The puppy war, p.1
The Puppy War, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Allen Zadoff
Cover art copyright © 2021 by Vivienne To. Cover design by Angelie Yap.
Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc. Interior paw print © by gentgirl05/Shutterstock.com
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Zadoff, Allen, author.
Title: The puppy war / by Allen Zadoff.
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2021. | Series: Wild & Chance ; book 2 | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Summary: “Wild—an unusually intelligent dog—must stop adorably cute, but dangerous, puppies from being released to the public with the help of her friends”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020040884 | ISBN 9780759556218 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780759556225 (ebook) | ISBN 9780759553910 (ebook other)
Subjects: CYAC: Dogs—Fiction. | Animals—Infancy—Fiction. | Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Science fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.Z21 Pup 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040884
ISBNs: 978-0-7595-5621-8 (hardcover), 978-0-7595-5622-5 (ebook)
E3-20210331-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
“Who do you Belong to?”
The Houses All Look the Same.
I Dream of the Past.
I Slam Myself against the Side of the Cage.
We Tumble through the Sky.
I Hear Children Scream.
Children’s Screams Snap Me Awake.
I Scratch at the Living Room Window with My Paw.
“Where did you Get this?” CHANCE ASKS.
I Race Back toward the Apartment Complex.
The Laptop Screen Glows Blue.
We Watch from behind a Dumpster.
My Toenails Click Loudly on the Marble Floor.
We Drive through the Dark Streets of Los Angeles the Next Night.
The Doughnuts Glisten in the Case in Front of Us.
“What are We Going to do?” Chance Asks.
We Walk through the Crowd toward the Puppio Booth.
Our Suv is Part of a Convoy of Vehicles.
The Van Heads South through Santa Monica.
We Walk down a Long, Sterile Hallway Bordered by Offices and Lab Spaces.
A Mist is Released in the Passageway around Us.
I Race through the Hallway.
The Puppies Snap to Attention When We Come into the Room.
The Doors Open.
I Wake Up, Anxious to Find Chance.
It Looks like Any Street in Santa Monica.
The Rest of the Day Flies By.
“What are you Thinking About?” Scarlett Asks.
I Look for Dr. Pao before the Next Day’s Training Session.
I Dream of Chance.
But When I Get to the Room, the Puppies Are Gone.
I Run.
I Run for Half a Mile, My Senses on High Alert.
The Street Is Quiet As I Approach.
I Smell Dogs.
The Men Are Here Again.
The Car Idles As We Wait.
The Water Hits Us Full in the Face.
Media Trucks Are Lined up outside Staples Center.
The Back of the Arena Is a Maze of Hallways.
Dr. Pao Is Alone, Looking at the Arena Below.
The Crowd Screams As We Tumble to the Floor.
I Race through the Halls, Frantically Searching for the Kids.
Junebug Is in a Car across the Street, Engine Running.
Junebug Drops Us off at Chance’s Apartment Complex.
Acknowledgments
About the Author
“WHO DO YOU BELONG TO?”
A woman hovers over me, a worried expression on her face. She reaches for my collar to check for a tag, and I instinctively bark and pull away. I left my family on the other side of the park so I could sniff around for some food, and I don’t need a stranger cramping my style.
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to pet a strange dog?” I ask. “I might take it the wrong way and use your arm as a chew toy.”
“How cute,” she says. “When you bark, it sounds like you’re talking.”
“If you only knew,” I say, but of course she doesn’t know. How could she?
To her I’m just a dog she’s come across in the park. She doesn’t know I can understand every word she says, much less speak like a human. She’d need a translator earbud to hear me talking, and I have no intention of giving her one. I don’t want her to know who I am.
I don’t want anyone to know.
Today is the dog parade in Lake Balboa Park, and local families have come out to have some fun, bringing their favorite pets with them. I look at the dozens of dogs in costumes. There’s a pit bull in a Dodgers baseball uniform, a pug dressed like a fat avocado, and a beagle in an old detective outfit with a sign on his back that says SHERLOCK BONES.
“Why aren’t you wearing a costume?” she asks, talking in that baby talk humans often use when they speak to dogs.
“Because I have self-respect,” I say.
“You’re wearing a collar, so you must have an owner,” she says curiously, looking at my neck. “Let’s get you to the lost and found.”
She reaches to get ahold of me—
“Nice try,” I say, darting through her legs and hurrying deeper into the park.
“Is anyone missing a dog?!” I hear her calling behind me, but her shouts are drowned out by the loud music blaring around us.
Besides, I’m not lost. I’m just taking a walk and getting a little me time.
I pass through the dense crowd of people and animals around me. My nose alerts me to something delicious nearby. There’s a large booth where people in matching blue T-shirts are handing out dog treats and people treats. I head for the booth, determined to try them both.
There’s a high-tech digital sign above the booth:
PUPPIO. THE DOGS OF THE FUTURE.
I’ve never heard of Puppio. I watch as the screen flashes pictures of incredibly cute puppies with big heads and huge eyes. They look strange, like no breed I’ve ever seen before. Something about the puppies makes me uneasy.
Maybe it’s because they look so happy. It’s been a long time since I felt like that.
“What’s Puppio?” a man is asking at the booth. An energetic young employee in a blue T-shirt pulls an iPad from his backpack.
“They are the most incredible dogs you’ll ever meet,” the Puppio employee says, but then a rock band starts playing and drowns out the rest of the conversation.
My instinct is warning me to stay away from the Puppio booth, which is not easy when the treats smell so delicious. I’m torn for a moment, and then I decide to trust my instinct. It’s never led me astray before.
I give up on the treats and move toward the music area instead. People are dropping food all over the place, so it shouldn’t take me long to find a snack.
I weave around the legs of humans dancing with their dogs, grabbing their front paws while the dogs hop awkwardly on rear legs.
The people seem happy, and the dogs bark like they’re having fun. They don’t realize they’re wearing silly costumes or that people are laughing at them. They don’t really understand what’s happening; they just know they’re fed, happy, and loved.
I wish I could be like them.
“There you are!” a woman says. “The girls are worried. We need to get to the party, Cookie.”
She calls me Cookie even though that’s not my real name. It’s the name her girls gave me. I’ve grown accustomed to answering to it, even though I’m not really a “Cookie” kind of girl. I love a cookie as much as the next dog, but I find the name a little insulting.
I move toward her, letting her get two fingers under my collar so she can attach a leash.
This is the mother of the family I live with now. Her hair is combed straight and dyed blond. She takes herself to the salon every week—I only get groomed once a month.
She and her daughters found me at a dog adoption event a few months ago, and they took me home as their new pet. They didn’t know I had snuck into the event, looking for a family and a place where I could hide for a while.
They brought me into their lives, but they have no idea who I am or what I c an do. It’s safer for everyone that way. I act like a so-called normal dog and I live a normal life. But the truth is I’m hiding from Maelstrom, the organization that created me. I haven’t seen any sign of them in over a year, but I know they’re hunting me, determined to get me back or end my life.
I’m not sure which they’d prefer, and I don’t plan to find out.
“What happened to your costume?” Mom asks as she hustles me through the park.
“The J.K. Howling costume? I tried to wear it, but it didn’t fit right,” I say, but she’s not really speaking to me or listening. She’s lost in her own world like she often is, stressed from work and overwhelmed at being the mom of two young teens. I know it’s a tough job, but why get a dog if you don’t have time to take care of her?
She jogs with me to the parking lot where the girls wait by the car. “I found her,” the mom says, but the kids are busy on their phones, and they barely look up.
“Hurry, Mom,” the older girl says. “We’re going to be late for the party.”
We pile into the minivan, and the girls give me a couple quick pats on the head before scooting me into the back so I’m out of the way. I put my head on the seat, hoping for a little scratch behind my ears, but they put on headphones and turn up their music, ignoring me.
I remember when they first brought me home. They couldn’t stop giving me attention. Petting, stroking, long walks, treats every day.
That lasted all of a month. Then I was like a piece of furniture, forgotten in the background.
“Belts on,” Mom says, “and we are out of here.”
“Finally,” the older girl says.
Mom presses the ignition button on the van, but nothing happens. “That’s strange,” she says. She checks to make sure she has her key and presses the ignition button. Again, there’s nothing. “I think there’s a problem with the engine.”
I look up, curious.
“Mom, let’s move it,” the younger girl says urgently.
“I don’t know what to do,” Mom says. “Maybe I should get an Uber and I’ll have your father call Triple A.”
I sit up, sniffing the air. I smell the familiar scents of the car—the girls, the fruit shampoo they use on their hair, Mom’s gym bag, the wrapper from a chocolate bar that fell under the seat and nobody has found in two weeks.
A dozen smells, all of them familiar and neatly categorized in my head.
But then I detect something else. The smallest hint of a man with oil on his fingers.
Did someone touch this car while we were in the park?
A horn beeps behind us. There’s an SUV idling, waiting to get into the space. Mom rolls down her window and waves them away.
“You can’t park here,” she shouts. “My car won’t start.”
Another beep.
“Geez, that guy’s pushy,” she says. She steps out of the van.
I watch as Mom approaches a black SUV. A man in a suit waits calmly, his window down.
“You need an Uber?” he asks with a thick Eastern European accent.
“What a coincidence,” Mom says. “I was just going to call—”
“No call. I’m your Uber,” he says.
“Perfect timing,” Mom says with a shrug and hustles back to the van. She opens the door and sticks her head in. “Good news. We’re going to the party!”
I look at the Uber, and I feel the fur on the back of my neck rise. There’s a large scratch on the front bumper, just like the SUV that cut us off on the way to the park. Is it possible this Uber has been following us?
Mom doesn’t seem to notice, and she isn’t concerned that an Uber appeared without even opening the app. She rushes the girls into the SUV, then she comes back for me.
I bark, trying to warn her of my suspicions.
“Not now, Cookie,” she says, frustrated. She grabs my leash, ignoring my resistance. She piles into the back seat of the SUV, pulling me in behind her and closing the door.
THE HOUSES ALL LOOK THE SAME.
Mom stares out the window at a row of expensive gated homes, each with a manicured lawn and large U-shaped driveway.
“I can’t remember which house it is,” she says.
“It’s the white one,” her older daughter says.
“They’re all white,” Mom says, and the Uber driver chuckles.
“The one with all the kids, Mom. Duh.” She points and the driver pulls in behind a row of cars dropping off kids for a party.
“I’ll take the girls in and I’ll be right back,” Mom says to the driver. She gets out of the car, and I start to follow. “Wait here, Cookie.” She holds up an arm to keep me back.
I bark in protest and nudge forward.
“Too many kids around,” Mom says. “I don’t want you to get overexcited.”
“Right, we wouldn’t want a dog to get excited. She might enjoy herself,” I say.
Mom ignores my whining, and she shuts the door in my face. I sit back, exasperated.
The sun hits the glass, and I see my reflection in the window looking back at me. My coat is clean and pretty because of occasional trips to the groomer, but I have trouble recognizing myself in the window. Something about this family and this life—it just doesn’t feel like me.
“You don’t belong here,” the Uber driver says.
I think he must be talking on the phone, but when I look up, he’s staring at me.
“You’re special,” he says. “One of a kind.”
He’s talking to me like he knows I can understand. I recognize his accent now. It’s Russian. I shuffle nervously and look out the window, hoping Mom is on her way back.
The driver reaches for something in the glove compartment. The sudden movement puts me on edge, and I clear my throat, letting the rumble fill the car.
“Don’t be afraid, beauty,” he says.
I bark, warning him to back off. My body tenses as I look for ways out of the SUV. But my instincts are slow, not at all like they were a year ago when I was used to running and fighting as a dog soldier.
I glance out the window again, hoping to see Mom, but she’s still in the house. I turn back, ready to defend myself. The driver is holding up what looks like a small aerosol can.
I open my mouth to bite him, but his finger is already pressing the button on the can, and a cold vapor sprays directly into my face.
I rear back, stunned, and my paws go numb.
I try to reach for the door handle, but the inside of the SUV spins in my vision, and I can’t seem to find the handle.
A wave of dizziness hits me, and I stumble and lose my footing.
“Have you been following us?” I try to ask, but the words stick in my throat.
“You don’t belong here,” he says again.
Where do I belong?
Another burst of spray hits me, and the world goes black.
I DREAM OF THE PAST.
I’m running in a park, wind in my fur as I chase a ball and snatch it from the moist grass.
“Wild! Bring it here!”
It’s Chance, the boy I love, the boy who saved my life and whose life I saved in return. In the dream he looks just like I remember him, thick hair falling across his eyes and a wide smile on his face.
He opens his arms to welcome me, and I trot toward him, ball firmly clamped in my teeth. I can detect the oil from his fingers on the ball, a familiar taste and smell that my head defines as “home.”
“Thatta girl,” Chance says.
I drop the ball into his hands, thrilled to make him happy. He shoves the ball into his pocket and reaches for me, scratching behind my ears. I joyfully wag my tail.
“Is that her?” someone asks loudly.
A man’s voice. Thick Russian accent.
My eyes snap open and the dream disappears, replaced by a frightening new reality.
I’m in a wire cage, surrounded by large black crates with locks on them. The walls of the room appear to be made of metal, like some kind of warehouse or storage facility.
How did I get here?
I think back to the Uber with the scratched bumper and the high-tech knockout mist sprayed in my face, and I look at the reinforced steel cage around me—
This is Maelstrom!
That’s my first thought. Maelstrom has reappeared after a year, catching me unaware, drugging and capturing me. My muscles tense, my body screaming for me to flee or fight, but I resist both.
I breathe slowly and calm myself. I need more information before I can take action, or I might make the situation worse.
