The Dog Squad

worms.
As I land in Dale and Shaza’s garden I find a skateboard. Nice, I think, and as I head toward battle on my skateboard I realize I’m actually feeling GOOD that I’m going to get my friend back.
For a moment I feel very CONFIDENT. I pull myself up at Dale’s front door and knock.
Then someone appears in the alleyway behind me. I yelp.
I turn and I see it’s Brendan O’Gooley.
He looks pale and stubbly with mad round eyes.
“Can you go away?” I want to say. “I am not ready to DEAL with you yet. I need to rescue my Accomplice who is trapped in a cellar!”
“What are you doing?” he says.
“I’m selling cookies,” I tell him. “They’re for dogs!”
Suddenly his face crumples.
“Well, I won’t be needing those!” he says. “I lost my Gordon yesterday!”
“Gordon?”
“My dog. Have you seen him?”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s a very long dog,” says Brendan (trying very hard not to cry), “with short legs.”
“Oh,” I say. “The furry crocodile!”
“Do you know something?” he asks.
“I saw him being taken away,” I tell him, “by someone in a black coat with a black hat. I was too far away to see their face.”
“Oh God!” says Brendan, and now he really does cry.
“I’ve been looking for him ever since he disappeared! At one point I heard a dog had been found, and I went rushing out with his travel cage, but”—at this point Brendan’s voice goes all squeaky—“the dog that had been found was NOT Gordon!”
As I watch Brendan sob I am thinking: So that’s why he’s been so weird! He’s lost his dog, and he’s been upset! I’m thinking: I have spent the last few hours CERTAIN that that man was a criminal. I am actually a terrible detective!
I’m thinking: I have gotten NOWHERE at working out who’s taking these dogs!
For all I know, I’m thinking, it’s my brother who’s doing it, because he’s jealous of their furry faces. My brother could be with all the stolen dogs right now.
But I think it’s unlikely.
And then, standing in that alleyway, I realize that, if the evil criminal dog thief is NOT Brendan, there’s really only one other person who it could be . . . and I’ve just knocked on his door.
Dale.
As I look at his pale face through the window I am realizing I have actually cracked the case.
I also realize I am in THE DEADLIEST OF DEADLY DANGERS!!!

CHAPTER TEN In the Deadliest of Deadly Dangers
Dale opens the door.
“What do you want?” he says.
“I’m selling cookies,” I say. “I’m raising money for Mr. Gilligan who is still in the hospital.”
“Oh,” says Dale. “I don’t have any money!”
He’s about to close the door. But then I get another idea!
“I’ve been selling for ages,” I say, “and my foot is tired.” (I show him the surgical boot.) “Would you like to just have the cookies—for your dog?”
“Oh,” he says.
He smiles. (He actually looks nicer than you’d expect.)
“That’s very nice of you! Bizmo?”
Suddenly Bizmo appears.
Bizmo looks HUGE and SAVAGE and SLOBBERY.
“Bizmo,” warns Dale. “Be nice.”
I hold out a cookie to Bizmo.
He comes forward. He sniffs it.
For a moment it’s like Bizmo is at a top restaurant and he is sniffing to check on ingredients . . .
And then . . .
Rrrrr-rrrrr-rrrrr, and he GOBBLES down the cookie. (For a moment my hand is actually INSIDE his big mouth.) Then . . .
. . . he sits. He also gives me a look as if to say: I am such a very, very, very good boy . . . Now . . . more cookies?
I turn to Dale. “Should I give him all of them?”
“Er . . . fine,” he says. “I’ll just . . .”
And he heads into the apartment.
So for a moment I am having a grand old time, being the sweet boy at the door giving the dog the cookies. But all the time I am trying to think of HOW I can get into the house.
Then suddenly I get an idea.
“Can I come in,” I ask Dale, “and use your bathroom?”
“Er,” says Dale, thinking. “All right . . . go on.”
“Thank you,” I say.
And the next moment, I can’t believe it: I am in their apartment, smelling their stinky smell (a mix of beer, ashtrays, and dog).
As I hobble down their hall I check the cellar door. There is a latch! It IS closed!
I listen carefully. Can I hear dogs down below? I am not sure. Can I hear Cat?
I am wanting to loosen that latch as I pass, but I am SENSING that behind me Dale is watching.
He is.
“It’s the door on your right,” he says.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Who are you talking to?” It’s Shaza’s voice coming from the kitchen.
“Just a boy,” answers Dale.
Just a boy?! I am thinking. Just a BOY??!! Just you WAIT to SEE what I will do! Then I think: What will I do? I don’t know myself!
For now I go into their bathroom and I wee.
As I do I notice I am splattering the floor, which my mother tells me NEVER to do. “If you splatter,” she says, “wipe with a tissue!”
I am thinking: Should I wipe with a tissue? Then I am thinking: Hang on, these guys have got Cat, they might have Wilkins, and they DEFINITELY took his hedgehog . . .
So I pee on their floor—on purpose.
As I do I’m thinking: When I come out of this bathroom Dale must NOT be watching for me! (I need him to get bored). So I waste time. I wash my hands. I’m almost tempted to floss my teeth.
And as I leave the bathroom the delay has worked because . . .
Dale is not watching for me.
I can just see him through the kitchen door. He’s watching TV.
I sneak as lightly as I can across the corridor. I reach the cellar, flip the latch,