Guinea Dog (2 page)

Its pink nose twitched like a rabbit’s.

“Well, here she is, Rufus,” Mom said. “Your new pet!”

“She?” I said. I don’t know why, but I’d always imagined my dog would be a he.

“Yes, she’s a sow,” she said, smiling ear to ear.

People use that expression a lot, but my mom really does smile from one ear to the other. The corners of her mouth were, like, a nanometer from her ears.

Dad walked in. He was wearing his usual gray suit with a white shirt and tie. Just because he worked at home, he always said, didn’t mean he couldn’t look professional. I wondered if looking professional meant wearing fuzzy blue slippers.

“What’s this?” he asked, his eyes locking on the rodent Mom had brought home.

“It’s Rufus’s new guinea pig!” she announced.

“
New
guinea pig?” Dad said. “I don’t recall Rufus ever having an
old
guinea pig.”

Dad’s a stickler for speaking “precisely.” Must be all the editing.

“My bad,” Mom said. “I meant that I bought Rufus
a
guinea pig. For a pet. Instead of a dog.”

Dad gave her the Stony Stare. The Stony Stare, which he uses a lot, means,
I don’t need to say what I’m upset about
.

“I know I didn’t discuss it with you,” Mom said, her smile shrinking the tiniest bit, “but Rufus has been so miserable about not being allowed to have a dog, and a guinea pig seemed the perfect solution.”

The Stony Stare continued.

“Guinea pigs don’t bark,” Mom explained again. “They don’t whine or drool or beg or get fleas or chew things up. And they don’t have to be walked!”

Her smile stretched bigger than ever. The corners reached past her ears and into her hair. Honest.

Dad slowly shifted his eyes to the pig. It was in a metal cage with a green plastic tray on the bottom, and there was a little green plastic ramp inside that led up to a little green plastic loft. There was also a food dish with wilted lettuce in it and a water bottle attached to the bars, upside down.

“It does poop, I assume,” Dad said.

“Of course she poops!” Mom laughed. “Everyone poops!”

“And who scoops the poop?” Dad asked, looking at me.

“Mom brought it home, not me,” I said.

“Oh, they’re just teeny little poops,” Mom said. “Teeny pellets, like a rabbit’s. They don’t even smell. And she piddles in the bedding—which is made of recycled paper, by the way, Art.”

She was kissing up. Dad’s way into recycling. When he sweeps, he picks out little pieces of paper and plastic and puts them in the appropriate bins. He sorts through the garbage, too, and, boy, does he get sore if he finds anything recyclable in there, like a tag off a new shirt, or the little plastic thing it was attached with. Personally, I think he’s into it so much because it makes him feel like he’s doing something more important than just cleaning house. I don’t think he’s happy being a homemaker.

Mom turned to me and said, “They said at the pet store you should clean the cage whenever it starts to stink, which will be about once a week. Plus, you’ll have to do some spot cleaning, when necessary.”

I gave her the Stony Stare.

“Oh, and Art,” she said, “guinea pigs are so
clean
. They bathe
themselves
. With their
tongues
.”

“Too much information, Raquel,” Dad said with a wince.

“Guinea pigs are strict vegetarians, so Dad will collect scraps while he’s preparing meals,” Mom said. “Just like for a real pig.”

“Oh, I will, will I?” Dad said.

“You’ll have to feed and water her, too, of course, Rufus,” Mom said. “Every day.”

Having a guinea pig sounded about as much fun as having a pet fern.

“Did you hear that, Rufus?” Dad said. “The guinea pig is your responsibility. Are you up to it?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Of course he is!” Mom said. “So it’s okay, Art? We can keep her?”

Dad sighed loudly. “If Rufus keeps the cage clean and doesn’t let the little monster out…and if I don’t ever have to see it or hear it or know it exists—”

He sneered at the guinea pig as if it were a poop pellet.

“—then…well…okay, he can keep it. In his room.” He looked at me. “But then no more begging for a dog, right?”

“But—” I began.

“YAY!” Mom squealed.

My dream of a dog died then and there. Instead, I was the proud owner/caretaker of a plump, punk guinea sow. Yippee.

How did Mom get away with stuff like this?

“So what are you going to name her, Rufus?” Mom asked. “I’ve been calling her Emmeline, but she’s yours. You get to name her.”

Mom was now not only smiling as wide as a hippopotamus, but her eyes were actually watering. Obviously the woman didn’t get enough excitement in her life.

“Fido,” I said. “That’s what I was going to call my dog.”

Mom laughed so suddenly and loud I almost swallowed my tongue.

“Oh, Rufus! You are
too
funny! ‘Fido’ is perfect! I love it!”

And she bent down and hugged me. Hard. I tolerated it. At last she let me go.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you say?”

Though I was not grateful to her in the slightest—in fact, I was pretty mad at her—I said, “Thanks, Mom.”

She hugged me again, even harder than the first time. I feared for my life.

When she released me, I saw she was crying. For real.

Over a guinea pig.

“You’re welcome, sunshine,” she said to me, her chin quivering. “I knew you’d love her!”

I picked up Fido’s cage, carried it up to my room, kicked some of my junk aside, then dropped the cage on the floor. My fern made herself at home. She waddled around her cage. She piddled. She pooped. Then she piddled again. Then, just for fun, she pooped again.

So much for clean “Emmeline.”

It was the best dream I ever had. Then the guinea pig woke me up right in the middle of it.

She was gripping the bars of her cage with her tiny pink paws and screeching like bad bike brakes.

I heard a knock on the door. I was pretty sure who it was.

“Come in, Dad.”

The door swung open. Dad was wearing his fuzzy blue slippers and his plaid robe over his yellow pinstriped pajamas. His hair was messed up. His eyes were puffy. He was grimacing. He didn’t come in. He refuses to set foot in the Dump, which is what he calls my room.

“What is that awful sound?” he asked.

I pointed at Fido. “Why, it’s the quiet, clean pet Mom bought me.”

“It’s unacceptable,” he said.

I nodded.

Mom appeared behind him, pouting. “I think Emmeline’s lonely.”

“Fido,” I reminded her.

“Why don’t you take her out of her cage and let her sleep in bed with you, Rufus?”

I looked at Dad and we had a rare moment of seeing eye to eye: my mom—his wife—was a loon.

“Well, then, I’ll do it,” she said.

She bent down and opened the door of the cage. Fido stopped whining and scurried out. She raced over to my bed and started tugging on the blanket.

“There, see?” Mom said smugly.

She scooped Fido up and set her on the bed. The rodent’s little tongue spilled out of her mouth. She wagged her nonexistent tail. She ran up my body and licked my chin.

“Oh, she
loves
you,” Mom said, beaming.

I tried to smile back, but I couldn’t make it work.

“If she’ll be quiet, fine, she can be out of her cage,” Dad said.

“She’ll be quiet,” Mom said.

Fido then dashed to the foot of my bed and curled up at my feet.

“Just as snug as a bug in a rug!” Mom said.

“Ugh,” said Dad, and left.

I was with him on that. Mom has a way of talking sometimes that makes you want to throw up.

“Night-night, Rufus,” Mom whispered, and tiptoed out.

Like that. It’s like living trapped inside Missus Rogers’ Neighborhood.

She can’t seem to grasp that I’m not three years old anymore. I wonder if she ever will.

Now that I was alone—well, almost—I closed my eyes and went back to sleep. I was hoping the rottweiler dream would reboot, but instead I dreamed I was running in one of those hamster exercise wheels.

Fido was still there at my feet when I woke up in the morning. The second she realized I was awake, though, she ran at my face and slobbered it all up.

That was weird to wake up to.

“Cut it out!” I whined. “Down!”

She cut it out. And sat down. Her tongue fell out of her mouth and she sat there gaping up at me like she was waiting for my next command. Which was also weird.

I slipped out from under the covers and flipped them over on her. She scrambled frantically underneath them, trying to get out. Then she gave up and started screeching really loud.

“Quiet!” I said.

This command she ignored.

I got dressed with my fingers in my ears—not an easy thing to do. There was a knock on the door.

“Come in, Dad.”

Dad pushed the door open. He gave me the Stony Stare. He kept his toes outside the Dump’s border.

“It’s not my fault,” I said.

He kept staring.

“Oh, all right,” I said.

I uncovered Fido. She stopped screeching and started wagging her hairy butt.

“Don’t do that again,” Dad said.

“Copy that,” I said.

“Breakfast is ready.”

“Copy that, too.”

“Copy that” was my new favorite way of saying “okay,” replacing “Gotcha, chief,” which Dad recently made me stop saying.

“Put the rat back in its cage. I do not want it in my kitchen.”

“Copy that.”

I lifted Fido up—she was lighter than I thought she’d be, considering how fat she looked—put her in her cage, and locked the door. She grabbed the bars and screeched.

Dad covered his ears and yelled, “Take her back out! Take her back out! Take her out! Out, out!”

Dad is one major freaker outer.

“Copy that,” I said, and took her out of her cage. She stopped screeching.

Dad breathed a mighty sigh.

“I’ll bring your breakfast up to you.”

This was a bit of a shock. I was under strict orders never to bring food into my room. But I answered, “Copy that.”

“Stop saying ‘Copy that,’” Dad said.

“I can’t say ‘Copy that,’ either?”

“No.”

He never lets me have any fun. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll say ‘Okay.’”

Dad sighed again, then sneered at Fido, and left. He returned a few minutes later carrying a tray with a plate of scrambled eggs, sausage, and buttered toast on it, plus a glass of OJ. Fido began to pant and whimper.

“Do not give that animal any food,” Dad said firmly.

“Copy—”I started to say, then caught myself. “Okay.”

Dad left and I sat on my bed and started wolfing down my breakfast. Fido managed somehow to get up on the bed without help and made a beeline for the tray. She grabbed the edge of it with her little paws, pulled herself up, and peeked over the edge at my food with big, hungry eyes. Her nose twitched overtime.

“You can’t have any,” I said with my mouth full.

She whimpered.

“You’re a strict vegetarian.”

She whimpered louder.

“Dad said no.”

She gave me sad, pitiful eyes.

“Oh, all right, one bite, but don’t let Dad find out.”

I held out a smoky link and she snatched it and disappeared under the tray. I heard munching, then a tiny burp.

After I finished eating, I got dressed. I checked my look in the mirror over my dresser: plain, skinny boy in worn jeans and the T-shirt he slept in with scraggly brown hair, a small chin with a slight crease down the middle, a small nose that tilted up and showed too much nostril, and a neck that could stop growing any time without any complaint from me. Final grade: U (for Unsatisfactory).

Fido jumped down from the bed and ran to her cage to relieve herself. I took the opportunity to lock her in. She rushed to the bars and started to screech.

“Quiet,” I said, and gave her the Stony Stare.

She shut up. Which was a little cool.

“Sit,” I said, just for fun.

She sat. Which was also a little cool. Still, a little cool for a dorky rodent with a mohawk was still almost totally uncool compared to any dog, even a toy poodle.

“If you want to make any noise while I’m gone, Dad will kick you out on your tailless behind. And there are a lot of cats in our neighborhood, so…”

I stopped and thought about this, then added, “So go ahead and make as much noise as you want.”

I left the room and closed the door behind me.

Dad was in the kitchen washing dishes. He was wearing his
WHAT PART OF “IT’S NOT READY YET” DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?
apron.

“You didn’t leave your dishes in your room, did you?” he asked. “This is exactly why we don’t allow you—”

“Sorry,” I said, and ran back to my room.

Fido jumped up and down when I came through the door. I grabbed the tray.

“I just forgot this,” I said to her, and turned to leave.

She screeched.

“Quiet,” I commanded.

She shut up.

“Good pig,” I said.

“Is that creature going to screech all day?” Dad asked when I returned to the kitchen. “I have an enormous amount of work to do.”

I shrugged. “Ask Mom. She’s the guinea pig expert.”

“If it keeps it up, I will not hesitate to return the infernal creature to the pet shop posthaste,” Dad said.

“Copy that,” I said.

He glared at me.

Old habits die hard. “I mean fine, wonderful, sounds great.”

I grabbed my backpack and my hoodie and headed for the front door. I heard Fido screeching upstairs before I was outside. On the porch, I turned and saw Dad through the kitchen window, holding his ears.

Hmm,
I thought, grinning ear to ear,
maybe he should have gotten me a dog after all.