Guinea Dog 2

by Patrick Jennings

  He pulls me up by my arm and hooks it over his shoulder. “Please, miss,” he says to Lurena, “grab hold of his other arm and let’s get him into the building, stat. That means at once.”

  “I know what stat means,” Lurena says.

  She takes my other arm, and my crutches drop to the ground. I lose my balance and fall backward, dragging the two of them with me. As we lie on the sidewalk with everyone standing above us, laughing uncontrollably, I spot an animal galloping across the lawn. It’s small and furry, and its tongue is hanging out of its mouth. It’s not a cat. It’s not a dog … exactly. It has a mohawk. A white one.

  5. I’m almost positive guinea pigs can’t open car doors.

  I doubt they could survive a leap out the window of a moving vehicle, either. But when it comes to Fido, anything is possible.

  “Fido!” I call out, then immediately regret it. This bunch is so worked up, they might stampede her.

  “It’s the guinea dog!” they start yelling. “It’s the guinea dog!”

  Fido stops in her tracks and makes a small, scared yelp. I don’t think she likes being targeted by a mob, either.

  The crowd rushes toward her. She does a one-eighty and flees as fast as she can.

  “Save her!” I yell at Murphy and Lurena, who have gotten to their feet. “Save Fido!”

  Lurena is first out of the gate, with Murphy right behind her. I work on getting up, which is not easy. Stupid crutches! Stupid boot! Stupid, stupid foot!

  “Don’t chase her into the street!” I scream, because that’s exactly where Fido is heading. I shudder, thinking she might run in front of a school bus. “Circle around, Murph! Head her off!”

  “I’m on it!” Murphy answers, and picks up speed. He’s faster than Fido and should be able to get in front of her.

  Unfortunately, the other kids got a head start, and some of them are pretty fast, especially Dmitri. I think he’s the fastest. Probably because he wants Fido the most.

  I wonder what he’ll do if he catches her? Would he give her back to me?

  “Lurena!” I yell. “Stop Dmitri!” I feel so powerless. A herd of kids bearing down on Fido, and I can’t do anything but yell. It’s awful.

  Lurena flashes a thumbs-up, then turns and runs straight at Dmitri, her long dress flapping like a flag in the wind. Surprisingly, she’s faster than he is. Probably because she doesn’t like him, and because she really likes Fido.

  When she gets close enough, she takes a dive at his knees and brings him down. Boy, is he mad, but Lurena doesn’t hang around to listen to him tell her off. She bounces to her feet and races after Fido. She doesn’t even brush the dried leaves and twigs out of her long hair.

  Murphy heads Fido off at the row of hedges that mark the edge of school grounds. He kneels down.

  “Here, girl,” he says in a kind voice. He crouches and reaches out a hand. “Here, Fido. Come on. Come here, girl.”

  Fido streaks straight to him—and straight between his legs. Straight into the bushes. And she’s gone.

  Her pursuers stop their pursuit and groan. You’re not allowed to leave school grounds once you’re on them.

  “Nice catch,” I say to Murphy, as I hobble over.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I forgot she’s so small. How’d she get away from your dad?”

  “I have no idea, but she’s good at getting away.”

  “I remember when she sneaked into your backpack,” Lurena says, walking over.

  “That was some tackle,” Murph says. “Considered going out for the Steelers?”

  “I have to find Fido.”

  “You can’t leave school grounds. And if you find her, you can’t bring her into the building. Pet rodents aren’t allowed in school.” She scowls. “Which is a totally unfair rule, by the way.”

  “I’ll help you find her,” Murph says. “Even if it makes me late for class.”

  “Gee, thanks for making the supreme sacrifice.”

  “I’ll help, too,” Lurena says.

  This is surprising. Lurena is Miss Perfect Attendance. But then she’s also the Rodent Queen.

  “Thanks,” I say, then cup my hands around my mouth and call, “Fido, come! Come, Fido!”

  She pokes her head out of the hedge. She pants a few times. She runs at me. She’s always been such an obedient dog. Er, pig. Er, rodent.

  “Cool!” someone says.

  “Did you see that?” asks someone else.

  “It came when he called!”

  “It really is trained!”

  “Just like a dog!”

  “Fifty bucks for it!” This is Dmitri.

  “She’s not for sale, Dmitri,” Lurena says. “Get it through your thick skull.”

  “Still got her fighting your battles, eh, Rufus? What, are you guys married or something?”

  He looks ready to boil over again.

  The bell rings. Thank Dog. The crowd heads inside.

  Fido trots up to me. I bend over to pet her … and fall on my head.

  “Darn crutches!” I growl. “Darn Dad!”

  You’d think an adult would be able to hold on to one fat little rodent, wouldn’t you?

  “Rufus!” a voice calls out.

  It’s Dad. Did he hear me?

  He’s getting out of his car, which he’s parked in the street diagonally over two parking spaces. Not very Dad-like. He runs over without shutting his door. Also, not very Dad-like.

  “Have you seen Fido?” he asks, out of breath. He doesn’t exercise enough. Mom always tells him that.

  Fido pops out from behind me. Fortunately, I didn’t crush her when I fell.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “She jumped out the window when I stopped at an intersection,” Dad says, as if it’s the most shockingly rude thing he’d ever seen. “I got out to catch her, and she just took off!” He stops and holds his side, like he has a cramp. “I ran after her.”

  “So I see.”

  “Well, I’ll take her. You three should get inside. I heard the bell. School’s starting.”

  “Are you sure you won’t let her get away again?” I ask.

  He gives me the Stony Stare.

  “Okay,” I say. “Fido, go to Dad.”

  She whimpers.

  “You heard me. Go.”

  She hangs her head and trudges over to my dad. He scoops her up. Then he looks at us, each of us, up and down.

  “What happened to you three?” he asks.

  I guess we do look a little scruffy. Dirt. Grass stains. Messed-up hair with dried leaves and twigs in it.

  “Touch football,” Murph says with a smile. “Lurena tackled Dmitri.”

  Lurena smiles, too.

  “On that foot?” Dad says, pointing at my boot.

  “He’s joking,” I say. “We all fell down.”

  “We were playing ‘Ring Around the Rosy,’ ” Murph says.

  “Funny,” Dad says, turning to leave. “Get to class.”

  It isn’t till we’re inside that we discover Fido had gotten away from him again. All my classmates are pressed up to the windows, laughing as Dad chases her around the playground, hunched over, his hands out, trying to catch her. He stumbles a couple times. He runs into a swing and gets tangled up. He bonks his head on the slide.

  I know I should go out there and help him, but what I really want to do is to run away and hide.

  6. A person can’t run away with a broken foot.

  This has not been a normal school day for me. On a normal school day, kids don’t surround me every chance they get, telling me how lucky I am, asking me questions, and pestering me for favors. Normally, they barely notice me.

  Lurena, who has always pestered me, has been pestering me overtime. Yeah, she defends me, but that’s probably the worst thing a girl can do to a guy my age. It brought out even more meanness and rudeness than usual from Dmitri. In fact, today he’s earned extra-credit points in meanness and rudeness.

  It has been a bad day. A very bad day. A very, ver
y bad day. Our teacher, Ms. Charp, always says not to use very twice in a row like that, but I bet she’s never had the kind of day I’ve had. I’m having a very, very, very bad day. Take that, Ms. Charp.

  When finally the last bell rings, Murphy and I—with a mob of kids following us—walk out to Dad’s car. Well, Murph and the mob walk. I hobble. I’m a hobbler. A mobbed hobbler.

  Dad didn’t bring Fido this time. Smart man.

  “You want me to come over for a while and help you get around?” Murphy asks.

  “No thanks,” I say. “You’ve helped enough.” I climb into the car, slam the door, and, to Dad, say, “Drive.”

  He hits the gas—or electricity, or whatever—and the hybrid moves away without a sound. I’ve never enjoyed silence more.

  At home, I hobble from the car to the house, hobble up the porch steps, hobble up the inside steps, hobble to my room, then drop my crutches and collapse onto my bed. I stare up at the glow-in-the-dark solar system my mom stuck to my ceiling when I was little. It’s afternoon, so it isn’t glowing. It’s just a bunch of cheap, milky-green plastic blobs.

  Fido was waiting for me at the door when I came in, by the way. Was she glad to see me or sorry for causing such chaos at school? Probably a little of both. I hobbled past her, and she followed me up here. She’s now lying beside me, licking my fingers over and over with her little pink tongue. I start to relax for the first time all day.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  Fido barks.

  “Who’s there?” I ask.

  “Your friend is here to see you, Rufus,” my dad says from the hall.

  Friend? Which friend? I didn’t invite anyone.

  “Lurena!” Lurena calls.

  Of course.

  “We’re taking a nap,” I say. “I’m really tired from my first day back at school.”

  “I brought Sharmet with me,” Lurena says. “To see Fido.”

  Fido growls. She wants to see, or maybe eat, the animal on the other side of the door.

  Sharmet is Lurena’s hamster. She pronounces it like ballet: shar-MAY. She used to have two hamsters, but, according to her, the other one, Amherst, died of old age. Both hamsters’ names, Sharmet and Amherst, are anagrams of the word hamster. Scrambling words is something Lurena and I have in common. That and rodent ownership.

  “May we come in, please, Rufus?” Dad asks. There’s impatience in his voice. He wants to ditch Lurena with me and get back to work.

  I don’t want Lurena to come in. I didn’t invite her. She just showed up. As usual. I wonder if she also brought her chinchilla, China C. Hill, whose name is an anagram of chinchilla. Lurena has a theme going with her pet names.

  “We’ll wait for you in the kitchen,” Dad grunts, then more patiently says, “Come on, Lurena. I’ll get you and your gerbil a snack.”

  “Oh, it’s not a gerbil, Art,” Lurena says. “She’s a hamster. I named her Sharmet, which is an anagram of …”

  Their voices fade away. Fido turns her head and looks at me. Eagerly. She wants to see (eat) Sharmet.

  “All right,” I say, and sit up.

  Fido runs up to Sharmet in the kitchen and growls, her round ears flattened, her tiny teeth bared. Sharmet climbs up Lurena’s long purple sleeve. Sharmet is a hider. According to Lurena, all Sharmet ever does is hide, which does not make her a good “buddy” for China—which, I guess, is why Lurena left China C. at home.

  “I’m thinking I might get a ground squirrel,” Lurena says as Sharmet inches farther up her sleeve. The thing’s shivering like crazy. Sharmet, I mean, not Lurena. “They have one in at Exotique. It’s so cute I could die.”

  Do people really die from seeing cute things? Would it be a bad thing if those people died?

  Exotique is a store that sells all kinds of strange pets: ground squirrels, teacup pigs, skunks, cockroaches, chinchillas. Yes, Lurena bought China C. there.

  “You want a pet squirrel?” I ask.

  “Squirrels are way more active than most domestic rodents. Except Fido, of course. Fido’s special.”

  My special domestic rodent is at the moment spinning in a circle, trying to catch her own tail, though she doesn’t have one. Chasing her own rear end is how she deals with frustration. Me, I like to ride my bike.

  “Okay, Lurena,” I say. “You have to leave now. I’m going on a bike ride.”

  “A bike ride? With that?” She points at my boot.

  “I actually ride better with it,” I lie. I haven’t biked since the accident. “You don’t have your bike with you, do you?”

  “No,” she says. “But I could run home and get it.”

  I was afraid of this. “No, I want to ride alone.”

  Lurena nods. She isn’t listening. She’s looking at Fido. More like inspecting her.

  “What?” I ask.

  “She’s getting fat.”

  “I’m sure she is. Except for today’s little adventure, she’s been stuck in the house since I hurt my foot. Plus, I sneak her a lot of table food.”

  Lurena frowns.

  “Running alongside my bike will burn some calories,” I say, and stand up. “Good-bye, Lurena.”

  She nods again. “Okay. I get it. I’m leaving. But you really should stop feeding her human food, Rufus. If she gets too fat, she’ll get rodent liver disease.”

  “Is that really a thing?”

  She tilts her head. “How well do I know rodents, Rufus?”

  “Right. So it’s exercise time for Fido. Come on, girl. Bike ride!”

  Fido hops up and down. She loves bike rides as much as I do.

  “And you’re sure it’s okay to ride a bike with that boot on?” Lurena asks.

  “Of course it is,” I say.

  But I’m not.

  7. Fido isn’t too fat to fall through sewer grates.

  That’s one thing I learned on our bike ride. I also learned she can swim. And that she can hold on to a stick tight enough for me to hoist her up. And that a quick dip in a sewer makes a guinea pig smell awful. Like a pig, I guess. I’ve never smelled a real live pig, but if they smell half as bad as Fido did after her swim in the sewer, they must stink to high heaven. I made her run behind the bike the rest of the way.

  Another thing I learned: riding a BMX while wearing a medical boot is dangerous. The boot rubbed on the road. The bike wobbled. I nearly died.

  “Roof!” Murphy says when he sees me wobbling up. “Did you forget your foot is broken?”

  “Shut up and get a hose!” I yell. “And dog shampoo! No questions! Do it now!”

  He laughs, then runs to the spigot and twists it. I ride to the end of the hose, which is lying across the lawn like a long green snake. I drop my bike, grab the spray nozzle, and shoot a stream of water at Fido. It hits her in the face and sends her somersaulting backward.

  “Don’t drown her,” Murphy says, running toward Fido with a bottle of shampoo.

  Fido looks like a drowned rat. She looks up gloomily through her dripping fur.

  “I think she’s good and wet,” Murphy says. “Ready for the wash cycle?” He squeezes a glob of shampoo into his palm, then rubs it into Fido’s wet coat. She squirms under his hands a little, then relaxes.

  He laughs. “Was it a skunk?”

  “Sewer. She scared me to death. She ran over a grate and just disappeared.”

  Murphy keeps laughing. Everything’s funny to this guy.

  “How’d you get her out?” he asks.

  “I found a stick and lowered it down through the grate; she bit down on it, and I lifted her out.”

  “Seriously?” He scratches Fido’s head. “You are the coolest guinea dog ever.”

  “Do you think there are more?”

  He shrugs. “Even if there aren’t, Fido’s the coolest.”

  This doesn’t make sense, but I let it go, and ask, “Can you go for a ride?”

  “I can’t believe you’re riding a bike with that boot on.”

  “It’s easy,” I lie. “Come o
n. I need a nice long bike ride. Lurena came over again.”

  More laughter. “Okay. I’ll go get Buddy.”

  “And you finished your homework, right?”

  “What do you think?” He flashes a mischievous smile.

  If he doesn’t bring his grades up, he’ll have to repeat fifth grade. He doesn’t want that any more than I do, but unless I keep after him, it will happen. He’s used to charming his way out of problems. He’s good at it. Everybody loves Murphy, and everybody lets him slide. Everyone except Ms. Charp, that is. And me.

  “I think you didn’t do it,” I say.

  He laughs. No surprise there.

  “It’s not funny. You want to flunk?”

  He stops smiling and fake-furrows his brow. “Yes, I do. I want to flunk. My goal is to spend the rest of my life in the fifth grade. I want to be the world’s first fifty-year-old fifth grader. I’ll make them buy me a desk that rocks. A rocking desk.”

  “Go get your homework. I’ll help you with it. And let Buddy out so she and Fido can play till we’re finished.”

  “But I told you, I want—”

  “Save it, Smurph,” I say, using the name I’ve called him since kindergarten. “Get the dog and the math.”

  He snaps to attention, and salutes me crisply. “Yes, suh!” he says, then pivots and marches toward the house like a soldier. He opens the door and calls, “Attention, Buddy! Fido is here for a playdate! Come here on the double!”

  Buddy bounds out the door, down the steps, and across the lawn. Buddy is the world’s most perfect dog: big, black, muscular, fast, fun, smart, obedient, and loyal. If I could have a dog, she’d be the one I’d want.

  Murphy once offered to trade Buddy for Fido. I didn’t take him seriously, though. He likes to fool around. He says things all the time that aren’t exactly true.

  I wonder if he meant it.

  Even if he did, Dad wouldn’t have allowed me to do it.

  What kind of crazy nut turns down a dog like Buddy?

  My dad.

  Buddy runs at us and starts licking the lather off Fido. I set her down and spray her gently with the hose. Buddy gets a little wet in the process.