Strudel's Forever Home Read online

  Ten

  My walk the day before had been brief, so this was my first real chance to explore the neighborhood. Red and orange leaves were scattered everywhere on the sidewalk—pretty, but uninteresting smell-wise. Much better was the litter: flattened plastic drink bottles, chip bags, used tissues, candy wrappers and dirty paper plates.

  It was like an all-you-can-sniff buffet!

  But Jake would not let me at it. I pulled this way, he pulled that. Sometimes it’s one big frustration, being a dog.

  On the corner was a power pole very popular with dogs, and there I stood my ground. This was obviously canine message central, and there were tons of replies to the message I had left yesterday. Typical was one from the poodle, Rudy. Roughly translated, it said: “Welcome to the neighborhood, dachsie! Sniff you soon!”

  Only a few were unfriendly: “I hope you’re not as conceited as the last dachshund we had around here.” That came from a Pekingese, which I thought was pretty funny. Everyone knows how stuck-up they are.

  Two of the messages were puzzling—both the same, both warnings: “New dog, whatever you do, keep away from the Pier 67 Gang.”

  This did not sound good, but what did it mean? Who or what was the Pier 67 Gang?

  The very name sounded scary—criminal, almost. I shuddered and for some reason remembered the night of the calamity. Next thing I knew, the strange feeling came over me again. The day seemed to turn dark, the air felt cold and clammy. Was I hearing explosions? Against my will, I began to tremble.

  “Strudel?” Jake had been playing with his phone, but now he knelt next to me. “Did somethin’ scare you, buddy? You’re okay.” He ran his hand down my long dachshund spine. “Everything is fine.”

  I shook myself. What was I afraid of, anyway? My human was here, wasn’t he? The daylight came back, and the sun shone. Pier 67 Gang, indeed. Whatever that was, it wouldn’t bother me.

  I lifted my leg to acknowledge messages received. That way when dogs met me nose-to-nose they would be ready to include me in the neighborhood pack. Speaking of which, here came that pit bull, the shy one who must live nearby. He was walking on a leather leash with a male human. Like Jake, this human was a kid, but bigger and older.

  The pit bull was twice my size and looked tough— except for his goofy smile. I raised my nose and tail, puffed out my chest and strode toward him. He might be the big dog, but I was the boss—a fact I planned to establish right away.

  Watching me approach, the pit bull dipped his snout respectfully. I figured I’d head butt his leg—Hey, wanna wrestle?—but Jake pulled me back.

  Meanwhile, the pit bull’s human was talking. “Little Jakey Allegro,” he said, “how ya doin’? And what’s that—a salami you’re walking? You better keep him away from Luca here. He might think you’re offering up a snack.”

  “Hi, Anthony.” Jake’s voice was low. Was he afraid of this Anthony fellow? Did Jake need protection? If he did, I was ready!

  “So Jakey, how’s my uncle Arnie treating your mom? Good?” Anthony asked.

  Jake shrugged and looked at his toes. “I guess.”

  “You know, come to think of it, you’re a guy that could maybe help me out,” said Anthony.

  “I am?” said Jake.

  “Absolutely. Me and Richie might have some work for you. You’re a helpful kind of kid, right? You do good, there could be cash involved.”

  “Cash? Yeah—I mean . . . help you out how?” Jake asked.

  “Delivery work. Easy peasy.”

  Talking, the two boys stopped paying attention to Luca and me. My leash went slack, and I edged closer. The big dog’s ears were up, and so was his tail. Now at last I had my chance, and I gave him a friendly head butt. He replied by stomping his forepaws and bumping me with his snout—a blow that sent me halfway across the sidewalk.

  I shook myself and charged back for more. The big baby! He didn’t even know his own strength.

  “Ya wanna play?” I asked.

  “Yeah!”

  I rolled over, jumped to my feet, charged forward and grabbed him around the neck. He froze to let me get a good long sniff.

  “What’s your den like?” I wanted to know. “Smells like you eat pretty good, and there’re lots of humans there. I hope the others are nicer than this nasty one.”

  Before the pit bull could reply, Jake and Anthony were pulling us apart.

  “Are you okay, Strudel?” Jake asked. “Did he bite you?”

  “Hey-ey-ey, Luca—don’t hurt that wiener dog. It ain’t his fault he’s undersized.” Anthony yanked the leash hard, and Luca, unprepared, lost his balance and slid a couple of feet.

  Ouch.

  I barked a sympathy bark.

  Jake misunderstood. “No, Strudel! You don’t want to annoy that dog. He’s a lot bigger than you.”

  Anthony tugged the leash again, laughed and started to walk away. “I’ll be in touch, Little Jakey. Meantime, watch out that that big, scary dog’a yours don’t hurt nobody.” He raised one hand without looking back. He was still chuckling.

  A block later we ran into Rudy, the poodle. He turned out to be black and to have legs as long as mine are short. Unfortunately, he smelled like—phew—shampoo.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey! Thanks for the food. It was top of the line!” I told him.

  “Sorry about the stink,” he apologized. “I just got back from the groomer.”

  “Buddy, I feel your pain,” I said.

  Lisa and Jake talked about school for a little while. Then Lisa said, “We were on our way to the dog park. Do you want to come? Your new dog is cute.”

  Jake said, “Sure, I guess. Is that okay with you, Strudel?”

  Yeah, yeah, totally! I love the dog park!

  Lisa laughed. “That tail wag looks like a yes to me.”

  The four of us, two dogs, two humans, fell in together. Jake asked Lisa if she thought I’d be okay with the other dogs there. “Strudel’s pretty small, I guess,” Jake said.

  Lisa laughed. “He’s exactly the size he’s supposed to be. And he’ll totally be fine. Look at the way Rudy acts with him. Even though Rudy’s bigger, Strudel’s the alpha dog.”

  “What’s an alpha dog?” Jake asked.

  “Like, the dog in charge,” Lisa said. “Rudy’s a big wimp, aren’t you, Rudy-wugs? But I still wuv you, yes I do.” The way she talked made me think of Maisie. Her human’s granddaughter used to put baby clothes on her. Maisie told me they squeezed in all the wrong places, but she didn’t mind. It was an easy way to make a human happy.

  “You’re lucky you’re too big for baby clothes,” I told Rudy.

  “Yeah, but you should see the sweater she makes me wear at Christmas,” Rudy said.

  The dog park was next to a children’s playground, one additional long block away. Four dogs were romping already when we got there, all of them recognizable from the smells they had left at the power pole. Lisa opened a metal gate to let us in, then she unclipped Rudy’s leash and Jake unclipped mine.

  “Don’t get into trouble,” Jake told me, and I could tell he was anxious. He didn’t realize that to me these dogs weren’t strangers. Through our messaging system, we’d already sorted out a way to get along.

  That’s why I walked in like I owned the place.

  “Hey, hey, hey, new dog!” said a miniature pinscher.

  “Good to see ya!” said another pit bull, this one silver-gray and a lot leggier than Luca.

  “Great to be here,” I said. “Great to have a home at last. I guess you know I’ve been in a shelter.”

  “Yeah, that’s tough,” said the min pin. “I’ve been around a shelter or two myself.”

  Rudy poked his nose in my face. “We better get some running in now. My human never lets me stay here long. She’s always got homework. Race ya to the fence—let’s go!”

  If it had been a digging race, I would have won paws down. But running is not my long suit, so to speak, and Rudy beat me to the fence by a mile. To even things out, I staged
a sneak attack, rolled right under him and popped up on the other side.

  “Nice move,” he said.

  “It’s a doxie thing,” I said.

  After that, we both tumbled around, getting good and dirty.

  “That oughta help the smell some,” I told him.

  “I hope so,” he said. “Talk about embarrassing.”

  “Hey”—I remembered something—“what’s this Pier 67 Gang, anyway? There were warnings about it at message central.”

  The mood at the dog park had been all carefree lolling and wagging, but now it changed. The min pin stopped in his tracks and growled. A golden retriever dropped down and tried to hide under a bench. Rudy himself looked right and left, then stretched his legs, ready to run.

  “I don’t even like to talk about them,” said the gray pit bull. “But if you must know, they are”—she lowered her voice—“cats.”

  “Cats?” I howled.

  “Shhhh!” said the pit bull, and the other dogs echoed her: “Shhhh!”

  “These are not just ordinary cats,” said the min pin. “Ordinary cats we can handle, no problem. But the Pier 67 Gang—they are evil, pure and simple. And they’ve got the kills to prove it.”

  Eleven

  Soon after that, Lisa announced that she had to go. Walking home with Jake, I should have been perfectly content. My new neighborhood boasted enough smells to entertain a dog for a lifetime. The dogs at the dog park were friendly, and they recognized my superior qualities.

  There was just one problem: a gang of evil and murderous cats.

  It sounded like somebody’s idea of a joke. But those dogs weren’t joking.

  What should I do about this gang? Was it possible to keep away from them? What would Chief do?

  These questions were in my head when we got home, and I trotted over to the plastic cereal bowls they’d put on the floor for me. The food one was empty, but there was plenty of water. I guessed I would know I really had a forever home when my humans remembered to feed me.

  I sighed and rested my head on my paws. For the next few minutes, I forgot about evil cats and thought instead of my previous human. Every afternoon he used to go to the kitchen, remove three butter cookies from a blue tin, eat two of them with a glass of milk, and split the third one with me.

  Some days he gave me the whole cookie for myself.

  Those were very good days.

  I missed him—and not just the kibble and the cookies, either. He had loved me and petted me and patiently taught me tricks. For an energetic dog, it had been a quiet life. But up till the calamity, it had been comfortable and safe as well.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the patio door sliding open and Mutanski coming into the kitchen.

  “Jake! Get your body out here and take a look. You’ll never believe what the stupid mutt did!” She wagged her finger at me. “Bad dog! Baaad dog!”

  Bad dog . . . what?

  Then I remembered. She must have found the snake!

  This day had been so eventful, I’d entirely forgotten it. But why did Mutanski sound mad? Shouldn’t I be getting a reward? How about a cookie?

  After all, I had saved my family from certain slithering death!

  Jake came into the kitchen shaking his head. “If there’s another mess, just tell me. You don’t have to get all dramatic.”

  “It’s way worse than a mess,” said Mutanski. “He chewed up the garden hose—destroyed it totally!”

  Garden hose? What’s garden hose? I never heard of this thing called garden hose.

  All of us went out to the patio, where the green snake remained as dead as ever, its mangled carcass in half a thousand pieces. Jake slapped his head with both hands. “Oh, Strudel, noooo! Why did you do that?”

  To answer the question, I re-enacted the epic struggle: I stomped my front paws; I growled; I grabbed what was left of the snake by the throat and shook!

  Mutanski laughed. “I guess you showed it, right, Strudel?”

  I sure did! Yes I did!

  “How much do hoses cost?” Jake asked.

  “A lot,” said Mutanski.

  Now I sensed I might have miscalculated. Was I in trouble? Just in case, I wagged my tail, sat back and held out my paw to shake.

  Jake took my paw and sighed. “I guess you’re worth it, Strudel. I’ll get a broom and a trash bag.”

  A few minutes later Mom got home. She barely had time to unbutton her coat before Mutanski told her about the garden hose. Apparently garden hoses are less dangerous than rattlesnakes, but to this day I am not sure why that is.

  “I’ll pay for it, Mom,” Jake said. “You can take it out of my allowance.”

  “He’s already lost his allowance for, like, the next year, hasn’t he, Mom?” Mutanski asked.

  Mom turned to face the two of them. “Just once I’d like to walk in the door and hear my two happy children say, ‘Welcome home, Mother dear!’”

  “Sorry,” said Jake and Mutanski at the same time.

  “There’s no money in the budget for a new hose, so I guess we use the watering can,” Mom went on. “And Jake, if you’re going to keep this dog—emphasis on the if—then it looks like you’ll have to earn some money of your own. Arnie’s right. Dogs are expensive. Even the small bag of food I bought today set me back some bucks. There wasn’t enough left to buy beer.”

  “Ohhh, poor Arnie!” Mutanski threw her head back, slapped her forehead and moaned. “Forced to buy his own beer!”

  Mom exhaled sharply. “That’s about enough of that, young lady.”

  “Suits me,” said Mutanski, and she stomped out of the room.

  Mom watched Mutanski’s retreating back.

  Jake spoke quietly. “Strudel is my dog, Mom. We are going to keep him.”

  Mom turned and looked at Jake. “What? Oh, right—the dog. Honey, if you want to keep him, you will have to step up and earn some money.”

  It doesn’t take a dachshund long to identify which humans belong in his pack. Jake was a member of mine, and so was Mutanski, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

  As for Mom, if she wanted to join, she still had to prove herself. The bag of kibble she bought was a start. And Grandpa seemed like he might be okay. He was the one who had pointed out that a dog needs to eat.

  Then there was Arnie: Strudel Enemy No. 1. No way could he join. In fact, I steered clear of him anytime he visited. That night, he didn’t come to dinner, and Jake took advantage of the opportunity to drop me a piece of hot dog.

  It’s true I prefer it without mustard, but it was the thought that counted.

  After dinner, Mom reminded Jake about homework, and Jake started to argue. Then he remembered he was supposed to be on his best behavior.

  “Absolutely, Mom! I’m on it!”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “Okay, kiddo, don’t get carried away being good. I won’t recognize you.”

  Twelve

  During the next few weeks, I stayed out of trouble.

  Mostly.

  There was that unfortunate incident on the night they call Halloween. What is that holiday about, anyway? Children who smelled like sugar and looked like monsters rang our doorbell one after another and—here’s the really bad part—they stole our candy!

  Oh no! Oh no! Danger!

  I barked so much I lost my voice.

  Later, to recover my strength, I ate every last sugar-coated wrapper I could steal out of Jake’s wastebasket. When I woke up in the middle of the night with a tummy ache, I found out Jake was awake with a tummy ache, too.

  That night we both left multicolor messes on the rug.

  The next morning Mutanski thought this was hilarious.

  Mom did not.

  Other than that, I began to think I really had found a forever home. There were no butter cookies, but meals became regular. Jake took me out in the morning and at night. After school every day, he took me for a good long walk. A lot of times he and Lisa took me and Rudy to the dog park, where I met the rest of
the neighborhood dogs. Sometimes I saw Luca on Jake’s and my walks, but we never had a chance to talk. Jake and Anthony kept us far apart.

  As for the Pier 67 Gang, they stayed out of sight. Maybe they weren’t as bad as every dog said. Or maybe they were unusually smart for cats, smart enough to know you don’t mess with a dachshund.

  As for that other dirty rotten bad guy—Arnie—he scolded Mom for buying dog food instead of beer, she snapped at him and he took his anger out on me. When he thought no one was looking, he aimed a kick, but, being a klutz, he missed me by a mile.

  Not taking any chances, I kept out of his way after that and learned to like Fridays, when Grandpa came over and Arnie did not. On Fridays I stuck like glue under Jake’s chair, waiting for the odd bit of sausage pizza to fall my way. One week Grandpa asked about me. “How’s Killer settling in?”

  Jake said, “Good.”

  Mutanski said, “Arnie hates him.”

  “That’s a point in Killer’s favor, then,” said Grandpa.

  Mom sighed. “Dad, could you please give it a rest? My personal life is my business.”

  For a few moments, the only sounds were the sounds of chewing. Then Grandpa shifted in his chair. “Speaking of personal life, I’ve been meaning to tell you that, uh . . . well, you’re not the only grown-up around here that’s got one.”

  This time when Mom spoke, there was a smile in her voice. “Really, Dad? Go on. I’m all ears.”

  “Well, uh . . . lately,” Grandpa said, “I’ve been watching TV a couple nights a week with Betty Rossi.”

  “Who’s Betty Rossi?” Jake asked.

  Mutanski said, “From Betty’s Quik-Stop, right? That’s cool, Grandpa. She always used to give me and Jake Life Savers when you or Grandma took us there.”

  “How did you happen to run into her, Dad?” Mom asked.

  “She’s sewing costumes for the Mummers,” said Grandpa. “Her boy Ray’s marching with the Frogs this year.”

  “Oh—the mummers brigade you’re a marshal for,” Mom said. “Ray was a troublemaker in high school. So was his brother.”