Arriving in the kitchen, I saw Jake turn to face Arnie, which caused Arnie, displaying trademark grace and poise, to step back . . . landing a big foot hard on yours truly.
Ow-owowowow!
Surprised to feel dog where floor should be, Arnie lost his balance and stumbled into Jake. Now they were both on the floor. I don’t know if Jake and Arnie had intended to wrestle, but humans tangled up the way they were could hardly help it. Meanwhile, I took advantage of my short stature and scooted away to assess my wounds.
Bitten by a cat and stepped on! It had been a bad day for Strudel. Lucky I’m a dachshund, and dachshunds are tough as nails.
“Stop it this minute, you two!” yelled Mom. “Or so help me, you can both leave this house!”
“Oh, like threats are gonna help,” Mutanski said, and, without further ado, she doused the wrestlers with a gallon of spaghetti water from the pot. “I’m only sorry it’s cooled off,” she said.
Gurgles, sputters, gasps, and finally Arnie’s strangled cry: “I’m drowning!”
“No, you’re not,” Mom said, and tossed them each a dish towel. “When you’ve wiped the water out of your eyes, Jake, you might as well mop the floor. As for you”—she looked at Arnie—“go on home and we’ll talk tomorrow. If you’re lucky.”
“Can I at least get my dinner to go?” Arnie asked. Mom’s answer was to glare.
It was quiet after Arnie left, as if, without having to say a word, Jake, Mom and Mutanski had come to an agreement: They’d been through more than enough drama for one evening. If Mom was mad at Jake, or Jake at Mom, or Mutanski at everybody—all that could wait. Now it was time for no-fuss eating, cleaning up and cooperating. Jake even did the mopping without being reminded.
At bedtime he asked me if I wanted him to read some Chief. “I think it might be a good distraction,” he said. “I can’t go to bed yet anyway.”
Distraction from what, I wondered? And why couldn’t he go to bed? It was almost time, anyway, and I for one was exhausted.
“Where were we?” Jake said. “Chapter Seven, right? It’s called ‘Cattle Rustlers.’”
Chief, Dog of the Old West
On a hot, dusty day in Groovers Gulch, Sheriff Silver was sitting at the desk in the sheriff’s office, his faithful dog, Chief, napping by his side. Suddenly Chief, who was sleek and powerfully built, sat up straight, rotated his ears and barked the sharp bark that meant: danger!
“What is it, Chief?” Sheriff Silver asked, but already the canine had scrambled to his feet and trotted to the door. Soon the two were standing on the wooden walk that ran the length of Main Street. Only then did the sheriff’s inferior human ears sense the sound that had disturbed Chief. It was a rumble like distant thunder, and it was growing louder. At the same time, a brown cloud of powdery dust billowed on the horizon north of town.
Sheriff Silver knew what that was.
So did Chief.
And so did the leading townsfolk, now gathering in the blazing sunshine on the treeless street.
“Stampede!” cried Sheriff Silver.
“A-yup,” said one of the townsfolk.
Dog and sheriff regarded each other with alarm: The old home place lay north of town . . . dead in the path of the cattle stampede!
“Head ’em up, boy!” cried Sheriff Silver as he grabbed the reins of his palomino, swung his lean body into the saddle and galloped toward home.
Chief streaked ahead like a well-aimed bullet.
Our heroes were moving fast, but the raging herd of beef on the hoof had a big head start. Sheriff Silver didn’t want to think about what would happen if the bovines reached the home place first.
That was the end of the chapter. Jake turned the page but did not read on. I couldn’t believe it. Would Chef Pierre and Rachel Mae be all right? Or would they be flattened by cows?
Woof, I said, but my human was staring into space. I licked his hand, which tasted like spaghetti.
“What? Oh . . . sorry, Stru,” Jake said. “I got a lot on my mind. See, if I’m gonna do it, tonight’s the—”
Before he could finish the sentence, his mom called, “Bedtime, Jake! And don’t forget to brush your teeth!”
Jake didn’t answer right away. Finally he sighed. “Mom?” he called back. “Uh, sorry, but I forgot to walk Strudel.”
A walk? A walk? A walk? Yippeee!
I was on the floor and down the stairs before Jake even put on his shoes. I heard him say something to his mom, and I heard his mom reply. I could guess what she was saying: “Come right back, and be careful.”
Twenty-Two
Outside, the pavement felt slick beneath my paws and the air held the damp promise of snow. Cold weather dulls the smellscape, but I still picked up greetings from Rudy and Luca at the power pole, then left replies of my own. Rudy had visited only a few minutes before. It must have been Lisa’s dad who walked him. Lisa was never allowed out this late.
When Jake and I reached the end of the block, I was cold and ready to turn back. I thought of my warm and cozy bed, glad to have a home on a night like this. Then Jake surprised me by tugging to the left. He wasn’t gentle about it either.
“Come on, Stru, we don’t have all night, you know. Stop that stupid sniffing. We gotta hurry.”
Stupid sniffing? But this is my walk! Where are we going, anyway?
Wherever it was, it was far, far away—a much longer walk than I was used to, especially on a school night. Mom was going to be awfully annoyed, if she was even awake.
Few people were out on the street. Light and music streamed from bars and pizza places, but most businesses were closed, and most houses quiet. Still there was always an assortment of smells—delicious, disgusting and neutral. Combined, they made up the aroma symphony that defined the neighborhood.
There were also new dogs to identify, but when I tried to stop and inhale the details, Jake pulled me along with a jerk. Where were we going, anyway? Why were we out so late?
At last we arrived at a block I knew. Jake’s grandpa’s bakery was here. Mom had brought me once in the car. Even now when the bakery was closed, I recognized the smell of the cannoli—sweet cheese, orange peel and cooking grease.
For some reason, Jake and I walked back and forth along this block twice. Finally he muttered, “I guess it’s now or never,” and we crossed the street. Midway along the next block he stopped, looped my leash around a tree and whispered hoarsely, “Stay, Strudel. I’ll be back.”
Stay? Whaddaya mean, stay? You’re my human! You can’t leave me!
Only now, as Jake walked away, did I notice he was wearing his backpack. This was strange. He only wore his backpack for school. I watched as he swung it off his shoulders, pulled out a baseball cap and tugged it down on his head. Then he pulled out something else, and put the pack back on. A moment later, he walked under a streetlight and I saw what he was carrying.
It was a brick.
This whole operation gave me the willies, so I sat back on my haunches and howled. I didn’t like being left by myself! I didn’t like this neighborhood! And I didn’t like the cold! I would have howled some more, too, but then Jake turned around. Even from a distance, I could see how angry he was, angry enough that I closed my mouth and kept quiet.
Jake recrossed the street and stopped on the corner in front of a store we had passed. It was a mini-mart, by the smell of it—tobacco, salt, chewing gum and plastic. The store had a big glass window. Fascinated and scared, I watched my human raise the brick in front of him, swing it around behind and pitch it forward with frightening force.
Crack—the night was split by the awful sound of glass shattering.
I couldn’t help it, I yelped. The next sound was the slap-slap-slap of Jake’s shoes running toward me on the pavement. By the time he reached me, his eyes were wide and his face tear-streaked. I could smell the fear in his sweat.
“Strudel.” He exhaled my name, and in a single quick motion unlooped the leash from the tree.
After
that the two of us ran as we had never run before.
The breaking glass had been so loud, I expected a consequence—shouting, a police siren, something. But the reality was a quiet in which our breathing was the only sound. One by one, the blocks unspooled—sidewalk, street, sidewalk, street.
My chest hurt. I stepped on something sharp. Jake stumbled on broken pavement. It started to snow. We kept running.
Every thought left my head except the need to put two paws in front of two others. Only when we reached the familiar smellscape of our own neighborhood did my brain start to work: My human was going to be in big trouble!
A block before our house, Jake slowed to a walk. I didn’t notice, and ran right past till the end of the leash pulled me back with a jerk.
“Oh, sorry, Stru.” Jake’s voice was kind now, back to normal. Instantly, I forgave him everything. Loyalty is in a dachshund’s blood.
“We have to be super quiet, Stru, okay?” Jake whispered as we approached the steps.
I wagged my tail and raised my nose. Come what might, I would stay by my human’s side.
The rattle of Jake’s key in the lock seemed as loud as an alarm. I flinched, half expecting Colonel Joshua Trueheart and the 11th Cavalry to be waiting for us in the living room.
But when the door opened, the house was dark and still. Jake pushed the door closed and locked it. He scraped his shoes on the mat and brushed the damp snow off his coat. I shook myself dry. Then the two of us tiptoed up the stairs, the only sound now the jangling of the tags on my collar. In Jake’s bedroom, he collapsed on his bed and pulled me close. I could feel his heart beating fast against his ribs.
For a moment we were silent, still waiting for something bad to happen—a light to go on, Mom’s voice to call out. When it didn’t, Jake whispered in my ear, “I don’t care how Anthony threatens me, Strudel. I will never do anything like that again.”
Twenty-Three
The next day was Friday. Mom, Mutanski and Jake got up, got dressed, ate cereal and put on coats. They were in a hurry as always. No one in that house had time to say much on weekday mornings.
I think I was the only one who noticed that Jake was paler than usual, and he threw most of his cereal down the sink. He was also strangely polite. Mutanski made a comment about how he’d forgotten to walk me till late, how he still wasn’t responsible enough for a dog.
Instead of snapping at her, he said, “Maybe you’re right.”
Outside there was a dusting of snow, and it was plenty cold. I wouldn’t be out on the patio that day. I wondered when I would I have a chance to meet with Oscar and Johanna, when we could come up with a plan of attack.
The Pier 67 Gang was living on borrowed time. They just didn’t know it yet.
That evening Grandpa brought pizza as usual. Unfortunately, Arnie also came over. The way Mom explained it to Mutanski after school, Arnie had texted her at work, a big “I’M SORRY! I ACTED LIKE A DOPE!” complete with hearts and sad faces.
Then he had asked to come to dinner and promised to be on his best behavior—even knowing Grandpa would be there, too.
“It’ll be okay,” Mom told Mutanski. “I think he means it this time. I think he’s learning to control his temper.”
Mutanski rolled her eyes.
At dinner, I took my place beneath Jake’s chair. If I could take on the Pier 67 Gang, I ought to be able to handle Arnie. Besides, only under Jake’s chair could I expect my weekly bites of dropped pizza sausage.
At first, the human conversation was uninteresting. Arnie, Grandpa and Jake all agreed that the refs had stolen the game from the Eagles the Sunday before. Grandpa said the Frogs’ costumes for the Mummers Parade on New Year’s Day would be better than ever this year.
“My dad was a Mummer, and my uncle, too,” Arnie said, “but I never could see it for myself. All that practice just so you can party New Year’s Eve and parade in a costume on New Year’s Day?”
“It’s a lot of fun,” Grandpa said. “The guys are some’a my best friends, and it’s tradition. Mumming goes back hundreds of years—to before the United States even got started.”
“It does?” Jake said.
“Duh,” Mutanski said.
Grandpa laughed. “A long time ago, a lot of people in European towns celebrated the winter holidays by mumming—putting on masks and costumes, then going out to visit the neighbors and drink a little punch, too. Immigrants brought those customs to Philadelphia in the 1600s, but then the Quakers took over, and they weren’t big partiers. On and off over the years mumming got outlawed, but eventually the tradition evolved into brigades parading like we have now.”
“I never really got the ‘brigade’ thing,” Mutanski said.
“A brigade is a social club, more or less,” said Mom.
“Duh,” said Jake.
“Lots of emphasis on social,” said Grandpa. “The party on 2 Street at New Year’s seems to last for days.”
“I wish it was a little quieter,” said Mom. “When there’re firecrackers, it gets pretty darned loud.”
“That’s part of the tradition,” Grandpa said. “Back in the day, they shot muskets. Anyway, there’s no real damage done. Hey—that reminds me. Did you hear what happened to Betty?”
Jake made a choked sound in his throat, and my ears perked up.
“Of course I heard,” said Mom. “South Philly’s a small town, right? Somebody smashed the plate glass window at the Quik-Stop. Guess they’ll never catch the guy.”
“Probably not,” said Grandpa. “Cops found the brick, but you seen one brick, you seen ’em all. Just kids, I guess. Still, Betty was pretty upset. Her store means a lot to her. She keeps it nice, and now it’ll be boarded up till she can afford to get the window fixed.”
“I never liked that woman,” Arnie said.
There was a pause, then Grandpa asked, “And just why not?”
Mom spoke up. “Uh, Arnie? My dad and Mrs. Rossi . . . they’re kind of an item.”
Arnie said, “Is that a fact? My apologies, Mr. Allegro. She and I had some business dealings is all, and I never found her very cooperative.”
“Still, she didn’t deserve to have her window broken,” Mom said.
“Kids today,” said Arnie. “What’re ya gonna do?”
Jake didn’t talk to me that night before bed, or read me a Chief story either. Instead he cried into his pillow, but his sobs were silent, and neither Mom nor Mutanski heard. Thinking of Maisie—how her sympathy had helped me get through the tough times—I licked the tears off his ear.
The weather stayed cold, and Jake stayed pale. Mom kept asking if he felt okay, and he kept saying, “Yeah, Mom, I’m fine.” I think he and I were both waiting for the police to connect him to the brick they found in Mrs. Rossi’s store and show up at the front door to arrest him, but they didn’t, and the only person who asked about Thursday was Mutanski. On Sunday afternoon she said, “Hey, little bro. You mighta fooled Mom, but I heard you come in Thursday night. It was almost midnight. What was up with that?”
We were in the living room, Jake and me on the sofa, Mutanski in the plaid chair doing homework. Had she made the connection between our walk and the broken window? “I’m sorry if I woke you,” Jake said, still being strangely polite.
“You didn’t, and that’s not the point. Are you still mixed up with that Anthony kid, Arnie’s nephew?”
“No,” Jake said quickly. “I mean, not really.”
“Okay,” Mutanski said. “’Cause if you’re ever tempted to be, I think I should explain something to you. Bad kids like to get help from good kids.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, blockhead, that grown-ups think good kids don’t do bad things. So if a bad kid can get a good one to do his dirty work, it helps him stay out of trouble.”
Jake said, “Okay,” and then it was quiet for a minute. I don’t know about Jake’s, but my heart was bumping along faster than usual. “Uh . . . Mutanski?” he finally said. “Was t
here a particular bad thing you were, uh . . . thinking of?”
“I knew it!” Mutanski pounced. “You did do something!”
“I never said—”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Jake said. “I didn’t do anything.”
For several seconds after that Mutanski looked at her brother, and her brother fidgeted.
Finally Mutanski shrugged. “If you say so,” she said, and then she went back to her homework.
Twenty-Four
The next week was Thanksgiving. Unlike Halloween, this was a holiday I knew about. Ordinarily my previous human did not cook much, but every Thanksgiving morning he made something he called a casserole using green beans, mushrooms and fried onions from a can. In the afternoon, he would leave to visit some friends and take the casserole with him. Later he would come back with the empty dish, but more importantly with a foil container for me. In it was cooked turkey, potatoes and red stuff.
I loved the turkey and potatoes, but the red stuff was sour and terrible. I ate it anyway. I didn’t want to hurt my human’s feelings.
Since almost everything about this house was different from that one, I was surprised to learn my new humans also ate casserole, turkey and red stuff on Thanksgiving. I know because I got bites of each.
On Thanksgiving morning, Mom cooked while Jake and Mutanski cleaned the house. Still being extra polite, Jake didn’t complain about having to clean.
In the afternoon Grandpa came over with a pumpkin pie, and they all sat down to eat dinner. Arnie had what Mom called “other obligations.”
“What’s Betty Rossi doing for the holiday, Dad?” Mom asked. “You could’ve invited her here.”
“She’s laid up with a cold,” Grandpa said. “I think she’s flat exhausted. First there was the window. Then the kid who sweeps and stocks shelves for her quit. I told her I’d go over tomorrow and help out.”
For some moments after that the only sounds were forks on plates, chewing and happy mphs of satisfaction. Then Jake said, “I could maybe help Mrs. Rossi out, too.”
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