A Very Merry Guinea Dog

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Guinea Dog

Guinea Dog 2

Lucky Cap

Dognap

(
previously titled
Invasion of the Dognappers)

My Homework Ate My Homework

EGMONT
We bring stories to life

First published by Egmont USA, 2013
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806
New York, NY 10016

Copyright © Patrick Jennings, 2013
All rights reserved

www.egmontusa.com
www.patrickjennings.com

ISBN 978-1-60684-550-9
eBook ISBN: 978-1-60684-550-9

Cover illustration by Patricia Castelao
Cover design by Toborg Davern

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

v3.1

“F
ido, quiet!” I say for the third time.

She stops whining, but after a few seconds, slowly starts whimpering, then starts up whining again, which is exactly what she did the last two times I told her to be quiet.

I’m rewrapping a Christmas present for her. She got it away from me when I was wrapping it the first time and ripped the paper to shreds. In fact, she ate some of the paper—it had little snowmen printed on it—then coughed it back up. I managed to get the present away from her before she could tear through its packaging to the dog treats inside. That’s why I locked her in the hall, which is where she is now, whining and scratching at the door to my room.

The dog treats look like raw T-bone steaks,
except that they’re each about the size of a quarter. The package claims they’re made with real beef. They must smell like it, too, considering how crazy they’re driving Fido.

I roll them up in a fresh sheet of snowmen paper and reach for the tape dispenser when there’s a knock at my door. It’s my dad’s firm, four-knuckled knock, not my mom’s lighter, single-knuckled one.

“Rufus,” Dad says through the door in a deep voice, “I am trying to work.”

My dad edits an online golf magazine. He works at home.

“So am I,” I say.

I hear him sigh, then he opens the door. Fido rushes into the room so fast her back legs pass her front ones.

“Please keep her in here,” Dad says, giving me the Stony Stare. “And keep her quiet.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say.

More Stony Stare.

“I’ll keep her quiet.”

He nods and shuts the door.

In the meantime, Fido has scurried up my
pant leg to my lap. She’s sitting on her hind legs, her front paws resting on my desk, her little pink nose sniffing madly. I hold the present over my head, out of her reach.

“It’s for Christmas,” I say. Like she knows what
Christmas
means. “You only have to wait till tomorrow.” Like she knows what
tomorrow
means.

She pouts. I scratch her mohawk. She licks my fingers. She wags where her tail would be if she had one.

Fido is a guinea dog. I’d always wanted a real dog, but my fussy dad wouldn’t let me have one, so my unfussy mom bought me a guinea pig. To everyone’s surprise, it barked, begged, whined, fetched, obeyed commands, got fleas, and chewed up Dad’s shoes. In other words, it (she) acted like a dog.

“What do you say we go play in the snow?” I say to her.

She leaps off my lap, darts for the door, and scratches at it. All the doors in our house have guinea dog scratches near the bottom.

“So that’s a yes?” I say.

The snow is only six inches deep, but it’s over Fido’s head. She doesn’t seem to care. She bounds through it like a little orange fox. A guinea fox? Her tracks look more like they were made by a guinea mouse.

She finds the stick I threw, scoops it up in her mouth, and bounds back to me.

“Good girl,” I say as I take it.

I throw it again. She gallops after it.

It’s been snowing for a couple of weeks now, and the pond is probably frozen enough to stand on. Last time I was there, kids were skating on it. I haven’t skated on it yet because all I have are my old figure skates. They’re way too small now. Besides, I’m a hockey player. I need hockey skates.

I saw a pair at the mall, black with silver swipes and carbon steel blades for quick turning. The skates are adjustable, so they’ll last for years. They’re perfect. I told Mom about them, but I don’t think she heard me. She doesn’t always listen.

Fido brings the stick back.

“Good girl,” I say again, then toss it again. She runs after it again. She loves playing Fetch.

This time, though, she runs past the stick and up to the back door, just as my mom opens it. Fido ducks inside.

“Dinner’s almost ready, Rufus,” Mom says.

“You just let Fido in,” I say. “You didn’t happen to open the door to my room, did you?”

“I suppose so,” she says. “I was looking for you.”

“Didn’t you hear me tell you that I like it closed?”

That’s what I mean about her not listening.

I run past her into the house, through the kitchen, and upstairs to my room.

Fido’s got the present. Again.

“Put that down!” I command.

She looks up at me, the pack of dog treats dangling from her mouth. She’s already torn off the wrapping paper and has begun gnawing through the package. Fortunately, it’s made of tough plastic.

“Now!” I say.

She reluctantly opens her mouth. The bag of treats hits the floor.

“I’m trying to work, Rufus,” my dad says. “I think I mentioned that.”

I jump. I didn’t notice him come up behind me.

“S-sorry,” I say.

He wrinkles his nose at the torn paper all over the floor.

“I’ll clean it up,” I say. I don’t mention that it was Fido’s work. I don’t want him mad at her, too.

He gives me the Stony Stare, then turns to leave.

This time I lock Fido in her cage. I don’t like doing that, but I can’t think of any other way to get my presents wrapped. Fido’s isn’t the only one. I also made gifts for my parents in art class and bought my best friend, Murphy, a special hockey puck. A light in the center of it glows when you smack it. The one I got glows this really cool blue color. Murph’s going to love it.

Fido doesn’t like being put in her cage, either. She starts howling. Dad will come back if I don’t do something, so I use my scissors
to snip open the dog treats package. I fish out one of the tiny T-bones.

“Here,” I say, passing it to Fido between the bars. “Now keep quiet.”

She snatches it and starts happily, quietly chewing.

After dinner, I do the dishes and brush my teeth and get into bed. I want to go to sleep fast so I can wake up early and open my presents. The door is shut so Fido can’t get out. She’s already asleep and snoring at the foot of my bed. I hid her present in the living room, high up in the tree, near the star. Murphy’s puck is wrapped and under the tree with all the other presents. Tomorrow’s going to be great.

Now I just need to fall sleep.

The problem is that thinking about how great tomorrow is going to be makes it hard to relax.

I try thinking about something else, but that’s just more thinking. So is thinking about nothing. I try not thinking. Can’t do it. I try
changing positions: I turn onto my side, onto my other side, facedown, pillow over my head. Nothing works.

Finally, I get up and go to the bathroom for a drink of water. I’m tempted to go downstairs for a chicken leg, but that’s against the rules on Christmas Eve. It’s actually against the rules all the time, but especially on Christmas Eve. I’m not allowed to go downstairs on Christmas Eve, or on Christmas Day, not until my parents are awake and go down with me.

On the way back to bed, I stop at my dresser and get my flashlight. I use it to find a book. I pick one my dad bought me called
Grammar Rocks!
and climb into bed with it. It’s as dull as I hoped it would be. Pretty soon I’m too drowsy to read. I close the book and shut off the flashlight.

When I wake up, it’s still dark. My clock says it’s six thirty. Too early. My parents won’t be up for hours.

I turn on the flashlight and shine it down
at my feet to see if Fido’s still asleep. She isn’t there. I wave the light around the room, looking for her.

“Fido!” I whisper. “Where are you?”

No answer.

I shine the light at the door. It’s shut. Did I shut it when I went to the bathroom? I can’t remember. If I didn’t, she could have gotten out.

I go out into the hall and whisper her name.

“She isn’t out here,” Dad answers.

He and Mom are both out in the hall, in their robes.

“Why are you guys up?” I ask.

“Probably for the same reason you are,” Dad says. “The noise woke us.”

“What noise?”

“You didn’t hear it?” Mom asks.

I didn’t. “Maybe that’s what woke me up.”

“Maybe,” Dad says. “And Fido’s loose?”

He gives me a knowing look. I get it: the noise, Fido …

I rush down the stairs, calling, “Fido! Here, girl! Here, Fido!”

It’s dark downstairs. Even the tree lights are off. Usually, my parents leave them on when they go to bed on Christmas Eve.

I flick on the overhead switch. The tree is lying on the couch. The plate of cookies I left out on the coffee table for Santa is under it. The star is dangling from the tip of the tree by its green electrical cord. All the presents are unwrapped. The wrapping paper has been torn to shreds and scattered around the room. I know whose work this is.

“Fido!” I call. “Fido, where are you? Fido, come!”

I see movement in the drapes by the sliding glass doors. I pull the cord and the drapes open, exposing her. She has the package of mini-steaks. She got through the plastic.

“Did Fido do all this?” Mom asks from behind me.

I turn toward her. Dad is standing beside her, looking grim.

“She was looking for her present,” I say. “I hid it in the tree.”

“She was able to knock down—” my mom
starts to say, but she’s interrupted by my dad’s very sudden laughter. I mean, one second he’s giving me the Stony Stare and the next he’s completely cracking up. It’s a little scary. Mom starts laughing, too. I guess it is kind of funny, so I go ahead and laugh as well.

When we stop laughing, Mom plops down on the couch beside the fallen tree and composes herself.

“I guess we may as well start,” she says.

“Really?” I say. “Because it’s pretty early.”

“We’re up,” Dad says. “Let’s do this thing.”

He sits down in his favorite chair, and I start passing out presents. They not only no longer have wrapping paper, they also no longer have tags, so we’re not always sure who they’re from—some of the gifts are from relatives who mailed them to us—but we can usually figure out who they’re for.

I give Mom and Dad the presents I made them.

“It’s a lovely pot!” Mom says, holding it up. “Thank you, Rufus!”

“And a handsome portrait,” Dad says.
“I’ll hang it in my study. Thank you, son.”

“You’re welcome,” I say.

None of the gift boxes contain a pair of hockey skates.

“Is that all of them?” Dad asks.

“That’s all,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. All I got were some socks, a sweater, a board game I already have, and a couple of books. I guess my mom didn’t hear me after all. Or she did and decided I didn’t need or deserve skates. I think I was pretty good this year.

“You sure?” Mom asks.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I say. She doesn’t have to rub it in.

She stands up. “Then I’m going to put on the coffee.”

Dad gets up, too. “I’ll start breakfast. Waffles okay?”

I shrug. “Whatever.”

I crawl over to Fido, who’s gnawing away at her treats. At least
she’s
happy with her gift. Murphy will be, too. I guess I’ll need to rewrap his puck.

They say it’s better to give than receive, but I really wish I’d received a pair of hockey skates.

I scratch Fido’s head. “I can’t believe you knocked down the Christmas tree,” I say, like she understands what I’m talking about.