Woof

by Spencer Quinn

  “No, thanks.”

  A vein throbbed in the side of Stevie’s neck. “Know something? You’re going anyway.” Then—with surprising quickness for someone of his body type—he grabbed hold of Birdie’s arm real hard and started dragging her toward the water, just a few steps away. She tried to wriggle loose, dragged her feet, smacked at Stevie with her free hand, but got nowhere, Stevie being so much bigger and stronger. As for me, I’d never been so angry in my whole life! Things happened real fast after that, just a blur in my memory, meaning we’d ramped up to Bowser-speed at its maxed-out top end. One thing for sure: Some screaming, delightfully terrified, took place, along the lines of “He’s gonna bite me!” and “Call him off! Call him off!”

  The way it finally went down, the only one of us who got wet was Stevie. We left him floundering around in the bayou, me and Birdie. “You’re gonna pay!” he shouted after us.

  “Not if the gators get you!” Birdie shouted back.

  Gators? I came close to being terrified myself.

  WE WALKED AWAY, ME DRAGGING the leash, which Birdie seemed to have forgotten about. I, myself, had forgotten what the leash was actually for, if I’d ever known in the first place. All I knew was that I liked walking right beside Birdie. Up to now, I’d preferred keeping every other human I’d walked with at a distance. The street gangers, for example, had been a little too fond of kicking me when I least expected it—until I’d pretty much come to expect it 24-7. As for Adrienne, she hadn’t been fond of anything much when it came to me. Birdie was something else. I’d known that from the get-go and now knew it even more.

  She kept looking back for some reason, so I did, too. What were we looking for? I had no idea, saw nothing but the bayou and the trees and the glaring sun, now turning reddish. Have you ever noticed how the sun gets bigger as it gets lower? What’s up with that?

  “How about we take a roundabout route home?” Birdie said, glancing back one more time like … like she was afraid of something. I could think of nothing to fear, but roundabout routes? Start me up!

  “… no way to outrun a Jeep,” Birdie was saying, or something like that. It’s hard to concentrate when I’m in start-me-up mode.

  We left the bayou, made our way through some bushes—uh-oh!—a snake had passed nearby, and not long ago, leaving its scent, froglike but mixed with a whiff of lizard—and onto a potholey road. A trailer park appeared, then some run-down houses with all sorts of things on the lawns, like—chickens! Yes! And just when they’d been so fresh in my mind. Why not take a moment or two to sidle over onto one of those lawns and—

  “Bowser! I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.” Birdie reached down for the loose end of the leash, got hold of it. Not the kind of hold that would keep a dude of my size and strength from yanking free and taking off into the wild blue yonder. But did I want to take off into the wild blue yonder? Lots of times, yes, like practically every day of my life. But not now. Chickens could wait. Wow! Had I really just had that thought, maybe the deepest of my life? Chickens could wait. Not too shabby!

  We turned onto a nicer street, less potholey, where the paint on the houses wasn’t peeling and none of the windows were broken. Plus the air carried the lovely smell of oranges. The street rose up a small hill, which made a pleasant change, St. Roch not having much going on when it came to hills. Birdie slowed down as we came to a nice white house with a wraparound porch and an orange tree out front.

  “That’s Rory’s place,” Birdie said. “What did the sheriff say?” She gazed down at me. I remembered the sheriff, of course, and the dried-up sweaty smell of his hat, but other than that I had zip. “Something about Rory having a …” Birdie’s voice faded, although I got the feeling it was still speaking inside her, which happened with humans from time to time, like they’d gone into a tunnel.

  Rory’s house—if I was understanding this right—had a brick walkway lined with flowers. Bees hovered over the flowers, and because of certain experiences I’d had with bees in the past, I’d have preferred to avoid that walkway and continue along the road. But Birdie had other ideas. We headed up to the door, the bees somehow not noticing us. What a lucky day I was having!

  Birdie knocked on the door. Barking started up on the other side right away, just about the loudest barking I’d ever heard. The fur on the back of my neck rose straight up and I got ready to meet one very big customer. Then the door opened and at first I didn’t even see the dude! What I saw was this kid, maybe about Birdie’s size, a little taller but just as skinny. His hair was all rumpled and, like Birdie, he had a strange jumble of teeth, some big, some little. His eyebrows—also sort of jumbly—rose in surprise.

  “Birdie?” he said.

  “Correct,” said Birdie.

  Which was when the barking turned up another notch, becoming intolerable. We all looked down. Standing between the kid’s feet—he wore sneakers, old and beat up, although not stinky—was the smallest member of my tribe I’d ever seen. She—no doubt about that she-ness, something that gets established from the opening buzzer where I come from—had her tiny nose high in the air and was barking her head off at me and Birdie, black eyes flashing and furious. Stiff-legged, she skittered back and forth on the floor, like she was getting blown around by the force of her own noise.

  “Sugarplum,” the kid said. “Cool it.”

  Sugarplum? Sugarplum was the name of the little monster, her fur strangely colored, somewhat blue to my way of seeing.

  “Sugarplum?” Birdie said, as though reading my mind.

  “Uh,” said the kid, “she’s got this guard dog thing.” His eyes, as dark as Sugarplum’s but not the least bit angry, went to Birdie. “And I didn’t mean, um, Birdie, question mark. I meant … Birdie, period. Like, I knew it was you. Right away, is what I’m trying to say. At first sight.”

  “We’ve been in the same class for three years, Rory,” Birdie said.

  “Right. Exactly. Which is how come you said ‘correct.’ Like, why wouldn’t I recognize you?”

  “Right,” said Birdie. “Exactly.”

  “I’d have to be a moron.”

  Was Birdie about to say “right” and “exactly” again? Even though I’m no expert on humans, I thought she was. And maybe she did, but I’ll never know for sure, because at that moment I felt sort of a pinprick low down on one of my front legs, more like on the top of my paw. I glanced down and—there was Sugarplum trying to bite me. Not just trying, either: Somehow she’d gotten that midget mouth open wide enough to do some damage, if only a little. Her teeth turned out to be surprisingly long and sharp.

  “Sugarplum!” Rory said. “Be nice.” He turned to Birdie. “She’s a bit of a bully.”

  One thing about me: I’ve been bullied some in this life and I don’t like it. Not that I’d ever hurt such a little critter, of course, but what could be the harm in pushing out with my paw, nowhere near my hardest, simply to let her know what was what? I gave it a try and the next thing I knew Sugarplum was airborne, flying through the front hall of Rory’s house and disappearing through a doorway. What came next? The clatter of pots and pans? Breaking glass?

  Sometimes humans fall speechless, eyes opening wide, lower jaws sagging. Rory was doing it now.

  “Meet Bowser,” Birdie said.

  “He’s, uh …” said Rory.

  “It was actually your dad’s idea.”

  “My dad?”

  Rory looked lost. So was I. But before either of us could get back on track, Sugarplum came zooming into view, kind of like a bluish dart—I’d never seen such a blue-colored member of the tribe before—and to my total astonishment nipped me again, and in the exact same place! Getting nipped twice in the exact same place hurts more the second time, which, if you’ve had an active life, you probably know. So what could I do except what I’d done before, namely paw the little twerp one more time? And just like then Sugarplum went flying out of the scene in the most gratifying way. With one difference: Now I was in hot p
ursuit. I hadn’t planned on hot pursuit, hadn’t given it a first thought, to say nothing of that mysterious “second thought” humans mentioned from time to time. It just happened. And what’s better than something that just happens? Answer me that!

  There are times in life—although not nearly enough in my life, maybe on account of having been caged so much—when things go by so fast you just can’t keep up. Like now, for example: Did I catch up with Sugarplum in the kitchen? Was she somehow on the counter by the sink, skidding backward through a stack of dishes? Did the dishes go flying? Did Sugarplum spot me and—was it possible—nip me again? In the same place? And after that were we racing up the stairs, me right on top of her, and then—with her on my back for a stride or two? Down a hall, through a kid-type bedroom, the messiest I’d ever seen, then into an adult’s bedroom with a big bed, all neat and tidy? Which was where, for unknown reasons, Sugarplum decided without warning that it was time for a pit stop?

  Yes, I’m pretty sure all of that happened. Now came a pause in the action, filled with gentle and pleasant fountainlike sounds, which were all about Sugarplum squatting on a small but quite thick and soft-looking—what would you call it? Persian carpet?—that lay by one side of the bed and taking a rather shockingly long pee. It went on and on! How could someone that small even contain so much pee? As I puzzled over that, one of my hind legs seemed to have raised itself and—and then we had two fountains going, the sound of mine admittedly muffled by a quilted bedspread with a floral pattern. Still, this was kind of nice, unless I was missing something.

  We were just finishing up—easy to tell from the quieting down of all the splish-splashing—when Birdie and Rory came bursting into the room.

  “OH MY GOD!”

  They seemed to be excited about something, but what? Sugarplum and I exchanged a look. It was clear that neither of us had the answer.

  Rory’s place had a backyard. You couldn’t call it particularly big or even interesting, the only notable feature being the high fence enclosing the whole space without a single gap. Who would ever need a fence so high? Sugarplum lay down in the shade of the only tree. I sat nearby, licking my front paw. She watched me. I remembered why this particular front paw was not feeling its very best. Then, after a few more licks, it was! Sugarplum closed her eyes. I moved a little closer to her, but only because I wanted some of that shade. After that, I lingered in a comfortable and fuzzy space between sleep and wakefulness. From the house came sounds of busy humans—stripping beds, running washers and dryers, mopping, spraying—all very soothing. Busy humans were happy humans, in my experience.

  Sometime later, the back door of Rory’s house opened and Birdie came out. Did she look kind of tired? I rose and trotted over. How good to see her again! She was giving me a strange look when Rory appeared, carrying a couple of cans of soda.

  “Do you think they’ve forgotten the whole episode?” she said.

  “How’s that possible?” Rory said, handing her a soda. They sat on the stoop, sipped their sodas. I shifted in a little closer, waiting for a pat or two from Birdie.

  “I’m not sensing any guilt,” Birdie said. “In fact, I think he expects a pat.”

  “No way.”

  Rory looked tired, too. The human mind does better with rest. I wanted a pat: What could be clearer? Pat me! Now! But no.

  I heard a car pull up in front of the house. Sugarplum was on her feet immediately, running her fastest—tiny paws a blur although they didn’t actually cover much ground—past us and right to the door, which she started clawing at.

  “My mom must be home,” Rory said. “Sugarplum’s … what’s the word? Ob-something?”

  “Obsessed?”

  Rory gave Birdie a quick sideways glance. “Yeah, obsessed. Sugarplum’s completely obsessed with my—”

  The door opened and a woman in a white nurse’s outfit appeared, nurse’s outfits being something I knew from a robbery attempt at a hospital, back in my days with the gang. Sugarplum jumped right into the woman’s arms, an amazing leap for such a miniature puffball.

  “There’s my little sweetie,” the woman said, proving she didn’t know Sugarplum very well. The woman glanced at the rest of us. “This is a nice peaceful scene.”

  “Uh,” Rory said. “Yeah. Just relaxin’. Mom, ah, Birdie. Like, from school.”

  “Birdie Gaux, of course. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “You have?” said Birdie.

  “All good. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Cannon.”

  They shook hands, one of my favorite human activities. We have something similar in my world, except it involves sniffing.

  “This your dog?” Mrs. Cannon said.

  “Bowser,” said Birdie. “Your hus—um, the sheriff—thought maybe he and Sugarplum should meet.”

  Sugarplum licked Mrs. Cannon’s chin. She laughed. “It seems to have worked out,” she said. “Kind of surprising.” She held Sugarplum up in front of her face. “Want to show me how you play with Bowser?” Mrs. Cannon put Sugarplum down beside me. Sugarplum showed me her teeth and leaped back into Mrs. Cannon’s arms. “Maybe some other time,” she said.

  “We should get going,” Birdie said.

  “You’re welcome to stay to supper,” Mrs. Cannon said.

  “Grammy—my grandma—will be expecting me.”

  Mrs. Cannon nodded. “I understand there was a robbery at the shop.”

  “Yeah,” said Birdie. “Black Jack got stolen. He’s the prize marlin my great-grandpa caught when he came back from the war.”

  “Sorry to hear that. It must mean a lot to your grandmother.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But not so much to anyone else.” Mrs. Cannon’s eyes shifted. “Was anything else taken?”

  “I don’t think so,” Birdie said. “But the sheriff asked Grammy that same question. Kind of like he thought there was something else taken.”

  Mrs. Cannon looked down.

  “Like what?” Rory said. He turned to his mother. “Hey, Mom—you know something.”

  “I do not.”

  “Come on, Mom—rule three.”

  Mrs. Cannon raised her head. “This isn’t really a rule-three situation.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Rory said.

  “What’s rule three?” said Birdie.

  “We have these family rules,” Rory said. “Three is, when you’ve started to tell someone something, you can’t stop.”

  “Good rule,” Birdie said. She gazed at Mrs. Cannon. For a moment I thought I could see what Birdie would look like all grown up. Funny how the mind works!

  “Okay, okay,” said Mrs. Cannon. “Can’t see the harm. Am I right in thinking you’ve never heard of the treasure map?”

  “What treasure map?” Birdie and Rory said together.

  IT’S A LONG STORY,” MRS. CANNON SAID, AT which point Sugarplum gave Mrs. Cannon’s chin another lick. Did Sugarplum like long stories or was she just being her annoying self? I know what I think. “Oh, what a little cutie-pie!” Mrs. Cannon said, and—yes—rubbed noses with Sugarplum. “How about one of those rawhide chews to occupy cute wittle you for a bit?”

  Rawhide chews? That was what I wanted more than anything! Somehow I’d almost forgotten, so the good news was that Mrs. Cannon had refreshed my memory. The bad news—I could hardly bring myself to think the thought—was that the name Bowser hadn’t been mentioned. Could it be that Sugarplum was about to get a rawhide chew and Bowser was not? What kind of world were we living in?

  “Rory,” Mrs. Cannon said, “mind grabbing one of those rawhide chews from under the sink?”

  “And one for Bowser, too?” Rory said, proving he was the second-greatest kid in the world.

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Cannon. “Wouldn’t want him to think we’re rude.”

  How could I ever think that about such nice people?

  Rawhide chews come in many sizes, shapes, and flavors, all good, which I somehow knew despite havin
g had only that single brief encounter with one. The particular rawhide chew I was working on in Rory’s backyard was shaped like a bone and tasted beefy. More important, it was bigger than the one Sugarplum was working on. I had no complaints, my friend. Birdie, Rory, and Mrs. Cannon were sitting on lawn chairs now, drinking sodas, with Sugarplum under Mrs. Cannon’s chair. I had the shade of the tree all to myself. From time to time Sugarplum looked my way and growled. I was in too good a mood to growl back. There’s no faking a growl, as you may or may not know.

  “… a long story,” Mrs. Cannon was saying, “but now that I think about it, kind of lacking in solid facts. For example, is the treasure from the Civil War or does it date from the days of piracy long before?”

  “Piracy?” said Rory.

  “Jean Lafitte and all that,” said Birdie.

  “Exactly,” said Mrs. Cannon. “Down in Grande Isle they’ve practically dug up every square inch.”

  “Who’s Jean Lafitte?” Rory said.

  “Don’t you know that from school?”

  “I must’ve been sick that day.”

  Mrs. Cannon gave him a look. “What would your father say right now?”

  “Uh, ‘one part brains, ninety-nine parts work’?”

  “I was thinking along the lines of ‘no excuses.’ ”

  “Are those more of your family rules?” Birdie said.

  Mrs. Cannon shook her head. “More like family sayings.”

  “I’ve never been sure about the difference,” Rory said.

  “Never mind about that, Rory. The point is that this treasure, if it’s real, was buried either by pirates or by rich plantation owners running away from the Yankees.”

  “But what’s it got to do with Grammy?” Birdie said.

  “She’s never mentioned anything about this?”

  “No.”

  “Then maybe I’d best not—”

  Birdie raised her hand. “Uh, rule number three,” she said.

  Rory laughed, a huge and very loud laugh that came bursting out of him, actually scaring me a bit. Then his face got all red. Mrs. Cannon gazed at him for a moment, gave her head a little shake. I gnawed at my rawhide chew, got my side teeth involved, a special treat for them, front teeth usually having all the fun.