Mr. Chickee's Messy Mission (15 page)

From the right came a sound found only in the thickest jungles of sub-Saharan Africa or the densest rain forests of Brazil or the deepest woods of northern Canada. It was the sound of nature at its most horrifying. It was the crushing noise of unexpected violent attack, the wail of uncountable millions of life-or-death battles being fought. It was teeth and claws and stingers and jaws and talons and ambushes and fear. It was the scream of eat-or-be-eaten, it was the sound of life in the wild, the sound of life run amok.

Russell gasped and tried to protect himself by using his hands to cover his ears. Even then the sounds that pounded into his brain were horrifying.

Not in the sense of bad-scary-movie-at-the-mall horrifying, more in the way you'd be horrified if you got an invitation to go to the Hungry Crocodile Café and found out the only thing on the menu was a picture of y-o-u.

From all of this noise a familiar sound worked its way into Russell's mind, a sound that caused his very soul to be seized by a sense of panic.

And not the good, fun kind of panic either.

The sound was dogs charging in his direction from somewhere unseen.

The sound brought back a horrible memory, a memory that anyone who has ever been viciously attacked by a pack of hungry dogs can never forget.

Russell was positive this was the same sound that that roaming pack of Chihuahuas had made when they'd attacked him outside of Halo Burger last fall! Weren't those the same terrifying yips and yaps he'd heard when those vicious little curs had stood on each other's backs and snatched the bag holding his fish sandwiches deluxe with heavy tartar sauce from his suddenly useless hands?

Russell knew he didn't have time to think, knew if he didn't act immediately he would be swarmed again, swarmed and used. Used by a vicious pack of Chihuahuas.

He began acting on instinct. If you had asked him to put into words what was happening in his mind, he wouldn't have been able to, but somehow he knew he was getting messages and information from a place deep inside of him, a place long forgotten and unexplored.

Messages began taking shape in his mind that came from beyond his mother or his father, beyond even his father's ancestors in Jamaica or his mother's in Flint. This information must have been coming from a wise elder who had ruled in some ancient corner of the motherland.

And without thinking, Russell knew what to do.

And he did it.

Like a round stone dropped into a bucket of clear, cold water, he fell to the ground in a ball, wrapped his arms around his head and, sounding an awful lot like the hardestworking
man in show business, began wailing, “Please, please, please, not again! Not the Chihuahuas!”

But the wild dog sounds kept coming.

Kept coming at him as surely as a laser beam.

As they grew closer, he realized these sounds
weren't
the same. These weren't the annoying, high-pitched little snarly snaps that had greeted him in his nightmares for weeks after that horrifying ambush at Halo Burger. These were much larger dogs. Much more powerful dogs.

Russell picked himself up off the ground and said, “Whew, I sure am glad it's not those doggone Chihuahuas again!”

Just as he said this, an animal appeared.

A dog that was running at full speed, digging its paws into the earth, leaning mightily into the harness that was attached to its powerfully muscular shoulders.

The moment the animal ran into the warmth of the boulevard of Buster B. Bayliss County, it did a quick U-turn and headed back. Back where it belonged. Back to its own world. Back to the world eons of evolution had perfected it for, the world of biting cold and cutting winds.

As that stunning lead animal's tail disappeared into the wall of snow and ice, the head of another magnificent, harnessed dog came out of the cold. It too was running at full tilt. And it too made the U-turn back into its own environment. Six more times another harnessed dog did this. The only sound they were now making was the grunt from the exertion of pulling something heavy, a whoosh that exploded from their open mouths and flaring nostrils.

Finally what they were straining to tow began to emerge from the wall of snow.

A long, low sled made of bent trees and browned strips of leather.

It nearly tipped on its side as it was sharply pulled back to the right, back toward the place in the wall where the team of dogs had disappeared. But it didn't, it stayed upright.

Then Russell saw two of the most amazing things he'd ever seen.

The first was that the sled was being controlled by a most unusual driver.

Russell said, “Now, I've got to think, I can't remember setting any food-eating records here in Ourside, but this sure does look like a twenty-eight-pieces-oftandoori-chicken-in-fifteen-minutes nightmare.”

What was driving the sled was Frosty the Snowman!

A vibrant, alive, six-foot-six-inches-tall and big-around-as-the-moon Frosty.

Just before the sled disappeared back into the wall of snow, Russell saw something very familiar pushing the sled with all its might.

He rubbed his eyes and said, “Rod-Rode?”

Did he actually see his little lost dog? Or
was
this a nightmare?

Frosty jumped off of the sled and hollered, “Pull up, babies!”

The sled stopped so that only the very tips of its rear runners were sticking out of the snow wall, the rest of it invisible in the tempest.

Then the snowman began shuddering, flapping his arms. It seemed he was trying to shake off the snow.

Frosty was becoming smaller and smaller.

And browner and browner.

And furrier and furrier.

A rapidly melting pile of snow gathered at his feet.

Russell said, “Hey, you're not a snowman, you're Smokey the Bear!”

Smokey shook his head from side to side and a pair of ice cubes flew out of his ears.

He said, “What was that you said before? What on earth is ‘rat wrote’?”

Russell did the very thing you should do if you ever find yourself in a situation like this: very quietly and very respectfully and very quickly answer Smokey the Bear. (And not just Smokey either, the same would apply to any other bear that happened to ask you something. Worry about if it makes sense later, just make sure you're on your best manners when you answer that bear!)

He said, “No, Mr. Bear, I didn't say ‘rat wrote,’ I said ‘Rod-Rode.’ That was my dog Rodney Rodent pushing your sled. I think it was him, it looks like he's grown a lot since the last time I saw him. I don't think it's very nice of you to make him work like that, but I gotta say thank you very much for not eating him.”

“Eating him?” the bear nearly roared. “
Eating
him? I'll have you know I'm a vegetarian, young man.”

The bear began sputtering, “Besides, what kind of nonsense …,” then took his paws and tugged and pulled at his
skin until it made a ripping, zipping sound and finally separated. Then it began to fall off of him!

As Russell finally got up enough nerve to raise his eyes and look at the rest of Smokey, he saw it wasn't a bear at all, it
was
a regular man who was wearing a fake-bearskin coat and hood. The man kept on his fake-bearskin mittens.

He roared, “Who in the devil is this Rodney Rodent?”

Russell looked at him. He was a tall guy with a thick, wild black and gray beard and a head full of dreadlocks hanging out from below a Detroit Tigers baseball cap. He was wearing a T-shirt that said “Pink Floyd,” a pair of faded blue jeans and brown leather moccasins.

Russell said, “Rodney Rodent is my dog. He's the one who was pushing on the back of your sled. Do you think you could call him back out of that blizzard?”

The man said, “Dog? That was no dog! You think that was a dog?”

The man slapped his head and said, “Now I understand! You're from Earth, from Yourside. Finally! Let me tell you, little fellow, it sure is good to see you!”

The man pulled one fake-bearskin mitten off of his hand, reached out and said, “Bayliss's the name, Buster B. Bayliss. Welcome to my county.”

Russell pouted. “Are you
really
Buster B. Bayliss? Really?”

The man pulled a wallet from his back pocket. He said, “Well, if I'm not, I'm in a lot of trouble 'cause I've been carrying his wallet around for years.”

Russell shook the author's hand.

“My name's Russell Braithewaite Woods, and no one sent me, sir, I'm here from Flint by mistake.”

“Good for you. Now, I hope you're not one of those young people who think every quiet second has to be filled with chatter. Asking millions of questions. Chatter-munks, I call 'em. Can't tolerate 'em. We're here in the North Country to get a job done. Fewer questions you ask, better we'll get along.”

Russell pouted again. He was disappointed because he
did
have a million questions to ask Buster B. Bayliss. Questions about writing. Things like, was Ben-Jammin ever going to catch Hair-Man and give him a shave, or would he ever find out who'd put the bald cream in the hair oil bottles, and what was going to happen if Ben-Jammin got attacked by the Ring Worm brothers again, and where did he get his ideas, and what was his favorite color, and what size shoes…”

Literary questions.

Buster B. Bayliss put two fingers to his mouth and let a high-pitched, piercing whistle rip. Then he hollered, “Throw it in reverse, Ahjah!”

A shape began to emerge from the wintry barrier.

Rodney Rodent!

But this time Rodney wasn't pushing the sled, he was pulling it! He was standing on his rear legs with his back to Russell and was using his front legs to tug the sled out of the snow! But strangest of all was Rod-Rode's tail, which was
digging into the ground and anchoring itself and helping pull the sled backward!

Once the sled appeared, Rodney kept pulling until the hindquarters of a sled dog could be seen. The dog was pulling ferociously in the other direction, trying to run, but Rodney Rodent was moving the sled like the animal wasn't there at all.

Another dog came out of the snowy land, then another, then another, until finally there were eight powerful huskies pulling against Rodney Rodent. Mr. Bayliss whistled again and the dogs collapsed onto their sides, panting so hard you'd've thought they'd just pulled the Rock of Gibraltar to South Africa.

Rodney Rodent let go of the sled, dropped down on all fours, then began chewing at his right front paw.

Buster B. Bayliss roared with laughter. “I love it! It drives those dogs crazy when I have Ahjah pull them in the other direction!”

“Why are you calling Rodney Rodent ‘Ahjah’?”

“Oh! That's it! You think Ahjah is your
dog
.”

“I know he's my dog, Mr. Bayliss. We got him 'cause we thought Zoopy croaked when he jumped off the dam with Bucko back when we were getting chased by the feds and Agent Fondoo was trying to make it so that we couldn't spend the quadrillion-dollar bill, but all I wanted was a mountain bike, so Mummy and Daddy went to the dog pound and got the littlest dog they could find and I named him Rodney Rodent and he's—”

Buster B. Bayliss held up his hand and said, “Wait! One minute! I hear something!”

He put his hand to his left ear and said, “Yes! I did hear something.”

He took the fake-bearskin mitten he'd been wearing and gave Russell a good smack in the back of the head.

Pa-whap!

Buster B. Bayliss said, “I heard the biggest chatter-munk I've ever seen. Must weigh a good two hundred and twenty pounds.

“The fact is Ahjah isn't a dog at all, he's a rare animal called the Madagascar Mountain Munchker. Found only on the eastern slopes of a really big hill in Solon, Ohio.

“Do you honestly think a dog could push or pull like that? Somewhere in their distant past it's believed these animals might have been related to dogs, but now every bit of dogginess has been bred out of them and they have evolved into the purest work animal known in either Ourside or Yourside. They live to push and pull. If they don't get the chance to work, they get smaller and smaller until they finally disappear.”

“But he's my
dog
.”

“Listen, kid, take my word for it, there's not a single doggy thing left in Ahjah. He's a work animal, pure and simple. Hasn't got the least interest in barking or sniffing or chewing or howling or licking your face or biting your fingers or wagging a tail.…”

“But he always used to wag his tail when I'd come home from school.”

“Impossible. He doesn't even have a tail.”

“Then what's that thingamajiggy sticking out of his booty?”

“It's not a tail, it's actually a prehensile vestige, gives him stability, helps him pull. It may have been a tail way back on his ancestors but not anymore. He grabs the ground with it and tugs.”

Every word Buster B. Bayliss said made Russell's frown get bigger and bigger.

Ahjah, or Rodney Rodent, shook his head from side to side and two really small ice cubes flew out of his really small ears.

Russell pouted like a kindergarten baby and said, “Sorry I treated you like you were a dog, Rod-Rode, I guess that's why you wouldn't eat dog food, huh?”

The Madagascar Mountain Munchker's ears perked up when he heard Russell's voice. He turned and looked at Russ and threw his head back and let out a wail just like the one he'd broken Mr. Woods's car window with.

Mr. Bayliss and Russell clapped their hands over their ears. Ahjah's prehensile thingamajiggy began wagging and twirling and spinning so fast and so hard that it turned into something like a helicopter's rotors, and Rodney Rodent lifted right into the air and flew up so that his mouth was next to Russell's face! The diminutive dog began licking Russ's cheek. He looked very much like a hummingbird going at a red flower.

Buster B. Bayliss said, “Well, I'll be a …”

Russell couldn't help laughing. He held his hand out and Rodney Rodent gently landed in his palm.

Russell said, “Good boy! Oops! Since Rod-Rode's one of those Munchker things and not a dog, is it okay to say ‘good boy’ to him, Mr. Bayliss?”

Buster B. Bayliss scratched his beard. “You know what, I've never seen a Madagascar Mountain Munchker act like this. Maybe wee Ahjah here is a hybrid of some kind, maybe he's turning back to some instinctive behavior buried in his genes or maybe … maybe he's acting this way 'cause you're an Old … n-a-a-h … all of the stories say that Old Souls are generally a lot smarter than what you seem to be. This is quite a mystery.”