A Tale of Two Tails (3 page)

We decided that Team Cheerio had to get to work right away. I mean, Cheerio may be the cutest dog in the world, but he's not exactly well trained. Unless you consider begging for table scraps and chewing through your new socks to be well trained. It was going to take some extra work to get him in shape if he was going to win the Mascot of the Year.

Frankie and Ashley and I were really excited to get started. We rushed out of school and didn't even stop at Mr. Kim's market for our usual red-licorice pit stop. I was hurrying so fast, I nearly ran down Mason Harris Jerome Dunn and his mom as they were coming out of Mr. Kim's. Mason is my little kindergarten pal and he was wearing, as always, his blue Donald Duck shirt and carrying a Three Musketeers bar the size of his head.

“Hey, Hank,” Mason called out. “Want a bite?”

“No time,” I said to him. “We're on important school business.”

“Can I come?” Mason asked, running his chocolate-covered fingers through his red curly hair.

His mom fumbled around in her bag for a Kleenex or something, so she could wipe his fingers clean. I remember when my mom used to do that. You just wanted to eat your candy bar, and there was your mom, cleaning you up before you could even finish it. Boy, it was rough being a kindergartner.

“Sorry, little dude,” Frankie explained to Mason. “This is grown-up business.”

“You're not a grown-up,” Mason said.

“Mason, watch your manners,” his mom said to him.

Ashley stooped down so she was eye to eye with Mason, and explained to him in a really nice voice. “We're not actual adults yet, but compared to you, we're closer to being grown-up.”

Mason looked really disappointed.

“Hey, listen, Micro Mason,” I told him. “I wish I could hang out with you and watch you take off on your sugar rush, but we're in a time crunch. By the way, are you entering a pet in the competition?”

“Uh-huh,” Mason nodded. “My pet snail, Snaily.”

“I didn't know you had a pet snail,” I said.

“I found him in Central Park. Want to see him? He lives in my pocket.”

Mason reached down into his pocket, then a funny look came over his face.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “He slimed my gummy bears.”

For a minute, he looked like he was going cry. I hate to see little kids cry, especially a cute guy like Mason.

“Hey, don't worry about it.” I tousled his little red head. “You still have that big Three Musketeers bar left. Just don't put it in your pocket.”

“Okay, Hank,” Mason said. “See you later.”

Suddenly, he took off down the street, with his mom chasing him and yelling for him to be sure to stop at the curb.

We hurried down the street and arrived at our apartment building in record time. Frankie and Ashley didn't even stop on their floors. We all just rode up the elevator to the tenth floor.

I was so excited to get started on Cheerio's training that I could barely get the key into the lock on my apartment door. I tried to slip it in upside down at first, but of course, it wouldn't turn. Frankie was standing next to me tapping his foot.

“Breathe, Zip,” he said. “And when you're finished breathing, you might think about turning the key right-side up.”

“Just think of the key as your friend,” Ashley said.

“Guys, I got the key thing under control.” I slipped the key into the lock right-side up this time. “I just can't wait to get started, that's all.”

I turned the key to the right. Or maybe it was to the left. You know my brain and directions—let's just say they're not best friends. Anyway, whichever way I turned it, the door opened.

“I'm home!” I shouted out just like I do every day.

No one shouted back, so I motioned for Frankie and Ashley to follow me to my bedroom, where Cheerio likes to sleep on my pillow when I'm gone. I cover it with a blanket so he doesn't shed and leave his brown fur on my pillow, which would stick to my face when I'm sleeping and make me look like I have a beard when I wake up.

On our way down the hall, before we got to my room, my dad intercepted us as he was coming out of his bedroom.

“Hi, kids. You haven't seen my new red mechanical pencil, have you?”

That's my dad, good old Stanley Zipzer. He really knows how to fire up a conversation.

“Sorry, Dad. Have you looked in the pocket protector in your blue jacket? You had a buttload of mechanical pencils in there.”

“I'll take a look,” he said, which was great news for me because it meant that he'd be too busy checking his pocket protector to tell me to send my friends home and remind me five hundred and thirty-seven times to get started on my homework.

But I was wrong. When it comes to homework reminders, my dad does not disappoint.

“Isn't it time for you kids to go home so Hank can get started on his homework?” he asked.

“No, Dad, I need them here now because we have to get started on training Cheerio. You may not realize this, but you're looking at Team Cheerio.”

“What I'm looking at is a young man who is trying very hard to avoid his school responsibilities,” he said, taking his glasses off his nose and pushing them up onto the top of his head.

“No, Dad. This is about school responsibilities. Isn't it, guys?”

“Yeah, Mr. Z.,” Frankie chimed in. “We're entering Cheerio in the school mascot contest.”

“And we don't have much time to train him for the obedience portion of the contest,” Ashley added.

“That sounds like a lot of fun, Ashley,” my dad said, “but as you know, Hank is not doing well enough in school to participate in extracurricular activities. That will have to wait until he has improved his spelling and reading skills.”

“But you don't understand, Dad,” I said, trying not to whine. “This contest does that.”

“I suppose you're prepared to tell me how prancing around with a dog will help bring your test scores up,” he said.

“Yes, I am.”

My dad held up his hand—fingers together, palm out—which in Stanley Zipzer speak means conversation over. But Frankie, lifelong pal that he is, ignored the hand and came to my rescue.

“Honestly, Mr. Z., this contest really will help Hank with his spelling and stuff.”

“That's right,” Ashley nodded, “because we have to write an essay about our pets, including the whole history of the species.”

“Really?” my dad said. “That sounds very worthwhile.”

“And the essay will force me to check my spelling and my punctuation and even my dangling participles,” I said in an extremely confident voice. Then I flashed my dad my most confident Hank Zipzer smile, the one where I show my top and bottom teeth at the same time.

Okay, I'll be honest with you. I had no idea what a dangling participle was, but Ms. Adolf talks about them all the time, so I thought this was a good place to bring them up.

And it worked.

“Oh, dangling participles,” my dad said, nodding with approval. “Very nice, Hank. In fact, I might be able to use that nifty little phrase in nine down on my Thursday crossword puzzle.”

Nothing gets my dad out of my face faster than a red-hot crossword puzzle clue. Faster than you could say “forty-seven across,” he was sprinting to the dining room table, where the
New York Times
crossword puzzle was waiting for him.

We moved fast, before my dad changed his mind, and quickly headed into my room. We had a dog to train, and there wasn't a minute to waste.

I shoved my bedroom door open and whistled.

“Here, boy,” I called out. “Come on, Cheerio.”

There was no answer.

We went inside and I looked on my bed, expecting to see him sound asleep on my pillow. But he wasn't there. I checked all his other favorite hangout spots, like the floor of my closet, where I keep a huge stuffed flamingo I won at Coney Island by throwing ping-pong balls into little dishes floating in water. He likes to cuddle up next to the flamingo's soft neck. But he wasn't there, either.

“Here, Cheerio,” I called, moving aside the straw basket I use as a dirty clothes hamper. No answer. I bent down and checked under the bed, where he sometimes sleeps with his nose tucked into my furry slipper.

“He's not here,” I said. “Let's check out the rest of the apartment.”

Frankie and Ashley and I went looking in all Cheerio's other favorite places. The fluffy blue rug in front of the bathtub. Under my parents' bed. On the arm of the couch in the living room.

“Cheerio, where are you, boy?”

My father called out from the dining room table. “He's not here. I sent him out for a playdate.”

“A playdate,” Frankie said with a laugh. “Are we talking with a girl dog?”

“I bet it's with Mrs. Seides's flirty little white poodle,” Ashley said with a giggle.

“Actually, there is no girl dog involved,” my dad said. “I sent him over to Mrs. Fink's apartment. I had a quarterly spreadsheet I had to finish, and Cheerio was yipping and yapping. I couldn't get my work done.”

That's all we needed to hear, and we were out the door.

Mrs. Fink lives in one of the two apartments right across the hall from us. We were at her door before you could say “quarterly spreadsheet.” Not that you'd ever want to, of course.

She opened her door on the first knock. As usual, she was wearing her giant pink bathrobe, and lucky for us, she had her false teeth in. Sometimes she doesn't wear them, and her pink gums match her pink robe.

“Hi, Mrs. Fink, we're looking for Cheerio,” I announced.

“Come in, kids,” she said, opening the door wide. I glanced around her apartment for Cheerio, but I didn't see him. What I did see was a long, furry, moving white pillow. It seemed to have a tail wagging.

“Is that my dog?” I asked Mrs. Fink.

“Cheerio and I have spent the afternoon making cherry strudel,” she said. “He got into the flour bag. Didn't you, toots?”

Cheerio wagged his tail some more, and sent a cloud of white flour flying into the air.

“You're a good little baker, aren't you, toots,” she said to him.

I didn't know how to break it to Mrs. Fink, but Cheerio is definitely not the toots type. He's a guy, and who calls a guy toots? Mrs. Fink, that's who.

“Come on, toots, let's see if our strudel is done.”

She scooped Cheerio up in her arms, getting her pink bathrobe all covered in the white flour that was falling off his coat like snow in a blizzard. She carried him over to the kitchen and just as she got near the oven . . .

Bing!
The timer went off.

“How did you do that?” I said to her in amazement. Did the timer know that she was coming over to get the strudel out of the oven?

“I've been baking these strudels so long, I just sense when they're ready,” Mrs. Fink said.

“Do you want me to hold Cheerio while you get the strudel out of the oven?” I asked her.

“No thanks, dear. He knows not to put his paw near a hot oven,” she said. “He's a very smart dog.”

“That's going to come in very handy,” Ashley said, “because we're about to start training him for the mascot competition at school.”

“Well, I'm sure he'll do very well,” Mrs. Fink said.

When Mrs. Fink opened the oven door, the first thing that came out was the most delicious smell of buttery dough and sweet cherries. My nose thought for sure that it was at a party. Cheerio's did, too; I could tell by the way it wiggled back and forth at lightning speed.

“Come on, Zip,” Frankie whispered to me. “We have to get started, or I'm going to run out of time before I have to start my homework.”

“Okay, okay,” I whispered back to him. Then I turned to Mrs. Fink.

“If you'll just hand Cheerio over to me, we'll be on our way,” I said to her.

“Oh, but you can't take him before he has a taste of strudel,” she pleaded.

“Maybe you could save him a piece,” Ashley suggested. “Cheerio has a lot to learn and we have only a little amount of time to teach him.”

I took Cheerio from Mrs. Fink's arms. I turned to go, but Cheerio squirmed out of my arms and ran back over to the kitchen counter where Mrs. Fink had placed the strudel to cool off. He just sat there panting, his tongue hanging out, staring at that dessert delight.

“Cheerio,” I said in my most strict voice. “Come.”

He looked at me and then his head shot right back to the strudel.