Free Guinea Dog by Patrick Jennings

mind about returning Fido. But I couldn’t get my mouth to say the words. I wasn’t ready to give up my dream of a real live dog.
    “I don’t know if I want to return Fido.”
    That wasn’t me. It was Dad. That’s right: Dad.
    “Well, knock me down with a feather!” Mom said. “Warming up to her, are you, honey?”
    Dad’s expression changed from slightly confused and a little embarrassed to mad. “No! She is a ridiculous, noisy nuisance, and a patently absurd idea for a pet.”
    He noticed Mom looking a little hurt, and added, more gently, “It just doesn’t make any sense to me to keep such a thing indoors, or at all…in my opinion. That’s all.”
    Mom smiled.
    “I don’t think I’m following this,” I said.
    “Well, Rufus,” Dad said, looking confused and embarrassed again, “it’s just that I don’t know if I’ve been entirely…well…fair about Fido. Since I started working at home, I’ve been…a bit… tense , I suppose.”
    He looked at Mom, and she nodded encouragement. He sighed. Clearly, they’d been having talks.
    “I think perhaps I’ve been too demanding,” he continued, “and perhaps too uncompromising, and…”
    “Crazy?” I suggested.
    He glared at me. I was the crazy one.
    “You think?” Mom said.
    Dad glared at her. Then he sort of grinned.
    “Now don’t gloat, Raquel. It isn’t at all attractive.”
    Mom straightened her smile into seriousness, and said, “Sorry.”
    “Well,” I mumbled, “I don’t want to return her, either.”
    “Quick! Get the smelling salts!” Mom said, fanning herself with her hand. “I am definitely going to faint!”
    “But I still want a dog!” I said over her laughter.
    Dad turned to me. His grin disappeared.
    “Don’t push it, son,” he said. “Be happy with what you’ve got.”
    “ I’m certainly happy!” Mom said.
    “You’re gloating again,” Dad said.
    “If I keep Fido,” I interrupted, “that means I can’t ever have a dog, right? Ever?”
    “Rufus, if you don’t keep Fido, you can’t ever have a dog,” Dad said. “You cannot ever have a dog, Rufus. What part of that sentence do you not understand?”
    He can say the cruelest things so casually.
    I glanced at Mom. She looked down at her plate. I looked back at Dad.
    “Be happy with what you’ve got,” he said again, a little more sympathetically.
    “Okay! I’m happy! See!” I pretended to smile, but I’m sure it looked pretty nutty. You know, like when the Joker smiles? “Happy! Happy me! No dog, but I’m happy! I’m happy with what I’ve got! I’ve got a guinea pig and no dog! Yippee!”
    “You said you wanted to keep her,” Mom said sheepishly. I think I was scaring her a little. Good!
    I didn’t answer her. I fumed. Fuming feels good—warm and powerful.
    “Well, since I won’t be going to Irondale tomorrow,” Mom said in a come-on-let’s-all-cheer-up voice, “how about we go on an outing instead? We could go to the river, to that spot we like. We haven’t been there in ages. We could pack a picnic lunch. Maybe go for a hike?”
    Dad shook his head. “I didn’t get enough work done this week.”
    “How about Sunday then?”
    “Maybe. I’m not promising anything.”
    “Sunday okay with you, Rufus?”
    “Kay-kay,” I said. This was the debut of my new “okay.”
    Dad scowled at me. Shot down again.
    “Sunday’s fine,” I said. “Count me in.”

    There was a knock on the front door the next morning, which was unusual because of the sign, but not unheard of. Not everybody reads signs, or obeys them if they do.
    I poked through the curtains in the living room and saw Lurena standing on the front porch. I had forgotten to call her. Well, I didn’t forget. I didn’t want to. I was afraid people would find out I called her. I suddenly wished I’d called her, though, because her coming over was way worse. I thought maybe I’d just ignore her, but she knocked again, louder, and I didn’t want my dad to get annoyed.
    “You