Free Fenway and Hattie by Victoria J. Coe Page A

some kind of super dog,” Goldie says with a sneer.
    â€œI know you both think I can’t do it,” I say. “But I can! I will! Maybe I just need more time. Or better ideas. Or something. But I’ll do it. Just you wait.”
    â€œWould you listen to him?” Goldie murmurs.
    I jump up and scratch the fence. “And who knows?” I say, feeling a surge of power. “When I get My Hattie back, maybe I’ll get your Angel back, too.”
    Patches gasps, but then her face falls. “If only we could have our precious Angel back,” she says sadly. “It’s all I wish for.”
    â€œToo bad it’s impossible,” Goldie says, then looks away suddenly. Like she doesn’t want us to see her drooping ears.
    I know I’ll do it. I have to. All I need is a plan.

Just then, the sliding door bangs, and I jump. Fetch Man is on the porch, his fat leathery glove on his hand and a familiar cap on his head. He tosses a white ball into the air and catches it. Okay, he’s no Hattie, but playing ball with Fetch Man is my second favorite thing to do. “Excuse me, ladies. I have a game to play,” I call over my shoulder, trotting to the porch.
    â€œGo knock yourself out,” Goldie says.
    â€œGoldie . . .” Patches scolds.
    Fetch Man grabs another fat leathery glove off the porch. He bounds down the stairs, holding it out in the direction of the giant tree. “Hattie,” he calls excitedly.
    I’m leaping at his side for a better sniff. And view.
    The glove on Fetch Man’s hand smells old and worn.It looks bigger than the other one, which is new and stiff. Fetch Man beams proudly. Like he’s found a bone that was lost for a Long, Long Time. “Hattie!” he calls again.
    Her face appears in the squirrel-house window, but she does not look happy. Hattie grimaces and shakes her head.
    Fetch Man reaches out the glove, like he’s not sure Hattie saw it the first time. “Come on,” he begs.
    Hattie shakes her head more forcefully.
    Fetch Man sighs loudly. Then he chatters in a voice that sounds like a combination of coaxing and pleading. Like he’s trying to get her onto the cold, scary scale in the vet’s office.
    Next thing I know, Hattie’s face vanishes from the window. Her sneakers appear beneath the leafy leaves. She’s coming down!
    â€œHooray! Hooray!” I bark, romping over. “We’re all going to play fetch. It’s the Best Day Ever!”
    Fetch Man’s right behind me. The instant Hattie’s feet touch the ground, he hands her the glove.
    â€œOh no,” I hear Goldie say.
    â€œI can’t bear to watch,” replies Patches.
    â€œIt’s okay, ladies,” I say, prancing near the fence. “I’ve got this. Just you wait.”
    Patches looks like she wants to say something but changes her mind. Goldie drops down and scratches.
    I charge back over to Hattie. “I’m so ready! I’m so ready!” I bark, leaping on her legs.
    â€œFEN-way,” she snaps. She turns to Fetch Man, whose voice has changed from coaxing and pleading to serious and guiding.
    Really, Fetch Man? You think Hattie doesn’t know how to play fetch? It’s one of her favorite games!
    â€œLet’s go! Let’s go!” I bark, circling their feet. “What are we waiting for?”
    â€œFEN-way, stop,” Hattie snaps again.
    Hey, can you blame a dog for being impatient?
    Hattie trudges back to the porch and grabs her cap. She tucks it on, pulling her bushy tail through the back. “Ready,” she says. But she sure doesn’t sound like it. Or look like it. For one thing, she’s standing way too close to Fetch Man, giving me a huge head start.
    I trot into the middle of the grass, waiting for Fetch Man to wind up and send the ball flying toward the back fence.
    But instead, Fetch Man leans in. He flips the ball gently toward Hattie’s