Fuzzy Fights Back Page 8

  Planting one foot outside the door, Abby’s mother bent low and … pitched Fuzzy out into the darkness!

  “Aaaahh!” His legs scrabbled frantically, grabbing nothing but air. A wave of nausea slid through his gut as he tumbled into the blackness.

  Whump! Fuzzy landed heavily in some low, scraggly bushes. By the time he’d freed himself, the back door shut with a solid shoonk.

  “Hey, wait!” he cried. But Abby’s mother had gone. The kitchen light winked out, the locks clicked, and Fuzzy found himself all alone in the great outdoors.

  Wiggling whiskers!

  Although he liked to think of himself as an Adventure Rodent, Fuzzy preferred to choose his own adventures. He sure wouldn’t pick this one. Alone, scared, and out in the cold, with who knew what kind of critters prowling through the night around him?

  At that thought, Fuzzy crouched, checking his surroundings. Had he heard some leaves crinkle? Was that a predator’s footfall?

  Holding as still as a stopped clock, he scanned the darkness with just his eyes. Fuzzy could see next to nothing, but the night was alive with sounds. A creepy birdcall. The yowl of a neighbor’s cat. Branches groaning in the breeze.

  Everything seemed to warn of a fresh danger.

  What to do?

  Keeping low, Fuzzy darted for the shelter of the house. The door was locked tight. And he couldn’t reach the knob, even if it wasn’t.

  Silver light from a crescent moon showed no cat door or convenient way back inside, so Fuzzy trudged along the wall, one eye out for danger, one eye out for shelter.

  A twig cracked like a gunshot. Fuzzy cringed. He stared and stared, but nothing emerged from the darkness. At long last, he forged onward.

  Rounding the corner, Fuzzy gazed up at the windows above. One of these must be Abby’s room. But which one?

  He wanted to call out to her, but Fuzzy didn’t want any predators to hear. If he could somehow climb up to a windowsill, he could peek inside and look for Abby.

  Yeah, right. Easier said than done.

  It was much too high to jump, even if guinea pigs were jumpers, which they weren’t. He glanced left and right. No helpful trees or bushes offered a pathway up.

  Fuzzy hugged the wall, continuing on around the house. One window in particular seemed to have a bluish glow, just like Abby’s nightlight. Was this her room?

  “Psst!” hissed Fuzzy. But the window was closed; she couldn’t hear him. He risked a quiet “Hey!” No reaction. If only Fuzzy could tap on her window …

  He stumbled over a small rock underfoot, and then it hit him:

  Pebbles!

  He could throw pebbles at her window until Abby woke up and saw him, just like people did in those romantic movies Miss Wills loved. Scooping up a pawful, he took a few steps back, cocked his arm, and threw.

  Dink. The pebble plunked harmlessly against the wall, far below his target.

  Fuzzy reared back and flung another one. Again it fell short.

  Cupping his last pebble in his paw, Fuzzy wound up like a champion baseball pitcher and hurled it with all his might.

  Plink. It still landed more than a foot short.

  “Suffering mange mites!” he swore. Fuzzy bent to scoop up more ammunition.

  A twig cracked behind him. “Having trouble, mate?” asked a raspy voice.

  Fuzzy whirled. A huge, furry shape loomed over him in the darkness. The moonlight revealed a thick body, a triangular head, and the glint of two ebony eyes in a black mask. This was either a robber or a raccoon. Possibly both.

  “H-hi,” said Fuzzy. “Nice night.”

  “Peachy,” said the masked bandit.

  “W-what brings you here?”

  The raccoon spread his arms and grinned. “Same as always, mate. Hunting for dinner.” He glanced down at Fuzzy’s paws. “You know, if you wanna hurt that house, you’ll need a bigger rock.”

  “Oh, uh …” Fuzzy didn’t know whether to drop the pebbles or fling them at the raccoon. He decided to hang on to them. “No, I was, um, trying to wake up someone in that room.”

  The burly creature cocked his head, checking out the window. “Need a boost?” he said.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “You know, a lift.” The raccoon pointed at the window. “If you stood on my shoulders, I reckon you just might be able to reach that sill.” He licked his lips.

  Fuzzy took a step back. Something about the raccoon’s friendly smile seemed a bit … hungry.

  “No, that’s okay,” he said.

  “No worries,” said the masked bandit, rubbing his paws over each other in a washing gesture. “Always happy to help a fellow creature in need.” His canine teeth sparkled when he smiled, like sunlight glinting off a pair of daggers.

  Taking another step back, Fuzzy bumped into the wall. He wondered what kind of things appeared on a raccoon’s dinner menu. Did it include small rodents?

  “I—I’ve changed my mind,” said Fuzzy. “Maybe I shouldn’t wake up my friend so late.”

  “Rubbish.” The raccoon’s grin widened as he cupped his front paws into a stirrup and bent over Fuzzy, blocking out the moon. “Step right here, mate, and all your troubles will be over.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  Like a Sherman tank of stenchiness, the rank, musky odor of the predator rolled over Fuzzy. His eyes watered. All his senses screamed danger.

  Two black eyes bored into his, willing Fuzzy to take that final step.

  Instead, he flung his pawful of pebbles directly into those eyes—and this time, he hit his target.

  “Bugger!” yowled the raccoon, clapping his paws over his eyes.

  That was all the opening Fuzzy needed. He bolted, making straight for the nearest bush.

  “Get your bum back here!” roared the burly bandit.

  Fuzzy risked a glance behind him. The raccoon stumbled in pursuit, still rubbing his eyes.

  Reaching the shelter of the shrub, Fuzzy dove beneath it. He got a rude surprise.

  Ouch! Sharp spines pierced his back and shoulders, and a cedar-y scent enveloped him. Of all the places he could’ve taken shelter—a thornbush!

  A glance over his shoulder revealed the raccoon rapidly closing in. No time to find a better hiding place. With many an ooch! and owie! Fuzzy wriggled deeper into the heart of the bush.

  Ka-crackle. The raccoon plunged into the shrub, reaching for Fuzzy.

  “Blistering barnacles!” he cried, reeling backward and shaking his paws. “That hurts!”

  “It’s supposed to,” said Fuzzy.

  “Get your carcass out here.”

  “Gee, let me think about that,” said Fuzzy, pretending to consider. “Um, I’ll have to go with no way!”

  The raccoon growled. “You are the stubbornest, rudest, most unhelpful dinner I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s because I’m not your—ow!—dinner,” said Fuzzy, unhooking himself from a thorn. “I’m Fuzzy.”

  “We’ll see about that!” snarled the raccoon.

  Once more, the burly predator lunged into the bush, paws grasping. “Frigga fragga foo!” he swore, backing away. The raccoon pulled out a couple of thorns with his teeth and popped his wounded paw into his mouth.

  “Serves you right for trying to eat people,” said Fuzzy. Somehow, he felt braver inside the prickly bush.

  “Uff, it’s the law of the, mmf, jungle,” said the raccoon around the paw in his mouth.

  “Not my law,” said Fuzzy. “I’m no Jungle Rodent; I’m a City Rodent.”

  The raccoon shot him a glare hot enough to burn a polar bear’s butt. “You’re in for it, boyo. Come on out of there, pronto.”

  “Nope. Think I’ll make a summer home in this bush.” Fuzzy tried for a luxurious stretch and pricked himself on a thorn. “I could—ow!—stay here all month.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I might,” said Fuzzy. “Why don’t you go pick on a defenseless trash can or something?”

  “Maybe I will, and maybe I
won’t,” said the predator. He shook his wounded paw. “But you’ll have to leave sometime for food and water. And when you do—bam!—I’ll be there.”

  “Good to know,” said Fuzzy. He tried to sound brave, but the thought of being stalked by a hungry raccoon had him trembling.

  After a few minutes of pacing up and down outside the bush, the predator gave a disgusted growl and headed off to seek easier prey. Fuzzy didn’t budge. All senses alert, he kept watch for the raccoon’s return.

  Not so much as a whisker showed. An owl hooted. A distant dog barked.

  After what felt like ages on high alert, Fuzzy yawned. The excitement had taken its toll. His eyelids drooped, feeling heavier and heavier, until finally he fell into a deep, deep sleep.

  * * *

  “Fuh-zzyyyy!”

  The distant sound of his name being called roused Fuzzy the next morning. He blinked at the bright sunshine and stretched, only to remember—too late—where he was.

  “Yowch!”

  Rubbing his leg, Fuzzy scanned the area around the thornbush. No raccoon. No hungry dogs. Nothing but a shaggy backyard garden.

  Again, someone called his name. From the sound of it, Abby was searching for him inside the house.

  Holy haystacks!

  With a jolt, Fuzzy realized that today was Monday. If the girl didn’t find him soon, she’d leave for school, and he’d never make his way back to Miss Wills’s class. Somehow, he had to catch her attention.

  “Ow! Ugh! Yikes!” With many a poke and a prick, Fuzzy wriggled his way out from under the spiny bush. Thorns tore his lovely coat, but he pushed onward.

  Breaking free, he dashed around the house as fast as he could. Was he too late? As Fuzzy neared the kitchen door, he could hear voices from inside.

  “Looks like he’s gone, Abs,” said Mrs. Krumpton.

  “But poor Fuzzy!” said Abby. “He could be anywhere. Fuh-zzyyy!”

  Wheek! Wheek! Fuzzy bounced up and down, squeaking with all his might.

  “Did you hear something?” asked Abby. The kitchen doorknob rattled.

  “No use looking out there, sweetie,” said her mother. “It’s a shame, but …”

  Wheek-wheek-wheek! Fuzzy scratched on the door.

  “I definitely heard something,” said Abby.

  “Don’t—” Mrs. Krumpton began.

  But the lock clicked open and the doorknob was turning. Fuzzy barely had enough time to lunge aside before the door swung open. There stood Abby, with her mother right behind her.

  “Fuzzy!” she cried, bending down to scoop him up. “There you are. You scared me! How did you get out? You look like you’ve had a rough night.”

  Fuzzy had never been so glad to see anyone in his life. He snuggled the girl, licking her cheek over and over. And then his eyes fell on Mrs. Krumpton’s glower. She was so not happy to see him.

  Her scowl told a story. Fuzzy might have won this round, but the battle was far from over.

  At school that day, everyone was twitchier than a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair factory. Before class, Abby collected loads of signatures for her petition. More SAVE OUR PETS signs had sprouted on the walls, and the afterschool meeting was all anyone could talk about.

  “Are you coming?” Heavy-Handed Jake asked Malik.

  “You bet,” said the boy. “Abby and I are going to deliver our petitions and testify.”

  “That’s right,” said Abby, full of fire. “We’re even making a special poster—nice and big, so everyone can see.”

  As Fuzzy listened to his students put their heads together, he realized something. Many of the kids, parents, and teachers would attend that meeting, but not the ones most affected: the pets.

  While focusing on changing Mrs. Flake’s and Mrs. Krumpton’s minds, Fuzzy and his friends had forgotten to figure out how to attend the meeting themselves. They’d hoped the charm offensive would cancel it.

  But that hadn’t happened. And now, unless they came up with something quick, the pets would miss the meeting that would decide their fate.

  That just wouldn’t do.

  All through morning lessons, Fuzzy champed at the bit. Did he dare try contacting the other pets during lunch when all the kids were away? It’d be risky. Suppose someone caught him roaming around outside his habitat? Then what?

  Fuzzy finally decided it was a gamble he had to make.

  When lunchtime came, he waited until the kids and teacher left for the cafeteria.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Although everyone else had taken off, two students stubbornly refused to go. Malik and Abby sat together, eating their sack lunches and discussing their presentation.

  Fuzzy fidgeted, looking back and forth between the kids and the clock. On the one hand, he was glad they were so enthusiastic about saving classroom pets. On the other hand, he wished they’d take their enthusiasm outside, so he could go meet with his friends.

  But they didn’t leave. As soon as they finished their lunches, Abby and Malik collected a folder, some glue, markers, scissors, and a large poster board. They brought all the items over to the worktable.

  Nearly half of lunchtime had slipped by. How long would these kids take? Fuzzy wondered.

  Chatting as they worked, Abby and Malik cut out images of Fuzzy and the other pets and arranged them on the poster board. After some discussion about the layout, they pasted the photos in place, carefully adding each pet’s name.

  “I want them to see who we’re talking about,” said Abby. “Not just pets, but Fuzzy and Cinnabun and Sassafras.”

  “I like that,” said Malik. “More personal.”

  Fuzzy admired their dedication. But he really wished they would hurry. Now only ten minutes remained before class started. If the kids left right now, he just might be able to visit Vinnie in 4-B and make it back in time.

  But they still didn’t leave. Instead, Malik and Abby carefully lettered slogans onto the poster board in electric blue and lipstick red. They practiced what they were going to say and stapled together their petitions.

  The bell rang. Soon, kids flowed back into the room.

  Fuzzy sighed, deflated. So much for that plan. If he wanted to attend the meeting, he’d have to figure out how to get there on his own.

  * * *

  The afternoon passed in a blur, like the world as seen from a Tilt-A-Whirl. (Not one of Fuzzy’s favorite experiences with a pet-sitter.) As the final bell rang, Miss Wills asked the students to linger for a moment or two.

  “I hope that many of you are coming to this meeting to support class pets,” she said.

  A cheer rose from the group.

  “I’m glad,” she continued. “And I want you to know that, whichever way this vote turns out—” Here, something seemed to catch in Miss Wills’s gullet, and she paused for a moment to regain control. “I—I’m sure Fuzzy has really enjoyed being our class pet.”

  Fuzzy’s eyes got misty. His throat felt tighter than tube socks on a T. rex. Could this really be the end of his time with Room 5-B?

  “Fuzzy’s the best!” cried Loud Brandon.

  The students took up a chant: “Fuz-zy! Fuz-zy! Fuz-zy!” And, still chanting, they trooped out the door. Miss Wills tidied up her desk and papers for a few minutes, and then came over to Fuzzy’s cage.

  Softly stroking his back, she said, “Don’t you worry, big guy. We’ll do our very best.”

  As soon as she left, Fuzzy pushed his platform, blocks, and ball into escape positions. But halfway through climbing them, a thought froze him in his tracks: Mr. Darius. The custodian always came by to tidy up after school.

  If Fuzzy left now, the janitor would find an empty cage.

  What to do?

  While he wavered, Fuzzy heard a key turning in the lock. The door creaked open, and there stood the man himself, Mr. Darius. But instead of his usual push broom, the custodian carried a good-sized cardboard box.

  With long strides, he made his way to Fuzzy’s habitat. “Hey,
little buddy,” he said. “Looks like you’re already planning a getaway.”

  Oops. If guinea pigs could blush, Fuzzy’s face would’ve turned beet red.

  “Don’t worry,” said the man. “I’m not here to bust you; I’m here to help.” And with that, he set the box on a nearby table, lifted Fuzzy with both hands, and gently deposited him into the box.

  That was surprising enough. But another surprise awaited inside.

  “Cinnabun!” cried Fuzzy.

  The rabbit looked up from grooming her chest fur. “Afternoon, Brother Fuzzy. Isn’t this exciting?”

  “But why are you here?” he asked. “And what are we doing in this box?”

  Mr. Darius hefted their container and left the room, setting the box down on something in the hallway. It was frustrating not being able to see much, but then Fuzzy heard the familiar squeak-squeak-squeak, and he knew they were on the custodian’s cart. Above the high sides of the box, the ceiling tiles scrolled by.

  Cinnabun smiled. “I do believe Mr. Darius is taking us on a field trip.”

  “But I wanted to watch the meeting,” said Fuzzy.

  “You may get your wish,” said the rabbit.

  “How do you mean?”

  A muffled voice came from somewhere nearby. “Is that the Fuzzmeister?” called Luther.

  “What’s going on?” said Fuzzy.

  “We caught a ride with the Darius Taxi Service,” the boa replied. “Crazy, baby.”

  The cart stopped outside another door. And another. Before long, Mr. Darius had collected all the class pets and was wheeling them along the hallway. Judging by the ever-strengthening smell of hot dog buns, chili, and other bygone meals, they were headed for the multipurpose room.

  Fuzzy heaved a sigh of relief. They would make the meeting after all.

  A babble of voices washed over them as the cart pushed through the double doors. The smell of sweat, perfume, and coffee mingled with the food odors to create a powerful bouquet. From the look of things, Mr. Darius was taking them right up to the front of the room.

  “What’s all this?” demanded a piercing, nasal voice. Mrs. Krumpton.

  By standing on his hind legs, Fuzzy could just see the custodian’s expression, calm and unruffled.