Guinea Dog

by Patrick Jennings

  “Come in, Dad.”

  Dad pushed the door open. He gave me the Stony Stare. He kept his toes outside the Dump’s border.

  “It’s not my fault,” I said.

  He kept staring.

  “Oh, all right,” I said.

  I uncovered Fido. She stopped screeching and started wagging her hairy butt.

  “Don’t do that again,” Dad said.

  “Copy that,” I said.

  “Breakfast is ready.”

  “Copy that, too.”

  “Copy that” was my new favorite way of saying “okay,” replacing “Gotcha, chief,” which Dad recently made me stop saying.

  “Put the rat back in its cage. I do not want it in my kitchen.”

  “Copy that.”

  I lifted Fido up—she was lighter than I thought she’d be, considering how fat she looked—put her in her cage, and locked the door. She grabbed the bars and screeched.

  Dad covered his ears and yelled, “Take her back out! Take her back out! Take her out! Out, out!”

  Dad is one major freaker outer.

  “Copy that,” I said, and took her out of her cage. She stopped screeching.

  Dad breathed a mighty sigh.

  “I’ll bring your breakfast up to you.”

  This was a bit of a shock. I was under strict orders never to bring food into my room. But I answered, “Copy that.”

  “Stop saying ‘Copy that,’” Dad said.

  “I can’t say ‘Copy that,’ either?”

  “No.”

  He never lets me have any fun. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll say ‘Okay.’”

  Dad sighed again, then sneered at Fido, and left. He returned a few minutes later carrying a tray with a plate of scrambled eggs, sausage, and buttered toast on it, plus a glass of OJ. Fido began to pant and whimper.

  “Do not give that animal any food,” Dad said firmly.

  “Copy—”I started to say, then caught myself. “Okay.”

  Dad left and I sat on my bed and started wolfing down my breakfast. Fido managed somehow to get up on the bed without help and made a beeline for the tray. She grabbed the edge of it with her little paws, pulled herself up, and peeked over the edge at my food with big, hungry eyes. Her nose twitched overtime.

  “You can’t have any,” I said with my mouth full.

  She whimpered.

  “You’re a strict vegetarian.”

  She whimpered louder.

  “Dad said no.”

  She gave me sad, pitiful eyes.

  “Oh, all right, one bite, but don’t let Dad find out.”

  I held out a smoky link and she snatched it and disappeared under the tray. I heard munching, then a tiny burp.

  After I finished eating, I got dressed. I checked my look in the mirror over my dresser: plain, skinny boy in worn jeans and the T-shirt he slept in with scraggly brown hair, a small chin with a slight crease down the middle, a small nose that tilted up and showed too much nostril, and a neck that could stop growing any time without any complaint from me. Final grade: U (for Unsatisfactory).

  Fido jumped down from the bed and ran to her cage to relieve herself. I took the opportunity to lock her in. She rushed to the bars and started to screech.

  “Quiet,” I said, and gave her the Stony Stare.

  She shut up. Which was a little cool.

  “Sit,” I said, just for fun.

  She sat. Which was also a little cool. Still, a little cool for a dorky rodent with a mohawk was still almost totally uncool compared to any dog, even a toy poodle.

  “If you want to make any noise while I’m gone, Dad will kick you out on your tailless behind. And there are a lot of cats in our neighborhood, so…”

  I stopped and thought about this, then added, “So go ahead and make as much noise as you want.”

  I left the room and closed the door behind me.

  Dad was in the kitchen washing dishes. He was wearing his WHAT PART OF “IT’S NOT READY YET” DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND? apron.

  “You didn’t leave your dishes in your room, did you?” he asked. “This is exactly why we don’t allow you—”

  “Sorry,” I said, and ran back to my room.

  Fido jumped up and down when I came through the door. I grabbed the tray.

  “I just forgot this,” I said to her, and turned to leave.

  She screeched.

  “Quiet,” I commanded.

  She shut up.

  “Good pig,” I said.

  “Is that creature going to screech all day?” Dad asked when I returned to the kitchen. “I have an enormous amount of work to do.”

  I shrugged. “Ask Mom. She’s the guinea pig expert.”

  “If it keeps it up, I will not hesitate to return the infernal creature to the pet shop posthaste,” Dad said.

  “Copy that,” I said.

  He glared at me.

  Old habits die hard. “I mean fine, wonderful, sounds great.”

  I grabbed my backpack and my hoodie and headed for the front door. I heard Fido screeching upstairs before I was outside. On the porch, I turned and saw Dad through the kitchen window, holding his ears.

  Hmm, I thought, grinning ear to ear, maybe he should have gotten me a dog after all.

  4. My best friend’s dog was perfection.

  He was a black Lab, tall, sleek, fast, strong, and beautiful. Buddy did all the cool dog things: he heeled, spoke, rolled over, played dead, ran alongside Murphy’s bike, caught things in midair, and lots more. He was the best dog in Rustbury. Everybody in town loved Buddy.

  Everybody but Dad.

  Murphy and Buddy were playing in their front yard when I walked up. Murph threw a dirty green tennis ball, and Buddy jumped up and caught it and brought it back to him. Buddy wouldn’t let go of it, so Murph had to try to pull it out of his big, sharp white teeth. Buddy was snarling. His lips were curled up and you could see his gums. What a dog! Murph was so lucky.

  And then there was me. My plan was to keep Fido a secret, even from Murph. It wouldn’t be easy, but, hopefully, she’d keep screeching and Dad would take her back. Problem over. So I would have to keep the secret for only a little while.

  “Hey, Smurph,” I said. Smurph was Murph’s nickname when he was little. He doesn’t want to be called it anymore, but he lets me, because we go way back, and because I promised I’d never say it when there was anyone else around.

  “’Sup, Roof?” he said, and let go of the ball. Buddy dropped it and galloped away with his tongue hanging out. I was jealous.

  “Nothing,” I said with a shrug. “’Sup with you?”

  He shrugged. We shrugged a lot lately. “I guess A.G.’s sick.”

  A.G. was Murph’s little sister. She was six and there was always something wrong with her. She got hurt a lot and got sick even more. Even when she wasn’t hurt or sick, something was always bothering her. Like she was always itchy or hot or achy or something was in her eye or she was freaked out by something, like an ant. Okay, I didn’t have a dog, but at least I didn’t have a sister.

  “So she’s not coming with us?”

  “She’s staying home.”

  We both smiled and said, “Sweet!” at the same time.

  Then we said, “Jinx!” at the same time.

  Then we said, “Idaho Jinx!” Which made us even.

  “Did you hear about the poisonous ducks at the lake?” Murph asked.

  This was pretty classic Murph. Murph liked fooling around.

  “Nope,” I said, playing along. “I didn’t hear about that, Smurph.”

  “Really? Everybody’s talking about it.”

  “So these ducks are poisonous, huh?”

  “Totally.”

  You had to be careful with Murph. Sometimes when he said weird stuff like this he was actually telling the truth. He definitely liked to mess around with your head. Test you. See if he could possibly fool you.

  Once he swore polar bears had black skin and see-through fur. “Translucent fur” is wh
at he actually said. (He has a pretty amazing vocab, which is both cool and uncool.) I didn’t believe him, so he showed me a bunch of animal Web sites that said polar bears are black with translucent fur. He even showed me a book that said it.

  So I had to be careful. Poisonous ducks sounded pretty crazy, but so did black polar bears. Face it, the world’s full of crazy stuff.

  “So how do these poisonous ducks…uh…you know…?”

  “Administer their venom?” he said.

  There was that vocab again.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Via their feathers.”

  “They run around stabbing people with their feathers?”

  “No, dude. Ducks don’t attack. It’s a defense mechanism.”

  “So what attacks ducks? Besides duck hunters, I mean. How do the ducks defend themselves against guns, by the way?”

  “They can’t, lucky for us. But not just humans prey on them. There are coyotes, hawks, foxes—even dogs. Once a predator gets pricked by the feathers, it’s toast.”

  I looked at Buddy sprinting across the neighbors’ lawns. For a couple of seconds, I felt prickles of fear on the back of my neck. Then I remembered how Murph makes stuff up.

  “I’ve been keeping Buddy away from the lake till the parks-and-rec guys take care of the problem,” he said.

  “What will they do?”

  “Capture and destroy.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you had a dog.”

  I gave him the Stony Stare. That was a low blow, and he knew it.

  “Sorry, dude. Look, let me put Buddy inside, then we can stop at the lake on the way to school and I’ll show you the ducks.”

  I looked at my watch. “We’re going to be late as it is. Dad was giving me a hard time about—”

  Oops.

  “About what?”

  “The Dump,” I said, then switched subjects. “The lake isn’t on the way to school, dude.”

  “We could ride our skateboards. Then we’d definitely have time to check out the ducks and maybe even get to school on time.”

  “I don’t have my board with me, Murph.”

  “Then ride my bike. Yeah, you can tow me. That’ll be totally faster!”

  He called Buddy, and he returned immediately. What a dog! Murph put him in the house, then got his board and his bike from the garage, and we rode toward the lake, me pedaling and him holding on.

  “I don’t believe you, by the way, about this poisonous duck business!” I yelled back at him over the noise of our wheels.

  “Well then, I’ll have to prove it to you, won’t I?” he yelled back, grinning.

  5. “No way are those ducks poisonous.”

  The ride was over. We were at the lake. Murph was pointing at some ducks swimming out on the greenish water.

  “Those are mallards.”

  “They look like mallards, don’t they,” Murphy said, chuckling to himself. Then suddenly he turned and looked at me, his face completely serious. “Trust me, pal. They’re not mallards.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. I could prove it to you, but then we’d be late for school.”

  I checked my watch. “We’re gonna be late anyway.” I squinted at him. He gave me his poker face. It was the moment of truth. Or lies. “Show me,” I said, stupidly.

  There’s one born every minute.

  “This way,” he said.

  He led me down a path, and all of a sudden, a whole bunch of squawking crows flew up out of some reeds. I about had a heart attack, but Murph stayed real cool, like he knew it was going to happen, which he probably did somehow. He parted the reeds with his arms.

  “Voilà!” he said. “Observe one of the victims of Anas tossicus, aka the poisonous duck.”

  He grinned a smirky, gloaty grin.

  I looked where he wanted me to look, and saw what he wanted me to see, and it totally creeped me out. Freaked me out. I thought I might puke.

  It was a fox. A dead one, frozen stiff, lying on its back in the reeds, its paws frozen in the air, like it died fighting off something. Its eyes looked scared. There was a big black hole in its furry white belly. I was pretty sure the black stuff was dried blood.

  I looked out at the ducks. Fox ate a duck, I thought. Fox got poisoned. Fox died. Little animals are feeding on Fox’s guts, hence spreading the poison all around…

  I looked back at Murphy, and he totally busted a gut. I don’t mean like the fox’s busted gut. I mean, he just completely lost it. He laughed himself boneless, fell on the ground laughing, laughed himself silly.

  Why? Because he got me again, got me big-time.

  “I so got you,” he said, holding his sides.

  My best friend is one seriously crazy and clever dude.

  “We’re so late,” I said.

  Twelve minutes late, to be exact.

  “Why, hello again, Murphy,” Tamra, the secretary, said.

  That’s right: Hello, Murphy. Like I wasn’t there.

  She slid two tardy slips across the counter. “So what’s the story this time, Mr. Molloy?”

  “Poisonous ducks at the lake,” Murph said with a sly grin.

  Tamra beamed. “Get to class, you scamp!”

  She didn’t bother asking me what my story was.

  We filled out our slips, slid them back across the counter, then headed toward our classroom. I walked faster than Murph. Unlike him, I cared about being late. This made him laugh.

  “Chillax. We have our tardy slips. We can’t be double tardy.”

  I slowed down. A little.

  It was kind of amazing to me. Murph never cared if he missed announcements or the pledge or classwork or anything. And even though he was always late and fooling around, he always got along with everybody: teachers, kids, even girls. Everybody liked Murphy.

  It had been like that as long as I could remember, since way back in kindergarten, where we met. I doubt I noticed back then how liked he was, because, you know, kindergartners can’t really think at their age, but I just kind of knew that he was different. It wasn’t only that he had this really big ole smile and this jack-o’-lantern mouth and these crazy curls all over his head, and that he never stopped moving or laughing and giving off this, like, hum of fun. It was mostly that he was so totally, immediately, completely likable.

  So I did whatever it took to be his friend, which didn’t turn out to be very much. With Murph, if you wanted to be his friend, you were. “The more the merrier!” he liked to say, even way back in kindergarten.

  When we finally reached our room, I saw Dmitri Sull flash Murph a thumbs-up. Murph didn’t notice because he was playing the room: taking bows, mugging, clowning, pretending to choke and trip, checking his wrist (he doesn’t own a watch, of course—why would he?). All eyes were on him, and his were on no one in particular.

  Feeling snubbed, Dmitri glared at me, then, slowly and dramatically, turned his fist to a thumbs-down. If Murph was my best friend, Dmitri was my worst. We were friends only because we were both Murph’s friends. The more the merrier.

  Murph handed our teacher, Ms. Charp, his tardy slip like it was a message from the emperor. I handed her mine like it was a murder confession. She said to me behind her hand (for the umpteenth time), “You might consider walking alone to school, Rufus.”

  I shrugged and slipped away. No eyes were on me, thank Dog.

  “That’s right: poisonous ducks,” Murph was saying. “At the lake. And I can prove it. Ask Rufus. He saw them.”

  I looked up from the floor to find he was pointing at me.

  “Tell ’em, Roof!”

  I was so disoriented, I collided with Lurena Shraits’s desk. Then Linus Axelbrig’s. Finally, I found my own and sat in it. Dmitri slapped my elbow. He sat next to me. Fabulous.

  “So you saw these ‘poisonous ducks,’ huh?” he said.

  He was leaning uncomfortably close to me, his sharp nose and sharp chin closing together like a lobst
er’s claw. Okay, not really. We’d been working on similes in language arts, and sometimes I go a little too far. But he does have really pointy features.

  I looked back at Murph. He and his audience were already on to something else. No one was looking at me anymore. My moment of fame and glory had come and gone, and I’d spent it tripping over desks.

  “Did you see them or not?” Dmitri hissed, and slapped my elbow again.

  I found his nagging and slapping irritating. Being late was irritating, too. Being tricked by Murphy was irritating. Mom getting me a guinea pig instead of a dog was irritating. The guinea pig herself was irritating. Dad was irritating. Life was irritating.

  So when Dmitri slapped my elbow for the third time, I snarled at him and flashed him my teeth. I have pretty pointy canines.

  He whispered, “Whoa! Weirdopath!” then inched his desk away.

  Dmitri moved to Rustbury just before school started this year. From day one, he acted like he’d lived here all his life. He teased and bullied guys the second he met them. He was always bragging about all the great things he used to do back in Irondale, which, of course, was a zillion times better than Rustbury. His parents obviously had tons of money because he always got every cool electronic thing right when it came out and always wore brand-new athletic shoes and jeans and hoodies and caps, which always had the right logos and designs and brand names on them.

  He also had a dog, a black chow named Mars. Mars was scary (he bit kids a lot) and too poofy for my tastes (his coat looked kind of like a cross between a lion’s and a standard poodle’s, between clippings), but he was still a big black dog—and not a small orange guinea pig with a mohawk.

  At least Fido wasn’t poofy, though. If there’s anything I hate, it’s a poofy pet.

  Yet somehow none of this—the cool stuff, the teasing, bullying, and bragging, the vicious black chow—made Dmitri popular, which was my theory of what he wanted most. Popularity was the reason he stalked Murphy all the time. He probably believed that being friends with Murph would make him as popular as Murph, or that Murph’s likability would rub off on him. Neither of these things came true. A lot of kids just ignored him. The ones he teased and bullied dreaded him. I was in this second group.