Dog Squad: Chapters 1–15

Nala, the world’s bravest and boldest border collie, bounded through the brambles.

“Not on our watch!” added the noble Nala.
“When trouble calls”—Duke arched his left eyebrow heroically—“it’s Dog Squad to the rescue!”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” boomed Duke over the roar of the raging rapids. “No harm shall befall your pups. Not today. We’re the Dog Squad.”

He gazed toward the horizon. Wind tousled his fur just so. The sun glinted off his eyes. “And we’re going in after them!”

Scruffy sighed. “Nothing’s too ruff for us!” He sprang off the rocky riverbank and belly-flopped into the churning stream below.

Grunting hard and flexing every muscle he had to flex, Duke fought his way to the middle of the whitecapped water. Muddy waves crested, dragging along branches torn from trees upstream.

Duke could see all six puppies. Three were flailing. Two were frantically treading water.

On-screen, Duke chuckled the way all heroes chuckle as he plucked Rocko out of the river. Then he gave the little guy an ear nuzzle that made the puppy giggle.

Big Tony was always trying to get rich quick. Just the other week, he bent all his refrigerator magnets and tried to sell them online as miracle medical bracelets to gullible senior citizens.

Whenever he thought of Susan, he remembered long walks in the park, cozy cuddle time on the couch, and a bowl that was always filled with kibble.

Duke scooped up all the puppies, tucked three under each arm, and stood on his hind legs to ride the rickety raft like a surfboard on the crest of a thirty-foot wave.

Fred plucked up the cushions, one by one, and tossed them to safety on the floor. He was rescuing a throw pillow, thrashing it back and forth to free it from a tangle of imaginary vines, when he heard the cellar steps creaking.

Big Tony had pasty skin, oily black hair, and angry, beady eyes.

Big Tony grabbed Fred by his raggedy collar.

He picked up his pace and trotted over to inspect the hulking treasure chest. His nose wiggled and widened, savoring all the smells.

He picked up his pace and trotted over to inspect the hulking treasure chest. His nose wiggled and widened, savoring all the smells.

Another mean-looking dog, a Doberman pinscher, slunk out of the shadows behind the bulldog.

“Well,” replied the old-timer, his voice shaky, “I was hoping I might find something to eat inside this dumpster. You see, I’ve fallen upon hard times and—”
“Boo-hoo,” sneered the bulldog.

Fred helped the old dog forage for food in the dumpster.

The man tugged on a smaller loop at his end of the four-foot pole.
The rope cinched around Fred’s throat.
“Ha! Gotcha!” the man shouted triumphantly.

It was Dozer. The bulldog who’d been tormenting the old dog at the dumpster.

“Oh, yeah,” gloated Dozer. “They’re gonna kill you, Duke. Unless, of course, I kill you first!”

“You’re that dog. From that show. You’re Duke!” The little dog was spunky and very animated.

“Wow,” said Fred. He was impressed.
“Oh, yeah. Folks love the backflips and other amusing antics. What can you do, Freddy?”

"Hey, don’t look so worried,” said the lady. “This could be your lucky day. You guys could end up on Broadway!” Chico and Fred exchanged quizzical glances.

“You two are such hams!” she said. “That dance you did? Do something like that when we get to the audition, okay? Full disclosure? I’m pretty sure it’s an audition and a publicity stunt. A dozen dogs from animal shelters all over New York will get to try out for the two remaining dog roles in Washington!..."

The driver kept talking. She was a real talker. “Jenny Yen has done it all. Her niece Abby is awfully cute, too. Abby thinks she’s a pet psychic. We work with Jenny and Abby all the time. They love training strays because, come on, you guys are the best, am I right?”

But Fred knew being perfect wasn’t enough when you were a dog. Sometimes people just didn’t like the way you looked. Or the color of your coat. Or your pedigree.

Ten other dogs auditioned. Including a female chow chow named Cha-Cha from a purebred rescue group. Fred had to wait. And wait. The chow chow sidled up beside him.

“Fred?” This time Abby was calling for him. “You’re up.”
Fred took a deep breath and scampered out to the center of the floor.

“She better be careful,” Ethel said when Cha-Cha strutted into place to pose for a “Dogs of Washington!” publicity photo the next day.

“I’m going to star on that show some day,” bragged Cha-Cha as the end credits rolled.
“Ha!” sniped Ethel. “In your dreams. No, wait. Not your dreams, my nightmares!”

“I’m lost!” the boy wailed. “Daddy?!”
Fred tried to reassure the boy with a happy tail wag.

West Forty-Fourth Street was crowded. Throngs of people were jockeying for position in ticket lines that snaked up and down the block.

The audience and the critics LOVED the dogs, who only appeared in the first act of Washington! Unfortunately, they hated everything else. Fred never made his big Broadway debut. Washington! closed after one performance.

Jenny’s phone thrummed. She looked at the screen. “Dr. Appleman?” she said to the phone. “I’m going to have to call you back. The Dog Squad people are beeping in.”

“Abby? Duke is injured. Dr. Appleman says he can barely hobble out of his doghouse.”
“So it’s a good thing we have Fred.”

Ethel gave him a happy yap, and Fred scrambled up a ramp into the back of the van. “You’re next, Cha-Cha.” Abby turned to the chow.

“I hope I get a bigger crate this time,” grumbled Cha-Cha, sashaying up the ramp as if she was in a fashion show.

Once Duke bopped the button, the whole hillside would open up, like a grassy, hinged dome, and reveal the triple entrance slides down to their high-tech subterranean lair. The three heroes hopped into their individually labeled tubes and slid down to their briefing stations, where they were surrounded by blinking computers and glowing video screens.