8 Class Pets + 1 Squirrel ÷ 1 Dog = Chaos Page 4

  He runs back and forth just beyond where the leash stretches to. He says, “Ha-ha! Your master doesn’t make me wear a collar and leash to keep me in one place. He must not trust you, Cuddles.”

  Twitch seems to wait for me to be watching before he’ll climb into the garbage can at the edge of the playground. “Oh, Cuddles!” he’ll say. “There’s wonderful, tasty garbage in here today! Here’s a French fry! And half a baloney sandwich! And some macaroni and cheese! I can’t remember: Do you like macaroni and cheese, Cuddles?”

  I stand there drooling, knowing I can’t cross the short distance to get into that delightful-sounding garbage can.

  Sometimes the only way to avoid Twitch is to go to sleep.

  That’s what I was doing when Twitch ran right over my nose.

  Yow! That hurt!

  I just knew he did it on purpose, and I went running after him. I was so mad that I ran so fast that the rope leash broke. I kept on running, pulling that long rope with me.

  An owl was chasing Twitch, too. I don’t know what Twitch did to get her mad. But I saw Twitch was heading for the school. The man who works for Master cleaning and repairing the building had hung a big banner over the door that said WELCOME because Master had invited special guests to come the next day. The man had left the door open while he was putting his ladder back in his truck.

  “Don’t you dare go into Master’s school,” I shouted at Twitch.

  Guess what.

  He ignored me.

  In he went, as though he owned the place—just the way he acts as though he owns the yard.

  The owl knew school was off-limits. “He’s all yours,” she said, winging away.

  I was in the right. But the trouble was, all the pets took Twitch’s side.

  From room to room I went, chasing Twitch. A few things got knocked down or spilled or broken—but it was all Twitch’s fault.

  Those pets all worked together—even animals that shouldn’t work together.

  Finally, they knocked a big box on top of me. It was dark in there. I wasn’t sure if that snake had been trapped inside with me or not, because the pine shavings kind of smelled like him. He didn’t look like the kind of snake who bites, but you can’t trust snakes. I hunkered down and sat quiet.

  I could hear the pets laughing out in the hall and having a good time together. It was like a party!

  The squirrel was telling jokes—mostly to do with me.

  And the hamster and the parrot were telling everyone about how their names came from books, and they were all acting like that was a big deal.

  And the rabbit was saying they needed to get out and get together more often—and they had to figure out a way for the squirrel to join them, too! And she asked the rat if he could open all the cages again the next day.

  And the rat said yes, in between carrying on about something or other to do with Cinderella.

  And the turtle said they could all work on an art project together.

  And the geckos were saying they knew how to make a working volcano, and did anyone want to see?

  Even the fish were saying something—I don’t know what—it was too bubbly for me to understand.

  I wasn’t hearing the snake, which was part of the reason I suspected he was under the box with me. But I had just decided I needed to get out from under there—snake or no snake—when suddenly there were sirens, and people came rushing in, shouting, “This is the police.”

  I heard the pets scatter, then someone lifted the box off me.

  No snake, but I saw something worse.

  The person who had lifted the box was Master.

  “Cuddles, Cuddles, what have you done?” he asked. “Bad dog. Bad dog.”

  I tried to tell him about the squirrel—and about what the pets were planning—but Master has trouble understanding more than the simplest things I say. He usually gets “I’m hungry,” and “I want to play,” and “I gotta poop or pee,” but that’s about it. He obviously had no idea what I was saying there in the school.

  He had just taken hold of my collar when other people ran into the room. Some had black hats and shiny badges, and some had red helmets and boots and a hose.

  “Is there a thief?” shouted one of the men.

  “Is there a disorderly conduct?” shouted another of the men.

  “Is there a fire in the walls?” shouted a third.

  And the fourth asked, “Do you need us to knock a hole in the wall?” And he raised a sharp ax.

  “No!” Master cried. “No! No! No!” He sounded upset. Upset means “danger.”

  Any dog knows that.

  I lunged forward and barked at the man with the ax, barking, “Back! Back! Back!”

  Master held on to my collar. “Cuddles!” he ordered. “Sit.”

  I sat because that’s what a well-behaved dog does. But I kept on growling to warn the man that he’d better be on his best behavior, too.

  The man with the ax backed up so quickly, he knocked into the man with the hose. The man with the hose backed up so quickly, he tripped over the box that had covered me. He fell, and must have done something to the hose because suddenly water shot out of it. Whoosh! The water hit Master so hard, it knocked him down on his bottom.

  “Stop!” Master spluttered.

  The man with the hose turned the stream of water away from Master. Whoosh! It caught one of the shiny-badges men, causing him to land on his bottom.

  I bit at the stream of water to tell it that it was bad. The man with the hose ran away still holding the hose, so that it squirted at the desks instead of at the people, but for some reason Master didn’t thank me for saving him.

  Once they got the water turned off, Master locked me in his office while he and the men with the badges and the men with the helmets rounded up the pets.

  It took a long time.

  Master was still wet when he came to get me. He was also tired and grumpy.

  He took hold of my collar and held onto it all the way out of the school, across the school yard, across the backyard, and into the house, with his shoes going squish! squish! squish!

  “Cuddles,” Master said, “I don’t know what got into you. Tomorrow was supposed to be a special day.”

  I hung my head. I hung my tail.

  Master crouched down beside me and looked deep into my eyes. He said, “I bet you have a story to tell.” Then he said, “And I wish you could tell me.” He fluffed my ears. “I still love you,” he said.

  I wagged my tail and licked his face to tell him I loved him, too.

  Being a dog is the best thing in the world.

  TWITCH

  (school-yard squirrel)

  That was a close call I had with that dog, and then with all those people running around School, banging doors open and yelling, “What’s going on here?” and squirting each other.

  As much as I know humans love squirrels, I ran out of School as fast as I could because those people were having way too much fun playing, and I knew from watching kids play that this meant somebody was eventually going to come and yell at them for it.

  And sure enough, after all the other humans had left in their cars with the spinning lights, the man who lives next door to School brought the dog out, and he had a tight hold of his collar and was saying, “Bad dog.”

  Humans can be smart about certain things.

  The next morning I went from window to window at School to check up on all my new friends. They were back in their cages, but otherwise they looked fine.

  The humans, however, did not look fine.

  The man who cleans School stood in the hallway and looked at the floor smeared with paint and water and soggy pictures. He said, “This is too much. This hurts my head. I need to lie down.”

  The man who lives next door to School said, “You can’t do that. The visiting artist will be here any minute. The mayor will be here. The people from the newspaper will be here. You need to clean this up right now.”

  The children said, “Our
art projects are ruined! We’ll never win the contest! There’s no time to start over!”

  The teachers were all saying:

  “Don’t blame my hamster.”

  “Don’t blame my rat.”

  “Don’t blame my snake.”

  Everyone was unhappy.

  “Blame the dog!” I shouted from where I sat outside the window.

  But nobody paid attention because just then the person called Visiting Artist came in. He walked slowly, watching where he put his feet. He looked at the splattered, pattered-upon floor with all our paw prints, and rat-tail tracks, and slithery snake s’s, and the marks made by the wheels of the cart with the fish tank, and a few bits of feather left by the macaw, and piles of glitter that had come unglued from the pictures that were floating in the puddles that hadn’t dried from last night. He said, “Oh my!”

  “We’re so sorry about the mess,” the man who lives next door to School said. “Perhaps you can come back another day?”

  “Mess?” Visiting Artist cried. “Nonsense! It’s perfect! Anyone can decorate pieces of paper—and walls are so obvious. It takes Vision to think to make art out of a floor! Your students are brilliant! You are brilliant! Your teachers are brilliant! You must all come to visit me in my studio!”

  So then everyone was happy again.

  And—I have to point out—that’s thanks to me.

  I took a little bow, sitting there on the window ledge, although I don’t think the humans saw me. The turtle saw me. She waved. I think. She moves so slowly, it’s hard to be sure.

  It can’t be easy to be a turtle. It can’t be easy to be a human. I’m glad I’m a squirrel. A squirrel who is brilliant and who has Vision. Not that I’m exactly sure what Vision is, but I think it has something to do with being able to outrun a dog. And to make friends wherever I go.

  Being a squirrel is the best thing in the world.