Guinea Dog 3 Page 2

  “Did you know they used a camel for Chewbacca’s voice?” Murph asks.

  He’s riding with us on the way to the lake, and I’m riding with his family on the way back. I’m a firm believer in saving the best for last. Murph’s dad is very cool. Not only does he own a Jeep and build cool things like campers, but he doesn’t ever think about recycling or vocabulary. He’s a regular, dog-loving dad. Unlike mine.

  Mine said Murph’s perfect dog, Buddy, couldn’t ride with us in our car.

  “Who or what is Chewbacca?” Dad asks, which is a perfect example of how weird he is.

  “He’s a character in Star Wars, Art,” Murph politely explains. Murph’s nice to everyone, even dog-hating dads who dislike camping and don’t know anything about Star Wars. “He’s a Wookiee, which is this alien species that are really tall and furry but act pretty much like us. He has arms and legs, and sits and even operates a spaceship, but his face looks like a Maltese.”

  “Does he chew tobacco?” Dad asks.

  Murph and I look at each other. Then Murph says with a laugh, “I never thought about that! You’re so smart, Art!”

  I hadn’t thought of it, either. Chewbacca has always just been the character’s name, like my name is Rufus. It never meant anything more than that. I’m sort of proud that my dad came up with the connection.

  I’m also impressed that Murph compared Chewbacca to a Maltese. It’s true. Chewbacca does have a face like a lapdog. Plus he knows that they used a camel for his voice. I wish I had something smart to say.

  “Did you know that camels don’t actually spit at you?” Murph asks before I can come up with anything. “They vomit at you.”

  My mom peeks in her rearview mirror at us. She’s driving. Dad’s riding shotgun. “Really? That’s so gross.”

  Murph may be a smart guy, but that doesn’t mean you should trust the things he says. He not only loves fooling you with made-up facts, but he also fools you by saying things that sound crazy so that you accuse him of making it up, when actually they’re totally true. Like when he claimed there were frogs that had claws and hair skirts. I didn’t believe him. I should have.

  “Spitting is shooting saliva from your mouth,” Murph says. “But when a camel gets angry, it shoots digested food from one of its four stomachs. It pukes at you.”

  My mom glances at my dad.

  “Oh, he’s right,” he says, nodding. “Though I don’t know if I’d call it ‘puking.’ It’s more like ‘regurgitating.’ ”

  For once, it’s good to have Dad around. Murph could have kept me going on that one for a long time.

  In fact, I should probably doubt the part about Chewbacca’s voice being a camel’s, but instead of giving Murphy the satisfaction of knowing I’m not sure, I change the subject.

  “Mom, you’re letting Dmitri’s dad pass you again,” I say.

  The Sulls’ giant RV roars past us. It’s like a gray whale on wheels. A gray whale towing an SUV. Fido stands up in my lap and scratches at the window.

  “It’s not a race, Rufus,” Mom says.

  She’s wrong, of course. Everything is a race, or can be if you let it. Dmitri and his dad want it to be. They like being the best.

  “Dmitri just texted me,” Dad says. “It says, ‘NYAAH NYAAH!’ All in caps.”

  “Aren’t you glad you invited them, Mom?” I ask.

  “The more the merrier!” Murph blurts out, totally missing my sarcasm.

  Mom smiles at him in the rearview mirror. “Well put, Murphy!”

  I may spit like a camel.

  “Another text,” Dad says, looking at his phone. “It says, ‘Rotten egg!!!’ Are three exclamation points ever necessary?”

  In the mirror, I see Mom’s eyes narrow. She flicks on her turn signal.

  “We’ll see who’s a rotten egg!” she says, and guns the motor.

  5. We don’t rest in the rest area.

  We spend our break trying to keep our pets from eating one another.

  Most of the terrorizing is done by the puffball. What a demon dog Mars is. Question: What sort of dog has a black tongue? Answer: an evil one.

  First thing Mars does is chase Queen Girlisaur up a tree. Good thing Queen Girly is so fast.

  “Dogs are supposed to be kept on leashes,” Lurena scolds Dmitri, pointing at a sign that says so.

  “Whatever, girl,” Dmitri says.

  “She’s right,” I say. He’s so mean that I even end up defending Lurena. “You should leash your puffball, Dmitri, before it kills someone.”

  Mars stops barking up the tree and turns on Fido, who is angry and nipping at the beast’s heels.

  “Uh-oh,” Dmitri says with a grin.

  I’m not worried. Fido can hold her own with Mars. She’s done it before. She barks her little head off and snarls with her teeth bared.

  Buddy bounds over and gets in between them. Mars adores Buddy, kind of like Dmitri loves Murphy, but Buddy isn’t all that interested. She came over to defend Fido. Eventually, the puffball calms down, gives in, then the three of them run off, playing. Dogs are like that.

  “You’re lucky Mars didn’t eat your precious little guinea dog,” Dmitri says.

  Dmitri is not a dog. He never calms down, or gives in, or plays nice.

  He looks at Lurena. “Or your precious little guinea squirrel.”

  “If Mars ate Queen Girly, I would eat Mars,” Lurena says, and licks her lips.

  I believe her. She’s kind of scary sometimes.

  Murphy comes out of his camper with two tennis balls.

  “How about a game of Fetch?” he asks.

  Dmitri smirks at me. “You’re on, Murph!”

  He thinks the two balls are for Buddy and Mars, and he’s right. But after flipping one of them to Dmitri, Murph digs into his T-shirt pocket and pulls out a neon-green superball. He hasn’t forgotten about Fido.

  “Here, Buddy!” he calls. “Here, girl!”

  Buddy stops what she’s doing and gallops toward us, with Mars and Fido in hot pursuit. Murph hurls a tennis ball over Buddy’s head, and, without breaking stride, she leaps up and catches it in her mouth. What a dog!

  Dmitri throws his ball, and Mars jumps up, but it bonks him on the head.

  Murphy tosses the superball to me.

  “Here you go, Fido!” I say, and bounce the ball hard off the pavement. It flies up high in the air, so high I can barely see it.

  Fido rushes over, then freezes, her head up, watching the ball like a center fielder waiting for a high fly. She gives a little bark as she waits for it to come down. When it does, she jumps up, timing her leap perfectly, and catches the little green ball in her mouth, her plump body twisting in midair. She doesn’t land gracefully, probably because she’s so plump and her legs are so short, but she’s not hurt. She springs to her feet and carries me the ball as if it’s a trophy.

  “Great catch, girl!” I say.

  “She’s amazing!” Murphy adds, and slaps me on the back. “Best guinea pig in the whole world!”

  “She is something special,” Lurena says. “But I’m not sure she’s the best.” She picks an acorn out of the pocket of her long, frilly skirt. “Watch this.” She looks up into the tree where the guinea squirrel is. “Here you go, Queen Girly!” And she underhands the nut up into the air.

  Queen Girly fidgets a moment on her branch, as squirrels do, then darts toward the acorn, leaps, snatches it, and lands on a branch below.

  “What an acrobat!” Murph says.

  “Wow!” I gasp. I’m smiling. I guess I’m proud. Queen Girly’s sort of my granddaughter.

  “I want her,” Dmitri says. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks for her, Lurena.”

  “No, you won’t,” she answers.

  Dmitri huffs and stomps his foot. It’s pretty funny. He’s used to getting what he wants, and hates that neither Lurena nor I will give him our guinea pigs. He even went looking for the store where I got Fido—it was called Petopia—but it had closed up and moved away. So he went
to a big chain pet store and bought a guinea pig. It didn’t act like a dog. Or a squirrel. It acted like a guinea pig. He was very angry—which kind of goes without saying when it comes to Dmitri.

  “Mars, come!” Dmitri yells at his dog.

  The puffball whimpers. I don’t think he wants to come. I wouldn’t.

  “Mars, come!” Dmitri yells again.

  Mars backs away.

  “You get over here NOW!” Dmitri shouts, and stomps toward his dog.

  Mars drops the ball and runs.

  Dmitri runs after him, hollering, “Stop! Heel! Mars, you better stop right now! I mean it! Stop!”

  “I don’t blame Mars,” Lurena says. “I wouldn’t stop. I’d keep running and running forever to get away from that creep.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe your mom invited him, Rufus.”

  I look at her. I can’t believe my mom invited either of them.

  “It promises to be a fun trip,” I say.

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

  It’s actually pretty nice. It’s surrounded by tree-covered hills. There’s a small beach, and a floating pier, and rope swings for diving, and trails for exploring.

  The lake is big enough for boats. We don’t have a boat, but Murphy’s family has a wooden skiff that Murph’s dad made. Dmitri’s family owns a speedboat, but, since the lake isn’t big enough for speedboats, they didn’t bring it. They did bring a couple of kayaks, which they hauled on top of the SUV. Dmitri told me they cost more than two thousand dollars each. Not that I asked. I’m looking forward to paddling around in Murph’s rowboat. I doubt I’ll get to paddle around in Dmitri’s kayaks, and I’m fine with that.

  The caravan pulls into the campground, Dmitri’s RV first. I guess Dmitri’s dad wants first pick of the sites available, and that we’re rotten eggs. The sites all look alike to me. The four vehicles park side by side, Dmitri’s, then Murphy’s, then ours, then Lurena’s.

  Mom hooks us up to the utilities, then asks me to help her open our camper. Fido dives in and out of the camper while we do this.

  “She is so cute!” my mom squeals.

  Mom is different from Dad.

  Dad unloads the folding chairs, the charcoal grill, the coolers, then starts setting up his “outdoor kitchen” on a picnic table.

  Next door, Murphy and his dad unload their rowboat. His mom sets up the folding chairs and coolers and stuff. Murph’s little sister, A.G., is sitting on one of the chairs wrapped in a blanket, no doubt claiming she has some terrible disease no one has ever heard of. That’s why she didn’t come out of the Jeep at the rest stop. Poor Murph. I’m so glad I don’t have a sister.

  And I’m so glad Murph is going to be my temporary next-door neighbor!

  Lurena’s mom and dad are setting up their dome tent while Lurena, their only child, talks to her pets. She’s brought along her chinchilla, China C. Hill, her hamster, Sharmet, and, of course, Queen Girlisaur. The names she gives her pets are anagrams of the kinds of animal they are. For example, she mixed up the letters in chinchilla and got China C. Hill. Queen Girlisaur is a rearranged Guinea Squirrel. I like anagramming, too. It’s one of the two things we have in common. The other is owning rodents. But I’m not into rodents the way Lurena is. I don’t actually think of Fido as a rodent.

  Lurena has decided to keep her rodents locked in cages at the campground because of what happened at the rest stop (Mars running around free), and because she worries about other animals living in the area: dogs, cats, raccoons, even bears. I hope we see bears. China C. and Sharmet seem worked up, but Queen Girly is going bananas. She’s running around her cage and shaking the bars with her tiny fists. My guess is she wants to get out and climb some of the big trees all around us. I wonder if Lurena will let her.

  Dmitri’s dad pops out of their RV long enough to hook up the utilities. The rest of the family stays inside. That includes Dmitri’s older brother, Austin. He didn’t come out at the rest stop, probably because, one, he’s thirteen and wouldn’t want to hang out with a bunch of little kids like us, and, two, he was probably playing video games on the RV’s giant flat-screen TV. That’s what he’s doing now. I can hear muffled gunfire and screams.

  The Sulls’ RV has not only a TV but also, according to Dmitri (I’ve never been inside it), a bathroom with a shower, a kitchen with a refrigerator and microwave, plus a washing machine and dryer. I don’t think what Dmitri’s family is doing is camping. It’s more like staying in a mobile hotel room.

  As I’m looking at the RV, wondering what they’re all doing inside, a long, thin aluminum box attached to the vehicle opens and a blue-and-white-striped awning starts automatically coming out of it. The awning is attached to two struts that hold it up as it unspools.

  Right then the side door bursts open and bangs against the side of the RV. Dmitri runs out, wearing only a bathing suit that goes below his knees. It’s bright red with a pattern of inky black pictures of angry-looking sharks with their jaws open wide.

  “Murph!” he yells, looking right through me, “time for a swim!”

  “Shut the door!” his mom’s voice yells from inside. “The air-conditioning’s on!”

  7. “Coatimundi!”

  That’s what Murphy yells before he lets go of the rope swing and plunges into the lake.

  We’ve been yelling this ever since Murph gave me a tail on a stick for the new bike I got for my birthday. He claimed the tail was from a real coatimundi, an animal that looks like a skinny raccoon and lives in South America, Central America, and southwestern North America. (Never trusting Murphy’s stories, I looked it up, and it turns out it’s a real animal.) The tail isn’t a coatimundi’s, or a raccoon’s, of course; it’s fake. Who sells real animal tails?

  Anyway, the word coatimundi works real well when you go flying over bike ramps and other kinds of jumps. It’s kind of like Cowabunga! or Geronimo!

  When Murph comes out of the water, he hugs himself and shivers.

  “Is it cold?” I ask, not seriously. I know it’s cold. White Crappie Lake is always cold.

  “No,” he says, his teeth chattering. “It’s like bathwater! Come on in!”

  What a con man.

  Buddy bounds into the water after him.

  “See?” he says. “Buddy’s not cold!”

  “Buddy has a fur coat,” I say.

  Fido dives in and dog-paddles after Buddy. I knew Fido could swim. She once fell through a sewer grate and didn’t drown (obviously).

  “Fido’s not cold!” Murph laughs.

  “She also has a fur coat.”

  “I’m not afraid of cold water, Murph!” Dmitri says, and catches hold of the rope.

  “I didn’t say I was afraid,” I say. “I just asked if it was cold.”

  Mars runs around Dmitri, barking and snapping.

  “Back off, Mars!” Dmitri yells at him.

  Mars keeps circling.

  “Stupid dog,” Dmitri mutters, then swings out over the water. “Cowamundi!” he hollers as he lets go.

  No one gave him permission to use our private holler, but I don’t mind, since he said it wrong.

  He splashes into the water near Murphy.

  “It’s totally not cold!” he says, trying not to shiver. “Only wimps would think it was cold. Right, Murph?”

  Mars runs into the water after him. He swims with his head up. It looks completely ridiculous, this fluffy dog head bobbing above the water.

  “Your turn, Roof!” Murph yells.

  “Yeah, come on!” Dmitri says. “Don’t be a wimp!”

  I walk over to the rope.

  “Or do be a wimp,” Lurena’s voice says from behind me.

  I jump. Not into the water. Just an inch into the air. “Where did you come from?”

  “What do you care what Dmitri thinks of you?”

  “I actually want to go in the water. I was going to go in, then he butted in …”

  “So go in, then.”

  “Would you like to
go first?” I ask, holding out the rope to her.

  I know she wouldn’t. She’s wearing lace-up boots and one of her long, frilly skirts. Is this her idea of camping attire?

  “No, thank you,” she says. “But I’m not a wimp.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Look at him, Murph,” Dmitri yells. “Trying to get a girl to go before him! Ha!”

  “Do your best to land right on top of him,” Lurena says behind her hand.

  I smile, then pretend I didn’t. I don’t want Dmitri seeing me smiling at a girl.

  I grip the rope to pull myself off the ground with both hands, back up a few steps, then pull myself up in the air. I stand on the big knot at the end of the rope and start swinging forward, first over the bank, then out over the water. It’s fun. Really fun.

  “Coatimundi!” I yell, correctly.

  For a second, I see them all below me—Murph, Buddy, Fido, Dmitri, Mars—then, before I’ve found an opening for me to land, I let go of the rope and belly flop onto Fido.

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

  Surprisingly, neither does Lurena. But Fido’s lying on the bank, not breathing, so I give it a try.

  I roll her onto her back, and her mouth falls open. Her eyes are just staring. It’s scary. She’s soaked to the skin, like she was after she fell in the sewer and Murph and I doused her with a hose. She looks like a drowned rat. What if that’s what she is?

  “Give her CPR! Hurry!” Lurena says. She’s soaking wet right down to her lace-up boots. She must have jumped in after I landed on Fido.

  Queen Girly is chattering in her cage. Worried about her mom, I guess.

  I’ve seen people giving CPR in movies and on TV shows lots of times. They use two hands and push real hard on a person’s chest, which would be excessive when you’re dealing with a rodent. I don’t want to break her ribs. Or crush her flat. Instead, I set my fingertip where I think her heart is, and press. Nothing happens.

  “Puff air into her mouth!” Lurena says.

  “Yeah, blow into your rat’s mouth.” Dmitri laughs.

  Lurena slaps him across the arm.