Free The Storm by Dayna Lorentz Page B

had to take care of another yapper.
    â€œHello?” barked the girldog. “Yes, I’m a chocolate Labrador retriever.”
    â€œWhat is that ?” yapped Frizzle.
    â€œYou must be a mutt,” she moaned. “It’s so hard to find a purebred dog these suns.”
    â€œWho you calling a mutt, you choco-triever, or whatever you are?” Frizzle’s hackles were up. He looked ready to fight the door frame.
    Shep sighed and sat on his haunches. This was worse than a yapper — he had a snob on his hands. Shep knew these dogs from the Park. Dogs with fancy collars who thought the world of themselves, looking down their muzzles at the rest of the pack.
    â€œPurebred or not, we’re here to rescue you,” Shep barked.
    â€œThank you, but I’m perfectly fine as is.”
    Shep heard the clicking of the girldog’s paws, then nothing. She must have gone back to bed. She had the right idea.
    â€œWhat are we doing?” Shep growled. “Let’s just tell Callie we checked the rest of the hallway and get back to bed.”
    â€œYou can go back to the den,” said Frizzle. “I’m checking the rest of the hall.” He picked up his nub of a tail and trotted away from Shep, nose in the air.
    Shep whined and stared longingly down the hall at the open doorway of Higgins’s den, the nice dark place where he could wait out this storm in peace, all curled up on that giant bed, thinking only of the return to his own den, and his own boy, and his own yapper-free life. Then he got up and followed that stumpy, black, pug-nosed, little demon-dog Frizzle.
    â€œSo, you were telling me about your fighting suns,” Frizzle said as Shep caught up with him.
    Shep didn’t recall saying anything of the kind. “No, I wasn’t,” he woofed. “I don’t like to bark about it.”
    Frizzle sniffed a door, properly this time, taking a number of snorty breaths. “Aw, come on. All dogs like to bark about their fights. This one time, at the Park near my den, I got into it with this dog who was almost a full-stretch taller than me. He thought I’d be easy pickings, but he learned a thing or two.” Frizzle panted loudly, grinning. “Dog, you should have seen his nose when I got through with him. I was all, CLAW, CLAW, right in his snout.” Frizzle danced back and forth on his hind legs, swiping his paws in the air.
    Shep stepped back to avoid the flailing little yapper. It was almost too funny to watch him scrabble around. As if that was how you fought another dog. Frizzle looked like he was trying to catch a Ball with his paws, like a human!
    â€œI’m sure it was a thrilling battle,” Shep woofed sarcastically.
    Frizzle quit his air-dance and snorted loudly. “Yeah, well. I’ve shown the dogs in that Park a thing or two.”
    â€œI’m sure you have.” Shep could barely keep from bursting into a fit of panting. This dog was ridiculous!
    â€œNothing in this den but a cat,” Frizzle yipped. “You agree, Mister Big Nose?” He cocked his head at Shep.
    â€œCall me that again,” Shep growled.
    â€œWhat?” Frizzle snorted. “You going to do something about it?” Frizzle’s tail waggled and his jaws split into a snaggle-toothed smile. He hopped on his little paws. “Come on, Big Nose. One fight. I’ll show you all my best moves.” He slapped his paws on the ground. A thread of drool dangled from his bottom lip.
    Shep sighed. Much as he wanted to bury Frizzle in a pile of sand, he wasn’t a dog who trounced yappers for the fun of it. Fighting — real fighting — wasn’t a game to be played, especially with such an easy mark. “Maybe some other time,” he woofed.
    â€œReally?” Frizzle yipped. “Because I’ve wanted to try this new move. I call it the cockroach. See, I get real low, then scuttle under the other dog’s