Class Is Not Dismissed! (16 page)

“Look! There she is,” Madeleine whispered to the others. “In the name of the Queen, what has Mrs. Wellington done to herself?”

“Wow, that is intense,” Garrison said, averting his eyes in embarrassment.

“It’s just not pretty,” Lulu stated honestly.

“For either of them,” Theo said, shaking his head.

“We must stay vigilant about scanning the crowd,” Madeleine instructed the others. “The burglar is probably watching Mrs.
Wellington just like we are… although there is a chance he doesn’t recognize her in light of the current… situation.”

Even in the dim candlelight, Mrs. Wellington’s fashion eccentricity was wholly visible. Half of her tutu had been ripped off
and fastened onto Macaroni as a skirt. In addition, Mrs. Wellington had given the bulldog her brown bob wig to wear and had
placed Macaroni’s collar around her own head like a sweatband. But perhaps most ghastly were the large gobs of Vaseline falling
out of both their mouths. Mrs. Wellington believed that a beauty queen should coat his or her teeth with Vaseline for a shiny
smile.

While the other English bulldogs onstage were dressed in tutus and tights, none of them were wearing a wig. And though Mrs.
Wellington was the only owner onstage without a dog costume on, she still managed to look the craziest by at least a mile.
Judging by her behavior, one couldn’t quite be sure if Mrs. Wellington knew that this was a dog pageant.

Across the stage, Schmidty’s cheeks blushed bright
red. The elderly man was terribly concerned about what such an outfit could do to Macaroni’s self-esteem and sense of masculinity.
Sure, Macaroni wore pajamas and enjoyed the odd pedicure, but this was too much. Schmidty patted his comb-over nervously as
he looked for the stairs to the stage. Something simply had to be done.

“I think Schmidty’s going to try to lure Mrs. Wellington down,” Theo whispered to the others. But before Schmidty was able
to locate the stairs, a couple in matching yellow sweaters, droopy brown ears, and black snouts waltzed onto the stage. As
the couple approached Finca, it became clear that the woman was carrying a poodle in a baby carrier on her chest.

“Finca, we are sorry to interrupt,” the man said in a chipper tone, “but this is a dog emergency. A dog’s life is literally
hanging in the balance here tonight.”

“It better be, since you interrupted my most important show of the night.” Finca grunted angrily at the couple, who she hoped
would not try to pass their poodle off as a bulldog.

“Please, you have to believe us. That poor bulldog over there in the wig is in terrible trouble!” the woman
with the poodle shrieked, “and that old woman in half a tutu, Mrs. Wellington, is to blame!”

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Wellington said, suddenly snapping to attention. “You are ruining our moment. Could we not discuss this
after Macaroni and I win? Perhaps over tea and trophies?”

“No, we most certainly cannot postpone this conversation. Macaroni is being mistreated, and we expect you to answer for it
in front of your dog-loving peers,” the man said tensely from under his large black snout.

“So
you’re
the sticky-fingered twits who broke into Summerstone and stole all my wigs!” Mrs. Wellington responded, shaking her head
judgmentally at the couple.

“No, we’re the Knapps,” they chimed in unison before removing their ears and snouts.

“Have you any idea what life is like for a beauty queen with only one wig? It’s absolute torture!” claimed Mrs. Wellington.

“Torture is what you are doing to that dog,” Mr. Knapp announced confidently, “and we are here to stop you.”

“What?” Mrs. Wellington asked in genuine confusion. “You mean the wig and tutu?”

“No. We actually think dogs enjoy dressing up,” Mrs. Knapp responded. “It helps get them in touch with their creativity.”

“Well, at least we agree on that.”

“OK, so it’s not the tutu,” Finca interjected. “Let’s get on with this; we’ve got a pageant happening here.”

“Mrs. Wellington does not have a doggy seat belt for Macaroni!” Mr. Knapp blurted out.

“Would you allow your babies to ride without a seat belt?” Mrs. Knapp dramatically asked the crowd. “Any sudden braking, and
boom—baby through the windshield!”

“It’s true that I do not have a seat belt for Macaroni,” Mrs. Wellington admitted to the Knapps, Finca, and the crowd, “but
that is only because I don’t have a car, you nitwits!”

“On top of that, you refuse to get him braces or acupuncture, and you haven’t even enrolled him in yoga! Dogs need yoga to
unwind!” Mrs. Knapp screeched, her emotion apparent.

“Yoga? Macaroni doesn’t even like to stretch, let alone do yoga. He is a bulldog, and everyone knows they lack the mental
and physical capacity for yoga. As dog
people, I thought you would have known that, but clearly I was wrong. Then again, what can I expect from wig thieves!”

“What about the way you make him work? Polishing furniture with his tongue?” Mrs. Knapp continued fiercely.

“I would never make Macaroni do any such thing. I save all demeaning jobs for my manservant, Schmidty.”

At that moment Schmidty attempted to pull himself onto the stage, but as he was rather thick and mountainlike at his waist,
he couldn’t quite manage it.

“Oh, there’s Schmidty now! See him? The one with the comb-over and very large belly. You can ask him yourself!” Mrs. Wellington
shot back victoriously. “He is most definitely the only one being mistreated in my care, and that is only because he enjoys
it so much.”

Finca, feeling sorry for the floundering Schmidty, used her long arms to aid the rotund man as he clambered onto the stage.

“Thank you so much, Miss Finca. I haven’t been able to get to the gym lately,” Schmidty mumbled with embarrassment as he stood
up.

“It’s true, Mr. and Mrs. Knapp, it is I, not Macaroni,
who on occasion has cleaned the furniture with my own saliva and tongue. I worked the hardest on Grace’s shell, which you
cruelly stole from Summerstone and from me. So before you continue with Madame, you must explain your dastardly theft to me.”

“We were trying to rescue Macaroni,” Mr. Knapp expounded in a discombobulated manner, “but Macaroni never left your side or
Mrs. Wellington’s side for a second, so we started taking random items to throw you off. We even bribed that unusual man in
the forest to distract you. We will happily return all that stuff—we just want Macaroni!”

“Well, you can’t have him,” Schmidty said firmly.

“You don’t deserve him!” Mrs. Knapp shot back.

“I most certainly do! I brush this dog’s teeth twice a day!”

“Yes, you may brush his teeth, but what about the horrible and dangerous manner in which you feed him?” Mr. Knapp said while
trying to maintain a smile.

“Of all the cockamamie nonsense I have heard in my life, this is the absolute worst,” Mrs. Wellington chimed in. “The dog
eats at the table, on a chair, from a sterling silver bowl, in the formal dining room at my mansion.
What could be more civilized than that? And don’t say dressing him in a tuxedo, because we tried that, and he simply won’t
have it.”

“How about placing each piece of kibble delicately on Macaroni’s tongue to make sure he doesn’t eat too quickly and choke?”
Mrs. Knapp said tensely.

“Why stop there? Perhaps you should prechew the food for your dog too?” Mrs. Wellington shot back sarcastically.

“We tried that. Jeffrey didn’t like it. His pet therapist said it made him feel too much like a bird,” Mrs. Knapp responded,
causing the crowd to gasp in disgust.

“Stop!” Finca screamed. “As master of ceremonies, I am putting an end to this insanity!”

“Thank you,” Mr. and Mrs. Knapp said in unison. “This is exactly why we came here. We knew you would understand.”

“Understand?”
Finca said before maniacally laughing. “The only thing I understand is that you have ruined my favorite part of the Pooch
Pageant, and for that you will pay.”

“What?” Mr. and Mrs. Knapp gasped, in shock.

“I am blacklisting you from every specialty pet store
in the Northeast region. That means no doggy sweaters, no doggy shoes, no doggy massages, and definitely no doggy yoga. You’ll
be lucky if Petco lets you in the door.”

Mrs. Knapp immediately collapsed into hysterics, forcing her husband to carry her and Jeffrey offstage.

“Well done, Finca,” Mrs. Wellington said victoriously. “Well done.”

“Oh, I’m not done, Wellington,” Finca responded devilishly.

“Oh dear. I doubt those two can take any more,” Mrs. Wellington said truthfully.

“Are you enjoying the pageant, Mrs. Wellington?”

“This is the happiest day of my life! I never knew that two of my great passions, pageantry and dogs, could be combined. It’s
the most marvelous, spectacular place on earth!”

“It is, isn’t it?” Finca said as she stared Mrs. Wellington straight in the eye. “Unfortunately, this is the first and only
time you will ever be allowed in a pooch pageant. For your act of disorderly conduct I am banishing you from all pooch pageants
worldwide for the remainder of your life!”

“No!” Mrs. Wellington wailed as she dropped to her knees. “Please, I will do anything! Don’t take this away from me! From
us! What has Macaroni done to deserve this?”

“I am afraid the damage is done,” Finca said unemotionally.

“Mrs. Wellington,” Hyacinth screamed as she hoisted herself onto the stage with Celery on her shoulder, “where are those rotten
boys? Celery wants to punish them!”

“All of you, out!!!!!!!!!!!”
Finca roared angrily. “Out! Out this second, or I’ll ban you from buying canine clothes!”

F
ranklin Park was aglow with the last remnants of the day’s sun when Mrs. Wellington stepped dejectedly out of the red-and-white-striped
tent. The soft breeze on her scalp reminded the old woman dressed in half a pink tutu that Macaroni still had her wig on.
While she would never admit it to Schmidty or even the children, she was a tad disappointed that the Knapps had turned out
to be the burglars. It was a great deal
more soothing to her ego to believe that a former rival still feared her beauty.

Ever the attentive manservant, Schmidty placed the wig back on Mrs. Wellington’s head after removing Macaroni’s collar. He
then moved on to Macaroni, removing the tutu. Schmidty simply could not bear to see the dog dressed in pink tulle for one
more second.

Mrs. Wellington and Schmidty led the pack back to the van, keeping a fairly brisk pace considering their advanced years. A
few steps behind Mrs. Wellington and Schmidty, Lulu, Garrison, and Madeleine walked in silence. Madeleine’s arms were flailing
about as usual in a lame effort to dissuade bugs or insects from approaching. “Would it be a terrible bother to ask you both
to wave your arms around as well? If there are six arms instead of two, I have a higher chance of surviving the walk to the
van without a run-in.”

“Sure,” Garrison agreed, too tired to put up a fuss over Madeleine’s irrational request.

“Great. In addition to walking behind an old woman in half a tutu and a man with pants pulled up to his neck, the three of
us are waving our arms around like a
bunch of wackos,” Lulu grumbled. “No wonder we got kicked out of a dog pageant for being too weird.”

Quite a way behind the arm-wavers were Theo, Hyacinth, and Macaroni. Theo was exhausted from all the pageantry hoopla and
moving at an exceptionally slow pace.

“Thee Thee, snap to it! Celery thinks you need to pick up the pace big-time!”

“I haven’t had a bite of food in hours. Do you have any idea what that does to a growing man?”

Hyacinth attempted to pull Theo along, but the boy refused to increase his speed. Macaroni then passed Hyacinth and Theo,
much to the girl’s aggravation. The fact that a bulldog could waddle faster than Theo seemed an insult to the natural order.
Normally, Hyacinth wouldn’t have cared in the slightest, but she was still more than a bit peeved about having been abandoned
in the tent.

“Stop pulling my arm. I have very sensitive joints,” Theo protested.

“Celery would like to know if a doctor gave you that diagnosis.”

“Kind of… I diagnosed myself after watching an actor pretending to be a doctor on television.”

“Celery says that there is nothing wrong with your arm. She says the only problem you have is that you’re out of shape! Big-time!”

“Tell your ferret that I don’t do very well with negative reinforcement. If you really want to help the situation, you could
sing something from
High School Musical
to get my enthusiasm back up.”

“Hyacinth,” Lulu hollered back from up ahead.

“Hyhy,” Hyacinth corrected.

“Really? You’re still correcting us,” Lulu said as she stopped and turned to look at Hyacinth. “Clearly that nickname isn’t
sticking; I think it’s time to let it go. Oh, and if you start singing, I can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do.”

“Lulu, you shouldn’t threaten her—she is only a child. A highly bothersome one, but a child nonetheless,” Madeleine added
in a rather stern voice.