Bark vs. Snark Read online

  FOR GEORGE

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One: Arthur

  Two: Queenie

  Three: Arthur

  Four: Queenie

  Five: Arthur

  Six: Queenie

  Seven: Arthur

  Eight: Queenie

  Nine: Arthur

  Ten: Arthur

  Eleven: Queenie

  Twelve: Arthur

  Thirteen: Arthur

  Fourteen: Queenie

  Fifteen: Arthur

  Sixteen: Arthur

  Seventeen: Queenie

  Eighteen: Arthur

  Nineteen: Queenie

  Twenty: Arthur

  Twenty-One: Arthur

  Twenty-Two: Queenie

  Twenty-Three: Arthur

  Twenty-Four: Arthur

  Twenty-Five: Queenie

  Twenty-Six: Arthur

  Twenty-Seven: Queenie

  Twenty-Eight: Arthur

  Twenty-Nine: Queenie

  Thirty: Arthur

  Thirty-One: Queenie

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  AH, SUMMER. MY FAVORITE SEASON of the year by far, way better than … those other ones, the names not coming right off the bat. And here’s something you should know about me: Whatever doesn’t come right off the bat, doesn’t come, period. So I don’t even bother trying to remember! Who needs bother? A life free from bother is the life for me! You should try it! But don’t try too hard. Trying too hard turns out to be bothersome all by itself. Nothing’s simple, as humans like to say, although it’s not the kind of remark I like to hear. I prefer “Who’s a good boy?” And “Anyone want a treat?”

  On a nice warm summer day like this one, I love to lie under the big shady tree out front, meaning out front of the Blackberry Hill Inn. That’s our B and B up in the Green Mountains, very green at the moment, as I’m sure I could have seen for myself had my eyes been open, which they were not. How peaceful to simply lie in the shade, eyes getting a nice rest, but at the same time nose and ears taking in all sorts of things, like the smell of the flowers in the garden, especially the purple ones, which reminded me of Mom’s perfume. Mom is not my actual mom, if I’m understanding things right, but I call her Mom in my mind. She’s the actual mom of the twins, Harmony and Bro. That’s our core group here at the inn—me, Mom, Harmony, Bro. Perhaps I should include one other party, but do I have to? The truth is I don’t want to include Queenie, so I won’t include her or even mention her name.

  But what was I thinking about? Quee—that is, the party I’m not mentioning—has a way of knocking me off track. Ah! Summer, that was it! Summer, with the aroma of the apples on the apple tree getting stronger every day, and the cool water smell from Blackberry Creek on every breeze, even though the creek was a bit distant—no way I was going for a walk down there in this heat, although a swim would have been nice, and just floating around even nicer. And what about all the lovely summery sounds—for example, the beating of butterfly wings over my head, and the approaching flip-flop of someone in flip-flops coming from the road? Who? Not just anyone but Bro. I know the sound of Bro walking, no matter what he’s wearing. There’s also such a thing as the smell of Bro walking, only in the air when he’s wearing his old sneakers. When that happens I can smell him from a long long distance, possibly all the way across town.

  Flippety flop, flippety flop. Bro came closer.

  “Hey, Arthur,” he said. “Back in dreamland?”

  Dreamland? Certainly not. I opened my eyes, couldn’t have looked more wide awake and rarin’ to go, although going anywhere was not in my immediate plans. And there was Bro! What a nice sight! Flip-flops, shorts, T-shirt, his face all ruddy from the sun, his teeth and the whites of his eyes so white, his toes dusty. If I had even a bit more energy I’d have licked off that dust. As it was, I just wagged my tail. Actually not, since I seemed to be lying on it.

  “Look what I’ve got!” Bro said, and from behind his back he produced a Frisbee. A Frisbee? Was there something exciting about a Frisbee? Not that I could think of.

  He held it closer, maybe giving me a better view. A smallish Frisbee, bright green, like a traffic light. Green, as I knew from riding in the car, means go. Was there some … what would you call it? Connection, maybe? Some connection between the color of this Frisbee and … and … I got a little lost. But one thing was for sure: I was starting not to like this Frisbee. On a cooler day, I might have considered burying it in the tomato patch.

  “Are we gonna have fun with this or what?” Bro said.

  Meaning what was a choice? If it was, then—

  Bro spun the Frisbee into the sky. “Arthur! Go!”

  Go? Go coming up again, and so soon? Did this have anything to do with me? Where, exactly, was I supposed to go? So many questions! I watched the flight of the Frisbee—a rather pleasant sight—and told my mind to take it easy. Which was just what it wanted to hear! How did I know? Because right away my eyelids started getting heavy, a sure sign of a mind growing nice and relaxed.

  “Arthur?”

  What was this? Bro was still around? I love Bro, of course, and was happy to be near him. But did we need a whole lot of back-and-forth right now?

  “Come on, Arthur,” he said. “We haven’t got much time to learn this.”

  Uh-oh. We were learning something? Not another trick? I already knew one excellent trick called playing dead. A real crowd-pleaser, but Bro hadn’t been satisfied so we’d moved on to shake-a-paw, which I never got the hang or the point of. There’s only so much learning you can take in this life.

  Meanwhile Bro had trotted over to the Frisbee—flippety flippety flop, flippety flippety flop—and was now trotting back. Always a pleasure to watch Bro or Harmony when they’re on the move. They’re good at sports, especially hockey and baseball. Baseball had just finished, with their team, named the Bobcats, for some reason, winning something or other, possibly the championship. Mr. Salming, the coach, gave Harmony the game ball, which is now in my possession. I keep what’s left of it under the padded chaise on the patio.

  But back to Bro, now trotting my way, Frisbee in hand.

  “Arthur! On your feet!”

  Was that a nice way to ask?

  He crouched down, scratched between my ears, did a fine job, although too brief. “Come on, Arthur. It’ll be fun.”

  That was much nicer. What a great kid! So great that I came pretty close to getting up. In my mind I sort of did, although my body remained stretched out on the lawn, the short grass soft and comfy, almost like the putting green at the golf course, where it’s possible I was no longer welcome. How had that happened? Before I could remember, Mom appeared from around the side of the inn, over by the shuffleboard court, carrying hedge clippers and wearing a kerchief on her head.

  “Hey, Mom,” Bro said. “How long do you think it’ll take Arthur to learn Frisbee?”

  Mom came over. Hey! What was this? Bro was somehow now as tall as Mom, or even a bit taller? When had that happened?

  She gazed down at me. “Until the twelfth of never,” she said. “What are we going to do with you, Arthur?”

  Why, same as always—love me to death! No need for any changes. Just keep doing what you’re doing.

  “The twelfth of never means it’s hopeless?” Bro said.

  Mom gave him a smile. She’s a beautiful woman with real sharp eyes that warm way up whenever she smiles. I could watch her all day and sometimes I do, except for the napping parts, of course.

  “Nothing’s hopeless,” she said.

  “Oh, good,” said Bro. He took a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Mom.

  She smoothed it
out and read it aloud. “ ‘Something new at the county fair—a Frisbee-catching contest for dogs! Show the folks what your pooch can do. No entry fee and lots of prizes, including a year’s supply of ChewyChewChews, the best chewy around, and a brand-new mountain bike for the winner’s human.’ ” She glanced at Bro. “The fair starts on Tuesday.”

  “So we have three whole days,” said Bro.

  “That’s the spirit,” Mom said. “Come on, Arthur. Dig deep.” And she headed off toward the hedge that borders the road, the clippers over her shoulder.

  “Mom?” said Bro. “The mountain bike sure would be nice.”

  “I hear you,” Mom said, not looking back.

  Bro turned to me. “Arthur? What are you doing?”

  Interesting question. I seemed to be up and on my feet, and not only that, but digging what looked like the beginning of a quite deep hole in the lawn. There’s a kind of digging where you use just the front paws, but for big jobs you want to get the back ones involved, too. And I was getting the back ones involved, oh, yeah, baby, involved and good, clumps of earth flying this way and that, blades of grass scattering away on the breeze, and even a wobbly earthworm or two, probably with surprised looks on their faces, if they had faces, which I really wasn’t sure about. But who cared? What fun this was, digging, digging, digging. Thanks to Mom, for giving me the go-ahead. Dig, Arthur, dig! Dig all the way to—

  “ARTHUR!”

  ARTHUR!”

  What now? Do I ask for much? No, not me. Who could be more undemanding or easier to live with? All I want from life is a little peace and quiet. But now, somewhere outside but not nearly far enough away, we had Bro shouting a name that gets shouted fairly often in these parts.

  By these parts, I mean the Blackberry Hill Inn and surrounding property. It’s a beautiful inn—which you probably guessed, since it’s mine, and I’m all about beauty. The inn is not mine alone, of course—I’m happy to share it with the rest of the family, meaning Mom, Bro, and Harmony. Bertha the cook is also on board—she’s in charge of pouring my fresh cream into my special china saucer, known as Queenie’s saucer, after which she whips up breakfast for the guests. It’s possible we haven’t had enough guests recently—I’ve caught a worried look on Mom’s face a few times—but what would be the point of me worrying about it? My job is to concentrate on, well, me. Me and me alone, and only me. But it can be hard to concentrate when—

  “ARTHUR! STOP! WHAT GETS INTO YOU?”

  What gets into Arthur? An interesting question. Bro was not alone in bringing it up. I’d asked myself the same thing, and was now asking it again, as I glided down from the top of my grandfather clock across from the front desk, where I could keep an eye on all the comings and goings at the inn, and moved in my lovely silent way across the hall, past Mom’s desk, and onto a filing cabinet next to a window with a good view of the front yard.

  And there, in the shade of our giant tree—an oak, if I’d heard right, and I always do—we had a Frisbee lying on the ground; Bro gazing down at Arthur; and Arthur, standing in a deepish hole, his face dirty, one of his misshapen ears drooping down, the other sticking out weirdly to the side, gazing back up at Bro and panting a bit, like he’d just run a race. Not that Arthur had any racing experience. He’s not built for running. He’s built more for … well, what, exactly? I was trying to come up with something when I heard Harmony approaching behind me. No need to look. I could tell by the soft pat-pat of her bare feet on the wooden floor, her smell, like our meadow after the rain, and from just how the feel of the whole room changed.

  “There you are.” Harmony came up beside me. “What’s so interesting?” She looked out the window. “Ah,” she said. I watched her watching. Is there a more beautiful human than Harmony? The way she stands so straight, and her glowing skin, and her big brown eyes, full of golden glints and every bit as sharp as Mom’s. Yes, a thing of beauty in her own right. Although not quite in my class. I hate to say it, but I don’t want any misunderstandings between us, you and I.

  We watched the scene under the big tree, me and Harmony. Bro went to the toolshed, returned with a shovel. By that time, Arthur had climbed out of the hole and was lying on his side, eyes blank. Bro filled in the hole, picked up the Frisbee, held it for Arthur to see, if in fact Arthur could see anything at that moment.

  “It’s simple,” he said. “I throw the Frisbee. You catch it and bring it back. Are we good?”

  “I wonder what he’s saying,” said Harmony.

  I glanced at her, just shifting my eyes, head staying still. I have graceful ways of moving and graceful ways of not moving. But that’s not the point, which was all about being reminded once again of the weakness of human ears. The thin sheet of window glass was all it took to keep Harmony from hearing the goings-on outside. You had to feel bad for humans sometimes, although I never actually did. Are they my responsibility? Not in the least. My responsibility, as you must know by now, is me.

  Meanwhile Bro spun the Frisbee in the air. “Go, Arthur, go!”

  Arthur remained absolutely still. The Frisbee glided in a long curve and landed softly on the lawn. Bro picked it up, showed it to Arthur again, and said, “Try just watching. I’ll show you how.”

  Arthur, eyes still blank, thumped his tail on the ground. Bro flicked the Frisbee again, an easy motion that sent it gliding on another long, smooth curve. But this time, Bro took off after it, legs churning, flip-flops flying off. What a nice runner he was! For a human, of course. It’s something of a miracle they can even stand up in the first place.

  The Frisbee sailed toward the toolshed and began dipping down to earth. Bro sped up, his hair—uncut so far this summer and on the longish side—streaming behind him. Then, just as the Frisbee was about to touch down, he dove, fully stretched out, and snatched the spinning thing out of the air with one hand.

  “Wow,” said Harmony.

  Bro landed, somersaulted, and trotted back to Arthur, a big smile on his face. “There. See how it’s done?”

  The answer was almost certainly not, what with Arthur now curled in a comfy ball, eyes shut tight.

  Harmony backed away from the window. “You and I are going to have an easier time, Queenie.”

  Oh? For a strange moment I thought—but how ridiculous—that Harmony was about to propose something having to do with me, her, and Frisbees. Instead she took a neatly folded sheet of paper from her pocket, straightened it out, and read, “ ‘Calling all cats! Come to the county fair for our first annual cat beauty contest! The winner gets a year’s supply of catnip and a state-of-the-art scratching post! And for your human pal, a brand-new mountain bike! No entry fee! All you have to do is look your best!’ ”

  Harmony gave me a careful once-over, head to tail. “It’s in the bag,” she said.

  Who was I to disagree? There’s no hiding from the truth.

  GO, ARTHUR, GO!”

  When Bro says go, I go, you better believe it. The green Frisbee soared into the sky, and I soared after it, my paws hardly touching down. Good luck, Mr. Frisbee, with ol’ speedy-legs Arthur on the trail! Mr. Frisbee sailed over a park bench, curved around a tree, dipped down under a bridge, hitched a ride on a freight train, zipped into the open window of an office tower, and zoomed out through a window on the far side, but it was all for nothing, because I, Arthur, did all those things, too. And more! The look on Mr. Frisbee’s face when he glanced back and saw me right on his tail? I was still enjoying that sight as I snatched him out of the air, spun on a dime, and charged back to Bro. By that time there was a huge crowd in Yankee Stadium, clapping and cheering. I trotted to the center of the field, letting everyone get a real good look at me. A chant rose up. “AR-THUR! AR-THUR! AR-THUR!” How nice of them! I pranced round and round the stadium, Mr. Frisbee securely between my teeth, my tail raised high.

  “AR-THUR! AR-THUR! AR—”

  Ding.

  What was that?

  Ding.

  The crowd went silent.

 
Ding.

  Ding? That ding reminded me of the bell on the front desk at the Blackberry Hill Inn. But I was nowhere near the inn. Wasn’t I on the mound at Yankee Stadium? I tried to take a good look but saw nothing! Oh, no! What was happening to me? Then my eyes opened all by themselves.

  And there I was, not exactly on the mound at Yankee Stadium. Much more like on the floor in the front hall of the Blackberry Hill Inn, curled up as though I’d been napping. Which I would certainly never do! Not in the middle of a busy day. Don’t forget I’m in charge of security here at the inn. This was no time for play. I opened my mouth to let Mr. Frisbee drop out, but there was no Mr. Frisbee, although his plasticky taste lingered on my tongue for a moment or two.

  Ding.

  My gaze went to the desk, where a stranger with a suitcase was dinging the bell with the tip of his finger. Strangers are very much my business. I barked a low bark, not threatening, but just to make my presence known, the presence of someone you don’t want to mess with. I could handle Mr. Frisbee and I could handle you, fella. But … but had I actually handled Mr. Frisbee? Or … or …

  The stranger slowly turned my way. I’ve seen lots of humans, but never one who looked quite like this. An older sort of guy most likely, to judge from his shaggy white eyebrows and wild white hair, but his face didn’t have much going on in the way of wrinkles, and his teeth were bright white.

  He gazed down at me, then spoke in a deep, booming voice. “You won’t get far on your looks.”

  That was baffling. I had no need for going far—or anywhere, for that matter. I was right here, at home. Poor guy, kind of out of it. I decided to put him in the picture. I rose, gave myself a quick head-clearing shake, and made my way over to my white-toothed friend. Hey! He was wearing tassel loafers. I hadn’t seen tassel loafers in some time, but I had fond memories of the tassels themselves, especially their nubbly mouthfeel. I lowered my head, got my lips pulled back, and—

  And the front door opened and Mom came in, a dirt smear on one cheek and a potted plant in both hands.

  “Oh, hello,” she said. “Is anyone helping you?”