The Dog Squad

no,” I say. “I can’t just now . . . because of my leg!”
“Oh, I won’t let you be stopped by a little thing like that! I have prepared something!” she says. “Come on! I’ll give you a piggyback ride.”
I get on her back and she piggybacks me out of the room and down the stairs.
“Behold,” she says. “Your chariot!”
It’s a
garbage
can.
“I am NOT going in there!” I tell her.
“I have cleaned it,” she says, “and I’ve put in cushions, and I also have something very detective-y to show you!”
So now she’s got me interested.
“Stand back!” I command. “I shall mount the chariot!”
I get in and she rolls me out the door.
“Charge!” she shouts, and she starts to sprint up the street.
As we go I am looking at the weirdest dog. He’s tied to a lamppost. He’s got short legs, but he’s got the longest back you ever saw; he looks like a furry crocodile. But I love all dogs.
“Hello, boy!” I call.
He wags his tail, and you can see he’s friendly. So now I’m longing to go back and stroke him. But the Cat is in the mood to go fast.
“Full speed!” she says.
She hurtles all the way to the store where the detective-y thing she wants to show me turns out to be a magazine called Real Detective, but we haven’t actually brought money to buy it, and also I can’t go into the store in my “chariot.”
So we read it by the door. I see right away that Real Detective is great. We open it to read the cover story.
REAL DETECTIVE
SECRETS OF
THE FAMOUS DETECTIVES
No 1
SHERLOCK HOLMES
Secret: Notice
EVERYTHING.
We turn the page. There’s . . .
REAL DETECTIVE
SECRETS OF
THE FAMOUS DETECTIVES
No 2
HERCULE POIROT
Secret: List all suspects. List their motives.
No 3
PHILIP MARLOWE
Secret: Don’t be afraid to fight.
I am just thinking that I LOVE this magazine when I . . . Rory Branagan (detective) NOTICE a real, actual crime.
A clue hits me in the face. It’s a piece of paper blown by the wind.
It says . . .
“Lost: Ben, our much-loved greyhound dog.”
And there’s a picture of a dog looking sad.
I then notice on a lamppost . . .
Right away my heart is pounding. I cannot BELIEVE someone is actually TAKING dogs from Dean Swift Drive, which is my actual street. I am already very angry, but also very curious.
“Rory,” says Cat, “look.”
I look, and at the other end of the road someone is taking the furry crocodile. They’re wearing a black coat and a black wool hat.
“Is that dog . . .?” I start.
“Being stolen?” says Cat.
You can tell the crocodile doesn’t like it. The thief and dog are turning the corner into Roy Keane Court.
“Quick!” I say. “Follow that dog!”
It’s two hundred yards but Cat RUNS all the way.
But when we get to Roy Keane Court, there’s NO ONE there.
We run down it.
We look left. There’s NO ONE.
We look right. There’s NO ONE.
We look in the trees. There’s NO ONE.
We turn around.
There’s Corner Boy, my neighbor.
He’s standing on his corner, but he’s staring up at a window on Jay Byrne Road.
“Corner Boy!” I shout. “Did you just see a person stealing a dog?”
“No! All I saw was that Jack Russell up there,” he says (pointing up to the left). “He always goes WILD if anyone goes past.”
“Did he go wild?”
“No.”
Cat turns to me. “So,” she says, “that means the thief did not go up there.”
“Could they be hiding in one of those cars?” I say.
“Good thinking!” says Cat.
She sprints past each of the cars. She looks into all of them, then runs back.
“I saw nothing,” she pants. “That means whoever took that dog MUST have gone into one of these five houses!”
I’m thinking: She could be right! But I’m also thinking: But, if she’s wrong, then the dog thief could still be OUT and ABOUT and if they are, they MIGHT TAKE WILKINS WELKIN!!!!!
But some people might not know who Wilkins Welkin is.
I shall explain . . .

CHAPTER TWO Wilkins Welkin, King of Dogs
When my mom goes out she always invites over Mrs. Welkin, the old lady from across the street, and before she leaves she ALWAYS says, “Are you sure you’ll be OK?”
It’s AS IF Mom thinks that as soon as she goes out Mrs. Welkin is leaping over the wall with a sword . . .
or firing me from a catapult.
I actually love it when Mrs. Welkin comes, because she brings Wilkins Welkin, her sausage dog.
You wouldn’t know it to see him, but he is quite a character.
As soon as he sees me he goes BERSERK— leaping about and wagging his tail.
Then he lets me rub his tummy.
Then, suddenly, he starts his tricks. First he does two or three commando rolls. Then he sprints into the living room, then he LEAPS UP to the windowsill where . . .
. . . he starts madly yanking on the blind, going rrr-rrr-rrrr.
(I have no idea why he does that!)
But then suddenly he leaps off again.
He powers up the stairs . . .
He pokes open my door with his nose . . .
He leaps on my bed . . .
. . . and he gets straight down to business staring out of the window.
He stares out for ages.
It’s as if he knows that if he turns his attention away for a moment . . .
. . . in that moment twenty cats will go by.
They’ll be swinging on the clothesline.
They’ll be entering the house.
In no time at all they will be romping around everywhere, scratching and leaving fur and their evil catty stink.
Wilkins is determined that this will NOT happen. (Not on his watch.) He looks out for ages.
I love it when he does that. I love Wilkins Welkin. And to my horror I realize that as we went running down the street just now, I saw him in his garden.
“Quick!”