Lantern Sam and the Blue Streak Bandits by Michael D. Beil Page B

Daisy.”
    “Daisy?”
    “A Chihuahua.”
    “What’s that, some kind of chicken?”
    Billie laughed. “It’s a kind of dog,” she said.
    “Ohhh. Big?”
    “No, only about half my size.” She shook her head, reconsidering. “Actually, she’s not quite that big.”
    I had never heard of such a thing. “Are you
sure
it’s a dog?”
    “Oh, she’s a dog, all right. An unholy terror. Just keep an eye out for her; she’s sneaky. And
fast
.”
    I couldn’t tell if she was pulling my leg. A tiny, dangerous dog? Didn’t seem possible.

    My first few days with Billie at Twin Elms Farm were a slice of homemade sardine pie. My wounds began to heal (although my right ear was permanently notched, thanks to Tom’s wicked left hook), my stomach was always full, and the straw in the loft was softer and sweeter smelling than any I had ever slept on. Each day the weather turned a little colder, and I made up my mind to take up Billie’s offer to spend the winter in the comfort of the dairy barn.
    October turned into November, and I still hadn’t seen Daisy. I kidded Billie about it one evening, chiding her for making up such a crazy story.
    She laughed. “Just you wait, Sam. Daisy is all too real. She is not to be trifled with.”
    The very next day, Billie and I were in a small pasture next to the house stalking field mice when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something running toward us. For a moment, I was confused.
    “Look at the size of that rat,” I said.
    “That’s no rat,” said Billie. “It’s Daisy! Run for your life!” She ducked under the barbed wire and bolted for the barn.
    But I stood my ground. I wasn’t about to be bullied by a dog less than half my size. Clearly it was time for somebody to teach Daisy a lesson, so I puffed myself up and extended my sharpest claws. Only a fool would dare to get within swinging range.
    When she was about twenty feet away and closing fast, I realized that I had made a horrible, and possibly fatal, mistake. I still have nightmares about the look in that crazy mutt’s eyes as she barreled straight into me, snarling and snapping those razor-like teeth. I spat and hissed and scratched with everything I had, but I don’t think she even noticed! I had only one option left: retreat. I turned and ran faster than I had ever run, with Daisy nipping at my heels all the way across the yard as the farmer and his wife, who had just left the barn, stared openmouthed.
    I swore to myself when I realized that they had closed the barn door, and then swerved out toward the front yard, where a pair of stately old elm trees stood. I hit the closer of the two at full speed with all seventeen claws extended for climbing. A split second later, Daisy ran into the tree so hard that she knocked herself out cold for about ten seconds. Meanwhile, I kept on climbing, not stopping until I found myself a comfy spot on a branch about fifty feet above the ground.
    By then Daisy was awake and absolutely furious that Ihad somehow escaped her jaws of death. She bounced up and down, looking as if she were on a trampoline, and then changed tactics, trying to climb the elm tree, again and again. She would make it a few feet up—far enough to concern me, at least the first few times—and then fall backward, yelping at me as if it were all
my
fault.
    That went on for more than an hour. The farmer’s wife brought out a leash, but dear old Daisy refused to let anyone get close enough to put it on. She snarled at her owners and ran faster and faster around the base of the tree until they gave up trying. I’m sure they were thinking what I was thinking: sooner or later, the stupid dog would give up.
    Of course, even if she did finally admit defeat, I was still left with one big problem. I knew how to climb up. Getting down? That was another story. I had a vague memory of something my mother had said about going backward, but the details were hazy. (In general, she told us never to climb higher than we