Waggit Again

by Peter Howe

  It was his policy to stop every two or three hours. After one such rest he didn’t close the curtain completely, leaving a gap that Waggit could look through as he sat on the bed. It was dark now, and the truck’s dashboard glittered with colored lights. The dog watched the red taillights of the other vehicles going in the same direction as them, and blinked against the glare of the headlights of the cars headed the other way. He felt sorry for them, leaving the city, and wondered if they knew what lay ahead of them. He was pretty sure they would soon come back if they knew what was good for them. Frosty saw him looking at the traffic.

  “Come up here,” he said. “Nothing in my insurance says I can’t have a dog in the cab. Come on.”

  He waved his arm indicating that Waggit should sit in the passenger seat. Cautiously the dog moved forward, not quite sure whether or not this was what Frosty wanted him to do.

  “Come on, young man, hop up,” said Frosty, giving him a helping hand.

  When Waggit finally settled into the seat he was thrilled at the view that he got, and also the feeling of being special. Here he was doing something that apparently even Felicia wasn’t allowed to do. He watched Frosty steer the truck on the highway with his strong muscular arms and huge hands, his eyes constantly checking the mirrors for other traffic. Waggit felt safe, and this sensation made him drowsy, so he turned around a couple of times in the big seat, lay down, and soon was fast asleep.

  He was awoken by the sensation of the truck slowing down, and when he opened his eyes he saw that they were pulling into a gas station. When they were finally at a dead stop Frosty turned around and opened the curtain to reveal that Felicia and Lug had also been dozing. How much time had passed Waggit had no idea, but now there was little traffic on the road.

  “Felicia,” said Frosty, “time to wake up.”

  Felicia yawned and stretched, rubbed her eyes, and looked around.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “This is where I have to drop you off,” he replied. “I’m sorry I can’t take you any farther, but if I don’t get this load to Port Newark on time they’ll have my hide. You’re only about ten or fifteen miles from midtown here.”

  “Is it late?” she asked. She, too, had noticed the lack of traffic.

  “It’s about three in the morning,” Frosty said, “but this is a safe area. You’ll be all right—besides, you’ve got the dogs to protect you.”

  She looked at the sleepy animals and smiled.

  “Fond as I am of these two,” she said to Frosty, “I wouldn’t rely on them to keep me from harm. But you’re right, we’ll be okay, and I thank you for the lift. You’re a good, kind man.”

  Frosty shrugged uncomfortably and almost blushed.

  “It’s no more than any friend would do,” he mumbled.

  Then he opened the door and helped them out. After he and Felicia hugged each other the big man got back into the cab and edged the truck onto the highway, gathering speed until his taillights vanished from view.

  Waggit looked around. The gas station was in a commercial area with other businesses that were now closed. There was a road that went under the highway, and on the far side he could see neat, well-kept suburban houses.

  “That’s the direction I think we should go, don’t you?” asked Felicia as she put on her backpack and gathered up the two dogs’ leashes. They each sniffed the air a couple of times and approved her decision. The three of them set off, passing house after house, all of them very similar, with small front yards and one car parked in the driveway. It was very quiet, and not a soul was around. The only sound they heard was the occasional barking from dogs warning them to stay away from their turf. Waggit realized that if it wasn’t for Felicia he would be scared, and even with her he was a little nervous.

  “I’ve never liked the suburbs,” she said, as if she was feeling the same way. “They seem to be neither one thing or another.”

  Using her flashlight she studied her map, turning it this way and that, and scratched her head.

  “I can’t make head nor tail out of where we are from this,” she said, turning to Waggit. “What does your nose say?”

  Waggit turned around, but there was no tingling sensation at all.

  “I think my nose is lost too,” he said.

  “We’re all tired,” said Felicia. “Let’s find somewhere to sleep, and in the morning maybe our noses and maps will make more sense.”

  Finding somewhere to sleep was easier said than done, however. They kept on walking, but all the streets looked alike. They seemed to be getting nowhere. Then they saw the glow of some streetlights in the distance and headed in that direction. After a few wrong turns down dead ends they came upon what looked like a village center. There were stores and a church, and an official-looking building that could be a town hall. Next to this was a park. It had black iron railings all around it, but the gates were open, and although it was small it was well kept, with a fountain in the center surrounded by flowerbeds and trees and shrubs along the edges.

  “What’s this?” Waggit asked Felicia.

  “It’s a park,” she answered.

  “It’s not the park!” said Waggit with a derisory growl.

  “I didn’t say it was the park,” said Felicia. “I said it was a park. It’s also probably the best place to get some sleep.”

  She led the two dogs inside the gates and looked around. At the far end there was a chain-link fence. The bushes and shrubs in front of it were overgrown, as if the gardeners had run out of energy before they got to them. Felicia saw that there was a space between some of the bushes and the fence that would be just big enough to pitch the tent. She proceeded to do this, and in no time they were zipping up the front opening with the three of them safely inside. As the warmth from their bodies heated its interior they all fell deeply asleep. As it turned out their sleep was to be brief. It was no more than half an hour after they had settled down when the tent was lit up by a powerful beam of light and a loud voice said:

  “People in the tent, this is the police. Come out with your hands up.”

  11

  Trapped by Fear

  Inside the tent its occupants sprang awake. Waggit’s tail wagged ferociously, a sure sign that he was scared.

  “Who’s outside, and what did he say?” he whispered to Felicia.

  “It’s a policeman,” she replied, “and he told us to put up our hands.”

  “We don’t have hands,” whined Lug. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’d better handle this,” said Felicia. “It’s a human-to-human situation. Just stay calm and don’t growl.”

  She unzipped the opening of the tent and stuck her hands through it.

  “I’m coming out,” she shouted, and crawled out on her hands and knees. The dogs followed, tails down and ears flat to their heads. They were confronted by a rather elderly and overweight officer holding his gun and flashlight together in both hands. He was obviously as nervous as they were, because both the weapon and the lamp shook considerably, causing the beam of light to wobble back and forth.

  “Keep your hands where I can see ’em,” he said.

  Felicia did as she was told and stood up with her hands over her head. She was a good six inches taller than the policeman, and with her arms raised she towered over him.

  “Do you have any weapons?” he asked.

  “Goodness gracious, no,” said Felicia, “unless of course you count my Swiss Army knife, but that’s in my backpack in the tent.”

  “Ma’am, what are you doing in a tent in the park?” he asked. He seemed confused by her, as if she wasn’t what he was expecting.

  “My dogs and I were sleeping,” Felicia explained.

  “But it’s a park,” he said. “You can’t pitch a tent in the park.”

  “Actually,” said Felicia, trying to sound as reasonable as she could, “it’s the only place around here that you can.”

  “That’s not the point,” said the policeman. “You’r
e not supposed to camp in this area at all. It’s the suburbs, not Yellowstone.”

  “Well,” said Felicia, “we had to sleep somewhere, didn’t we? Now can we stop this silliness and let me put my hands down? I’m clearly not a threat.”

  She dropped her arms without waiting for permission. The policeman, sensing that he was getting nowhere in this discussion, changed tactics. He looked at the dogs.

  “Do you have licenses for those two?” he asked.

  “We’re from way upstate,” said Felicia. “You don’t need licenses where we come from.”

  “Well,” said the officer, “you’re not upstate now, and around here dogs need to be licensed. If yours aren’t, I’m going to have to call the Animal Control officer and have her take them into custody until you complete the necessary paperwork.”

  Although Waggit couldn’t understand the conversation between the two of them, he was becoming increasingly panicked. He still had a deep fear of Ruzelas. Just seeing this man brought back terrible memories of being captured by park rangers and taken to the pound. He remembered the nightmarish ride in the dog catcher’s truck to the Great Unknown, and being put in a cage. The policeman asked Felicia for ID, and she dropped the leashes in order to get her wallet out of her back pocket. It was at that moment that Waggit made his decision.

  He edged around so that he was behind Felicia. From this position there was nobody between him and the gate. As Felicia and the policeman were discussing her ID, he ran as fast as his legs would take him. Unfortunately so did Lug, whose ability to move quickly was nothing compared to Waggit’s. Waggit realized that the lumbering dog was following him, and he stopped, wondering what to do.

  He could hear Felicia shout, “Boys, come back! Please come back!”

  I can’t, he thought. I’ve got to get away.

  Then he looked at Lug, panting and wheezing, his large body rolling as he moved, and he just couldn’t abandon him there, so he ran back and took the leash that Lug was dragging behind him in his mouth and pulled the dog as fast as they both could go. They ran like this for several blocks until Lug gasped, “Waggit, you’ve got to stop. I can’t go on.”

  It was clear that the overweight animal was exhausted, and so Waggit looked around for somewhere to hide. The street they were on had a house where renovations were being made, and in front of it was a large green Dumpster. Leaning against it was a plank of wood that the workers used for their wheelbarrows. They would run them up the plank, tip the contents out into the container, and then bring them down the same way. Waggit dragged the protesting Lug up it. When he got to the top he peered over. Even in the darkness he could see that it was only about one third full, and the drop from the plank to the bottom was considerable. Just then he heard the sound of a motor and saw the headlights of a vehicle coming their way. Another wave of terror overtook him, and with Lug’s leash in his mouth, he leapt into the darkness of the Dumpster.

  The two of them crashed on top of each other, rolling over and over. Fortunately the last thing that the workers had thrown into the container was some old insulation material, so their landing was soft but itchy. Little bits of fiberglass stuck to their coats, causing Waggit to scratch ferociously. It was worse for Lug, whose wounds were still not fully healed.

  “What did you do that for?” he panted, still out of breath. “We could’ve landed on anything, broken glass even.”

  This was true, and Waggit felt ashamed that his fear might have caused them both harm.

  “Well,” he said defensively, “at least we’re safe in here for the moment.”

  “Oh, we’re safe all right,” said Lug, “so safe that we may never be able to get out until they dump more stuff in here. Unfortunately, of course, that will be on top of us.”

  Waggit looked up at the rim of the Dumpster and realized that Lug, who was an expert on such matters, was right. There was no way they would ever be able to climb out. What had appeared to be a safe hiding place was now a prison. He cursed himself for giving in to panic. For the second time in as many days he was stuck with the pit bull, not knowing what to do next.

  “What should we do?” Lug asked.

  “I don’t know,” Waggit replied. “I don’t know.”

  The two dogs fell silent, Waggit trying to work out a solution to their problem and Lug wandering around sniffing at things. After a few moments Lug started to dig in one corner.

  “Well,” he said, triumphantly, “it’s not all bad news.”

  In his mouth he was holding the remains of a barbecued chicken that had been lunch for one of the workers. Waggit was so angry with himself that he couldn’t eat any of it, which didn’t seem to upset Lug at all. To the sound of bones being crunched, Waggit turned ideas over in his head, rejecting one after the other until he suddenly sat up.

  “I know what might work,” he said.

  “What?” mumbled Lug through a mouthful of food.

  “You know how sometimes Felicia seems to know what you’re thinking and even where you are?” asked Waggit. He remembered the time when she came right up to the tall grass by the river and knew exactly where he was hiding.

  “Can’t say I do,” replied Lug, “but you know her better than me.”

  “Well, she does,” said Waggit. “So why don’t we both close our eyes and concentrate on her and maybe she’ll pick up our thoughts. Maybe she’ll hear us thinking.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Lug. “It seems nuts to me, but we’ve got nothing better to do.”

  Waggit was annoyed that Lug seemed to be criticizing his plan, since all he had contributed to the solution was a couple of belches, but he let it go. If his idea had a chance of succeeding he would have to have a clear and open mind. So the two dogs closed their eyes and tried to think as hard as they could about Felicia. At least Waggit did. Lug tried, but after a couple of minutes he fell asleep, the chicken having calmed his fears for the moment.

  Waggit continued to concentrate, putting everything else out of his mind. Suddenly he heard Felicia’s voice in his head, but it was broken up, like a bad cell phone connection.

  “Waggit…me, Felicia…tell…louder…think…”

  He tried as hard as he could to think louder, which is very difficult to do. Then he heard her voice in his head again.

  “Waggit, are you getting me now? Where are you?”

  “We’re trapped in a Dumpster about six or seven blocks from the park.”

  “Well…I…the thing…quite useless.”

  Then she was gone, and there was nothing in his head.

  Waggit lay in the Dumpster listening to the world come to life. It was quite light now, and car doors were slammed and engines started as their owners went off to work. School buses and trucks rumbled by, and occasionally there was the shrill whine of a motorbike speeding past. The longer they lay there the more Waggit despaired of Felicia ever finding them. He put his head on his paws and sighed often.

  Then he heard footsteps coming up to the Dumpster. Could it be her? He tried thinking really hard to make sure she didn’t walk by. No, the boots were coming toward them. Then a head peered over the top of the container, but it wasn’t her. It was a man with a big mustache and a red handkerchief tied around his head.

  “What the…?” he cried as he saw the two animals. “Hey, Charlie, come and see what we’ve got here.”

  In a few moments another face appeared, that of another man.

  “Well, well,” the second man remarked. “And what are you two doing in there? Came looking for food, I’ve no doubt, and then couldn’t get out. Come on, Ron, let’s give them a hand.”

  “Are you kidding?” said the first man. “And get bitten to death? I don’t like the look of that one”—he pointed to Lug—“and the other’s big enough that I’m not going to take him on.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” agreed the second man. “No point in taking risks, although they’re not strays. They’ve got leashes on.”

  “Just because that nasty-looking o
ne’s got a bit of string around his neck doesn’t mean he’s not a stray or that he doesn’t have rabies,” said the other. “I think we should call the cops. They’ll get them out of there.”

  He took out his cell phone and dialed.

  “Yeah, is this the police? No, it’s not an emergency. Me and my buddy are working on a house at 23 Dog-wood Lane. There’s a couple of stray dogs that got stuck in our Dumpster, and one of them looks vicious. Can you send someone? No, there’s no hurry. They ain’t going anywhere. My name? Carpenter. Carpenter by name, carpenter by trade. Okay, thanks.”

  He snapped his phone shut and turned to the other man.

  “They said they can’t get here straightaway, but that it was a good thing I called. Apparently one of their officers has already had an incident with them. They’ll come and take them to the pound.”

  12

  Narrow Escape

  The two men went back into the house where they were working. Waggit was fairly certain that even though they had gone away, the reprieve was only temporary.

  “We’ve got to find a way to get out of here,” he said to Lug, who had been startled awake by the two men.

  “But how?” asked Lug. “The sides are way too steep.”

  “Start bringing everything that you can move to this end of the Dumpster,” Waggit ordered. “And let’s do it quickly. We may not have much time.”

  Lug began to pull all the loose objects in the pile toward the end that Waggit had indicated. There were big plastic buckets that had once contained joint compound, broken planks of wood, cardboard boxes, the ends of insulation rolls, and any number of assorted items, some of which were useful, most of which weren’t. As Lug dragged them to him, Waggit started to build them up against the side of the Dumpster, carefully placing items one on top of the other. He went as high as he could, and after several minutes had constructed a rather wobbly platform.