Free Squirrel in the House by Vivian Vande Velde Page B

that has come down with me. “Hello,” I call out to let everyone know I have arrived, even though I can tell, by listening and smelling, that neither the dog nor the man is in this room. That’s okay. I can make myself at home, which is what good hosts, if they were here, would tell me to do.
    Once the black cloud settles, I see that the floor beyond it is white and it looks fluffy, sort of like snow, but not cold. This is convenient for not getting lost because I’m leaving little black footprints wherever I set my paws down.

    From another part of Inside, I hear the dog. “Bark. Bark. Bark,” he says, too excited to form words. I hear the nails on his not-good-for-climbing doggy paws as he comes running on a hard surface toward the part of Inside where I am. I hear the man yelling, “Cuddles!Cuddles!” which is what he calls the dog. The dog calls himself Wolf-Born, the Swift and Ferocious. I call the dog the dog.

    The dog runs into the room where I am and immediately sees me. He looks so excited, I decide we need some distance between us.
    I jump off the fluffy white surface that isn’t snow, back on top of the pile of wood. “Hey, dog,” I say.
    He says, “You don’t belong inside. Out! Out! Out! Out! Out!”
    I say, “I just got here. Thanks for inviting me, by the way.”
    He repeats, “Out! Out! Out! Out! Out!”
    I scramble up the outside of the brick entryway that I used the inside of to come down from the roof. There’s a ledge here, where the man who lives with the dog has gathered things. Squirrels mostly gather nuts and berries and seeds. People gather all sorts of things that even people must know are not things to eat. I don’t recognize what the things are that the man has gathered except for some pinecones dusted with something thatmakes them sparkle and a container with water and flowers (even though there are no flowers Outside, on account of the snow).
    I’m so quick that the dog—I might have mentioned he’s not very bright—hasn’t seen where I’ve gone. So he starts looking for me by pawing through the pieces of tree where I landed when I first came in. The pieces of tree tumble out of their neat little pile and roll onto the white not-snow floor. The dog keeps barking, now asking, “Where are you? Where’d you go?”

    Which sounds to me like we’re playing hide-and-seek. So I step behind one of the I-don’t-know-what-it-is things on the ledge and say, “Here.”
    The dog looks up but can’t see me. He goes back to digging at the pile of wood.
    I step behind another I-don’t-know-what-it-is thing. I say, “Here.”
    The dog sniffs at the air. “Where?” he demands.
    I think he’s asking for too many hints, but I can see he really isn’t very good at this game. I go to step behind the flowers, to announce, “Here,” once more, but the container isn’t as steady as it should be, and the whole thing—container, flowers, and water—falls off the ledge and lands on the floor with a crash.

    The dog tries to leap up onto the ledge with me, but he’s not a good climber.
    I encourage him, saying, “Here! Here! Here!” as I dodge from behind thing to thing to thing on the ledge.
    â€œNot the lamp!” the dog shouts as a tall glass thing that is like the sun, but smaller, teeters.
    Okay, so I move.
    â€œNot the picture of Master’s mother!” the dog complains. Pictures look like the things they look like, except flat.
    I recognize Master’s mother as the woman who lives in this house with the man and the dog.
    Okay, so I move again.
    â€œNot Master’s first-prize trophy for being voted the best principal in the state!” the dog howls. He’s pacing back and forth on the floor below the ledge as though he’s trying to decide what to do.
    Then he decides.
    The dog jumps onto a chair and from