Chihuawolf

by Charlee Ganny

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Charlee Ganny

  Cover and internal illustrations © Nicola Slater

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Rose Audette

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.jabberwockykids.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Source of Production: Versa Press, East Peoria, Illinois, USA

  Date of Production: August 2011

  Run Number: 15887

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  This book is dedicated to all my cherished animals,

  but particularly to

  Baby Kitty

  1989–2011

  the tiny orange cat everyone loved.

  Long, dark shadows stretched menacingly across the backyard. The clock on the Methodist Church tower struck 8 p.m. A high, eerie childlike voice broke the night’s silence.

  “Oh, poop!”

  Paco the Chihuahua hung his head. A fat tear formed in his right eye, became a silver drop, ran down his little black nose, and dripped onto the lawn. “Pardon my language, Pewy,” he apologized to a very fat skunk sitting on the grass. “But it’s no use. I sound like a cat with its tail caught in the screen door.”

  Professor “Pewy” Pewmount put a paw up to his chin and thought for a moment. “I believe the problem is that you’re a tenor. Not your fault. It’s your tiny size. Try again. Begin the howl way down in your belly. Think of your throat as a long pipe. Push the sound up and out. I think you can do it.”

  “You do, mi amigo?” Paco brightened. He respected the Professor’s intelligence enormously. After all, the old skunk knew how to get the lid off every garbage can in town.

  Paco threw his head back, inhaled deeply, concentrated, and let loose a howl. “Ahhhhooooooouuuuu.”

  Pewmount clapped. “Much better, my friend. Much better. You’ve definitely improved.”

  Paco shivered with excitement. “Ah sí? Do I sound like a werewolf? Do I? Do I?”

  The skunk got down on all fours and prepared to leave. Tomorrow was a trash collection day. He needed to visit all the garbage cans on Elm Street yet tonight. “I have never heard a werewolf, and I hope I never do. But you now resemble that Boston terrier on the next block. Maybe you will sound like a beagle if you keep practicing.”

  “But that’s not good enough! I must howl like a werewolf by the next full moon. I wish I weren’t muy poco—much, much too little.” The miniature dog lay down on the grass and put his head dejectedly on his front legs.

  Professor Pewmount, who was so fat he waddled instead of walked, moved slowly away into the night. “Never put your wishbone where your backbone ought to be. That’s what my sainted mother used to tell me. You got yourself into this mess…”

  Paco rose and shook himself. “And I’ve got to get myself out of it. I know. Gracias anyway, Pewy.”

  A girl’s worried voice rang through the clear night air. “Paco! Sweetheart, where are you? Oh my little Paquito, where are you?”

  Paco cringed. He hung back. He did not go bounding up to the back door. He got down on his belly and backed quietly under a Hosta plant. Peeking out through the broad leaves with one eye, he spied a flash of pink. Two feet in bunny slippers marched directly to his hiding place.

  “There you are! You are a naughty boy not to come when I call you!” A ten-year-old girl with short brown hair reached down and scooped the small dog up into her arms.

  Paco whimpered and squirmed. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Olivia. He adored her. But he knew what she wanted to do. He had seen the bottle of nail polish on the kitchen counter. No werewolf wore painted toenails. Other dogs would make fun of him. Worse, Natasha—that fine, silky Afghan hound he worshiped with all his heart—would know he was a fraud. She would realize he wasn’t a werewolf. He was merely a small dog who told big stories to try to win her affection.

  He couldn’t bear the thought. He squirmed desperately as Olivia carried him toward the house. White showed around his dark eyes. His whiskers vibrated with fear. But he could not escape. Olivia tightened her grip.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she scolded. She pushed through the back door and entered the kitchen. “Don’t you want to look handsome for your play date tomorrow? You must have a bath, and look over there. I bought you blue nail polish!”

  Blue? Paco tilted his head. His ears perked up. That changed everything. Rock stars wore blue fingernails. Rock stars were cool, fierce, and muy popular. He immediately felt better.

  Paco did not give in to despair, even when he found himself knee-deep in warm water, lilac-scented shampoo cascading down his back. He still had a few days to transform himself into the terrifying creature sometimes called the great lycanthrope—the dreaded werewolf.

  Paco shivered with delight at the thought of becoming that feared creature of myth and legend. He could do it. He would no longer be a member of the smallest dog breed in the world, a seven-pound Mexican shorthair who trembled at the slightest threat. His outside appearance would match what he was on the inside—big, mighty, and fearless. He would have long fangs and sharp claws. He would snarl, and everyone would run. He would be irresistible to the woman he loved.

  The woman he loved. Natasha. Paco smiled to himself. Her name sounded like a rushing stream. Natasha. Her dog tags jingled when she swayed. Natasha. Her barking fell like soft music on his ears. Natasha. Paco’s mood darkened. She called him a canine cannoli, a furry fajita, a miniature snoozer. He sighed.

  He tasted the bitterness of the truth. He knew where he stood with her. Natasha didn’t like puny little pooches. She only gave her heart to perros grandes—big dogs! Great Danes. German shepherds. St. Bernards. Rottweilers. Mighty mastiffs. And if they were bad dogs—dogs who dug huge holes in the yard, dogs who chewed up entire sofas, dogs who picked fights or stole bones or ran away for hours—Natasha liked them even better. Only the biggest, the baddest, the boldest leader of the pack became the beautiful Natasha’s boyfriend.

  Paco the Chihuahua, the poquito, the pipsqueak, could never win her—but maybe Paco the Werewolf would.

  There were demons in the house. Norma-Jean and Little Annie looked like ordinary cats, one gray, one black, but Paco knew the truth. Nothing was ordinary about the
m. Those two possessed criminal minds. They stole his food. They took over his doggy bed. They spent their days plotting new ways to torment him. And like wisps of smoke or transparent ghosts, they slipped away unseen and were never caught at their misdeeds.

  Now, fresh from his bath, his nails barely dry and magnificently blue, Paco entered the living room, hoping to watch some television before he went to bed. He was halfway to his favorite spot on the recliner when he heard giggling. He tensed. He swiveled his head. He saw four glittering yellow eyes peering at him from under the sofa. His breath quickened. He turned to run. But not fast enough.

  A gray paw snaked out, and a sharp pain shot through Paco’s tail. He yelped and spun around to snap at the offender. No one was there. Another sharp pain stung his tail. He yelped louder and turned around again.

  Norma-Jean sat directly in front of him with a huge smile on her face. “Catch me if you can, little guy,” she smirked.

  Little! The word made Paco mad. Once again, being muy poco was his problem.

  Paco growled and curled his lips back to show his tiny white teeth. He sprang forward. Norma-Jean dashed away. But before Paco could give chase, a black blur—Little Annie—raced up and swiped him on the nose as she passed.

  Paco yelped even louder.

  He heard laughter. The two cats stood on the back of the sofa, their arms around each other’s shoulders, their bellies shaking with mirth. Norma-Jean looked down and taunted him. “What’s the matter? Legs too short to catch us?”

  The thought rushed into Paco’s mind, If only he were bigger, they wouldn’t tease him. Just wait until he was a werewolf. He’d show those cats.

  Paco took a great leap and landed on the sofa cushions. His frantic barking echoed through the room. The two cats scrambled up the drapes and climbed onto the curtain rod. They clung to the brass bar and peered down at Paco. They each gave him a wink. Then they started mewing as if their little hearts were breaking.

  A few seconds later, Olivia rushed into the room. She spotted the two cats, who were crying piteously from their high perch. She saw Paco bouncing up and down on the sofa, hoping to jump high enough to reach them.

  “Paco! Bad dog!” she yelled. She dashed across the room to grab him.

  Paco didn’t hesitate. He flew off the sofa in a flash and scurried as fast as he could into the kitchen. His nails clicked against the ceramic tile. He slipped and he slid. He made it to the doggy door leading to the backyard and plunged headlong through it.

  But before the flap closed behind him, he heard Olivia crooning, “You poor, poor kitties. Did that mean old doggy try to hurt you?”

  Smarting with the sting of being tricked, Paco hopped down the back porch stairs. His head hanging in shame, he walked along the flagstone path into the yard. He felt like a total failure. How could he be a convincing werewolf if two cats could outwit him?

  He sat down, putting his little furry behind on the cool stones. He gazed up at the sky. A white half moon sailed across the star-strewn heavens.

  Sadness gripped Paco’s soul. He leaned back his head and howled. “Ahhhhhoooouuuu!”

  A moment passed, heavy with silence. Then, from far, far away came a howl much deeper and more menacing that his own. “AHHHHHOOOOOOOUUUUU.”

  Paco jumped up on his four miniature paws. His hair stood on end. He trembled from the tip of his black nose to the tip of his black tail. He stared into the gloom. He saw nothing. But he knew without a doubt that out there in the dark, dark night, something very big, dangerous, and scary roamed.

  A new day brings new opportunities.

  A night’s rest and a yummy breakfast—uninterrupted by Little Annie and Norma-Jean—restored Paco’s bright outlook. And Olivia had dressed him carefully. His trendy polarized shades went perfectly with his red baseball cap. A blue-striped polo shirt matched his blue nail polish. He peeked into the hall mirror and knew he looked smashing.

  As he and Olivia headed out the front door, the thought of seeing Natasha at his morning play date made him quiver in anticipation. Then a ride in the car, one of his favorite things to do, brought him moments of bliss. With his spirits soaring, he arrived at the backyard pool of Olivia’s best friend, Sandy, whose formal name was Alejandro.

  Daylight sparkled like diamonds on the blue water. Joy bubbled up in Paco’s heart.

  Sandy set out water bowls for the dogs and a cooler with fruit juice and bottles of water inside for everyone else. He waved hello. Olivia and Paco were the very first guests there.

  Olivia unsnapped Paco’s leash, and he took a deep breath of air that smelled faintly of chlorine. He used his back foot to adjust the strap holding his sunglasses in place behind his ears. Then he unrolled a yellow towel next to Olivia’s chaise lounge and lay down. He put his paws behind his apple-shaped head and turned his face toward the sun. He hoped to catch some rays and work on his tan.

  From the beach towel next to his, Sandy’s dog, Coco, an overweight chocolate Labrador retriever, rolled over onto her back, trying to scratch an itch near her shoulder. “You know, Paco, you shouldn’t have told Natasha your real name was El Lobo, the wolf.” She turned a soft brown eye toward her small friend. “If she can’t love you for what you are, she won’t love you if you pretend to be somebody else.”

  Paco furrowed his brow. “Por qué? I don’t follow you.”

  “Because she’ll love the make-believe image, not the real you.” Coco kept her voice gentle. She thought Paco was a splendid fellow. He didn’t have to change even a whisker for her. “I like you just the way you are,” she murmured.

  Paco didn’t hear her. He had already closed his eyes and fallen asleep.

  Almost in the next breath, a flurry of sharp, annoying yips woke him up.

  “B-Boy’s here!” Coco jumped up and barked a greeting to the Jack Russell terrier who ran onto the diving board, spun around four or five times, bounced up and down, and then dove into the pool.

  A brown and white head quickly bobbed to the surface, and the Jack paddled to the ladder and climbed out. He pranced right up to Paco and shook, spraying droplets of icy water on Paco and Olivia.

  “Stop it, B-Boy!” Olivia squealed and scrambled to her feet. “Tommy!” she cried out to the lean, muscular boy with spiky red hair who followed the Jack Russell onto the diving board. “Your dog’s getting me wet. Make him stop!”

  Tommy grinned at her. “Cannonball!” he bellowed, sprinted to the end of the board and jumped. He hit the surface with a loud splash. A geyser of water shot ten feet up into the air. Paco saw what was coming and scooted under the chaise just in time, but buckets of water rained down on Olivia.

  “Noooooo!” Olivia cried. “My hair!” She grabbed a towel and frantically started drying off. She happened to glance at Sandy, who choked back a laugh but ended up with a goofy grin on his face. She stamped her bare feet. “Your friend Tommy has no manners. And you’re no better.” She glared at the olive-skinned boy who had been her very first friend in kindergarten.

  “Aw, come on, Livy! Don’t be mad. So you got wet. You’ve got a bathing suit on. Tommy’s just having fun.”

  Just then, Tommy’s head broke the surface of the water near the side of the pool where Olivia and Sandy were standing. His wet fingers gripped the edge. His cheeks bulged out. His eyes twinkled. He bobbed straight up like a porpoise at Sea World, pursed his lips, and sent a stream of water right at Olivia.

  She danced back, but the spray hit her legs. “Ohhhh, that’s so gross. Tommy Thompson, I hate you for that!” Of course, Olivia didn’t really hate Tommy. In fact, she secretly liked him a lot.

  In the meantime, B-Boy kept barking. He raced all the way around the pool, came back, and did a couple of backflips in front of Paco. Then he threw himself down flat on his stomach, stretched out his back legs, twisted his head around as far as it would go, and started biting at the fur on his shoulder. “A flea! I
think I’ve got a flea!” He yelped between bites. “I can’t stand it. It’s awful. I’m upset. It’s a terrible flea. I can’t get him!”

  B-Boy sprang to his feet to try a different position. He aimed his head at his tail, curved his body like a doughnut, and began to spin. Around and around he went, yapping frantically, chasing the imaginary flea. He went so fast he became a blur.

  “Do you believe that crazy dog?” Paco’s voice was heavy with disapproval as he watched B-Boy’s antics. “He has no cool at all.”

  “He can’t help it, Paco,” Coco said. “He’s a Jack Russell terrier. Everybody knows they’re show-offs.”

  “B-Boy!” Paco yelled. “B-Boy! Yo! I need to ask you something.”

  B-Boy slowed his circling. He raised an eyebrow and looked at Paco. Then he stopped. He straightened his body out, shook himself from head to toe, seemed to think for a second, jumped up on one front leg, and balanced for a minute. Then he came down and grinned a wide doggy grin. “Hey hey hey Paco. Cómo estás—what’s happenin’, homie?”

  Paco rolled his eyes. “Estoy bien. I’m great. I’m your best homie in the whole world. At least, I will be, if you found out what I asked you to.”

  “Oh man, you sure you want to do this thing?” B-Boy nervously marched in place. His pink tongue hung out and he began to pant.

  “I do, if I can. That’s what you were supposed to find out. Can’t you hold still for a minute?”

  B-Boy was now doing a handstand on his front paws. He dropped down on all fours again. “Sorry ’bout that. I got this rhythm in my head and I just have to dance. I gotta dance, dance, dance.” He began bouncing up and down.

  “B-BOY! Alto! Stop!” Paco, frustrated, raised his voice. “Did you get on Tommy’s computer or not?”

  B-Boy kept bouncing. “Sure, sure. He leaves it on 24/7, you know? No problem. He went to sleep and I went right to Google.”

  “And what did you find out?”