Ginger Pye (11 page)

Now Ginger was the dog of Jerry Pye. The enemy dog was not. Yet here he was, right here in the green-blue sea. Apparently he had tagged along, sneakily, all the way, hoping to become the dog of Jerry Pye. These were Ginger's thoughts as he dived into the water, with Jerry and Rachel shouting earnest instructions to him from above. Ginger had never before been in such deep water and could he swim, they wanted to know.

"Ginger, can you swim?" yelled Rachel.

"Of course he can," said Jerry. "Look at him. Swims like he's swum all his life."

It was true. Ginger could swim and he managed to get back to dry land in a very accomplished and intense fashion. He felt refreshed from his brisk saltwater swim and he rolled over and over in the warm sand happily.

"He's always thinking himself in mirrors and water is his enemy." Rachel laughed.

"Um-m-m," agreed Jerry. "I'd hate to meet the real enemy, old Unsavory, along here in one of these old boathouses."

"0-o-o-h," gasped Rachel, stunned at such a prospect.

But they didn't. And neither did Ginger happen to have any further encounters with the enemy dog on that trip. He enjoyed a pleasant relaxed afternoon with Uncle Bennie and Jerry and Rachel, and he chased Gramma's chickens, getting a pecking or two, and he tasted Gramma's homemade peach ice cream, spitting out the hard cold lumps of peach as Rachel and Jerry were doing, likewise. He really never expected to see the enemy dog again, having jumped on him in the water that way, scaring him out of his wits.

But of course, he did. When he got home the enemy dog was right there again, in the tall pier glass mirror, tongue hanging out thirstily, ears drooping tiredly. Secretly Ginger was glad to have the other dog back so he would have him handy for future bouts when life at home, without Jerry and Rachel, became too tame.

Soon after this wonderful expedition along the shore, however, Ginger began to suspect that the enemy dog was himself. He gave up pursuit of him in preference to the pursuit of cats. Cats certainly did not stay inside shiny things and they really came out to light. They were a more satisfactory type of enemy than the enemy dog had been.

During the time when everyone had been worried about the unsavory character Ginger had been kept
in the backyard unless he was with some person. Now, however, he was allowed in either the front or the backyard. It was impossible to keep Ginger from slipping out of the house with Gracie-the-cat anyway, for Gracie had the knack of opening the front door by leaping up and undoing the latch.

So Ginger now had the run of the land. Naturally, he preferred the front to the back of the house. From the front he could survey the entire neighborhood, get into other yards besides his own, and chase all the cats.

There was a matter that had begun to bother Ginger, however, and it had nothing to do with cats or the enemy dog. It was this. Where did Jerry disappear every morning and afternoon with his tiresome, "Go home, Ginger!" And Rachel, too. Where did they go?

Ginger's feelings were hurt, being deserted this way, even though Jerry patted him and gave him fond scratches behind the ear and such attentions before tearing out the front door saying, "I'm late again, by jiminy."

"Where could he go, anyway?" puzzled Ginger. Today he intended to find out. Ginger was a purposeful dog. Once he had decided to do something, he did it, provided he was not obstructed by some person. Now was the time, he felt, to investigate
the constant goings away and comings back of his master, Jerry Pye, and of the master's sister, Rachel Pye. They had something to do with the goings past the house and the returnings past the house, twice a day, of all the boys and girls in Cranbury, practically. Wherever they all went, it might possibly be more fun than chasing cats, more fun, even, than going up to the reservoir.

At this moment Ginger happened to be lying opposite the tall pier glass mirror surveying himself with a thoughtful planning look. He arose, stretched, and gave himself a challenging yap for old times' sake. He made a dash for Gracie-the-cat, leaped over her imploring crouching form, and went into the kitchen. After a few laps of water he looked around for something of Jerry's to smell, to get the scent well fixed in his scent department.

He found Jerry's sweater slung over the back of a kitchen chair and he pulled it to the floor and thrust his nose in its folds. Thoughtfully and earnestly he breathed in the essence of Jerry until it permeated his entire being, down to his toes and the tip of his short tail. His heart thumped with delight and he thought excitedly, now, now, he was going to find Jerry. "Jerry, Jerry, Jerry," his heart sang.

Of course Ginger knew the Jerry smell perfectly
without having to rely on Jerry's old sweater. But this was to be his first experience at real hard trailing. It could not be compared with the easy following of the fresh trail of a dog, a cat, a chicken, or a chipmunk. Jerry had left some time ago. This meant a real hard trailing job and Ginger did not want to fail.

The first rule in trailing was, get the smell thoroughly inside himself. The next was, nose to ground. He had the smell. So now, nose to ground. He pushed his nose along the floor to the front door and paused, for the moment, stalled.

Fortunately, just then Gracie-the-cat decided to go outdoors herself. She leaped in the air in her own smart fashion, sprung open the latch, and she and Ginger Pye went outside, leaving the door open behind them. And there Ginger Pye was, on his front lawn, surveying the scene.

At this moment, who should be coming home from the grocery store, her arms filled with bags and bundles, her face stern, as stern as her gentle face could get, but Mrs. Pye.

"Ginger," said Mrs. Pye. "Where are you going? You are not to chase Mrs. Carruthers' cat anymore. And there has been a complaint that you chased a chicken. Mrs. Finney told me in the grocery store. If you keep up this outrageous behavior, you shall have to stay on the leash!"

Leash! Hated hateful word. Ginger shuddered. The leash was coiled like a snake on the stoop right now. It was an awful thing to have on the neck. Ginger had suspected it was awful and he was wary of it the first time Jerry fastened it on. But he had not imagined, no dog could possibly imagine, how very awful, how completely horrible a leash was, until he had one on.

When he had the leash on Ginger would struggle and struggle to get it off, pawing at it, shaking his head wildly, and showing the whites of his eyes. And if, forgetting for a moment he had the dreadful thing on, he made a dash for the Carruthers' cat, wham! The leash would nearly break his neck and down he would fall, gasping and rolling on the sidewalk. Jerry's concern over him would be pleasant, that was all that was pleasant about the leash.

"Aw, Ginger," Jerry would say. "You mustn't tug at the leash so."

Whenever Ginger saw the leash coming he would cower and quiver, hoping Jerry would change his mind and put it, perhaps, on Gracie instead.

But Jerry would say, "Now come on, Ginger. You've got to learn to walk nice on the leash."

Ginger merely strained the harder, and struggled and tugged and chortled and gasped and dragged Jerry along.

"Walk nice, Ginger," pleaded Jerry. And he would point out other dogs that pranced along neatly at the end of their leashes with never a gasp or a choke. The owners of these dogs would walk along in dignity or jauntiness, in an upright position and not in this disgraceful jerking struggling fashion.

"That way, not this way," urged Jerry.

"You must train him," suggested Mama.

"I'm tryin'," said Jerry gloomily. "But he won't walk nice."

Jerry did try to train Ginger. Once he even spanked him. Nothing did any good, not even bribery with candy. Ginger continued to gasp and choke and drag. Sneeze, he would do for Jerry. Shake hands, he would do for Jerry. Beg, walk on his hind feet, and be dead dog. But walk nice on the leash? Never.

At last Jerry gave up trying to train him to walk nice on the leash. He would carry the leash along with him on their excursions, and he would put it on after Ginger had chased a cat or a chicken.
After,
not before.

Soliloquizing in this manner with his nose in the grass, Ginger looked meekly up at Mrs. Pye who still towered over him with her bags and potatoes and things. He was winning, he thought. Mrs. Pye no longer looked so stern; her eyes were laughing in fact. But to assure victory, Ginger cringed. He was not cringing in his heart. But if he presented a humble front, he thought Mrs. Pye would not bother him anymore and he could finish that which he had started to do. And what was that? Chase Mrs. Carruthers' cat? Goodness no. He had almost forgotten. Interruptions were so bad for the game of scent trailing. But he remembered now. He was on the trail of Jerry Pye, his master.

Concealing his impatience, since the leash was still handy, Ginger looked up at Mrs. Pye with what, in the past, he had found to be a winning pose, head to side, tongue dangling out. Mrs. Pye gave him a little pat, spilling out all her potatoes as she did so. Of course Ginger had to help gather these up, by making a game of it, nosing them all over the lawn. When finally all the potatoes were recaptured Mrs. Pye said, "There, there. I didn't mean to be cross, Ginger. But you must be a good dog, do you hear?"

And at last she went into the house leaving Ginger on the front lawn with his nose buried in a patch of thick short grass that was just covered with Jerry scent. Jerry must have flipped his knife here, dropped his books here, or something. Ginger decided he'd better be on the trail before Mrs. Pye again thought of putting the hated leash on him, or of giving him a bath, or a brushing. So. Now. Nose to ground.

Leaving his own yard and going on past Dick Badger's, it was easy enough to follow the Jerry scent, and Ginger pasted his nose to that scent. It led past the Carruthers' house. Actually without sniffing so hard, Ginger knew this was the direction Jerry had taken because he could always see him this far. However, in trailing, a dog has to sniff and
snort like the dickens because that is the way it is done. He kept his nose plastered to the ground and he was concentrating so hard his whole face was pushed in and wrinkled up. It looked as though he were pushing his nose up the street in front of him. He kept getting sand up his nose and he had to wheeze it out of himself in long deep exhalings. This was hard work, but it was wonderful work, and it was apparent he was born to be a regular trail hound even though he was mostly fox terrier.

Now Ginger was going past the Carruthers' driveway. He paused for a moment with his nose glued to the pavement. He was still drawing in the Jerry scent, but it had merely crossed his mind to wonder whether or not the long-haired orange Carruthers' cat was anywhere around.

Keeping his nose plastered to the ground, not moving his head one inch, he turned his eyes way to the corners so that from in front one could have seen only the whites. Then, from out of the corners of his eyes, he spied her, spied the Carruthers' cat sitting under a rosebush, her favorite spot, watching for birds. Her back was to him. She was, perhaps, not aware that brave Ginger was right here?

He could surprise her. He could corner her, that was what he certainly could do, before she had a
chance to run up a tree. His eyes turned back to his nose. He snuffed in the Jerry smell. Jerry, Jerry, where are you anyway? His eyes roved back to the cat. She had caught sight of him and all her fur was electric and stiff. But she had not run. She was in exactly the mood in which he loved to engage her in battle.

Still, Ginger did not give chase. Again he sniffed deeply of the Jerry scent. Then, a little sadly, he started shoving his nose up the street again. He had won over temptation. He snuffed on for a few paces when, "Pfsht!" The Gaines' cat, a tremendous gray one, spit insultingly in his direction and turned and fled challengingly into the Gaines' vast backyard.

Ginger couldn't help it. He forgot his quest. After the Gaines' cat he dashed, sneezing the gravel out of his nose as he went. He ran so fast he skidded around the corner to the backyard. From there, presently, his short sharp yelps and the cat's long venomous hisses and yowls echoed in the quiet of a school morning in Cranbury.