Free A Very Merry Guinea Dog by Patrick Jennings

“F ido, quiet!” I say for the third time.
    She stops whining, but after a few seconds, slowly starts whimpering, then starts up whining again, which is exactly what she did the last two times I told her to be quiet.
    I’m rewrapping a Christmas present for her. She got it away from me when I was wrapping it the first time and ripped the paper to shreds. In fact, she ate some of the paper—it had little snowmen printed on it—then coughed it back up. I managed to get the present away from her before she could tear through its packaging to the dog treats inside. That’s why I locked her in the hall, which is where she is now, whining and scratching at the door to my room.
    The dog treats look like raw T-bone steaks,except that they’re each about the size of a quarter. The package claims they’re made with real beef. They must smell like it, too, considering how crazy they’re driving Fido.
    I roll them up in a fresh sheet of snowmen paper and reach for the tape dispenser when there’s a knock at my door. It’s my dad’s firm, four-knuckled knock, not my mom’s lighter, single-knuckled one.
    “Rufus,” Dad says through the door in a deep voice, “I am trying to work.”
    My dad edits an online golf magazine. He works at home.
    “So am I,” I say.
    I hear him sigh, then he opens the door. Fido rushes into the room so fast her back legs pass her front ones.
    “Please keep her in here,” Dad says, giving me the Stony Stare. “And keep her quiet.”
    “I’ll do my best,” I say.
    More Stony Stare.
    “I’ll keep her quiet.”
    He nods and shuts the door.
    In the meantime, Fido has scurried up mypant leg to my lap. She’s sitting on her hind legs, her front paws resting on my desk, her little pink nose sniffing madly. I hold the present over my head, out of her reach.
    “It’s for Christmas,” I say. Like she knows what
Christmas
means. “You only have to wait till tomorrow.” Like she knows what
tomorrow
means.
    She pouts. I scratch her mohawk. She licks my fingers. She wags where her tail would be if she had one.
    Fido is a guinea dog. I’d always wanted a real dog, but my fussy dad wouldn’t let me have one, so my unfussy mom bought me a guinea pig. To everyone’s surprise, it barked, begged, whined, fetched, obeyed commands, got fleas, and chewed up Dad’s shoes. In other words, it (she) acted like a dog.
    “What do you say we go play in the snow?” I say to her.
    She leaps off my lap, darts for the door, and scratches at it. All the doors in our house have guinea dog scratches near the bottom.
    “So that’s a yes?” I say.

    The snow is only six inches deep, but it’s over Fido’s head. She doesn’t seem to care. She bounds through it like a little orange fox. A guinea fox? Her tracks look more like they were made by a guinea mouse.
    She finds the stick I threw, scoops it up in her mouth, and bounds back to me.
    “Good girl,” I say as I take it.
    I throw it again. She gallops after it.
    It’s been snowing for a couple of weeks now, and the pond is probably frozen enough to stand on. Last time I was there, kids were skating on it. I haven’t skated on it yet because all I have are my old figure skates. They’re way too small now. Besides, I’m a hockey player. I need hockey skates.
    I saw a pair at the mall, black with silver swipes and carbon steel blades for quick turning. The skates are adjustable, so they’ll last for years. They’re perfect. I told Mom about them, but I don’t think she heard me. She doesn’t always listen.
    Fido brings the stick back.
    “Good girl,” I say again, then toss it again. She runs after it again. She loves playing Fetch.
    This time, though, she runs past the stick and up to the back door, just as my mom opens it. Fido ducks inside.
    “Dinner’s almost ready, Rufus,” Mom says.
    “You just let Fido in,” I say. “You didn’t happen to open the door to my room, did you?”
    “I suppose so,” she says. “I was looking for