Fenway and Hattie in the Wild Read online

A brown-and-white Corgi pokes his snout through a link in the fence. “New here?” he says, giving me a sniff-over.

  “Nope,” I say, thrusting out my chest. “I’ve been here since yesterday. The name’s Fenway.”

  “Fenway?” He stares at me for a second with his head tilted, like he didn’t just smell me or anything. “I’ve heard that name before somewhere.”

  “You were so right about this place,” I tell the ladies. “So many dogs to play with! You come here every year? I could get used to this!”

  Goldie looks like she wants to say something but changes her mind. Patches’s eyes are kind as always. “We had a feeling you’d like it,” she says.

  The Dog Park is already humming with action. Dogs are crawling through the tube and climbing over the ramp and barking with glee as short humans laugh and chat and throw balls. “Hurry up, Hattie!” I bark. “I can’t wait to play with my new friends!”

  “The fun doesn’t start without you, Fenway,” Goldie says.

  “Marcus!” a bunch of short humans shout as they rush toward him. As soon as Hattie opens the gate, we race inside.

  “Whoopee!” I cry, shooting across the grass. The ladies are hot on my tail.

  As I make a wide turn, I see Hattie and Angel dashing over to Marcus, who’s surrounded by short humans. He reminds me of Food Lady bossing us around. But for some reason, the rest of them don’t seem to mind.

  The ladies on my heels, I weave in, out, and around other dogs. Big, little, long-haired, short-haired—wowee! This must be the Most Popular Dog Park Ever!

  “Hey, everybody!” I call, slowing as I approach the climbing ramp. “I don’t want to brag or anything, but I used to be a champ on that thing back in the city.”

  A Wheaten Terrier stops mid-climb, her tags jingling. “Cool!” she cries. “Let’s play follow the leader.” She tells me her name is Kwanzaa.

  “Yeah,” says a dark brown Havanese with a little bow at his throat. He introduces himself as Hugo. “The more the merrier.”

  I lead the ladies up the ramp, the others trailing behind. “Check this out, guys!” I yell from the top. I leap into the air, spinning. “I’m flying!”

  I hear Goldie’s claws come to a clattering stop as I land. “Game over,” she says.

  “I hate to agree, but there’s no way I am trying that move, Fenway,” Patches says.

  When I whirl around, everybody’s frozen on the ramp. “Did you say his name was Fenway?” Hugo asks.

  Kwanzaa cocks her head. “Um, I just remembered I have to go,” she says, backing down the ramp.

  Hugo scampers after her. “Kwanzaa, wait for me!”

  I turn to Goldie and Patches, my ears wilting. “Why don’t they want to play with me? Should I have tried an easier trick?”

  The ladies exchange a glance. “Maybe,” Patches says.

  We tear around the perimeter of the Dog Park a few times. On the fourth or fifth round, I spy Coco strutting along the back fence, a line of other dogs tagging after her. I remember them from yesterday—Titan, Midnight, and Chorizo. Is that a new game? It looks pretty boring.

  “Don’t you ever get . . . tired, Fenway?” Goldie huffs as we near the front of the Dog Park. Again.

  “He’s got more energy than the rest of us put together!” Patches yells.

  “Seriously . . . I need a break,” Goldie says, puffing.

  “Maybe a short one,” I say, cruising up to the giant water dish. “Playing does make me thirsty.” I plunge in for a good, long slurp. I hear the ladies come up beside me to do the same.

  I must be drinking for longer than I thought. When I come up for air, two black-and-white dogs I don’t know are suddenly guzzling right across from us. If I had to guess, I’d say the bigger one is a Border Collie and the other is a Boston Terrier.

  “Hey,” I say when they eventually look up. “You two seem like you’d be up for a challenge. Want to race me around the park?”

  The Boston Terrier just stares. So does the Border Collie. Have they never seen such a handsome Jack Russell before?

  Right when I’m beginning to wonder if the cat stole their tongues, the Boston cocks her head. “You’re not that dog Fenway, are you?”

  I stand a little taller, my tail high and waving. “I sure am!” I say. “Have you girls heard of me?”

  The Boston looks at the Border Collie, who’s already slinking away. “Um, sort of,” she mutters. Next thing I know, she’s skulking off, too.

  My tail sinking, I turn to the ladies. “Nobody likes me. Do I smell flowery or something?”

  Before they can respond, I notice Coco and her gang sauntering past, and suddenly, everything is crystal clear.

  After we leave the Dog Park, we take a different path to a grassy field beside the pond. A group of humans—tall and short—is hanging around, like they’re waiting for something exciting to happen. Unfortunately, me and the ladies get tied up under a huge elm tree. I have a terrible feeling we’re about to miss out on the action.

  “Whoa,” I say to the ladies. “How many humans are here, anyway?”

  “Too many to count,” Goldie says. “More every year.”

  “Wait till the games begin,” Patches says, sinking to the ground. “Get ready to hear lots of cheering.”

  Goldie rolls onto her side. “You mean yelling. These humans take play as seriously as you do, Fenway.”

  Heaving a sigh, I circle in place. “I knew we were going to be left out! Is Coco in charge of this, too?”

  “That dog can be a real troublemaker,” Goldie says, scratching behind her ear. “We warned you to be careful.”

  “But I was.” I stretch out my front paws, pushing a couple of crispy leaves, then slump down on my belly. “I didn’t do anything to her. Just being myself. And now nobody wants to be my friend.”

  “It’s not you; it’s her,” Goldie gruffs. “She did the same thing to another dog last year. He was thirsty and drank out of her bowl. She made sure everybody knew about it.”

  “Poor thing became an outcast,” Patches adds, gazing out over the busy field. “Notice he’s not here this year. His humans, either.”

  “That’s not fair.” My hackles shoot up. “That Pomeranian shouldn’t be able to get away with that stuff.”

  Patches looks up. “As if anyone could stop her.”

  I spring back onto my paws. “I won’t let her sabotage my chances of making new friends.”

  “Nice thought, Fenway,” Goldie says. “But how?”

  I climb up and down over a fat root. “I don’t know exactly.” Or at all.

  TWEEEEET-TWEEEEET! TWEET-TWEET-TWEET!

  I pause mid-step, my head swiveling. “Yikes! What kind of bird was that?”

  “Why, haven’t you ever heard a whistle?” Patches asks.

  Goldie cocks her head toward the field. “Check it out.”

  The humans suddenly go quiet, except for the tall man everybody’s focused on. Coils of black hair seem to spring from his head, and he’s holding a big cone in front of his mouth. His loud, distorted voice booms across the field. I can’t understand a word he’s saying—“teemz,” “fass-tist,” “prizez,”—and a whole bunch more.

  Hammock Man is standing next to him, his arms wrapped around a basket. He’s ditched the bandanna, his hair pulled back like before. Hot Dog Man comes up beside him, carrying a bulging sack.

  As crowded as the field is, it’s easy to spot My Hattie with her short hair and bouncy feet. She sure looks ready to play.

  My tail droops, and I sink back onto my belly. What fun is a game without an enthusiastic dog?

  Hattie glances around until she finds Angel. I spy other humans pairing off. Tall and short, dark-haired and light-haired—even Food Lady and Fetch Man seem to be getting ready to play. Although the look on Food Lady’s face tells me she’s not too sure sh
e wants to.

  Someone else looks like she doesn’t want to play. June stands alone on the sidelines, her gaze fixed on the ground. Hammock Man walks over to her. He tugs at the braid hanging down her back and puts his arm around her shoulders.

  Hattie must notice, because she dashes away from Angel and heads over to them. Her face still full of excitement, she chatters at June while nodding a lot. Kind of like when she’s trying to coax me into eating something that tastes yucky. Like kibble that’s totally different from the kind I usually eat.

  Pretty soon, Hammock Man’s expression is as encouraging as Hattie’s. He taps June’s back a few times. I can almost hear him saying, “Come on!”

  Their convincing apparently works. Hammock Man leads June toward the big group while Hattie rushes back to Angel. The whistle tweets some more. The loud voice booms again. The humans scatter—half to one end of the field, half to the other. All at once, the humans on one side reach an arm out in front of their bodies.

  I blink. “Are they holding spoons?”

  Goldie bats at a fly. “Pretty sure they’re trying to balance eggs. But there’s no point in watching, Fenway. Once they get started, this is impossible to figure out.”

  “I sort of get it,” Patches says. “I think the goal is to share the egg. Or keep it from falling.”

  “But they don’t eat it.” Goldie sneers. “What kind of game is that?”

  I finish licking my brown paw. “It does sound kind of boring. Even though I’d still rather play than be kicked out. I thought this was going to be a lot more fun.”

  “It’s not easy to be on the sidelines,” Goldie says.

  Patches shoots her a look, then turns to me. “Just be patient, Fenway,” she says in her lovely voice. “You’ll figure out how to get along with Coco. After all, we did.”

  “Who says I want to?” I say. An extra fluffy caterpillar makes his way up and over the fat tree root. He’s crawled partway up the elm’s trunk when whoops and squeals and hollering draw my attention back to the field.

  Some sort of race is going on. One group of humans with eggs on spoons walks very quickly toward the group on the far side of the field. I spy Angel rushing toward Hattie, whose eyes are huge, her hands reaching out. As if she cannot wait for Angel to give her that egg. Or spoon.

  But not to eat? Goldie was right. This game makes no sense.

  But the humans sure look and sound like they care about it a lot. Some are jumping up and down. Others are screaming. Everybody seems totally pumped.

  Loud whoops erupt as the first human arrives at the other end of the field and hands off her spoon—and egg. The other human grabs it and heads back across the grass, walking so fast he’s almost running.

  Marcus practically swipes the spoon from another boy and speed walks across the field, easily passing a bunch of others. One by one, egg-holding humans reach the waiting humans. Most pass the spoons, but one or two drop their eggs with a splat, followed by groaning.

  Hattie screeches when she takes Angel’s spoon. Angel, too. Hattie takes off!

  As my short human hurries over the field, I can’t help think she’d go much faster with a dog. My gaze is fixed on Hattie until I hear a gasp behind her.

  A girl is down on the field. Hammock Man races over and pulls June to her feet. Her face is stunned. Her shirt is smeared with egg goo. She waves her arms, flicking her fingers as if they’re covered with something icky. Like soapsuds.

  “Oh, dear,” Patches mutters.

  “I saw that coming,” Goldie murmurs. “She’s not the type who wins games.”

  “Goldie!” Patches scolds. “That’s not nice. I bet June would win if the game involved reading books. Not every short human is the same.”

  “Neither are dogs,” I add.

  June pushes Hammock Man away and mopes off. By the time she gets to a cluster of trees, cheers erupt at the opposite end of the field.

  Somebody starts a chant. “MAR-cus! MAR-cus! MAR-cus!” Marcus thrusts an arm overhead, and a bunch of short humans slap his hand. I don’t need to understand the game to realize who just won.

  Angel crosses the line moments after him.

  While the humans keep shouting and cheering, me and the ladies drift in and out of sleep. Each time my eyes pop open, the humans are playing some other perplexing game. Two humans hobble-running with their legs tied together. Tossing balloons back and forth until one drops and somebody gets splashed with water. Humans hopping up and down with their legs inside a sack.

  Finally, I see a game I know—tug-of-war. Except it’s one group of humans on one end of the rope and the entire other group on the other. Weird as it looks, it seems they’re pretty good at it. With all the groaning and straining and pulling, that rope is hardly moving at all.

  “Gotta feel for them,” Goldie says. How long has she been awake? “It’s not like they can clench the rope in their strong canine jaws.”

  “But it’s humans against humans,” Patches points out. “So at least it’s fair.”

  We watch until the rope moves enough that one side cheers while the other groans. The distorted voice with the cone booms. We hear a series of names called and more shouting and clapping and whooping. Then various humans stroll up to somebody who’s handing out little bags that everyone seems to want.

  If the scene was hectic before, it’s even worse now. Humans chattering, romping back and forth, showing off their bags, heading in all directions.

  It’s not until I spy My Hattie racing over, her face full of joy, that I leap up. “Hooray! Hooray! I missed you so much!” I bark.

  But before she gets to the elm tree, she slows. Making a turn, she rushes up to Hammock Man and June. For the first time, I notice she’s carrying one of those small bags. She reaches in and pulls something out. A treat?

  Hammock Man’s face lights up, but June’s gaze drops to her feet. She shakes her head.

  Hattie looks discouraged. She hands the treat to Hammock Man, then pivots.

  “I knew you’d come back!” I bark, leaping up and licking her hands as she unties me. She tastes sweet and fruity and nothing like a treat. Yuck!

  Angel is already leading the ladies away. As we join them, Marcus bounds by with a group of others, laughing and sniggering, “I’m June—oof!” Then he pretends to fall on the ground.

  What is it about him? I remember what the ladies said, “Like canine, like short human.”

  And that’s when a question pops into my mind. A really big question.

  At first, I thought Coco was some sort of super alpha dog who has to be in charge. But now, I’m beginning to wonder if maybe there’s another reason she wouldn’t let me investigate that Food Box. “What’s the deal with Coco?” I say as we trot along behind Hattie and Angel. When the short path ends, we walk along the dirt road. “Because I’m pretty sure she’s up to no good.”

  Goldie snorts. “Fenway, if I had a bone for every time you said that about somebody. Let’s see—the squirrels, the bunnies, the vet . . .”

  Patches cocks her head like she’s considering the possibilities. “Honestly, this time I’m not sure,” she says. “If it were anyone but Coco, I’d say you’re being overly suspicious. But there’s not much I’d put past that dog.”

  Whoa! I don’t know whether to feel comforted or worried. It’s great that Patches is on my side. But she’s the one always telling me to stop imagining the worst. If she thinks Coco is up to something, she definitely is!

  The short humans chatter happily, reaching into their bags and popping treats into their mouths. Whatever those morsels are, they must be awfully chewy because Hattie and Angel are both chomping for a Long, Long Time. Normally, I’d ask for some, but that sweet, fruity smell is revolting.

  Goldie nimbly hops over a rut in the road. “What are you saying, Fenway? That she’s back at the campsite plotting to chew your fav
orite bone?”

  Gulp! That would be awful! I give my head a good shake to clear out the despicable image. “No, actually, I was thinking of something much worse.”

  Patches turns to me, her eyes wide. “Oh my goodness. What could that be?”

  “Well,” I say, avoiding a hopping toad, “remember how Coco wouldn’t let me or anybody else sniff around that knocked-over Food Box?”

  Goldie scrunches her snout. “She had every right. It was her territory.”

  “What if she did it herself?” I check to make sure nobody’s listening. “That’s why she doesn’t want to do anything about it.”

  “Fenway,” Patches says, her voice kind and gentle. “Why would she do that? Her humans give her whatever she wants.”

  “And how could she knock over a box that big?” Goldie chimes in.

  I come to a halt, little puffs of dust wafting up around my paws. “I don’t know. Maybe she had help.”

  The ladies exchange a puzzled glance. Goldie speaks first. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

  Patches gazes at me kindly. “It does sound rather unbelievable.”

  Hattie turns around. “Fenn-waay,” she sings. “Come on.” The inside of her mouth is darker than usual. It smells like really strong cherries.

  “Well, in any case . . .” I whip around, my eyes bulging. “I think I need to find out more about that dog.”

  * * *

  But first things first. At the end of the dirt road, we arrive at the clearing where we slept and ate—did Goldie call it the campsite? My tail swishes with excitement. Wonderful aromas of mustard and bread and cheese and—mmmmm—meat fill the air. This can only mean one thing—lunch! My mouth starts watering.

  Marcus is sitting on top of the wooden table just beyond the garbage bin, his cheeks flushed and smiling. He holds out his bulging bag, proudly showing off its contents to Swirly-Arm Lady while she lays leafy lettuce on a slice of bread. He smells like the same sweet, fruity-ness as Hattie and Angel. Only way more of it.

  Swirly-Arm Lady frowns at the bag, like maybe she feels the same way I do about fruit. She nods toward the backpack lying on the ground. I know that look. Clearly, she wants him to put those treats away.