Elvis and the Underdogs (8 page)

Okay, now, here's where I draw the line in the sand. You can pick on me about my size, my looks, my bad haircuts, the fact that my ears may be weirdly small, the fact that I'm sick all the time, and that I happen to fall down way more than the average kid. But the one thing you can't say about me is that I'm not smart. Because that's the main thing, or perhaps the only thing, I have going for me. Well, besides my stupendous personality and awesome sense of humor. I also happen to have very straight teeth like the twins, so no braces for me.

“I'm plenty smart. And if we're going to be pointing fingers, or paws, or giant furry feet, I'd suggest you point them at yourself, because if you can't tell that this is not the White House, then you're the one who might not be that bright.”

Parker Elvis Pembroke IV stared down at me. I'm pretty sure he would have rolled his eyes, if dogs could actually do such a thing.

“Perhaps we should start over. Clearly, we've gotten off on the wrong paw, you and I. Good afternoon, my name is Parker Elvis Pembroke IV. I was born on a farm in Tennessee and have been trained for the last two years to be the president of the United States's new dog. Obviously, as this is not the White House and you are not in any way related to the president, I have been delivered to the wrong address.”

“Sheesh, was that so hard? Why couldn't you have said all that from the very beginning and saved us a lot of grief? Seriously—wait one freaky-deaky second here. Did you just say you're the president's dog? As in the president of the United States of America's dog? Are you a Secret Service dog? Do you have those special titanium teeth that can bite through metal? Are you bionic? Can you fly Air Force One?”

“What? No. I have the same teeth I was born with.” He flashed them at me. They were big and very white. So the one thing I had in common with him was we both had good teeth. “I'm not a protective dog, though I'd throw myself in front of a bullet if I had to do so to protect my master. But I would do that even if he weren't the president. And protecting our country is just a bonus of patriotic pride. And no, I can't fly Air Force One, but that's because I don't have thumbs, not because I don't know how. I'm sure I could learn to fly Air Force One if I had to do it under extenuating circumstances.”

“So then you're just supposed to be the president's regular dog?”

“First off, there is nothing regular about me. Second off, even if I happened to be a regular dog, just by virtue of the fact that I was the president's dog, I would no longer be regular, but instead I would be special. I am the president's personal dog. He picked me out himself twenty-two months ago when I was an eleven-month-old puppy, and I've been in training ever since. I am honed and ready to take my place in history beside him. You see, I'm what you would call an extraordinary dog who is destined to live an extraordinary life.”

Well, one thing I knew for sure was that he wasn't lying when he said that. He certainly was extraordinary, as in extraordinarily full of himself. I mean, who goes around saying that he's extraordinary? I mean, even if I was extraordinary in some way, I don't think I'd go around announcing it. I wondered if all dogs were this confident. I also found it interesting that he thought of himself as special too. But when he said he was special, he acted like it was a good thing. You know, I just decided that in my next life, I want to come back as a dog. Of course, knowing my luck, I'd come back as a pound puppy.

Normally, I wouldn't believe such a wackadoo story, but there was something in his tone that made me almost believe him. He sounded so serious. Besides, it was a pretty crazy story once you thought about it.

“Okay, so you're the president's dog. Congratulations to you.”

“Thank you. I am very pleased myself. Now, is Benji short for something?”

“Yes, it's short for Benjamin, but no one calls me Benjamin except the principal of my school and my grandmother. I prefer Benji. Like the dog. Hey, that's pretty funny. I have a dog's name and you have a person's name. It's kind of ironic, isn't it?”

“Actually, it's not ironic, it's merely an interesting turn of events. A mere coincidence, as they say. One of my biggest pet peeves is when humans use the word ‘ironic' incorrectly. The English language is something to be treasured and appreciated, Benjamin.”

“Whatever you say, Elvis.”

“Touché.”

“What does that mean?”

“It's a French word that means . . . oh, never you mind. It's not important. You see, I'm trying to work on my French, because next week at the White House they are entertaining the French prime minister and his family. They're going to have a big party, and I will be in attendance. So I've naturally been brushing up on my French. It's a beautiful language, if I do say so myself. And here's an interesting tidbit. The French love their dogs. They are even allowed to bring them into restaurants. Have you ever been to France?”

I shook my head. “I like French fries, though.”

“Yes, they are quite delicious. But here's another interesting fact. French fries originated in Belgium, not France. But Belgian fries doesn't sound quite the same. Now, perhaps it's time to go straighten out this whole unfortunate turn of events.”

“Okay, I guess I'll go tell my mom about the mix-up?”

“Are you asking me or telling me? Because what you said was a statement, but then you added a question mark to it at the end.”

This dog was one big hairy piece of work. Good luck, Mr. President.

“I guess I'm telling you.”

“Just by adding the words ‘I guess' in front of your statement, you are still making it into a question. You should be more assertive in your manner.”

If he was going to get annoyed with everything I said, I wasn't going to say anything. We looked at each other silently for a moment. He then stood up and gently nudged me with his giant moist black nose.

“Ahem, are you expecting me to go with you? I'm actually a little tired from my travels, so I think I'll wait here and rest a bit. I'm sure if you tell your mother to phone the White House, they'll handle the whole matter straightaway.”

“Fine.” I started toward the kitchen, but then I stopped and turned around. “Do you want any water? Or a cookie?”

Just because he was being rude to me didn't mean I had to stoop to his level. My mom raised me to be a polite host, no matter what the circumstances. I'd probably be cranky if I'd had to ride in a cage for two days too.

“A water and a cookie sounds delightful. Chilled and flat if possible. Thank you, Benjamin. It's very kind of you to offer.”

“Aren't all cookies flat?”

“Pardon me?”

“You said you wanted a flat cookie, and I was saying, aren't cookies flat?”

“I was talking about the water, flat, not bubbly. Bubbly water makes me sneeze.”

I was about to open my mouth to respond, but I decided this was one conversation that had already gone on long enough. I headed to the kitchen, where my mom was sitting at the kitchen table, talking on the phone while eating a pudding cup.

“Mom. Hey, Mom. Mom. Yoo-hoo, Mom. Mom? Mom! Mooooommmmm!”

“Benji, I'm on the phone! Shhhhhhh.”

“Sorry, but this is important. It's about the dog.”

“Did he pee on my carpet?”

“No. But I need to talk to you about him.”

“What is it?”

“We did get the wrong dog. And you're never going to believe this, but the dog we got belongs to the president.”

“What are you talking about? What president?”

“The president of the United States.”

“Benji, what on earth are you saying? I don't have time for jokes. I'm on the phone. Of course, I've been on hold for the last five minutes.”

“Mom, I'm telling you they sent us the wrong dog by mistake, because the dog we have, you know, the enormous black one that is in our living room, he's the president's dog. You know, as in the president of the United States of America's dog.”

“How do you know?”

“The dog told me.”

“What?”

“The dog. He just told me he's the president's new dog. Anyway, I'm glad he's not mine, because he's kind of snooty when he talks. Hey, did you know that French fries came from Belgium and not France?”

My mom dropped the phone. As I reached over to pick it up for her, she scooped me up in her arms and ran around the kitchen, grabbing her purse and looking for her keys. I had no idea what was happening. The first thing that popped into my head was earthquake, tornado, or hurricane. I'm not sure why, but I'm just telling you what I was thinking, because honestly, why else would she pick me up and throw me over her shoulder if it wasn't some sort of major emergency? I hear forest animals can sense when big danger is coming, like a fire, even from miles and miles away, and they have the instinct to run. So if my mom really was a mama bear in a former life, then it makes sense that she would have this skill too. Her yelling caused Parker Elvis Pembroke to run into the kitchen, which only made her scream again, and right in my ear, because he startled her when he came galloping into the kitchen.

“Oh, well, I guess you should come too,” she said to Elvis.

He barked in response, and I immediately wondered why he didn't talk to her like he talked to me. Soon we were in my mom's SUV, driving really fast. She was breaking every speed limit.

“Mom, hey, Mom. Mom. Yoo-hoo, Mom. Mom? Mom! Mooooommmmm! What's going on? Where are we going?”

“We're going to the emergency room.”

“What's wrong? Are you sick? Do you not feel well?” I was scared. As much as I'm not a fan of being sick myself, the thought of something wrong with my mom terrified me. She never got sick. I don't even remember her ever getting a cold. My theory is that germs want to stay on her good side. Here's the deal with my mom. You always want her on your team. The twins didn't get their killer competitive streaks from my dad, that's for sure.

She didn't answer me, but just seeing her white knuckles on the steering wheel made me sit back, close my eyes, and try to take a few deep breaths. Whenever my mom is this stressed, I get stressed, which brings on either one of my fainting spells, or worse, an asthma attack.

Meanwhile, Elvis just sat quietly in the seat next to me. He was so tall, his head touched the roof of the car.

“Benjamin, are you okay? Are you feeling like you're going to faint again?” When he asked, his tone was actually the nicest it had been since he'd arrived.

“Why is he whining like that?” my mother yelled again. “Oh my God, is something happening? What's happening? Is he trying to tell us something? Do something, you dumb dog!”

“I don't know what's going on,” I whispered to Elvis. “We're going to the hospital. I think my mom is sick.”

“Why do you think she's sick? I believe she thinks you're sick, which is why she's acting so erratic. I'm actually impressed with her driving skills, except for the fact that she keeps running stop signs. She seems to be under great duress.”

“Duress? What's that mean? Hey, do you think you could talk on a ten-year-old-kid level versus a president-of-the-United-States level?”

“Fine. Duress means she's under stress or strain.”

“Well, I don't need you to tell me that. I've got eyes, you know. Plus she's my mom.”

He leaned over and licked my face again, his giant pink tongue slobbering all over me.

“Uchhhhh, what was that for?”

“I wanted to see if you had a fever. You don't.”

“Why don't you lick her? I'm fine. She's the one duressing everywhere. Maybe she's the one with a fever. Maybe she's got meningitis?”

Suddenly we screeched to a halt, and Parker Elvis Pembroke was caught off guard. He smashed his face into the back of the front seat. His front paws slid off the seat and onto the floorboard. I tried to disguise my laughter with fake coughing.

I looked out the window and saw that we were parked right by the emergency room. Wow, she never does this, I thought. It must be serious. She usually parks on level B and then thinks she parked on level C, and then we walk around the parking garage with her muttering under her breath for about twenty minutes or so. Anyway, so she jumped out of the car, and so did I, but I was on the other side of the car. She ran around the car toward me and picked me up in her arms like I weighed twenty pounds.

“Hello, people, we've got an emergency here! Help us!” she yelled.

Dr. Helen walked into
a small, curtained-off section of the ER that barely fit the gurney, my mom, and Elvis (okay, it didn't actually fit Elvis, because his giant furry tail went under the curtain into the next section). She looked at me to make sure I was all in one piece and wasn't covered in blood, then looked at my mom, who was clutching two empty candy bar wrappers. Then she looked at Elvis; then she looked back at my mom and opened her mouth to speak, but before any words came out of her mouth, she turned her head to look back at Elvis again. He's a dog who's totally worth a double take.