Guinea Dog 3 Read online

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  EGMONT

  We bring stories to life

  First published by Egmont USA, 2014

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © Patrick Jennings, 2014

  All rights reserved

  www.egmontusa.com

  www.patrickjennings.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jennings, Patrick.

  Guinea dog 3 / Patrick Jennings.

  1 online resource.

  Summary: When Pedro admits that he has a paralyzing fear of water, his friends try to cheer him up with a pet. Only this one won’t leave the water! The third installment of the Guinea Dog series.

  ISBN 978-1-60684-555-4 (eBook) — ISBN 978-1-60684-554-7 (hardcover)

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-60684-485-4

  [1. Guinea pigs—Fiction. 2. Family life—Fiction. 3. Camping—Fiction. 4. Fear—Fiction.]

  I. Title. II. Title: Guinea dog three.

  PZ7.J4298715

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013047595

  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 the copyright owner.

  v3.1

  For Regina Griffin,

  Eagle-eyed, Lionhearted

  Queen of Editorship

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. I need a vacation.

  2. My mom invited my worst friend again.

  3. My dad needs a vacation.

  4. I thought caravans had camels.

  5. We don’t rest in the rest area.

  6. White Crappie Lake isn’t as bad as it sounds.

  7. “Coatimundi!”

  8. I have no idea how to give CPR to a guinea pig.

  9. Pablo doesn’t swim.

  10. Dad doesn’t like hot dogs, either.

  11. Dmitri can’t keep the sixth one down.

  12. Solar energy from the moon.

  13. Adults, rodent cages, and a girl in a long skirt.

  14. The only way to get one off you is to chop off its head.

  15. Lurena the Pest.

  16. 2 guys + 2 dogs + 1 skiff = fun × 5 trillion.

  17. Tom Sawyer dries off in the gigantic RV.

  18. Mosquitoitis.

  19. We couldn’t find the mini-mall pet paradise.

  20. Truckers must get lonely on the wide-open road.

  21. Why does Mom think a guinea pig is the answer to everything?

  22. “Cowamundi!”

  23. Most fireflies fly higher than guinea dogs.

  24. Who knew Fido was a bloodhound?

  25. Guinea turtle?

  26. Empty speed ahead.

  27. Heroic, sure, but not smart.

  28. Dog-paddling isn’t just for dogs.

  29. The guinea dog chased the guinea squirrel up a tree.

  30. Man eats dog.

  About the Author

  1. I need a vacation.

  All the fuss at school about my guinea dog, Fido, has worn me down. Everyone kept bugging me to see the guinea pig that acted like a dog, or asking me where to get one, or otherwise being very annoying. It was exhausting.

  Fortunately, next week, my family is heading to White Crappie Lake for our annual camping trip. (The lake is filled with white crappies, which is a kind of fish, but, even so, I’m sure they could have come up with a better name.) My best friend, Murphy, and his family are coming, too. They go with us every year. It’s a summer vacation tradition that traces back to when we were in kindergarten together. We’ve been friends that long. Murphy’s the greatest guy in the whole world. I’m lucky he’s my best friend and I’m his, because everybody loves Murphy—including Dmitri.

  My worst friend, Dmitri, has been trying to replace me as Murph’s best friend ever since he moved to Rustbury last summer. He’s always trying to impress Murph with all the cool devices and clothes and stuff his rich parents buy him. But Murph doesn’t care about that kind of stuff. He would have accepted Dmitri as a friend anyway. His motto is “The more the merrier!”

  Murph and I always have so much fun at the lake. We swim, dive off the floating pier, jump off the tire swing, go boating, explore the woods, and just, you know, hang out, without any interruptions, from school or from Dmitri.

  This will be Fido’s first trip to the lake, of course. I mean, I’ve only had her a little while. Murph loves her, and so does his dog, Buddy, who is probably the greatest dog in the whole world. Murph says Fido’s the greatest guinea pig in the whole world. He’s the one who came up with the idea of calling her a “guinea dog.”

  Right now I’m busy packing for the trip, but it’s hard because every time I put something in my duffel bag, Fido dives in and drags it out and wants to play Tug-of-War. Or she hides it under my bed. Or she tries to chew it to pieces. She chews a lot of things to pieces, and not just my stuff, but Mom’s and Dad’s, too. Mom laughs it off. Dad doesn’t. One of the bazillion reasons he won’t let me get a dog is that dogs chew things up.

  “Put that down,” I say to Fido. “I’m not interested in playing Tug-of-War with my underwear.”

  She holds on and growls. She wants to play.

  So do I. I hate packing.

  I dig under my bed and find a sock that hasn’t been chewed to bits. She drops my underwear and dives under the bed, snatching the sock before I can get to it, then races in circles around the room, the dirty sock in her tiny teeth.

  “Hey, you,” I say, pretending I’m sore at her. “Bring that here. Fido, here!”

  This is an order, and she obeys. She’s a good dog that way. She inches toward me with her butt up in the air, growling in her deep voice, which is about as deep as a mouse’s.

  “Come on,” I say. “Give it here. Give it. Fido? Fido? Give me the sock.”

  She hunkers down, her ears low.

  I lunge forward and grab the other end of the sock. She tightens her grip, digs her claws into the carpet, and starts shaking her head back and forth. We both tug. I have to pretend she might actually jerk the sock out of my hand, which is impossible. If I wanted to, I could lift it up in the air with her dangling from it by her teeth.

  A knuckle knocks on my door.

  “Rufus?” my mom says, poking her head inside. “Can I come in?”

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” I ask.

  “I can,” she says, with a that’s-so-cute smile. “I just thought I’d tell you the exciting news.”

  “Exciting?” I ask.

  Mom’s idea of exciting and mine are pretty different.

  “I just got off the phone,” she sings. Singing her words is a sign she’s about to break some bad news. This is not looking good.

  “Oh?” I ask.

  Fido keeps growling and tugging.

  “Another fa-mi-ly will be joining us on the tri-ip!” Mom sings.

  “What family? And just say it, Mom. Don’t sing it.”

  She sucks in her bottom lip and makes her oh-you’re-getting-so-smart-and-grown-up face.

  “Who, Mom?” I demand. “Who is coming with us?”

  She opens her eyes and mouth wide in fake anticipation, as if she were building su
spense. If I had a drum set, I’d give her a drum roll, but Dad says I can get a drum set when I’m grown up and living on my own, not before.

  “Mom,” I say. I wonder if she’s read that book I’ve seen on her bookshelf, How to Talk So Kids Will Listen, and Listen So Kids Will Talk. If she did, she didn’t learn anything.

  She steps inside the room. “I thought it’d be fun,” she says, “to have another family join us on our White Crappie trip this year, so I invited …” She pauses for effect.

  I scream at her with my eyes: Go on!

  “I invited Dmitri and his family!”

  I let go of the sock, and Fido rolls away like a coconut.

  2. My mom invited my worst friend again.

  I’m both shocked and unsurprised. How is that possible?

  Leave it to Mom. After all, this is the woman who invited not only Dmitri, but also his vicious chow, Mars, to my last birthday party. She also invited Lurena, the annoying, rodent-crazy, old-fashioned-clothes-crazy, crazy-crazy girl who has been following me around ever since I got Fido.

  Mom has been pressuring me to be friends with Lurena ever since they met. Can’t Mom see she’s a girl? A weird girl? Does she not remember that Lurena once asked her parents for a pet squirrel? (Which she got, in a way, when Fido gave birth to a guinea pup that acted like a squirrel.)

  Yeah, I gave her Fido’s baby. It just made sense. The weird thing about it, though, is that it made us sort of related. That doesn’t mean we’re friends, of course. Mom hasn’t succeeded in making that happen, but I’m sure she hasn’t given up.

  Inviting Lurena and Dmitri to my birthday party was clueless, but inviting Dmitri on our summer trip to the lake goes beyond normal, everyday parental cluelessness. I’m furious.

  “Are you nuts?” I yell. I know a person shouldn’t yell at his mom, and deep down, I feel bad about it, but on the surface, where my mouth is, I’m too furious to stop myself. “You invited Dmitri? Are you nuts?”

  Fido yelps and runs under my bed.

  Mom seems genuinely surprised that I’m angry. Which, again, is shocking but unsurprising.

  “How could you?” I’m still yelling. I’m also puffing hard through my nose, like a bull in a bullfight, or like Dad when I put recyclables in the regular garbage. “Don’t you remember how mean Dmitri was at my birthday party? Don’t you know by now that I can’t stand him?”

  “I just thought …,” she starts to say.

  “No, you didn’t! You didn’t think. You couldn’t have!”

  “You know, I’m going to come back when you’re ready to talk about this respectfully …”

  “Respect? You want to talk about respect? I’ll talk about respect! Respect—”

  “I’ll come back,” she interrupts, and edges toward the door. “Try to calm down. You’re scaring Fido.”

  I growl. Not like a guinea dog. Like a lion. I’m a bull and a lion combined. I’m a savage lionotaur on a rampage. Look out, Mom.

  She slips out, but before she pulls the door shut, she stops to flash a toothy, hopeful smile, like I’m an angry guard dog and she just stepped over the line into my territory. Then she says, “I kind of invited Lurena’s family, too.” And closes the door.

  “WHAT?” I scream. The lionotaur pounces at the door, snorting, fangs bared. I pull it open with my claws. Mom is fleeing down the hall.

  “I won’t go!” I scream. “I won’t! I’m not going! I’m staying here! You hear me? I’m not going! I’ll stay here alone! Just me and Fido!”

  I hear whimpering from under the bed, and the fire of my anger fades, doused by guilt. I’m scaring the poop out of my guinea dog.

  I kneel down and peek under the bed. She’s there, curled up in the farthest corner, shivering.

  “Did you hear that?” I whisper. “Mom invited Dmitri and Mars.”

  She shivers harder. She doesn’t like them any more than I do.

  “Unbelievable, right? She also invited Lurena.”

  Fido stops shivering. She wags her tail—well, she wags the spot where a tail would be if she had one. She likes Lurena okay, but, to her, Lurena means Queen Girlisaur, Fido’s daughter.

  I sit down on the carpet. This is over. Mom wins. Lurena and her rodents, and Dmitri and his giant puffball are coming on the trip. On top of that, I realize I have to apologize to Mom for yelling at her.

  I hope one day I have kids. I’ll let them have whatever pets they want, and whatever friends they want. I won’t push anything they don’t want on them, or deny them anything they do want.

  Except cats, of course. I won’t live with a cat. That’s a no-brainer.

  Fido scoots out from under the bed and jumps up into my lap. She gets up on her hind legs and looks me straight in the eye.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Queen Girly is coming on the trip.”

  She starts licking my face as if it were an ice-cream cone.

  3. My dad needs a vacation.

  But he doesn’t like vacations. Especially camping trips. Does he have a single reason for this? No. He has a million reasons:

  • His study is at home. (He works at home.)

  • His kitchen is at home. (He does all the cooking.)

  • His washing machine and dryer are at home. (He does the laundry.)

  • His bed is at home.

  • His bathroom is at home.

  • He doesn’t like driving.

  • He definitely doesn’t like driving far from home.

  • He doesn’t like sleeping in a crowded pop-up camper without a decent kitchen, washing machine, dryer, or study.

  • He doesn’t like sleeping on a camper mattress.

  • He doesn’t like sharing a camper with a guinea pig.

  • He doesn’t like the way guinea pigs smell.

  • He’s not crazy about the way I smell.

  • He says frogs and crickets keep him up all night.

  • He hates mosquitoes.

  • He despises ticks.

  • He doesn’t like cooking over an open fire.

  • He doesn’t like campout food, not even marshmallows.

  • He doesn’t like campfires.

  • He doesn’t like campfire smoke.

  • He doesn’t like that kids and dogs run around all the time, making lots of noise and going to the bathroom outside.

  • He doesn’t like swimming in lakes because they’re filled with fish, snakes, turtles, dogs, and screaming, splashing kids.

  • He doesn’t like swimming in lakes because fish, snakes, turtles, dogs, and kids go to the bathroom in lakes.

  • He doesn’t like camping in the summer because it’s hot and humid, and there’s no air-conditioning or even electric fans.

  • There’s also no Wi-Fi.

  • There is nowhere to get a decent cappuccino.

  • Porta-Potties.

  He’s been packing the car and the camper all day. He’s like that. Everything has to go in just so. If Dad played video games (he doesn’t), he’d love Tetris.

  He’s sweaty and grouchy, and I’d love to stay miles away from him, but Fido thinks that Dad’s putting the stuff into the car and the camper, then taking the stuff out of the car and the camper is a game, so she keeps jumping into the car or the camper, then jumping out of the car or the camper with something Dad just packed. I have to hang around to make sure Dad doesn’t kill her.

  “Will you get this blasted creature out of my way?” Dad says, without parting his teeth.

  “I’m trying,” I say.

  “Why don’t you put a leash on her and take her for a walk?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  I get Fido’s leash—it’s actually a leash for a ferret—and click it on to her ferret collar.

  “Come on, girl. Let’s go for a walk.”

  Fido digs in. She doesn’t want to walk. She wants to play with Dad.

  I tug on the leash. She tugs back.

  “She doesn’t want to go,” I say to Dad.

  He gives me the St
ony Stare. “Well, show her who is the boss.”

  “Right. Come on, Fido,” I say, jerking the leash a little harder. She chokes.

  I turn to Dad. “She—”

  “Get her out of here!”

  “Check,” I say—forgetting that saying this annoys him—and bend down and scoop up Fido.

  She whines.

  “Sorry, girl, but Dad needs some space. How about a little Frisbee?”

  She immediately stops whining and starts panting.

  “Let’s go out back,” I say, and carry her around to the backyard.

  The Frisbee is lying in the grass. It has tons of tiny teeth marks in it. I unhook Fido’s leash and toss the disc into the air. She runs it down, makes a sweet aerial catch, then drags it back to me.

  “Good one,” I say, and scratch her on the head. She pants. She wants me to throw it again.

  I do, again and again, and she catches it each time and brings it back. She could do this all day, but I get tired of it and sit down on the grass. She runs over to me and hops up and down. She doesn’t want me to quit. Where does she get all this energy?

  Funny, that’s what my mom always says about me.

  “We’re going to have some vacation,” I say to her. “With Dmitri. And Lurena. And Dad.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “At least Murphy will be coming.”

  Fido starts whining and clawing at my shirt. She looks up at me with her big puppy eyes and cocks her head to the side. It’s hard to refuse.

  “Okay,” I say, standing up.

  I toss the Frisbee for the fiftieth time, and she darts after it.

  I’m glad she’ll be coming, too.

  4. I thought caravans had camels.

  Not necessarily. Sometimes a caravan is just cars traveling together.

  Our caravan (it’s Dad’s word, of course) is Mom’s hybrid pulling our pop-up camper; Murph’s dad’s Jeep pulling the wooden teardrop camper Murph’s dad built himself; Dmitri’s parents’ RV that’s bigger than a school bus, which is pulling one of their SUVs; and Lurena’s parents’ hybrid, which isn’t pulling anything. They have their dome tent packed in the hatch.