The ladder is teetering and tilting. And . . . scraaaaatch! It knocks into the side wall. The mug and hammer go flying. Bang! Thump! Coffee sprays and splatters—splash!
And then—thud!—the ladder crashes into the bedside table. The lamp topples over and—smash! It smacks onto the floor.
YIKES! This place sure got messy in a hurry!
And smelly! The aroma of stale coffee is everywhere—on the bed, on the rug, and even on the walls. I hop over to check it out.
Beside the bed, Fetch Man’s coffee cup is on the floor. And the ladder is on its side—two legs on the floor and two in the air. Instead of being way-up-high, the top of the ladder is leaning on the bedside table. It’s supposed to be standing up!
I look at the wall. A second ago, it was perfectly smooth. But now there’s a big, long scrape. And a hole above the pillow, where Fetch Man’s hammer is resting.
Talk about a big change! What else has happened?
My nose to the ground, I explore the rest of the room. Right away, I come across dark splotches all over the shaggy white rug. And shards of broken glass scattered around a lopsided lamp on the floor.
I’m steering clear of the pointy glass when my ears pick up sounds that make me stop in my tracks. Footsteps are thumping up the stairs!
Uh-oh. Somebody’s coming.
I’m halfway to the bed when I hear the door being flung open. And Food Lady’s gasp.
Fetch Man’s, too. “What the—Fenway!” he shouts. His footsteps rush toward the bed. As I’m diving underneath, fingers brush against my tail.
I shoot out of Fetch Man’s grasp. Ah, safety! Plus, the rug under the bed smells new and clean and not at all like stale coffee.
“Oh no!” Food Lady yells in her freak-out voice—her tone that’s loud and upset and layered with panic. And usually followed by punishments.
Fetch Man sounds pretty upset himself. “FEN-way,” he snaps. His sideways head appears on the floor. His arm reaches under the bed.
I creep toward the center of the bed. It’s pretty obvious that nothing good would happen if I let him catch me.
“Oooh!” Food Lady cries. I hear her feet hurry to the wall behind the bed. Where that hole is. And the big scrape. “What—?! How?”
Fetch Man sighs. His arm withdraws and his face disappears. Apparently, he’s given up on me.
His footsteps dash around the bed and join Food Lady. The two of them are chatting at the same time, their voices frantic and angry and sighing a lot. Also, kind of growly.
I hear Fetch Man go to the back window. “Hattie!” he calls.
I shiver at this development. Hattie’s probably going to come inside and be angry right along with Fetch Man and Food Lady.
I stay put, right in the center of the space under the bed. Hattie won’t be able to reach me. And there’s no way she can coax me out, not even with a whole plate full of bacon. Or barbecued chicken!
I will stay here by myself no matter what. Eventually, the humans will have no choice but to give up and leave me alone.
I hear a series of creaks and then a soft thud, like the stepladder is getting put straight again. Probably by Fetch Man. Then I hear a rubbing sound on the wall. Is he patting it?
Food Lady moans. I see her feet on the far side of the bed. Her fingers pluck shards of glass out of the shaggy white rug.
Next thing I know, Hattie’s footsteps pad up the stairs. She rushes into the room, gasping. “Oh no!” she cries. “How—?”
“Fenway,” Food Lady says.
I hear murmuring and rumbling and scuttling. Then Hattie’s bushy hair and sideways face peer under the bed. “Fenway, come,” she says in a growly voice.
I curl into a ball, avoiding her gaze. What is she thinking? That I’ll just come scampering out and let her be mad at me up close and personal? She’s not even holding a treat.
“Hattie,” Fetch Man mutters. Her face vanishes.
Have I won this round? I lie still and listen.
After a bunch of bossy chattering at Fetch Man and Hattie, Food Lady leaves the room. Fetch Man’s footsteps sound behind her.
Above me—whuuuuup! Thwuuuuup! It sounds like blankets and sheets being pulled off. Hattie’s feet walk around the bed.
Food Lady’s footsteps return, along with clunky noises. Uh-oh. I get a terrible feeling. My body quakes. I curl up even tighter.
VREEEEE! VREEEEE!
YOWZA! It’s that scary creature I know all too well—the tall, roaring Carpet Sucker!
VREEEEE! VREEEEE! Clat-clat-clat!
EEEEE-YOW! Its low mouth is screaming! It’s clattering even more than usual! What’s going on?
I creep to the edge of the bed, my snout poking into the room. Food Lady pushes that loud Carpet Sucker back and forth over the rug, her face grim with determination. Or anger. Either way, it’s bad news.
I think about hobbling away, but where would I go? As soon as I’d head for the door, Hattie would probably grab me. And continue her horrible acts of torture!
If I have to stay put, at least I can try to make the Carpet Sucker stop. “Go away!” I bark, baring my teeth. “Take your loud clatter someplace else!”
But as usual, it doesn’t listen. It keeps up that racket. VREEEEE! Clat-clat-clat! Clat-clat-clat! Clat-clat-clat!
Whoa. That’s a lot of noisy glass being consumed. Food Lady’s face is serious and frowning, her eyes focused on the rug. She keeps pushing that monster over the same spots again and again.
How much barking does it take to get that thing to be quiet? Apparently, quite a lot. “Beat it! Scram! Take your horrible sounds someplace else!” I don’t stop barking until at long last, the Carpet Sucker goes quiet. Whew! My hard work finally paid off.
Right then, I hear Fetch Man’s feet thudding up the stairs and striding into the room. He heads for the wall behind the bed. The one with the hole and big gash.
Food Lady pushes the now-quiet Carpet Sucker out of the room.
Fetch Man groans. With a plunk! his clunky toolbox lands on one of the ladder’s steps. I edge out for a better look.
He grabs a small container that looks like a yogurt cup. My tail starts to wag. Whoopee! I love yogurt!
But when he rips off the lid, my tail abruptly stops. That container does not smell creamy and tangy like yogurt. It smells terrible, like paste. Or chalk.
Fetch Man takes a wide knife and smears the wet, chalky paste over the hole in the wall. He scrapes it smooth until the hole disappears. He does the same for the long gash. That yucky, pasty wet chalk odor is getting stronger. Pee-yew!
And that’s not the only bad smell. When Food Lady returns, she plops down on her knees beside the dark splotches on the rug. She points a bottle and out comes—eeeee-yowza! A sharp, strong spray! It’s piercing my nose! I crawl all the way back under the bed.
The humans keep working, their voices grumbling. Hattie comes in and out of the room a bunch of times, like she can’t decide if she wants to stay or not. At first, I think she’s planning to play another trick on me. But every time I peek out, I only see her handing Food Lady more rags or Fetch Man more coffee. And she sounds just as hassled as they do. What’s up with that? What’s everybody so grumpy about?
The humans come and go and grunt as the windows grow darker and darker and darker. When they’ve finally turned to black, Hattie returns with a great big yawn. I hear her spreading the sheets and blankets on the bed above me.
The hiding spot’s worked out pretty well, except for one thing. And I don’t have to creep back to the edge of the bed to know what it is. Yow-wee! Wet paint!
Before I can think things through, I scoot out from under the bed. I have to escape that horrible smell!
“Fenway!” Hattie snaps. And her hands close around me.
“Put me down!” I bark, wiggling like crazy. I know it won
’t do any good, but for some reason I have to try. “I won’t put up with this!”
“FEN-way,” Hattie growls. She rattles on and on in a scolding voice. What is she so mad about? I’m the one who got captured!
Hattie carries me downstairs, and we step outside for the shortest pee-stop ever. The abundance of teeny lights in the sky tells me it’s way past bedtime. Normally, I’d be wondering why we’re up so late, but this time it’s pretty obvious. More tricks are coming!
How did this happen? I had the perfect plan to hide from her. And it was going great! I was out of sight, safely away from Hattie and all that torment. That is, until the tall humans came and ruined everything. How did they find me so fast? I was so sure the used-to-be-empty room is the last place they’d look. Was it just bad luck they picked tonight to work on a big job in there? And Hattie, too?
Now Hattie’s nabbed me and there’s no place to hide. My tummy seizes with fear. I’m officially trapped.
I have no defense as Hattie plies me with yucky pills. Or when she dunks my paw in salty water and smears that horrible cream on my paw. She doesn’t care that I’m miserable. She doesn’t care that I’m desperate. She doesn’t put me down until we get to her room. And she closes the door.
I head to my now-usual spot under the chair and keep an eye on her.
Hattie flops into bed, and I sigh with sadness. Bedtime used to be so happy—cozy blankets, snuggles and fur brushing, singing “best buddies.” Yawning loudly, she touches the wall, and the room goes dark.
I cower under the chair, watching and waiting. A cool breeze drifts through the window screen. Crickets chirp. An owl hoots. I listen to Hattie’s deep breathing—even and steady. She may be asleep. But for how long? She could wake up at any moment and get me.
I won’t close my eyes all night long. I have to watch Hattie. I can’t take any more bad surprises! I’m just a little dog!
I have to stay on guard, even though my eyelids are getting droopy. I rest my head on the rug . . .
And we’re riding in the car. Hattie’s in her pajamas, staring out the window. Distracted!
It’s my chance! I quickly hop to the floor and dive under the seat. She’ll never look for me down here.
Next thing I know, she’s got me by the tail. Hey!
“Gotcha!” she shouts, her voice triumphant. She pulls me out from under the seat and hoists me onto her lap. Trapped again.
Whoa. How did that not work? I need a better idea. I think so hard, I might be trembling.
The car stops, and the door is flung open. Hattie carries me to a familiar and scary place that smells like dogs and cats and bunnies. Fear and panic, too. Oh no! It’s the vet’s office!
Hattie marches us into a room that’s filled with whimpering, moaning dogs—Poodles and Labs and Corgis and Golden Doodles and Chihuahuas and Pit Bulls. Each one of them is groaning and wailing. “I don’t want to get poked!” one of them cries.
“No more sliding table!” whines another.
I begin to shake uncontrollably. I cannot do this again. While Hattie speaks to the lady behind the counter, I spy Opportunity.
I leap out of her arms and crawl around a chair. She’ll never find me in this crowd.
On the table next to me, a cat is locked up in a cage. She’s hissing and meowing. She sounds forceful and threatening. Chip-chip-chip! she calls.
Huh? My fur prickles. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she sounds like that thieving chipmunk. What’s happened to this cat?
“Aha!” Hattie shouts. Her fingers reach behind the chair.
Oh no! I scramble to get to the other side. “I won’t let you—” I start to bark.
But it’s no use. She’s grabbed me. Before I know it, she whisks us into another room that’s tiny and cold. There’s a metal table with no legs. It sounds like chirping crickets and hooting owls. And it reeks of terror and wet paint!
“No! No, Hattie!” I wail. “Please let’s go someplace else. Anywhere but heeeeere!” I wiggle and squirm, but she’s holding me tight. There’s no escape!
Hattie’s pajamas turn into a white coat. Her bushy hair wraps up into a loose pile on top of her head. She smells spicy, like cinnamon.
As she reaches for a long, poke-y needle, her grip relaxes. Another Opportunity! I squirt out of her arms and drop to the floor. I fly under the Table of Panic. She’ll never see me down here.
A soft breeze floats in from somewhere. And an annoying voice. Chip-chip-chip!
What?! Hattie sounds exactly like that thieving chipmunk, too. Are my ears playing tricks on me? I cock my head and listen some more.
Chip-chip-chip! Hattie calls again. And what’s that other noise she’s making? It sounds like chewing or gnawing. Is she eating that scary needle? It doesn’t smell like food . . .
“Aha!” she yells again. Her fingers clasp my collar and lift me up.
Yikes! I gaze into her face, horrified. Her eyes are glowing with evil triumph. Is this my Hattie? What has happened to her?
She whips around, and my eyes nearly pop out of my head. Right in front of us is a great big plastic bathtub! And sniff . . . sniff . . . It’s filled with creamy goo that smells bitter!
“No way!” I yelp, twisting furiously as she lowers me into the goo. It’s seeping into my fur . . . like water?
THUD! Did a chair just fall over?
I can’t see! I’m thrashing and paddling, and water and goo is sloshing all over the place. It’s cold and wet. And my fur is completely soaked!
I’m sinking . . . down . . . down . . . down . . .
“Help me!” I shriek, gasping for breath. “Somebody help me! Please—?”
“Fenway?”
Is that Hattie’s groggy voice? My eyes blink open. Warm sunlight streams into the room.
I’m sprawled on the floor, flanked by a toppled chair and Hattie’s empty drinking cup. Half of my body is soaking wet.
A haunting reminder of the evil I’ve endured!
I get up and shake. Drops of water spray all around.
“FEN-way,” Hattie snaps. She lifts off the covers, groaning, and climbs out of bed. She straightens the chair and returns the drinking cup to her bedside table. Wagging a finger at me, she says, “Bad boy!”
Talk about a mix-up! She’s the one who did something wrong! My ears and tail drooping, I back into the corner. What a way to start the day.
Sighing, Hattie glances around the room. She grabs the shirt she was wearing yesterday and rubs it on the rug, scowling at the wet spot like it’s done something terrible to her.
I watch closely as she hangs the damp shirt on the back of the chair and pulls on her clothes. When she opens the door, she heads out, but I hold up. I could stay right where I am and be safe. But not for long.
She’d return eventually, and I’d be a sitting duck.
I need to do something. That last hiding place didn’t work out so well. But I have to keep trying.
I hobble down the stairs and limp into the Lounging Place, my nose sniffing, my head swiveling. The only good hiding place in here is under the couch. And that spot has failed me before. I have to continue searching!
Food Lady and Fetch Man are already in the Eating Place, gulping steaming cups of coffee. Their eyes are saggy and tired. Fetch Man tries to stifle a yawn. Food Lady, too.
Hattie pours a glass of juice, her face just as grumpy and exhausted as theirs.
After Fetch Man swigs the last of his coffee, he ducks into the garage. He reappears with a light bulb and heads upstairs.
Food Lady chatters at Hattie, her voice harried and anxious. She says a word that I know. “Ready?”
Usually this word is followed by smiles and bouncing. Maybe even cries of excitement. From both of us. But this time, Hattie looks worried. Like she’s not ready at all.
I know just how she feels.<
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And I can’t waste my time trying to figure out what Hattie’s not ready for. I’ve got my own job to do.
I could hide under the table, but how obvious is that? Same with the chairs. Too bad the low cabinets are closed. Plus they are filled with nasty things like cleaners.
Clearly, there are no good hiding spots in the Eating Place. Which is too bad, because there are a bunch of perks in here. Like food.
I briefly consider the boring room down the hall. But Fetch Man and Food Lady guard that place like it’s filled with steaks. Even though there’s nothing inside but a couple of desks and chairs with wheels on the bottom.
No, the best option for a good hiding place is the Dog Park. I limp to the door. “Let me out!” I whine. “I have to go sooooo bad!”
“FEN-way,” Hattie scolds, like she’s not falling for it. But she must change her mind, because she hurries over and slides the door open. F-f-f-f-t!
At least I can count on her for something. As I hobble outside, I hear the door close behind me. Aaaaah! I’m finally alone!
Right away I know something is wrong. I turn my snout into the breeze, gathering clues. The air smells strongly of rodent. And peanuts. My hackles shoot up. That thieving chipmunk was here! No doubt robbing us blind!
My head hangs. My ears flop. This can only mean one thing.
I didn’t do my job. Drat that Cone of Doom! Drat my sore paw! Drat everything!
It’s all my fault that that chipmunk roamed wherever he wanted, free to do his dirty work. All that’s left to do now is survey the damage.
Nose to the floor, I sniff that horrible rodent-y scent. It smells like the chipmunk was all over the place. But the odor is weak, like he’s already taken off.
I sniff my way past Hattie’s old sneakers, under a couple of chairs, toward the Nana-box. And that’s when I freeze.
The Nana-box is open. The cape, the tall hat, the abracadabra stick, and the other Nana-toys are strewn all over the porch. Hattie always stuffs them back inside the box when she’s done playing. Why are they on the floor?
Fenway and Hattie Up to New Tricks Page 9