Fluffy The Puppy

A boy. A puppy and a whole lot of trouble.

Ten-year-old Marvin was bursting with pride. Today was the day he would march through the neighborhood with Fluffy, his brand-new puppy, and show everyone the cutest dog in town.

He stepped outside, leash in hand, and immediately froze.

“My slingshot!”

It was missing.

Not wanting to drag Fluffy back inside, Marvin spotted a brick by the back door. He carefully set the leash beneath it.

“Stay,” he ordered.

Fluffy wagged his tail enthusiastically, which Marvin interpreted as agreement.

Marvin sprinted through the house. He searched under his bed, in his toy box, and even inside the refrigerator because, according to his little brother, “sometimes important things get hungry.” Finally he found the slingshot buried in a pair of pants in the laundry basket.

Victory!

He charged back outside.

The brick sat exactly where he’d left it.

The leash sat exactly where he’d left it.

Fluffy did not.

“FLUFFY!”

Panic exploded through Marvin like fireworks. He raced down the path toward the open field where Fluffy loved chasing rabbits. Nothing.

Then a terrible thought struck him.

Mrs. Taror’s prize-winning flower garden.

Marvin ran faster than he ever had in his life.

There was Fluffy, joyfully tunneling through petunias like a furry bulldozer.

And there was Mrs. Taror, charging after him with a broom.

“You curly hair menace!” she shrieked. “That dog belongs in the pound!”

Marvin scooped up Fluffy just before the broom connected with either puppy or boy.

Fortunately, Marvin’s mother negotiated peace. Marvin would do chores to repay the damage.

The first week he pulled weeds.

After that, Mrs. Taror mostly fed him milk and cookies while telling stories about her days as a Hollywood actress.

By summer’s end, Marvin suspected Fluffy had done him a favor. Because now he wanted to be an actor.