A Tale of Two Tails (5 page)

Cheerio must have known he was being a bad boy, because when I finally caught him, he stuck his wet nose followed by the rest of his face into the crook of my elbow and whimpered.

“Let me just say this, mister,” I told him in a stern voice. “Your apology is not accepted.”

“You were embarrassing, Cheerio,” Ashley said. “And you wasted a lot of time.”

“Listen to you guys,” Frankie said. “You're worse than parents. The little guy feels bad on his own. He's just a dog.”

“Yeah, he's just a dog who's being irresponsible,” I said.

Uh-oh. Dad voice alert. There it was again.

“Hey, kids,” Papa Pete called out from the bench. “Look who's here.”

It was Nick McKelty, lumbering into the park on his tree-stump legs. You could almost hear the ground rumbling beneath his size-twelve feet. Next to this gigantoid, whose neck resembled three flagpoles tied together, was the smallest dog you've ever seen. I mean, officially it was a Chihuahua, but I'm here to tell you, that dog was just a step up from a mouse in a rat suit. If Nick didn't watch where he was going, he could mistake his dog for a pitless cherry and crush it into a fruit cocktail.

“Hey, Zipperbutt,” McKelty called out to me. “You better hold on to that mutt of yours, because my dog Fang is a trained commando attack dog.”

“What's he attack?” I said. “Butterflies?”

Ashley and Frankie cracked up.

“You better not laugh,” McKelty said, “because Fang is trained in the ancient dog art of rip and tear.”

“Fang!” Frankie laughed. “If that dog is Fang, then my name is Bernice!”

Cheerio lifted his head to glance over at Fang. I mean, not one other muscle moved except the ones he used to open his eyelids. Fang let out the wimpiest whimper you've ever heard and shot behind McKelty's leg, grabbing on to his ankle for dear life.

“Wow, McKelty, we are all just shaking in our socks,” I said. “That Fang is deadly.”

“You just wait until he warms up,” McKelty told us. “He's back there right now sharpening his claws for the attack.”

“Really?” I said. “Because it looks like there's a puddle forming at your heel.”

“And it's weirdly yellow,” Ashley said.

We lost it and started to laugh. Cheerio joined in, howling at the top of his lungs.

“I can't waste my time talking with you morons,” McKelty announced. “I'm just going to let the contest do the talking. See if you're still laughing when Fang becomes the mascot of PS 87 for the next three hundred and sixty-five.”

“Right, and my name is Bernice,” Frankie repeated.

Frankie's been saying that Bernice thing since he was seven years old, but it still makes us laugh. Apparently, it works on Cheerio, too, because he started laughing even harder. It was so cute the way his lips curled up into a smile, showing his upper teeth, which reminded me that I should brush them sometime soon so he doesn't get cavities and have to go to the doggy dentist. Then they'd have to drill and that would hurt and then I'd have to go get him some special biscuits that he couldn't chew because of the novocaine and then he'd drool all over the place and . . .

“Earth to Hank,” I heard Ashley saying. “Papa Pete is talking to you.”

“Wow,” I said. “Sorry, I didn't hear. I was lost in my brain taking Cheerio to the dentist. But we're back now.”

“I was just saying,” Papa Pete said, “how nice it is to see all you kids getting along so well.”

What land was he living in? Oh, I know. It's the All-Kids-Get-Along-with-All-Other-Kids Land. I hear lots of grown-ups go there.

“How's your father, Nick?” Papa Pete asked.

Nick's father owns McKelty's Roll 'N' Bowl, which is one of Papa Pete's hangouts.

“He's great,” Nick said. “In fact, he's meeting with the manager of the Yankees right now. They want him to play first base.”

“That's strange,” Papa Pete said. “Because I thought I just saw him ordering a salami sandwich at the Crunchy Pickle.”

“Oh yeah,” Nick said. “He was probably getting sandwiches for all the Yankees. They love salami.”

That McKelty thinks he can talk his way out of anything. Papa Pete is just nice enough not to nail him on his lies.

We were all very tired from chasing Cheerio around the park, so we decided to cut the training short and make our way home.

“So the training didn't exactly take off today,” Papa Pete said as we headed out of the park and over to the sidewalk. “Maybe Cheerio needs a little time to learn the commands.”

“Well, while he's working on that, we still have plenty of other things to do to win the competition,” Ashley pointed out.

“Like what?” Papa Pete asked. We told him about the research paper on the history of the breed that we had to do.

Papa Pete stroked his mustache.

“That's a lot of work. When are you going to get started on that?”

“Sometime soon,” I said.

Frankie nudged me. “Like, now, Zip. The library's only a few blocks away. Let's swing by there and get some research books.”

“Great idea,” Ashley said. “We'll divide them up and all take a section.”

“One problem,” I said. “They don't allow dogs in the library. So I'll take Cheerio back and you guys go get the books. We can meet in the clubhouse after dinner. If that's okay, I'll see you at home.”

As soon as Cheerio heard the word “home,” his little ears perked straight up and his little legs took off as fast as they could, pulling me to the curb, across the street, and up the hill toward Broadway.

“See you later,” I hollered. But I don't think they could hear me because we were already halfway to our building.

Let me tell you this. When a dachshund wants to get somewhere, you better get out of the way. They're short, but mighty. Come to think of it, so am I.

Papa Pete stood on the corner and watched me go into our apartment, then walked Frankie and Ashley to the library. This worked out fine because he doesn't actually like to drop me off right in front of our apartment. He's always afraid of running into Mrs. Fink, who winks at him and invites him in to watch her DVD collection of championship bowling matches.

As I went into the building, Cheerio was still full of energy. He practically dragged me into the elevator and then spun around and around in a circle until we got to the tenth floor. The minute we reached the door of our apartment, he jumped up as high as he could and started scratching on it.

When we got inside, he bolted for the dining room table, where Emily and Robert were deeply engrossed in a project. I didn't know what it was, but I was sure it was something that they thought was smart-o-rrific, like figuring out why penguins are classified as birds even though they can't fly.

As soon as Cheerio got within four feet of Robert, the bony little kid's allergic reaction to dog hair kicked into high gear. Robert sneezed fifteen times in a row, blowing all their research papers off the table.

“Robert, I told you to number them first,” Emily said. “Now we're going to have a hard time putting them back in order.”

“Achoo,” Robert answered. “Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!”

“Wow, Robert,” I said. “I've never met anyone who defends himself in nose speak.”

“Achoo,” he said, just like I knew he would.

“You know that Robert has a hard time with short-haired dog dander,” Emily said, which was way more information about Robert's allergies than I needed to have. “It clogs his nasal passages, which stimulates the sneeze reflex.” Again, way too much information.

“I thought he was just allergic to you,” I said, hoping that would change the topic. It did, but not in a good way.

“I don't have time for your childish insults,” Emily said. “Robert and I are hard at work, making sure that Katherine will become the next mascot of PS 87.”

“Katherine?” I gasped. “Are you kidding? You actually think she's going to win?”

“Why not?” Emily said, giving me one of her I-am-so-superior looks. “Katherine is clearly the most talented, intelligent, and beautiful animal in the competition.”

I immediately put my hands over Cheerio's ears.

“Don't listen, boy. She didn't mean it.”

“Cheerio knows I love him,” Emily said. “But he also knows that Katherine would make a better mascot. We all know that Cheerio could never handle the pressure of the job. He's too distractible. Just like you.”

“Being distractible has its good points.” I was defending myself as well as Cheerio.

“You would know,” she said.

“Well, no matter what you think, I'm entering Cheerio in the mascot competition. He just had his first training session in the park, and he participated in everything that was going on around him.”

I thought that was a nice way to put it. Not accurate, but nice.

“And how are you going to handle the report part of the contest?” Emily asked me. “That's not exactly your strong point.”

“As a matter of fact, the research has already started. Team Cheerio is deep into dachshund history.”

“Perhaps you could use this fact,” Robert said, wiping his nose with a Kleenex. “Because of their elongated body and short stature, they are sometimes referred to as the wiener dog.”

“Thank you, Robert, I'll keep that in mind. I really like that fact.”

“Of course you do,” Emily snarled, “because it's not really a scientific fact. It's more of a fun fact, suitable for someone like you who isn't really a good researcher.”

“Oh really, Emily?” I couldn't let her get away with this. “You think you know everything, but what you don't know is that at this very moment, I happen to be close to four or five research books that will tell me everything I need to know.”

“I don't see any books under your arm, Hank. They're not in this apartment.”

“Maybe not, but they are in the building.”

Luckily, this annoying conversation was ended by the phone ringing. Just as I was headed for the kitchen to get it, my dad came in from his room with the portable.

“Hank, it's Frankie,” he said.

“Exactly the call I was waiting for,” I said to Emily. I took the phone, put on a serious research-guy expression, and listened intently.

“Why, yes, Frankie,” I nodded. “Uh-huh. That's great. And how many books do we have?”

I covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Emily. “There are so many that he couldn't carry them all. He had to share the load with Ashley.”

“That's wonderful news,” I said back into the phone. “Yes, of course. I'll meet you in the clubhouse at seven.”

I clicked off the phone and gave Emily the old Hank Zipzer smile. “At precisely seven o'clock, the research begins . . . Miss Know-It-All.”

“I don't know about seven o'clock,” my dad said. “But I do know that at precisely
now
, the homework begins. And you're not leaving this apartment until it's done.”

“But, Dad, that research is homework.”

“Yes, but it has nothing to do with the fractions worksheet that I happened to see waiting for you in your backpack.”

If I had to finish that whole worksheet, I wasn't going to get to that meeting in the basement for a week and a half, unless a miracle happened and my brain suddenly kicked into gear in the fraction department.

I went into my room, sat down at my desk, picked up my pencil, and hoped for a miracle.