Free Fenway and Hattie by Victoria J. Coe Page B

chest.
    She slaps at it with her fat glove, but it bounces off and lands in the grass. Hattie hangs her head.
    â€œI’m on it!” I bark, speeding after the ball as it rolls behind Hattie’s feet.
    She can’t resist the chase. She snatches it practically right out of my jaws—in a way that is not very playful.
    Fetch Man pats Hattie’s arm. He straightens the leathery glove on her hand. He punches his own glove a few times. He takes a couple of steps back and nods.
    Hattie’s face is sheepish. She takes a loud breath. Her hand goes back for the toss.
    I’m so ready! I’m so ready! I take a lead toward Fetch Man, bouncing and panting. I can hardly wait!
    Hattie hurls the ball toward us. I race after it. So does Fetch Man.
    Only he’s running backward. He leaps way up high, stretching his arm overhead. He grunts and grunts and—
thump!
The ball smacks into his glove.
    â€œNo fair! No fair!” I bark, springing up like I could possibly reach the ball in Fetch Man’s hand.
    Fetch Man clutches the ball like a prize. He grins at Hattie. “Nice!” he shouts happily.
    Hattie does not share his enthusiasm. She shakes her head and scowls.
“Nice?”
she asks, her voice full of disbelief.
    Fetch Man’s shoulders soften. He walks back toward her. “Prack-tiss,” he pleads over and over. Finally, she nods.
    He backs up a couple more steps. He makes an excited face. “Ready?” he says.
    â€œI’m so ready! I’m so ready!” I bark, jumping wildly at his feet.
    Fetch Man bends his knees. He softly tosses the ball right to Hattie. Even though she’s standing there all stiff and nervous and not ready at all. And I’m the one who obviously wants to chase it.
    Hattie swipes at the ball. It taps the side of her glove and drops gently into the grass. She groans.
    â€œMine! Mine!” I bark, preparing to pounce.
    But once again, Hattie grabs the ball before I have the chance. I leap at her legs as she straightens. She squeezes the ball in her glove. She’s not even looking at me.
    I jump higher. “When is the fun going to start?” I whine.
    â€œFenway,” she says, her hand shooing me down.
    â€œCome on! Come on!” I bark, dancing around her sneakers. “I want to play, too.”
    Fetch Man glances at Hattie, raising an eyebrow.
    She lets out a sigh, hands him the white ball, and races toward the sliding door.
    â€œWhoopee!” I bark, behind her all the way. “Chase is my favorite game.”
    But the door slams shut just as I reach it. I turn andwatch Fetch Man flip the ball over his head and catch it a few times, perfectly content. Isn’t he upset that Hattie ran off?
    A moment later, the door opens and Hattie reappears with my leash. Are we going to walk to the real Dog Park?
    â€œYippee!” I bark, leaping up and licking her knee.
    As the leash clicks, Hattie hops down the steps toward the side fence. I’m galloping along beside her. Wheeeee! The breeze ripples through my fur as we run through the grass. It’s the Best Feeling Ever!
    But when we get to the fence, the wonderful feeling abruptly ends. I go to follow Hattie back to Fetch Man, but—
ouch!
—my collar tugs me back. Somehow my leash got wrapped around a slat in the fence. “Hattie, help!” I bark. “I got stuck!”
    As if she can’t even hear me, Hattie tosses the ball back and forth with Fetch Man. Gently and seriously, like it’s not even a game. Or any fun.
    Hattie is working and struggling, not playing. And she looks so . . . discouraged.
    If only I could get loose. I could show her how much more fun it is when the ball whizzes far over our heads. And we have to chase after it a Long, Long Way.
    I crumple into a heap of helplessness. And defeat.
    â€œI hate to say I told him so,” Goldie mutters.
    â€œHe has to learn for himself,” Patches says.
    My ears perk up.