyed a good hard scratch, this time one that really did some good. When he had finished, he laid his chin on Henry’s knee. He was filled with love and gratitude for Henry’s kindness. He loved Henry more than anyone in the world.

  Henry understood. He rubbed Ribsy behind the ear. “Good old Ribsy,” he said affectionately. “Did you think I wanted to leave you behind?”

  By this time the Hugginses had reached the shopping center, which was made up of all kinds of stores, shops, and restaurants, surrounded by acres and acres of parking space without parking meters. People came from miles around to shop here, because they did not have to worry about finding a parking space, and they could shop as long as they wished without having to remember the time and rush out to put another nickel in a meter.

  “You stay here, Ribsy,” said Henry. He carefully opened two of the windows a few inches at the top, so Ribsy would have plenty of air while he was locked in the car. It took Henry longer than usual to adjust the windows, which worked automatically and were fun to play with. Just push a button, and zip, they went up. Push it again, and zip, they went down.

  For once Ribsy did not mind being left in the car, and as soon as the Hugginses had disappeared in the acres of parking spaces on their way to the stores, he jumped up on one of the seats, blissfully scratched his collar-free neck, turned around three times, settled his nose on his tail, and went to sleep. He slept quite awhile, and when he awoke he felt rested and ready for action. Unfortunately, there was not much opportunity for action locked in a station wagon, and Ribsy had to content himself by pressing his damp nose against the clean windows while he watched people walking across the parking lot. Sometimes they spoke to him. “Hi there, Pooch,” or, “Hello, Mutt,” a person would say, and Ribsy would answer with a short bark and a wag of his tail, to show he was a sociable dog who would rather be out running around instead of being shut up in this new-smelling car.

  Ribsy tolerated his imprisonment until a little Pomeranian happened to come along on the end of a leash. It was a silly little dog that took one look at Ribsy and began to yap.

  Something about the little dog annoyed Ribsy. He barked good and loud, to let it know that he was bigger and stronger and did not care to be yapped at. He was not always as friendly with dogs as he was with people.

  The Pomeranian knew that Ribsy could not get out and that he was safe. He yapped harder in a way that said quite plainly, Haha, you can’t catch me.

  “Come along, Fluffy,” said the lady on the other end of the Pomeranian’s leash. “I won’t let the bad dog hurt you.”

  The little dog was having such a good time barking at a bigger dog who could not get at him that he stood his ground and yapped harder. Yap-yap-yap. Yap-yap-yap.

  This infuriated Ribsy. He clawed at the glass and poked his nose out the opening at the top to bark back. No dog that size could talk to him like that and get away with it.

  “Come on, Fluffy.” The lady pulled at the leash.

  Fluffy did not want to go, and so his owner was forced to pick him up and carry him. The little dog looked over his mistress’s shoulder and went right on yapping at Ribsy as he was carried off down the lane between two rows of parked cars.

  This made Ribsy frantic to escape. Barking wildly, he scrabbled his paws against the door of the station wagon. In doing so, he hit the button that controlled the automatic window. The glass slid down, and Ribsy leaped through the window to the wet pavement. It all happened so fast that he was still surprised when his feet hit the ground, but he lost no time in dashing off in the direction in which the little dog and his owner had gone. He followed the sound of the yapping as it went toward the stores, but when it stopped he quickly lost interest.

  After sitting down to have another good scratch at his collar-free neck, Ribsy set out to find Henry Huggins, who had disappeared someplace in the sea of cars. He put his nose down to the pavement and began to sniff. He was searching for a certain familiar scent, a scent that was made up of a number of things—sneakers, raincoat, a whiff of cat, the aroma of coffee grounds that had been spilled on the kitchen floor that morning, the smell of the new car, and, most satisfying of all to Ribsy, the boy smell that belonged only to Henry Huggins.

  Ribsy had a pretty good nose, but unfortunately he was no bloodhound. He had never tracked a lost child over mountains and through forests. He was just an ordinary city dog, trying to track his owner across an enormous parking lot that smelled of oil and exhaust. As Ribsy ran whiffling around the parking lot, his nose picked up the scents of many pairs of shoes and quite a few pairs of galoshes, some of them tinged with the smell of cat and many of them smelling of boy, but none of them smelling of Henry.

  When he had worked his way to the stores and shops, he found all sorts of interesting smells that were not on the ground. There were popcorn and new shoe leather and hamburgers frying. Ribsy took a great interest in the hamburgers and sat for quite a while by the door of the coffee shop, but no one suggested that he go in.

  A pet shop was interesting, too, because one of the windows was full of puppies, tumbling about on shredded newspaper. Ribsy put his paws up on the front of the shop and barked at the puppies, who stopped rolling around and barked back in their shrill little voices. This dialogue between the middle-aged dog and the puppies attracted a crowd, but Henry and his parents were not part of it. After a while Ribsy tired of the puppies, who were silly young things, and wandered on, exploring and looking for Henry when he thought of it.

  Rain was falling hard now, but Ribsy was dry, because there were roofs over the sidewalks of the shopping center. The harder the rain fell, the faster people hurried toward their cars. A feeling of uneasiness came over Ribsy. He was looking for someone, and it was time he found him. Down went his nose to the pavement, and he whiffled his way out into the rain, searching in earnest along the black asphalt, painted with diagonal white lines that marked the parking spaces.

  Ribsy ran every which way, trying to pick up the familiar scent. Cars honked at him. The rain, which pelted his skin with cold hard drops, turned the pavement into one big muddle of smells, mostly oil, gasoline, and exhaust. Ribsy was worried. Nothing was familiar. When a car slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting him, he became frantic. The car honked angrily, and its chrome shone menacingly.

  “Watch where you’re going, you stupid mutt,” the driver bawled.

  Ribsy began to run. He ran as fast as he could, do
dging in and out among the acres of parked cars in the direction from which he thought he had come. He could find no landmarks. All the white stripes on the asphalt were exactly alike, and all the cars looked pretty much the same to Ribsy. No matter which way he ran there were more cars and more white lines. He was confused, bewildered, and frightened. He was also sopping wet.

  And then Ribsy caught a familiar scent. Even in the rain it was clear and unmistakable. It was the smell of a new car, and it was right beside him. There in the next lane was a blue station wagon that smelled just right. Ribsy, who like all dogs was color-blind, investigated. He found the tailgate window open, and with a leap and a scramble he was inside where it was dry. After giving himself a good hard shake that sent off a shower of rainwater, he curled up on a seat in the smallest possible space to try to warm himself. There he fell asleep while he waited for his family to come back.

  It was some time later that Ribsy was awakened by a man’s voice, saying, “I thought I told you girls not to play around these windows.”

  Suddenly the car seemed to be full of people, most of them girls, dressed in raincoats, corduroy slacks, and boots. Bewildered and half-awake, Ribsy sat up.

  “Daddy, look! A dog!” cried the oldest girl, who was about Henry Huggins’s age.

  “Well, where did you come from?” asked the father, addressing Ribsy.

  “I thought something smelled peculiar,” said the mother. “It was wet dog.”

  “Can we keep him?” asked the second oldest girl, whose raincoat had been mended with adhesive tape.

  “Of course not,” said the mother. “Open the door and let him out.”

  A chorus of protest arose from the children. “Please let us keep him!” “He’s such a nice dog!” “We need a dog.”