Free Waggit Again by Peter Howe

kept on walking, but all the streets looked alike. They seemed to be getting nowhere. Then they saw the glow of some streetlights in the distance and headed in that direction. After a few wrong turns down dead ends they came upon what looked like a village center. There were stores and a church, and an official-looking building that could be a townhall. Next to this was a park. It had black iron railings all around it, but the gates were open, and although it was small it was well kept, with a fountain in the center surrounded by flowerbeds and trees and shrubs along the edges.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Waggit asked Felicia.
    â€œIt’s a park,” she answered.
    â€œIt’s not the park!” said Waggit with a derisory growl.
    â€œI didn’t say it was the park,” said Felicia. “I said it was a park. It’s also probably the best place to get some sleep.”
    She led the two dogs inside the gates and looked around. At the far end there was a chain-link fence. The bushes and shrubs in front of it were overgrown, as if the gardeners had run out of energy before they got to them. Felicia saw that there was a space between some of the bushes and the fence that would be just big enough to pitch the tent. She proceeded to do this, and in no time they were zipping up the front opening with the three of them safely inside. As the warmth from their bodies heated its interior they all fell deeply asleep. As it turned out their sleep was to be brief. Itwas no more than half an hour after they had settled down when the tent was lit up by a powerful beam of light and a loud voice said:
    â€œPeople in the tent, this is the police. Come out with your hands up.”

11
Trapped by Fear
    I nside the tent its occupants sprang awake. Waggit’s tail wagged ferociously, a sure sign that he was scared.
    â€œWho’s outside, and what did he say?” he whispered to Felicia.
    â€œIt’s a policeman,” she replied, “and he told us to put up our hands.”
    â€œWe don’t have hands,” whined Lug. “What are we going to do?”
    â€œI’d better handle this,” said Felicia. “It’s a human-to-human situation. Just stay calm and don’t growl.”
    She unzipped the opening of the tent and stuck her hands through it.
    â€œI’m coming out,” she shouted, and crawled out on her hands and knees. The dogs followed, tails down and ears flat to their heads. They were confronted by a rather elderly and overweight officer holding his gun and flashlight together in both hands. He was obviously as nervous as they were, because both the weapon and the lamp shook considerably, causing the beam of light to wobble back and forth.
    â€œKeep your hands where I can see ’em,” he said.
    Felicia did as she was told and stood up with her hands over her head. She was a good six inches taller than the policeman, and with her arms raised she towered over him.
    â€œDo you have any weapons?” he asked.
    â€œGoodness gracious, no,” said Felicia, “unless of course you count my Swiss Army knife, but that’s in my backpack in the tent.”
    â€œMa’am, what are you doing in a tent in the park?” he asked. He seemed confused by her, as if she wasn’t what he was expecting.
    â€œMy dogs and I were sleeping,” Felicia explained.
    â€œBut it’s a park,” he said. “You can’t pitch a tent in the park.”
    â€œActually,” said Felicia, trying to sound as reasonable as she could, “it’s the only place around here that you can.”
    â€œThat’s not the point,” said the policeman. “You’re not supposed to camp in this area at all. It’s the suburbs, not Yellowstone.”
    â€œWell,” said Felicia, “we had to sleep somewhere, didn’t we? Now can we stop this silliness and let me put my hands down? I’m clearly not a threat.”
    She dropped