The Sasquatch Escape (The Imaginary Veterinary) (4 page)

T
he Food 4 Less Market was tiny compared with the grocery store back home. Just five aisles and only one cashier. There was no barista making cappuccinos, no fancy bottles of water from Fiji. The grocery bags were plastic, not canvas, and the day’s special was bologna, not goose-liver pâté.

Ben’s grandfather stood second in line for the cash register. He’d crammed a lot of groceries into his cart. There were kosher hot dogs, white bread, and mustard. There were frozen pizzas
and egg rolls, bagels and cream cheese, a box of Sugar Loops, and two boxes of doughnuts. Ben smiled. No fruits or vegetables or stuff that was “healthy.”

“Hello, madame,” the man at the front of the line said to the cashier. He wore a long black raincoat, which seemed odd, since the day was warm and sunny. “I wish to purchase this can of fish broth, this can of condensed milk, and some kiwi-flavored jelly beans.”

The cashier, a girl with a pimple-covered nose, tapped her fingernails on the counter. “We don’t have kiwi-flavored jelly beans.”

“Then could you be so kind as to special-order them for me?” the man asked. “I need them as soon as possible.” He pushed his long red hair behind his shoulders.

The cashier took a piece of paper from a drawer. “How many do you want?” she asked.

“Two thousand boxes.”

“Two thousand boxes?” Ben blurted.

“That’s a lot of jelly beans,” Grandpa Abe said
as he leaned on the handle of the grocery cart. “You’ll rot your teeth eating that much candy.”

The man slowly turned to face Ben and his grandfather. His red mustache was waxed so that it stuck out in individual strands. The mustache quivered as the man spoke, reminding Ben of a cat’s whiskers. “I appreciate your concern for my dental health, but there is no need to worry. I am not fond of kiwi-flavored jelly beans. I eat only meat.”

“Only meat?” Grandpa Abe asked. “What about a knish? You like a good knish?”

The man’s irises, which were shaped like black half-moons, suddenly swelled. His nose, which was upturned, started to twitch. He sniffed, and his gaze darted to Ben. “Are you the owner of a Chinese striped hamster?”

“Yes,” Ben said with surprise. “How did you know?”

With very sharp nails, the man plucked a little hair from Ben’s shirt. “The Chinese striped has
a unique odor, quite different from the standard hamster.” He brought the hair to his nose, which twitched faster, as if powered by a little motor. “This one is male. Young. Tender. Delicious with pepper.” He licked his lips.

Delicious with pepper?
An eerie shiver trickled down Ben’s spine. He’d never heard of anyone eating a hamster. Who would do a thing like that?

“You must be new around here,” Grandpa Abe said to the man. “Where are you from?”

The man straightened. His nose stopped twitching. “I’m from…far away.”

“Two thousand boxes will cost a lot of money,” the cashier said. “You sure you want to order that many?”

“Money is of no concern.” The man reached into a trouser pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, which he set on the counter. Because Grandpa Abe and the cashier were staring openmouthed at the cash, they didn’t notice the little piece of paper that
drifted from the man’s pocket and landed at Ben’s feet. “My employer would like the boxes delivered as soon as they arrive.”

“Who do you work for?” the cashier asked as she picked up the wad of cash.

“I am employed by the brilliant and talented Dr. Woo.” The man tapped his polished shoe. “As a matter of fact, if we could conclude our business, I need to get back to work. I am Dr. Woo’s assistant.”

“Buttonville has a new doctor?” Grandpa Abe asked. “What kind of doctor?”

“A worm doctor,” the man replied. “Dr. Woo is renowned worldwide for her work with worms. She tends to their illnesses and needs.” Grandpa Abe and the cashier shared a confused look. “Do you have a pen, dear woman, so that I can fill out the order form?” The cashier handed the red-haired man a pen. While he filled out the order form, Ben reached down and grabbed the piece of paper. It was a recipe card.

Ben read it again. Was this for real?

The man finished filling out the order form, then handed it to the cashier. She read it.

“It says here you want the jelly beans delivered to the old button factory, but the button factory is closed.”

“Dr. Woo is renting the old factory. It will house her worm hospital.” Then the man collected his
grocery bag, which contained the can of fish broth and the can of condensed milk. After a quick bow to the cashier, he strode toward the exit. Ben hurried after him.

“Excuse me,” Ben called.

The man turned on his heels. “Yes?”

“You dropped this.” Ben handed him the recipe card.

The man’s whiskers twitched as he took the card. “Thank you,” he said.

“That’s a weird recipe,” Ben said. “Is it for the worms? At the worm hospital?” He didn’t know anything about worms, except that if you cut them in half, they still wiggled.

“The recipe is not for worms,” the man replied. “Worms do not drink dragon’s milk. Only dragons drink dragon’s milk.” He offered no further explanation. He bowed again, then left.

“Did I hear that man say something about dragons?” Grandpa Abe asked when Ben returned to the counter.

“Uh-huh,” Ben said.

“Oy gevalt.”
Grandpa Abe shook his head, then began to stack his groceries on the counter. “Just what we need. Another crazy person in Buttonville.”

W
hile Grandpa Abe rattled around in the kitchen, Ben fed a piece of doughnut to Snooze the hamster. Then he opened the bedroom window. There was no screen, so he stuck out his head. It was late morning, and the sun streamed between his grandfather’s house and the house next door. A little path was worn into the side yard between the houses.

“Today is Friday,” Grandpa Abe called. “Birthday day at the senior center.” Ben leaned on the windowsill. Going to the senior center didn’t
sound like much fun. He could tell his grandfather that he had a stomachache. Or maybe he’d make up a better story—that he had a medical condition that made him allergic to other people’s birthday cakes.

Then again, eating frosting might be better than hanging around the house, wondering what his friends back home were doing. Wondering if his parents were going to stay together. Wondering about that giant
bird
.

“Merooow.”

A large black cat turned into the side yard and pranced up the path. His tail stuck straight up, and something swung from his mouth. The cat stopped beneath the window and stared up at Ben, his yellow eyes widening with surprise. He wiggled his bottom.

“Oh no,” Ben said, “you’re not coming in here.” But before he could
close the window, the cat leaped onto the sill, then jumped onto the bed. Ben threw himself at the dresser, standing between the cat and the hamster cage. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned. “Go on. Shoo.” Ben waved his hands toward the open bedroom door. “Shoo!”

But the cat didn’t shoo. His pitiful victim dangled from his smiling mouth. Snooze the hamster stopped eating the doughnut and scurried into his nest. The rustling sound caught the cat’s attention.

“Grandpa, can you please call your cat?” Ben hollered.

“Here, Barnaby, Barnaby, Barnaby. Come get some yum-yums.”

The sound of a can opener was apparently more interesting than a hamster’s rustling. With a leap, Barnaby soared through the air like a trapeze artist, landed gracefully in the doorway, then pranced into the kitchen. With a sigh of relief, Ben hurriedly shut the door. “And stay out,” he grumbled.

He was about to tell Snooze that he wouldn’t
let that bad kitty back into the bedroom when something squeaked.

Ben leaned over his bed. There, in the middle of the quilt, lay Barnaby’s victim. Only it wasn’t dead. It wiggled and squeaked again.

And then it shot a fountain of flame right at Ben’s face. “Whoa!” Ben cried, ducking as the flame whooshed over his head.

As suddenly as the flame had appeared, it disappeared. Ben felt his face and hair to make sure nothing was on fire. Then a second flame shot upward, but this time, it reached only a few feet off the bed. The flame disappeared, and the creature squeaked again.

A third flame emerged, but it was weak, like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. It fizzled and popped, extinguishing with a hissing sound. The little creature coughed.

What just happened? How did…? How could…?
Ben’s legs trembled.

After a minute or two had passed and no
more flames appeared, Ben knelt beside the bed. He wasn’t about to touch it, whatever
it
was. The creature’s body and wings were black, but one of the wings was torn. Was it a bat? Ben had seen photos of bats, so he knew they had all sorts of weird faces. Some looked like foxes, some like mice. There were dog-faced bats and monkey-faced bats. This one had a long snout, like a sea horse.