That’s when Carl spotted the torn yellow dog vest lying on the ground. “Where’s Foxy?” he cried.
Sally reached the post and looked around. “Wasn’t she tied up?”
The ruined collar with its useless tags lay at their feet.
“Big bah, bye-bye!” said Marie.
Indeed, the big bird had gone bye-bye. So, it appeared, had Foxy.
Brad wasn’t home, and with such spotty cell service, there was no knowing when he’d get Sally’s panicked message. In need of backup, Sally had called Janis, who’d pedaled right over on her Schwinn, as Tin Can (that’s what she called her tractor) was in sore need of new spark plugs. The vintage bike was painted John Deere green and sported a yellow wicker basket and rainbow streamers.
Now they were all in the kitchen with Exhibit A, the vest, and Exhibit B, the collar, displayed on the table before them.
Using the chopsticks Sally solemnly provided, Janis lifted each item in turn and gave it the once-over. “Evidence of foul play? Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Why chopsticks?” Carl asked. “Do you think there are fingerprints?”
“Nah, I just need the practice. I have dinner plans this weekend at a restaurant that doesn’t use forks. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
There was a scuffling noise outside, and a thump.
“Someone’s at the door!” Carl said, running to see. “Maybe it’s Foxy!”
But it was only Brad, his arms laden with books and magazines he’d had to drop on the mat so he could rummage for his key. He’d been at the regional Farm Bureau office when he’d gotten Sally’s message that the dog had disappeared. To be completely honest, he hadn’t rushed home as quickly as he might have. The comings and goings of a dog on a farm didn’t merit this level of scrutiny, in his newly ruralized opinion. He’d even stopped at the diner and treated himself to a coffee and doughnut on the way home, sitting at the counter with the local paper and feeling like a lucky man indeed.
“Hey, honey! I got your text, finally.” He kissed Sally on the cheek and Marie on the head. “Howdy, son o’ mine. Howdy, Janis. So, the dog ran off again, huh?” He began to dump his armload of reading materials on the table.
Carl stopped him. “Not there, Dad! We’re examining the evidence.”
Obediently, Brad regathered his books. “She’ll come back when she’s hungry, champ, like she did the other day. She’s a country dog now. She’ll play outside during the day and come home for dinner—what’s that?”
Janis held two chopsticks in front of Brad’s face. The torn yellow vest dangled from one, and the sliced dog collar hung from the other. “Doesn’t look good, Brad,” she said. “The dog is gone, and this is all that’s left. The kid says a bird took it.”
Brad put his books on a chair. “That’s weird,” he conceded.
Carl leaned on the table. “Not a bird. A pterodactyl. With claws.”
“Big bah,” Marie agreed.
Brad gave his wife a look before answering, “Okay, but it wasn’t a pterodactyl, champ.”
“But what about Meryl Streep?” Carl looked imploringly at his mom, who busied herself spooning green-tinged applesauce into a bowl. “Dad, I saw it. Marie saw it, too! You have to believe me!”
Brad spoke in an extra-reasonable tone. “I believe you, Carl. You saw something big, maybe a bird, with claws that made you think of a pterodactyl. What kind of animal could that be?”
“Book!” Marie yelled, grabbing with her sticky hands.
“Careful, peanut, I have to return that…” Brad rescued the book she was reaching for. It was An Illustrated History of the Tractor.
Janis’s eyes lit up. “Nice! Where’d you get that?”
Brad handed it to her. “The Farm Bureau lending library. I was doing research. Orchard management, cover crops. You know.” He sounded pleased with himself, slinging around farmer talk like an old hand.
Janis leafed through the pages. “Eagle Tractor, will you look at that. Started building tractors in 1906, in Appleton, Wisconsin. One of the first manufacturers to use a six-cylinder engine. Their 1929 Model E was tough enough to take down a house.” She paused and dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her neckerchief. “Sorry, I’m a real tractor nerd. They’re such beautiful machines.”
“Big bahhhhhhhh,” Marie said, long and loud, banging on the page with her fist.
“That’s it! That’s the pterodactyl!” Carl grabbed the book. The page Janis had open showed a vintage advertisement for Eagle Tractor, with a picture of the namesake bird right up top.
Sally put down her mixing spoon and came to look. “Eagle Tractor. That’s the bird you saw? Did it have a white head?”
Carl tried to remember. “Maybe. I think it did.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so? There’s only one kind of bird with a white head like that!” Sally sounded exasperated, but one could easily imagine her relief: Meryl Streep got it wrong for once, and ravenous living dinosaurs did not prowl the skies above the Country Dream House in which her children slept.
“Who cares about the color of its head?” Carl retorted. “It was big! With a beak! And claws!”
Janis put an understanding hand on his shoulder. “It was the life-threatening details that caught your attention, kid, and that’s perfectly natural. It means your fight-or-flight reflex is working, and you’re a brave boy for not freezing up in terror and leaving your sister out there alone. You saved the baby from Godzilla, and I bet she’ll thank you for it one day.”
“Big bah, ja glaaa!” Marie squealed. “Fah ma mint.” By which she meant that the big bird named John Glenn was no silly lizard monster from a low-budget horror movie, but a national icon who had flown back to the glorious firmament of the sky, where he belonged.
“Bath time is later, punkin; be patient,” Brad cooed in answer. “Janis, are bald eagles common around here?”
Janis shook her head. “I’ve never seen one. They were gone for a long time. Now they’ve come back. They’re mostly fish eaters. They hunt up and down the river, thataways.” She waved a hand to indicate where thataways was.
Carl struggled to understand. “What do you mean, they’ve come back? From where?”
“From nearly going extinct.” Janis made a throat-cutting gesture. “Lights out! This whole beautiful valley was their habitat, until people messed up the water. You want more details, talk to a bird scientist.”
“Bird scientists are called ornithologists,” Sally said knowingly, in her Meryl Streep voice.
“I wonder what drew it away from the river. They can see for miles, though—maybe something unusual caught its eye.” Janis turned to Carl. “What were you kids doing when this highly symbolic bird arrived?”
Carl thought. “I was sitting, Marie was sitting, and Foxy was tied to the post, running back and forth.”
“Wearing this. Interesting.” Janis waved the yellow vest back and forth in a semicircle. “Like a golden arch. Plenty of folks will pull right off the interstate when they see one of those in the distance. Maybe our bird’s no different.”
Brad was still fingering the collar. “Janis, is it possible that an eagle—took—the dog?”
“Carried it away and ate it, you mean?”
“Don’t say that!” Carl objected.
“Two words for you, kid: Chicken. Fingers. The bird’s gotta eat, no different from you and me.” Janis scratched her chin. “How much does the dog weigh?”
Brad looked at Sally, who made a thinking face. “Maybe fourteen pounds?” she guessed.
“That seems like a lot for a bird to carry. But I’m no expert.”
“I think Foxy is fine,” Carl declared, with sudden forced optimism. “The eagle scared her and she got loose somehow and ran off to play. She’ll be back.”
“Let’s hope.” Janis turned to Sally. “Out of curiosity: What was the point of the vest?”
Sally looked embarrassed. “Well, you’ve seen her. She looks like a fox. We were afraid of hunters.”
>
“It was something Tom Rowes said,” Brad explained. “He said that the local hunters might get—confused.”
“Well, he’s not wrong about that. If it looks like a fox it’ll get treated like a fox. But hunting season’s not until fall. Rowes was just being what my drooling friend here would call a poopy. I wouldn’t worry about it. Much.”
Brad turned the dog collar over and examined the severed edge. “That’s a clean cut. Could have been a knife. But who’d do a thing like that?”
“I know who.” Carl ran both hands over his head, to indicate complete and utter baldness.
Janis looked dubious. “That’s awfully low to stoop. Anyway, why not just unbuckle the collar?” She tapped her fingers on the table, thinking. “It was definitely an eagle you saw? And you were only gone a few minutes?”
Carl nodded, his optimism already fading.
“It’s a mystery, kid.” Janis stood to go. “But I like mysteries. I’ll keep an eagle eye out for your dog. Eagle eye, get it? You wanna come feed my chickens? Nope? Still feeling bad about those fingers, huh?”
“Veggie!” Marie roared. She splayed her own fingers in displeasure and pushed the new green applesauce out of her mouth with her tongue. It was like something out of a horror movie called Attack of the Disgusting Baby, and Brad and Sally both leapt into action to clean her up.
Janis leaned over to Carl. “Sounds like your sister wants to know if you plan to become a vegetarian. Thoughts?”
Carl couldn’t bring himself to answer. “I’m gonna sit outside and wait for Foxy,” he said, and that’s what he did.
CHAPTER TEN
Foxy makes a friend.
Where, oh where, was Foxy? And how would she possibly manage with no ID tags, no reflective yellow vest, and no reliable smell map of where she was? Her go-to landmark aromas that showed the way home—the tempting meat sizzle from the hot dog stand at the entrance to the park; the school playground that smelled like gym socks, sunscreen, and peanut butter; the front steps to their old building on Oxford Street, where every dog in the neighborhood liked to spritz a little “hello, there” on the ironwork railing—were all a hundred and fifty miles away.
The Harveys were worried and longed for Foxy to come back, but they may have been underestimating their little Shiba.
In the first place, the supersized Smell-O-Vision that comes as standard dog equipment is nothing short of a superpower, as impressive as the eyes of an eagle. Foxy may have gone soft from being a house pet, but a dog is a dog is a dog. Her nose worked just fine, and all her animal instincts were still there, if rusty. A few hours of running in the woods would sort that right out. She hadn’t been outdoors without a collar on in her whole life, and although she felt a wee bit naked, she also felt thrillingly, dizzyingly wild.
She wanted to run everywhere and sniff everything, to nourish her primal dogness with the smells of this new place, which were so unlike the smells she’d known before. Brooklyn was all stony concrete pavement, asphalt streets, and car exhaust, with top notes of pizza and the occasional, irresistible stink of a hydrant.
And the Goldfish crackers! That smell was all over Brooklyn, especially in the park. All the Marie-sized people were always eating them and dropping them. The kids smelled like Goldfish crackers, and so did the parents’ coat pockets, the strollers and diaper bags, too. Foxy had seen a real goldfish when Carl briefly kept one in a bowl in his room (the boy’s interest in the new pet didn’t last long, and the goldfish didn’t, either), and she could not figure out how one of those small, shiny swimmers could be multiplied into such a vast quantity of cheesy-flavored treats.
That was all behind her now. Thanks to John Glenn, she was Foxy the Free, and the perfumed air currents were blowing in from miles around. She planned to follow her nose and see where it led. Maybe she’d try to find that noble, sharp-beaked bird again, to thank him, and then look for those friendly rabbits who’d had to leave so abruptly, but the smells of nature were numerous and subtle, and her own soapy lavender fragrance was getting in the way. The first order of business was to get rid of it.
She followed the cool metallic scent of water to the crooked stream that ran through the back of the property, behind the orchards. After a few exploratory paw dips, she plunged all the way in. The water ran fast and cold, as springtime streams do, and she stayed in until she shivered.
The stream bath removed most, but not all, of her floral shampoo smell, so she rolled on her back on the streambank and wriggled in the mud. Soon she was plastered with odorous muck.
“Much better!” she thought, giving herself a splattering shake. “I would so love to see my reflection in the water and admire it, the way I used to do in the pond in the park, but this stream is too fast-moving for that. I must look like a true creature of the wild, all matted and muddy! The very picture of untamed ferocity and canine pride! Now all I need is a pack to lead and a few starlit nights baying at the moon. I’ve always been adorable, but in my current ungroomed state, I do believe I’ve acquired some gravitas…”
She thought all this as she clambered up the bank to flatter, drier ground—and gazed upon her reflection. There she was, right in front herself.
She tipped her head to the side, puzzled.
Her reflection did the same.
She swiveled her ears forward, in a gesture of keen alertness.
So did her reflection.
She pulled back her lips to show her teeth. When her reflection followed suit, she startled. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “Those Spearmint-Flavored GlitterTooth Chew-Bones are not working as advertised. Look at all that tooth gunk!”
“I beg your pardon,” the reflection said, “but I’ve only just eaten. Once I take a drink from the stream, my mouth will be much cleaner.”
Foxy wasn’t sure how to react, so she did what any reasonably friendly dog would do when meeting her double: She panted through a half smile and wagged her curled-up tail in hope.
“You poor thing,” the creature said. “What happened to your tail?” It raised its own tail, which was long and bushy and straight.
Foxy waggled her doughnut-shaped tail faster. “Well, this is unexpected! Look at us: same color, same size, same pointed snout and stand-up ears. Only our tails tell us apart. I’d bet my favorite chew toy that you’re a fox. Am I right?”
“Of course I’m a fox,” the fox said. “But I’m not sure what you are. A strange-smelling fox with a broken tail, perhaps? My condolences if so. Were you caught in a trap?”
Foxy’s lips pulled back in displeasure. “I beg your pardon, but my tail is flawless. A tightly curled tail is a great point of pride among my kind.” Still, hers drooped in dismay. “I’m a dog, if you must know. But in what way am I strange-smelling?”
“You smell like flowers that shouldn’t be in bloom for months yet, mixed with … let me think.” The fox sniffed. “Goose poop! You must have rolled in the mud by the stream.”
“I thought it would cover the dog shampoo,” Foxy admitted.
The fox wrinkled his nose. “It’s too much. My advice is to wash it off. The stronger your scent, the harder it is to sneak up on your prey.”
“Sneak up on my prey? How thrilling.” Foxy trotted back to the stream and plunged in once more. “Brrrr! It’s not so cold!” she yapped, shivering. After climbing out she shook herself again, thoroughly. “Now, be frank, friend fox. Do I smell any better?”
The fox had followed her to the stream’s edge to lap water. He lifted his head, muzzle dripping. “Much better. If you dry off by rolling in the meadow grass it’ll help a lot. Smelling like grass is good cover. I’d say let’s go hunting, but I’ve just eaten.” Now that his teeth had been rinsed, he smiled with confidence. “What’s your name?”
Foxy hesitated, but she was a truthful creature at heart. She summoned as much dignity as a wet dog could.
“My name,” she said, “is Foxy. What’s yours?”
The fox looked at her in amazement.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said, “but my parents named me Doggo.”
Now, foxes are known for their quick wits, and after a moment’s surprise Foxy realized the fox must be joking. Doggo! The irony! But he insisted he wasn’t, and that she must call him Doggo, as it was his true name and he was used to it.
They exchanged more pleasantries as Foxy rolled in the sweet grass and shook herself again in the sun. Soon she felt dry enough to continue adventuring.
“I imagine you know this area well, Doggo,” she said. “I’m looking for some friends of mine. Perhaps you might tell me where to find them?”
“More dogs?” he asked, sounding cautious. “You seem nice, but I wouldn’t like to be outnumbered by a pack. Nothing personal. We foxes live solitary lives, and we’re not terribly trusting, as a rule.”
Foxy chuckled. “Oh, no, not dogs! All my dog friends are in the dog run in Brooklyn. No, these friends must live nearby; they’re too small to travel far. They’re rabbits.”
“Rabbits?” Doggo repeated, with a strange tenderness in his voice.
“Yes, and rather young. Do you know where the rabbits around here live?”
Doggo licked his muzzle. “I believe I do. I could tell you how to get there, but I’d much rather show you. Would you like that?”
Foxy, who’d never in her life eaten any meat that didn’t come out of a can, was delighted at the fox’s kind offer of an escort, and off they went.
* * *
Once Alice and Thistle finished congratulating themselves about their clever deal with the chipmunks, they’d gone right to work. First, they consulted with Lester about the various vegetables—which ones liked to spread out and which liked to climb, which loved the sun and which tended to wilt in the heat—and between Lester’s own youthful garden-raiding experience and his vast intake of seed catalogs, farming magazines, and so on, they’d come up with a fine plan for their garden.
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