Guinea Dog 2

by Patrick Jennings

  “Here—spray this!” Murphy calls from the porch, holding up his homework. “I’ll tell Ms. Charp there was a flood!”

  I set the nozzle to FINE and squeeze the trigger. A thin line of water streams into Murphy’s face.

  “Hey!” he splutters. “You missed!”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  He drops his homework, gives a Tarzan yell, then wrestles the nozzle away from me.

  All four of us end up soaked to the skin.

  Glorious.

  8. Our fun was ruined by a girl and her hamster.

  Lurena rode up on her sparkly purple bike, Sharmet peeking from the flowery basket attached to her handlebars.

  “Why are you guys all wet?” she asks.

  “We’re giving Fido a bath,” I say, and point the nozzle at her. “Want one?”

  “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare!” she screams, and ducks her head behind her basket.

  I don’t dare, but not because she doesn’t deserve it. She does, for barging in where she wasn’t wanted. Again. No, I don’t blast her with cold water because I don’t want her to be a part of our wet fun. And I do not want to see her soaked to the skin. Blech.

  “What do you want, Lurena?” I ask. “Why did you come here?”

  “To give Sharmet a bath?” she says.

  “Sure!” Murphy says. “The more the merrier!”

  That’s sort of his catchphrase.

  Lurena lifts her trembling hamster out of the basket, and I pull the trigger to the hose and douse it. I get Lurena a little, too.

  “Hey!” she squeals. “You could warn a person!”

  “You’re right,” I say, “I could. But I don’t always remember to. If you don’t want to get wet, I suggest you leave.”

  “Okay, I will,” she says, taking off her frilly scarf and wrapping Sharmet in it. “I was just being friendly.”

  She looks hurt, which makes me feel bad. I don’t hate her or anything. I didn’t mind that she came over when I was laid up. It was boring being in bed all the time, even with a great pal like Fido around. Lurena and I played Scrabble, which was kind of fun, mostly because I usually won. But I can’t have her dropping by whenever she feels like it. Or following me around. It’s embarrassing. She’s starting to act like a friend. I need to put a stop to it.

  “Good,” I say. “See you at school.”

  She frowns at me and puts her hamster back in her bike basket. “Thanks for giving Sharmet a bath. She hated it.” Then she rides away.

  “She likes you,” Murphy says.

  “I don’t care,” I say. Though I do. “Let’s do your math so we can go for a ride.”

  “I’ll do it when we get back.”

  I give him the Stony Stare.

  “All right, Art,” he says. “I’ll do it now.”

  He gets some towels and we dry off, then we sit at the picnic table in his backyard. His dad has this huge silver gas grill that looks like what an astronaut would grill steaks on. He also has a workshop that he built himself and that’s filled with tons of tools, including a band saw, a table saw, and a lathe. He made a playhouse for Murphy and his little sister, A.G., and a tree house, and a huge play structure with two swings, two slides, climbing ropes, and sliding poles. He even built the picnic table we’re sitting on. His dad likes building things and fixing things. He even fixed my foot. He’s a podiatrist.

  Murphy not only has the best-ever dog, he has the best-ever dad.

  My dad doesn’t have a workshop or build and fix things. He has a toolbox and a workbench in the garage, but they’re always covered with cobwebs. He calls someone if something is broken. He never barbecues. He’s an editor for a golf e-zine, so mostly he sits at his computer in his gray suit and fuzzy slippers, moving his fingers and his lips, sighing and groaning.

  “Mom says you have to stop fooling around and do your homework,” A.G. says, busting out the back door. She’s in her pajamas because she stayed home from school today. Again. She pretends she’s sick a lot.

  “You tell her that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Murphy says, holding up his math book.

  “What disease do you have now?” I ask.

  “Mom thinks it’s just allergies, but I looked up my symptoms online, and I’m pretty sure it’s tonsillitis. So I’ll be checking into the hospital pretty soon, for a tonsillectomy.”

  “Gee, sis,” Murphy says. “That’s terrible. Will you still be able to talk?”

  “Not for a while, I’m afraid.” She shakes her head, tragically.

  “Then I guess Mom will have to remind me herself to do what I’m already doing,” Murphy says, with a toothy smile.

  A.G. scowls and goes back inside. Murphy has the worst-ever little sister.

  Right about then, Buddy races by. Fido follows a bit later, struggling to keep up. For a guinea pig, she’s fast. But compared to Buddy …

  “You know, sometimes I wish I had an ordinary dog,” I say.

  “But you have an extraordinary dog,” Murphy answers. “Everybody wants a dog like Fido.”

  “I know. That’s part of the problem. Today was terrible. I’ve never gotten so much attention in my life.”

  “What’s wrong with attention?”

  I forget for a second that I’m talking to Murphy Molloy, the supreme master of attention getting. He loves it. He’s not going to understand how it makes it hard for me to breathe. Or speak.

  “It’s not even me they’re interested in. It’s Fido. She’s the attraction. I’m just her handler.”

  “So take this chance and let everybody get to know you,” Murphy says. “You’re a good guy. A great guy. Why do you want to hide it?”

  “Of course you think that. We’ve been friends since we were little.”

  “I think it because it’s true. Look at Lurena. She likes you, too.”

  “I don’t care,” I say again, but then I wonder, Does she? Isn’t it just Fido—and maybe anagramming—that she finds interesting about me? Were we friends before Fido? No. Are we friends now?

  I hope not.

  Right?

  I honestly don’t know how I feel about it.

  Buddy and Fido return, and Buddy sets her head on Murphy’s lap. Fido sets hers on my boot.

  “A normal dog would definitely be better,” I say, ending the discussion. “Now do your math.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Murphy says, as he leans down and scratches Fido’s head. “Hey, is it me or is Fido getting kind of chubby?”

  9. What I Would Do if I Were Presidog of the United States of America.

  (Based on a very, very creative prompt assigned by Ms. Charp.)

  • Give all kids with broken bones three months off school.

  • Give all kids with broken bones a dog.

  • Give all kids a dog.

  • Own as many dogs as I want.

  • Change the name of the White House to the Dog House.

  • Change “President” to “Presidog.”

  • Make it illegal for fathers to refuse to give their sons dogs.

  • Make it twice as illegal for mothers to bring home strange rodents instead of dogs.

  • Make asking questions about or begging for guinea dogs a federal offense punishable by ninety days of listening to Lurena tell you everything she knows about rodents.

  • Lock up all people who go where they aren’t invited.

  • Lock up all people who try to catch other people’s pets with a butterfly net (for example, Dmitri).

  • Declare war on Dmitri.

  • Make Lurena U.S. ambassador to Jupiter.

  • Have the military custom-build an armor suit for me that prevents all broken bones, and, while they’re at it, build me the best bike ever, then …

  • Quit, because I hate being a celebrity.

  My week has not gone well. It’s gone very, very, very, very bad.

  If Murphy’s right and I’m a great guy, why don’t I feel great? I feel the opposite of great. I feel bad. Very, very, ve
ry, very.

  A lot of uninvited guests have come snooping around my house, knocking on the door, driving my dad crazy, driving me crazy, acting crazy. One kid climbed up the tree outside my bedroom window, hoping to take pictures of the guinea dog, but all he saw was me spelling out angry words with my Scrabble tile collection. He took pictures anyway, then asked me for money in exchange for not showing them to my mom. Another kid brought over his pet iguana and wanted to trade. I told him to get the angry word out of here. Another one wanted me to exchange his sugar packet collection for Fido. I was tempted. I like sugar a whole lot. But I said no thanks.

  Dmitri really did try to catch Fido with a butterfly net. What a dope. Even if he’d caught her, she would have chewed her way out. And he didn’t catch her.

  Lurena still has not caught on that I don’t want her dropping by all the time. I mean, she drops by all the time. You’d almost think she lived here. It’s like a nightmare I can’t wake up from. And I still think all she’s interested in is Fido. Fido, Scrabble, and telling me interesting facts about rodents. Who knew chinchillas grow more than fifty hairs out of each follicle, while humans only grow one? And who cares? She really wants our rodents to become friends. Unfortunately, Fido really wants to eat Sharmet and China C.

  Murphy keeps telling me I’m lucky to have Fido, and I still like her and all, but more and more I’ve been wishing things would return to normal. I want a normal dog. I want Fido to be a normal guinea pig. I want to go back to not being noticed.

  And I have an idea that might make it all come true.

  10. Maybe you can unteach a dog tricks.

  I take Fido out to the backyard and, like usual, she finds a stick and carries it to me in her mouth. She wants to play Fetch. I don’t usually say no to her, but I’m thinking I should start. Maybe if I stop encouraging her to act like a dog, she’ll stop acting like one.

  When I don’t take the stick, she starts whining.

  “No Fetch,” I say.

  She drops the stick, sits down in the grass, and whines louder.

  “Quiet!” I say.

  She obeys. Such a good … rodent.

  I should probably stop using commands with her, too.

  She runs away and returns with a piece of twine in her mouth.

  “No Tug-of-War, either,” I say.

  She starts to whine. I give her the Stony Stare. She stops. Maybe I can use the stare to replace “Quiet!” Like Dad does.

  She drops the twine in the grass, turns, and walks sadly away. She peeks back over her shoulder a couple of times to show me her sad eyes. You have to be firm and consistent when saying no. I heard Dad say that once when Mom suggested they get me “just a little dog, like a Chihuahua.”

  Fido returns, dragging her rubber flying ring through the grass.

  “And no Catch.”

  She drops it and looks up at me like I’d said I hated her and wanted her to go away forever.

  “Get used to it. You’re not a dog, and the sooner you stop acting like one, the sooner my life can get back to normal.”

  Normal, meaning dogless.

  I can’t win.

  I decide it’s okay to scratch her head—people probably scratch their guinea pig’s heads—and she wags her butt and rolls over so I can rub her belly, when suddenly we are attacked by a big black puffball of death.

  It races around the corner, huffing and puffing, with its bluish tongue hanging out of its black mouth. Its name is Mars, it’s a chow, and it belongs to my worst friend, Dmitri Sull.

  If I ever get an actual dog, I wouldn’t want it to be like Mars. He’s puffy, for one thing. I mean, if you want puffy, get a cat. Mars is also highly prone to unpredictably aggressive behavior. That’s what Ms. Charp said anyway when Dmitri brought Mars to school on Pet Day. She sent Mars home. That was a good day.

  The puffball runs right to Fido, barking and snarling. Fido jumps to her feet and stares him down. He whimpers and starts sniffing her instead.

  When they first met, I worried Mars might eat her, but (obviously) he didn’t. Like Murph, Fido’s good at making friends. For her, the more dogs the merrier. Even when the dogs are big black puffballs of death.

  This time, though, she’s not in the mood for company. I know how she feels. She looks away from Mars and jumps into my lap.

  “Rufus, old pal!” Dmitri says.

  I’m not his old pal, and we both know it.

  Fido growls at him. She has good instincts—with people, anyway. I don’t get why she likes Mars.

  “What’s with her?” Dmitri asks.

  “Maybe she doesn’t like uninvited guests,” I answer. “I know I don’t.” This sounds mean coming out of my mouth, but I really am fed up with party crashers.

  Dmitri pretends he doesn’t hear me and pulls his fancy phone out of his pants pocket.

  “I’m going to shoot some videos of Fido doing tricks and upload them to the Internet.”

  “Oh, you are, are you? You’ll need my permission for that, won’t you?”

  “I doubt it,” he says, narrowing his eyes into a threat.

  “Well, I won’t give you permission. I don’t want strangers gawking at Fido. She’s not a freak or something.”

  “She isn’t?”

  I’d like to wipe that smirk off his face. I’d like to smack it off. I know what this is about. Dmitri is used to getting what he wants. Fancy, expensive phones, for example. Since he can’t have Fido, he figures he’ll be the guy who makes her famous. He’ll attach his name to the videos and take credit for introducing the world to the one and only guinea pig that acts like a dog—the guinea dog!

  Not on my watch.

  “No, she isn’t. And I won’t let you treat her like a freak. So put away the phone and get lost. And take your puffball with you.”

  We are both surprised. I don’t usually stand up for myself. This isn’t about me, though. It’s about Fido. Which makes it easier for some reason.

  I can see by the way he’s glaring at me that he’s trying to think of a mean comeback. All he comes up with, though, is “Fine!” Then he stomps off. The puffball trots after him.

  Fido climbs up to my chin and licks it. She’s glad Dmitri’s gone, too. I’d sure like to have some fun with her right now, maybe work off some of her fat, but I know the only way to stop kids from acting like Dmitri just did is to stop treating her like a dog, and to start treating her like a guinea pig.

  I walk over to her doghouse. It’s so small, I can carry it with one hand. I pick it up.

  “This is for your own good,” I tell her, though I’m not entirely sure it is. Anyway, I dump her house in the garage and shut the door.

  11. “You’d whine, too, if you were in jail.”

  This is what I say when my dad asks why Fido is whining during dinner.

  “She’s getting fat from eating table food,” I go on. “So she has to stay in her cage during meals until she slims down.”

  I don’t like telling fibs, but I’d like to keep my parents out of this.

  Dad looks up at the ceiling—Fido’s up in my room—and frowns. “I don’t know if I can properly digest my food with that sound.”

  “She’ll stop,” I say. “You can’t give in to a pet’s whining or she’ll think that’s all she has to do to get what she wants. You must be firm and consistent.”

  “That’s very wise,” Mom says with a proud smile. “You’ll make a good parent someday.”

  “Will not!” Like I’ll ever have kids! Don’t you have to have a wife for that? Not on your life.

  “Well, if we are going to let this noise persist, I’m going to fetch some earplugs,” Dad says, rising from his chair.

  “That’s not very polite,” Mom replies.

  “Neither would be indigestion. Excuse me.”

  He heads for his study, where he keeps his supply of earplugs. He bought a box of them after Mom bought Fido.

  “How was your first week back at school?” Mom asks.

  “Fine.”<
br />
  If I tell her how awful it really was, she’ll get all gooey and comforty, and that will only make things worse. I might even cry. That’s what mom-love does to me: makes me a baby again.

  “Your dad said Dmitri came by to see you.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and leave it at that.

  “And Lurena? Did she visit again?”

  She makes a twinkly face, the one she always makes when Lurena is mentioned. It makes me very uncomfortable.

  “Amazingly, no. She must have been in a horrible accident.”

  “Rufus!”

  “Sorry. I was joking. It’s just that she comes over all the time, even though I never invite her.”

  “Lurena is a good friend,” Mom says. Twinkle, twinkle.

  Dad returns, orange foam earplugs poking out of his ears. He points to them to make sure we understand he can’t hear anything we say.

  “You should invite her to your birthday party,” Mom says.

  I wish Dad had brought me some earplugs.

  “Your foot should be pretty much healed by then,” Mom says. “I think we’ll have a backyard party, with games, maybe a piñata?”

  What am I, six?

  “I don’t know …,” I say.

  “You can invite all your friends. Murphy, Lurena, Dmitri …”

  “Dmitri?”

  “I know you haven’t gotten along with him very well in the past, but I think he’s really making an effort. He visited you when you were laid up and a few times since.”

  He was just being nice because he wants Fido. And for Dmitri, nice is still pretty mean. I don’t say this to Mom, though. I don’t want her trying to help. Her idea of help is inviting Lurena to join our family picnic. Or inviting her and Dmitri to my birthday party. Or having a piñata at my birthday party. Or bringing home a guinea pig instead of a dog.

  “Anyway,” she says, “I mailed out the invitations today. Lurena helped me with the list.”

  “What?” I ask so loudly even Dad jumps. So she was suggesting I invite Lurena and Dmitri even though she had already mailed them invitations? How treacherous can you get!

  “I called her from work,” Mom says.