The Pup Who Cried Wolf Read online

  ANiMAL TALES

  The Pup Who Cried Wolf

  Chris Kurtz

  illustrations by Guy Francis

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Don’t Mess with the Chihuahua

  2. Brother Wolf on My Doorstep

  3. Good News!

  4. Top Predator Training for Speed

  5. On the Trail

  6. Top Predator Training for Distance

  7. The Call of the Pizza

  8. Into the Heart of Wolf Country

  9. Loving Lobo

  10. Lobo, Was That You?

  11. Even Top Predators Have to Say Sorry Sometimes

  12. Freedom!

  13. My Destiny

  14. A Life-and-Death Matter

  15. The Hunt

  16. Brother Rat

  17. Crazy Bird

  18. A Glorious Escape

  19. My Pack

  Imprint

  For Janie,

  whose words of wisdom can cut through my

  most frenzied barking

  1

  Don’t Mess with the Chihuahua

  I’ve been waiting for a sign—a sign from my wild brothers that it’s time to join their pack. Today could be the day. Just as yesterday could have been the day … but wasn’t.

  So far today has been pretty normal. But Mona is getting ready to take me to the park. Mona the beautiful. Mona the wonderful. Mona the one who wrapped me in a soft blanket when I was just a little thing.

  I’m not little any longer. I’m a predator. A big, tough predator. Okay, I’m not that big. Actually, a little undersized, maybe. But that could be an advantage. Think of me as a dangerous wolf in a compact size.

  That’s why Mona never goes to the park without me.

  Protection.

  When we leave the safety of the apartment, I set the tone early. Do my job. Make a statement. Create a don’t-mess-with-the-bad-boy-Chihuahua-or-the-beautiful-wonderfulness-in-the-flowing-skirt-and-loopy-earrings zone. Before I even step onto the sidewalk, I make up my mind to do my rapid-fire bark at the first person I see. Deep breath, dig down, let ’er rip! Bark, bark, bark. Ulp.

  It turns out my target is an old lady pulling a wire cart on two wheels loaded with a large paper bag. Oops. Still, you never know what might be in a paper bag. Mona gets down to my level and scolds me. She seems to think the old lady is harmless and the bag contains groceries.

  Mona is nice to everyone. Too nice. But deep down she understands she needs someone with a little grit to keep up the defenses.

  Mona apologizes to the old lady while I peek in the bag. Groceries. Don’t know how Mona guessed. But anybody can get lucky. Onions, three bananas, a loaf of bread, and … what’s this? Tucked down under the bananas, three cans of Tabby Tidbits—Chicken à la King. A cat lover disguised as an innocent neighbor!

  I give that woman another bark to let her know I have her little game figured out. Ulp. Mona tugs me down the street before I can warn the neighborhood.

  Next we pass a couple of nasty cats on a windowsill, just sitting there because no one has the guts to make them move out. This is why neighbors with cat food are so dangerous. “Is that a squirrel on a leash?” says one cat.

  Very funny. Luckily, I’m loaded with self-control. I decide to ignore them.

  The other one laughs like this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Eat lots of acorns so you can grow up big and strong.”

  That does it. I bark and growl and lunge at them. Go right for the jugular. They’re too dumb to even flinch. Just keep on laughing. Hrmpf! Leashes. It’s possible they can tell I’m attached to a rope.

  “Lobo, mind your manners.” Mona doesn’t like me barking at the cats in the neighborhood, even when they start it. I bet she wouldn’t mind so much if she could understand what they say.

  All the way to the park, I remind myself about how excellent it is to be a dog with wolflike qualities. Cats! All they can dream about is that they come from … gee, let me see now … a cat! Wowee! My great-great-great-grandparents? Tough, beautiful wolves!

  Finally we’re at the park. There is no feeling in the world like the one you get when the leash comes off and you can run full tilt as far as you want. Of course, I don’t stray too far from Mona. Like I said, she needs me.

  Protection.

  When we get back to the apartment, Hector, the rat, has been busy. He has his brand-new cardboard-tube home chewed all the way to the ground. “Still sharp, still breaking it all down to size.” He shows me his teeth. They are yellow and scary looking.

  “That was your house,” I say.

  “Rats don’t need houses,” he says. “They need holes.”

  “I need a pack,” I say. “Someday I’m going to find my wolf brothers.”

  “You could be my rat brother,” he says. “We’re almost the same size.”

  I would not be very excited about being a rat brother, but I don’t say anything.

  Suddenly, his nose goes up in the air. “Falafel.”

  “Huh?”

  “Falafel. Extra hummus, extra onions.” His nose twitches. “Extra yogurt.”

  I test the air. The rat is right. There is something delicious out there. But a rat sniffer hasn’t been invented that can go up against a dog’s nose. I sniff again. “Burrito,” I say. “Beans, not hummus. That’s a burrito.”

  “Falafel,” says Hector. He’s not giving up. And he sounds confident. A small tickle of doubt creeps into my mind. I can smell the spice, now. And is that … yogurt?

  “Okay, okay. You nailed it.” That hurts.

  “Rat nose one, dog nose zero.” Hector wiggles his behind to celebrate.

  I hate losing our Next Top Smell game to a rat, and I especially hate losing to a showboating rat.

  “Game’s not over,” I say. “Best two out of three. Next Top Smell.” We both test the air.

  “You first.” Hector is looking cocky.

  I catch the second scent immediately. “Cajun,” I say. “Cajun chicken with black-eyed peas.”

  “Chicken yes, Cajun no.” His little rat nose drifts from side to side. “Chinese. Pan fried …” He stops. “No, wait. That’s not Chinese.”

  I can’t keep from jumping up and doing a little side-step dance. “I knew it,” I crow. “Someone’s cooking Cajun down the hall.” Mona brought Cajun home last week, and I never forget a smell.

  “You got me, partner. Score is tied one to one.” He smooths his whiskers. “Nice celebration dance, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Nice tail wiggle back there. Bump me.”

  We bump knuckles through the bars of his cage, finish up Next Top Smell, and I settle in for my morning nap.

  Nothing has changed yet. No sign. But I still have a feeling today’s the day.

  2

  Brother Wolf on My Doorstep

  I’m in the middle of a beautiful dream when something hits my nose and wakes me up. There is a wood chip on the floor. Hector is staring at me. “What’s your problem?” I say.

  “You were having a nightmare,” he says.

  “No I wasn’t. I was having a nice dream,” I tell him.

  “Well, you were twitching,” he says, “and you look dumb when you twitch.”

  “All dogs twitch when they dream, Heckles.” I call him Heckles when he annoys me … which is a lot. “It’s a quality we inherited from our wolf ancestors, and it shows how alert we are, even during sleep.”

  “It looks weird,” he says. “It looks weird on all dogs, but really weird on Chihuahuas.”

  He says this to make me mad. Hector is only a rat and he should be afraid of me. Some creatures—pet rats for instance—have ha
d the wild bred right out of them, and they don’t even know when to be afraid. I’m about ready to figure out how to open his cage and bite some wild into his fat rat behind when my extrasensitive ears hear a sound.

  It’s a special sound, a sign. I wait and it comes again.

  This time I know for sure what it is, and I shiver with excitement. A wild lonely howl right in the middle of the city!

  I jump up on the couch and run back and forth. “That was a wolf!” I say.

  “Somebody save me!” says Hector in a high, fake voice. “A wolf has invaded New York City!”

  I ignore his comedy routine and listen with my entire wolflike focus.

  “Que problema,” Glory squawks. I jump. I didn’t know she was listening. Glory is a parrot from South America, and she tries to confuse people with her Spanish. “A wolf in the heart of New York City,” she says. “Let’s try and think if that is really possible.”

  She’s almost always on my side. “Don’t worry, Glory,” I say. “If brother wolf comes around here, I’ll stand between you and him and tell him old birds aren’t very tasty.”

  “Que bueno,” she says. “My protector. My warrior. And thanks so much for the compliment. I just love being thought of as an old bird.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say. Que bueno means “that’s great.” Glory has no idea I can understand almost everything she says in Spanish.

  Glory got captured in the Amazon rain forest when she was a young bird and struggled against her cage night and day. But she doesn’t mind the quiet life now. “This cage has everything I need,” she says all the time. “Just right for a civilized parrot.”

  Mona always leaves the cage door open, and Glory hardly ever even steps out.

  “Unfortunately,” I say a little louder, “I won’t be able to save everyone. If you are covered in white fur and have a naked tail, it’s like wearing a sign that says EXTRA JUICY, and even a warrior cannot keep you safe from the wolf attack.”

  “If big brother wolf decides to come up and say hi to us city folk,” says Hector, “remind me to ask him how his city brother can fit so many annoying habits into such a small package.”

  I lift one corner of my lip to show Hector my teeth.

  The wolf howls again. I spin in a quick circle to locate the direction.

  “Now, Lobo,” Glory says. “I can see how you could mistake that sound. But I suspect there have been no wolves in this city since Manhattan was cleared of timber a couple of hundred years ago. I would say that the howl in question is more likely a garbage truck with bad brakes.”

  I listen. It’s no secret that dogs have better hearing than either rats or parrots. Garbage truck! Ha! This wolf is one sly fellow. That’s the thing about wolves, the secret for their incredible hunting success. They show up where you least expect them.

  “If he calls again, I’m going to answer,” I say. “Wolves like their brothers to answer when they call. Then they come a-running.”

  “Do wolves climb up the fire escape, or do they prefer the elevator?” asks Hector.

  “Hey, bucktooth,” I say. “Never underestimate a wolf. They are the most intelligent, crafty predators on the planet. And someday, if I get the chance, I may go hunting with them.”

  “Milk bones,” says Heckles.

  “What?” I say.

  “Make sure that you tell your wolf buddies that you want to go hunting for milk bones, because anything bigger or faster than a cookie in the shape of a bone is going to kick your tail.”

  Now I’m mad. I bark very loudly and very ferociously at Heckles.

  He flattens himself against the wire of his cage. “Please don’t hurt me, oh wild thing,” he says. I can tell he isn’t really afraid.

  “Come to think of it, maybe you do have a wild brother,” says Hector.

  Finally. I thought I would never get through.

  “Wolves have fleas. Wild fleas. Congratulations. You could be the brother of a wolf’s wild flea.”

  I hear a sound like a parrot choking. Or trying not to laugh.

  Sometimes when Glory should be sticking up for me, she doesn’t remember.

  “Watch it, Heckles.” I walk over to him. “Someday the door of that cage might come unlatched and you’ll have to face these.” I show Hector my teeth.

  “If this cage ever comes open, I’ll march out and bite the ‘Chi’ right off your ‘huahua’ before you can even turn around.” Hector shows me his really scary yellow biters. I look away. To tell you the truth, they could give a dog nightmares, and even though I don’t know what it is, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to lose my “Chi.”

  Glory interrupts my thoughts. “Lobo, let’s consider this. Don’t wolves hunt at night?”

  Glory asks hard questions sometimes, and when I’m worried or confused, I start licking. That tongue gets going, and I want to stop, but I can’t.

  Right now, my tongue is doing its thing. Toes. Back leg. Tummy. All I can think about is why I had the bad luck to be born in a city where wolves hardly ever go.

  Just then a garbage truck revs its engine outside, and I can hear it driving to the next pickup. “Run for your life. Flea brother was right,” says Hector. “Do wolves have four wheels, eat garbage one can at a time, and howl at streetlamps?”

  Ha, ha, ha. I walk away, but I turn around just before I reach the corner. I look the dumb rat right in the eye. “That howling sound, my friend, is what is known as a sign! It’s a sign that I’m going to find my pack someday, and that’s a promise.”

  Wow. I can’t believe I got a sign. Now I’ve got to stay on the lookout for the next sign. And then another sign and another. And then someday, a wolf.

  3

  Good News!

  Mona is yakking on the phone in the kitchen. I’m hungry, and she’s between me and my food. I try to scoot by. That doesn’t work out.

  “Come here, big boy.” Wolves love being called big boy. So do wolf brothers. Is she in a scratching mood? She holds the phone to her ear with her shoulder and picks me up so we’re face-to-face. Meanwhile, my legs dangle over the floor. Wolves hate dangling legs. So do wolf brothers.

  Then she starts yakking to her mother again. Dogs have sensitive ears, as I said before, just like wolves. And none of us likes getting yakked over.

  Without any warning, in between yaks, she kisses me on the nose. Of all the things wolves hate most, it’s nose kissing. It’s embarrassing. Wolf brothers aren’t too crazy about it either.

  Quickly, I slide an extra dollop of drool on my tongue and wait for the next nose kiss, because nose kisses never come in singles. Sluuuurp. I hit the bull’s-eye on the second kiss.

  “Ewww!” She puts me down pretty fast. I scamper to my food bowl. She might remember that lick next time she wants to yak in my ear and dangle my legs and give me nose kisses. You can train people if you have the know-how.

  “You’re a bad, bad dog!” she says to me. But she’s laughing and telling her mother all about it while she wipes off the slobber.

  Before I can get a bite of food, I hear an awful squawk. Glory is in trouble! I know just who the attacker is. Heckles! His mind must have snapped from grouchiness. He’s finally figured a way to open that cage of his and is chasing her with his big yellow teeth.

  Glory is very important to me. When I was a lonely little puppy, whimpering in the night, she was there for me, a voice in the darkness—a parrot voice, telling me that everything would be all right. And when that wasn’t enough, there were songs and stories.

  Now she’s in trouble. Heckles might be chewing off Glory’s “Chi” right now. If she has one.

  I rush back for the rescue, woofing and howling. Actually, I’m still working on my woofing and howling. It might come out more like yipping and yapping. But it can still strike fear in the heart of the bravest scoundrel.

  “Hey, Lobo,” Mona yells, “quiet!” This makes me woof—okay, yap—even louder. If she knew what was happening to Glory, she would be depending on me to save her.


  I can see it in my mind. Feathers everywhere. Glory being dragged to her doom. I dash up to the evil one’s cage. I will scare him off just in case Glory is still clinging to life.

  Then I see something that stops me short.

  No feathers. No blood. Heckles is making a tunnel under his sawdust.

  I look up.

  Glory has her head cocked to one side, and one of her eyes is staring down at me in a confused sort of way.

  I bark louder.

  “Lobo, what is your problem?” Mona sticks her head around the corner. She’s still on the phone.

  My problem is that I am trying to do my job and maintain security and keep her beloved parrot from becoming rat chow. Except it turns out to be a false alarm because someone is playing with me. I glare at Glory and give another yip.

  “Lobo, behave yourself.” Mona stomps on the floor and uses that really scary voice that top predators hate.

  I yelp. I admit it isn’t the bravest of yelps in the world, but a lot of critters with less heart would tuck tail, scuttle underneath the sofa, and tremble. Not me. I have the heart of a wolf and I don’t ever forget it. I tuck tail and scuttle underneath the sofa where I can watch for danger. My body is only shaking because the air-conditioning is making me cold.

  Heckles pops his head out of his tunnel and sniggers. A snigger is not a sound wolf brothers like to hear. I consider baring my battle weapons, my deadly fangs. But then I remember the scary voice and decide against it.

  “What was that all about?” asks Glory.

  I poke my ears out. “You squawked. I was ready to rescue you from danger.”

  “I am not in any danger,” says Glory.

  “So why the cry of fear and desperation?” I am determined to get to the bottom of this. “Perhaps I should tell you a story of a boy, or in this case a parrot, who cried wolf.”

  “My calling to you does not mean bark your head off and make a fool of yourself,” says Glory, “and anyway, I am the one who told you that story when you were just a puppy.”