Pup Art #9 Page 2

  “Sparky! No!” Pierre shouts after me.

  But my paws are already running. Fast. Faster . . .

  Uh-oh!

  Now I hear shouting. Lots of shouting.

  I don’t know what the two-legs are saying, but I can tell they are angry.

  Some artists leap up from their chairs. They wave their arms at me. I think they are trying to shoo me away.

  Pierre was right. The artists don’t like dogs around.

  I don’t like being around them, either. I start to run again. But this time, I am heading down the hill.

  “Wait for me!” Pierre shouts.

  The artists are shouting louder now.

  My paws are really running. They don’t like shouting any more than I do. Which is strange, because paws can’t hear.

  Those artists sure can move. But I am faster. Before I know it, I am at the bottom of the big hill—far from the shouting artists.

  “I warned you,” Pierre says as he reaches the bottom of the hill. “The artists only want to be around two-legs. I guess that’s because the two-legs like their paintings.”

  I don’t know what to say. I was really hoping Pierre and the lonely artist could be friends. Too bad things didn’t work out that way.

  Grumble, rumble.

  And too bad we didn’t get any more of that sweet bread. My tummy is still hungry.

  “Can we get food anywhere else?” I ask Pierre.

  Pierre smiles. “Of course,” he tells me. “Let’s go to the school.”

  School? That doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been to school before. They teach you tricks there.

  “I don’t want to learn how to roll over or sit,” I tell Pierre. “I already know how to do that. I also know how to hula.”

  “How to what?” Pierre asks me.

  I stand on my hind legs. I wiggle my middle. “That’s the hula. I learned to do that at a school in Hawaii.”

  Pierre shakes his head. “I don’t know what kind of school you’ve been to. But this is a cooking school. You wouldn’t believe the freshly cooked scraps you can find there!”

  Freshly cooked scraps? That’s my kind of school!

  “What are we waiting for?” I tell Pierre. “Let’s go!”

  CHAPTER 5

  Sniffety, sniff, sniff.

  Pierre leads me down a narrow street. It does not smell like yummy scraps back here. It smells like sour milk and rotten eggs. And I do not see any two-legs. All I see are big round metal cans with lids.

  “These scraps smell awful,” I tell him.

  Pierre shakes his head. “The delicious scraps are in there,” he says. He points to a small door that is propped open.

  Pierre slips through the door. I try to slip through, too. But it’s not as easy for me. I’m bigger than Pierre. Oomf. It takes a lot of squeezing to get me inside.

  Sniffety, sniff, sniff.

  I am glad I could fit through that door. This place smells wiggle, waggle, wonderful! Like the room in my house where Josh makes the food, only better!

  We only have one food-making room in our house. But the school has lots of them! And every one is filled with busy two-legs.

  “What’s that sme—”

  “Shhh . . . ,” Pierre warns me. “The two-legs are all in their kitchens now. But if they hear us, they’re going to come out into the hallway and throw us out. Then we won’t get any scraps.”

  I do not want that to happen. I shut my mouth tight so I can’t talk. And I make my paws walk very, very softly.

  Pierre walks past each room. He sniffs at the air.

  I don’t know what he’s sniffing for. But I think he’s found it. He stops walking. His stubby tail wags back and forth. Pierre doesn’t have a big tail, but it sure lets you know when it’s happy.

  “Aaah! Soufflé!” Pierre barks quietly, so only I can hear.

  “Soo-flay?” I repeat. “What’s that?”

  “A really sweet treat,” Pierre explains.

  The smell of the soo-flay is drifting out into the hallway now. My paws start bouncing. My tail starts wagging. They are so excited. Which is strange, because paws and tails can’t smell. And they can’t eat.

  But I sure can!

  “Let’s go get some soo-flay!” I shout to Pierre. My paws race in.

  “Sparky, no!” Pierre says. “You can’t just go in that kitchen . . .”

  But I am already in. I run up to one of the two-legs.

  “Can I have some soo-flay?” I bark to him.

  The two-leg looks down at me and shouts. I don’t know what he’s saying, but I can tell it isn’t yes.

  A second two-leg starts to shout. I can’t tell if he’s angry with me or the other two-leg.

  Pierre races to my side.

  “You can’t bark in the kitchen when they’re making soufflés,” Pierre whispers to me. “They need quiet to get all nice and fluffy in the oven.”

  “Then why are all these two-legs shouting?” I ask Pierre.

  “I don’t know,” Pierre admits. “I don’t understand a lot of things two-legs do.”

  I don’t like shouting. I should leave. But I can’t. I want some of that sweet soo-flay stuff! It smells so good! My tail thinks so, too. It’s wagging wildly. Which is strange, because my tail can’t smell.

  Bang! Crash!

  One of the two-legs leaps out of the way of my wagging tail. He slams into some bowls. The bowls fall to the ground.

  Now all the two-legs are shouting. One of them opens a tiny door in the wall. It is getting very hot in here.

  The sweet smell gets stronger.

  Wiggle, waggle, wow! I think that two-leg is going to give me some sweet soo-flay to eat. I am so excited.

  “Uh-oh . . .” Pierre doesn’t sound excited.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

  “The soufflé fell because of all the noise,” Pierre says. “They can’t use it anymore.”

  What fell? I wonder. I don’t see anything on the floor.

  But something definitely did happen. The two-legs are waving their paws. And they are running toward us and shouting.

  Uh-oh! My paws can’t wait to get out of here. They start running fast. Faster. Fastest.

  Pierre darts out the same door we used to come in. I follow him, squeezing myself back out. Oomf! We are back on that same small street. The one with all the big round cans.

  I don’t smell the sweet soo-flay anymore. I smell rotten eggs. And sour milk. Just like before. I like the smell of soo-flay better.

  Just then, I hear two-leg paw steps heading our way.

  “Someone’s coming,” I whisper to Pierre.

  “Shhh . . . ,” Pierre says. He runs and hides behind one of the cans.

  I try to hide, too. But my tail sticks out from behind the can.

  “You have to hide!” I tell my tail.

  My tail tucks itself between my legs.

  “Good tail!” I say.

  I see a two-leg holding something in a bag. She opens the top of one of the cans. She drops the bag inside. Then she walks away.

  “That was close,” I whisper to Pierre.

  Pierre doesn’t answer. Instead, he knocks over the can.

  Suddenly, I smell something sweet on the street.

  “The soo-flay!” I shout. “It’s in the bag.”

  Pierre smiles. “Two-legs don’t eat soufflés when they fall. They only eat them when they are fluffy. I don’t know why. They taste just as good.” He paws at the bag until it opens. “Come on. Dig in!”

  I walk over and take a big bite. The soo-flay is delicious! My tail starts wagging.

  “I told you, we have the best food in the world here in Paris,” Pierre tells me.

  Suddenly, I hear paw steps again. There are two-le
gs coming this way.

  “Maybe they are bringing us more!” I exclaim. My tail wags harder.

  “They aren’t bringing treats,” Pierre says. “They’re bringing trouble. They are dogcatchers!”

  CHAPTER 6

  Dogcatchers! They have those in Paris, too?

  I know they have dogcatchers in London, because one threw me in the pound!

  And I know they have dogcatchers in Rome because one chased me through the Trevi Fountain.

  Why do so many two-legs want to catch dogs?

  “Run, Sparky! Run!” Pierre shouts.

  “Come on paws!” I bark. “We have to run!”

  Boy, can my paws move! Now I am running through the streets of Paris. I smell some yummy scraps, but I don’t stop to look for them. I just keep running.

  I am running so fast, my fur flies over my eyes. I can’t see. But I keep moving. Fast. Faster. F—

  Boink!

  Ouch! I bump headfirst into a pole. That hurts!

  “Stupid fur in my eyes!” I bark. I use my paw to push the fur away.

  “Come on, Sparky,” Pierre says. “Let’s hurry past this group of two-legs. Then we can race up the stairs to the top of the Eiffel Tower.”

  Pierre points up with his snout. So I look up.

  I see a tall building. At least I think it is a building. It doesn’t have any windows. Just a lot of holes. And it doesn’t have a roof. Just a point at the top. That point is up high. Way, way up high. It looks like it reaches all the way to the sky!

  Yikes! “You want to go to the top of th-that?” I ask Pierre.

  Pierre nods. “The dogcatchers will never think to look for us there. Dogcatchers only look on the streets for strays. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “But it’s so high up,” I tell him. “I went to the top of the Washington Monument once. It reaches into the sky, just like that tower. When I looked down from there, I felt sick. I don’t want to get sick again.”

  “But . . . ,” Pierre begins.

  I do not wait to hear what Pierre is going to say next. There is no way I’m going to the top of that tower. So I start to run. I have to get away from this place.

  “Sparky!” Pierre shouts at me. “You don’t know your way around Paris. You can get in big trouble in this city. Wait for me!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Run, run, run.

  Pierre and I are zooming through the streets of Paris. The dogcatchers aren’t going to catch us. No way!

  I look ahead. No dogcatchers there.

  I look behind. No dogcatchers.

  I look down. No dogcatchers.

  I look up.

  AAAAHHHH!

  Suddenly, my paws stop zoomity, zoom, zooming. That’s because my eyes have spotted something really scary—scarier than a dogcatcher.

  I wonder if this is the big trouble Pierre was talking about.

  “What’s wrong?” Pierre asks as he races to my side.

  “Th-th-that thing,” I say. I point my snout up toward a scary-looking two-leg. Or is it a bird? I can’t tell. It has eyes and ears, a nose and a mouth. It is holding its face in its paws like two-legs do. But it has wings like a bird.

  I’ve seen birds in my yard. They swoop down from the trees and catch worms in their beaks. Then they fly away.

  What if that scary-winged, two-legged thing swoops down and grabs Pierre and me? I don’t want to fly away!

  I start to run again, so the scary-winged thing can’t catch me.

  But when I look up again, I see something even scarier. “Aaaahhhh!” I shout again. “What kind of four-leg is that?”

  I use my snout to point to something that seems like some sort of strange dog. It looks like it has three ears—two on the sides of its head and a pointy one on top.

  Pierre laughs. “That’s not a dog,” he says. “It’s a gargoyle. It’s not real. It’s made from stone.”

  Oh. That’s different. I’ve seen stone things before, in Rome and in Tokyo.

  “It’s a statue?” I ask Pierre.

  “Exactly,” Pierre says. “There are gargoyles all around the building. The two-legs put them there to scare away evil spirits.”

  I don’t know what spirits are, but I am sure they would be scared away by these creepy-looking gargoyles.

  Pierre makes a face at me. “Do I look like a gargoyle?” he asks.

  I laugh. Pierre looks silly. He’s not scary at all.

  I make a funny face. “I’m a gargoyle, too,” I tell Pierre.

  Pierre laughs. “Good one,” he says.

  “If we pretend to be gargoyles, then maybe we can actually scare the dogcatchers away,” I suggest.

  Pierre looks around. “I don’t think we are going to have to do that,” he tells me. “It seems like we lost the dogcatchers when we made that turn a couple of blocks back.”

  That news makes me really happy. It makes my tail happy, too. It starts wagging really hard!

  “So what would you like to do now?” Pierre asks me.

  Grumble, rumble. My tummy answers for me.

  “Can we find some more scraps?” I ask him.

  While I wait for his answer, I lift my hind leg. A puddle of yellow water forms underneath me.

  “Oui, oui!” Pierre answers.

  “Everybody makes wee-wee,” I say, repeating what Pierre said. I look down at the puddle of yellow water. “When a dog’s got to go, a dog’s got to go.”

  Pierre laughs. “Oui means ‘yes’ in French,” he tells me. “I was just agreeing with you. We should look for more scraps.”

  Wiggle, waggle, excellent! “Let’s go,” I tell him. “All that running made me hungry.”

  “I think everything makes you hungry,” Pierre laughs.

  I don’t answer. I let my tummy do the talking for me.

  Grumble. Rumble.

  CHAPTER 8

  “What’s that German shepherd doing?” I ask Pierre as we search for scraps.

  I point my snout toward a dog walking across the street with a two-leg. The two-leg is holding the shepherd’s leash in one hand and a stick in the other.

  “That’s a Seeing Eye dog,” Pierre explains. “The two-leg has eyes that don’t work, so her dog sees for her. I sure wish I could find a two-leg who needed my help.”

  I feel bad for Pierre. He looks so sad. I wish I could help him, but I don’t know how.

  “I smell stray dog.”

  I know that voice. I turn around and see that mean, rotten poodle—the one with the funny-colored, flowery-smelling fur.

  “Does Fifi do anything important for her two-leg?” I ask Pierre.

  Pierre shakes his head. “All she does is act snooty and make fun of other dogs.”

  “Why don’t you go jump in the river?” Fifi barks at us. “You could use a bath.”

  “Why are you always so mean, Fifi?” Pierre asks her.

  “Sorry, I don’t speak stray,” Fifi replies. “And your breath stinks. Did you fish spoiled sardines out of the trash? You strays are such garbage pickers!”

  Pierre’s back gets stiff. His lips move. I can see his sharp teeth. He is one mad dog!

  “That does it!” Pierre barks angrily. “I have had it with that snobby poodle!”

  Whoosh! Pierre takes off after Fifi.

  Fifi glares at Pierre. And then she runs.

  Fifi’s two-leg is still holding on to her leash. But that doesn’t stop Fifi. She keeps running, pulling her two-leg behind her. The two-leg is having trouble keeping up with Fifi. Four legs move a lot faster than two.

  Fifi breaks free! She turns and starts up the same big hill Pierre and I climbed earlier.

  “Fifi! Fifi!” her two-leg shouts after her. She shouts some other things, too, but I don’t understand what she is saying.<
br />
  Pierre is running right behind Fifi.

  “Wait for me!” I shout. I race up the hill, right past Fifi’s two-leg.

  Two-legs leap out of the way as we run. Artists swoop up their cloths and bowls of colors.

  Everyone is staring and pointing. I guess it isn’t every day they see a two-leg running behind a sheepdog, who is chasing after a bulldog, who is trying to catch a poodle.

  Fifi runs around a big puddle.

  Pierre runs around the big puddle.

  And I run around the big puddle.

  Fifi darts between two artists.

  Pierre darts between the two artists.

  And I dart . . .

  Crash!

  Uh-oh.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ooey-gooey colors are dripping everywhere.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Splash!

  Pierre steps right in a big puddle of ooey-gooey color!

  That’s when I see the lonely artist again. He’s standing there, yelling—at Pierre and me. I guess those are his ooey-gooey colors on the ground.

  “Ha-ha! You can’t catch me!” Fifi shouts.

  Pierre takes off after Fifi again. His paws leave ooey-gooey colorful prints all over the artist’s cloth.

  “Wait for me, Pierre!” I call. I run after Pierre. My paws leave ooey-gooey colorful prints all over the artist’s cloth, too.

  I can hear the artist yelling as Pierre and I run off after Fifi. I do not know what he is saying, but he sounds angry. I do not think he is happy to have colorful paw prints on his cloth.

  Josh did not like my wet paw prints on the floor of our house, either.

  Why don’t two-legs like paw prints?

  Pierre stops running. He looks around. “Do you see Fifi?” he asks me.

  I look around. I don’t see the poodle anymore. “She must be hiding,” I tell him.

  “I’ll sniff her out!” Pierre declares. “My snout is a super sniffer.”