Ribsy

1

RIBSY AND THE HUNGRY FLEA

Henry Huggins’s dog Ribsy was a plain ordinary city dog, the kind of dog that strangers usually called Mutt or Pooch. They always called him this in a friendly way, because Ribsy was a friendly dog. He followed Henry and his friends to school. He kept the mailman company. He wagged his tail at the milkman, who always stopped to pet him. People liked Ribsy, and Ribsy liked people. Ribsy was what you might call a well-adjusted dog.

This did not mean that Ribsy had no troubles. He did have troubles, and high on the list were fleas, particularly one mean hungry flea that persistently nipped Ribsy right under his collar where he could not get at it no matter how hard he scratched with his hind foot. If it had not been for that flea, things might have been different for Ribsy.

Ribsy’s troubles began one Saturday morning in October when he was sitting out in front of the Hugginses’ square white house on Klickitat Street keeping an eye on the brand-new station wagon to make sure the family did not drive away without him. The Hugginses had owned the new green station wagon almost a week, and not once had Ribsy been allowed to ride in it.

We’re going to keep this car clean, vowed Mrs. Huggins. No more muddy paw prints on the seats. No more smudgy nose marks on the windows.

Ribsy knew the Hugginses were getting ready to go someplace, because he could hear Mrs. Huggins tapping around in high heels, a sure sign that she was about to leave the house. He had also sensed an air of hurry that morning. Henry had dumped half a can of Woofies Dog Food on Ribsy’s dish without stopping to scratch him behind the ears. Nosy the cat had been fed and hurriedly shoved outdoors. The Hugginses had not lingered at the breakfast table. All this meant the family was going someplace, and this time Ribsy did not intend to be left behind.

While Ribsy kept an eye on the station wagon he amused himself with his soggy old tennis ball, wet from last night’s rain, which he dropped at the top of the driveway and caught as it rolled to the bottom. Then he sat down and, with a great jingling of license tags, scratched. He dug in with the toenails of his left hind foot, starting under his chin and gradually twisting his head until he was scratching the back of his neck. Then he switched to his right hind foot and scratched the other half of his neck. All this scratching did no good, because his collar got in the way of his toenails. He still itched. The mean hungry flea knew exactly the spots that Ribsy could not reach.

Henry came out of the house wearing his raincoat and helmet. He stopped to pat Ribsy on the head. Then he scratched his dog behind the ears at the point where the hair became soft and silky. Want to play catch? he asked, picking up the ball and throwing it across the lawn.

Ribsy caught the ball on the first bounce and dropped it at Henry’s feet before he had to sit down and scratch again. That flea was driving him crazy.

Henry’s friend Beezus, whose real name was Beatrice, and her little sister Ramona came running down the street. Can you go to the park? Beezus asked Henry. Mother said we have to get out of the house awhile before it starts raining again.

Nope, said Henry, picking up the tennis ball. We’re going down to the shopping center to buy some paint and new jeans and a bunch of stuff.

Beezus held out her hand to Ribsy. Shake hands, she said. Ribsy agreeably held out his left paw and allowed the girl to shake it. Isn’t he ever going to learn to use his right hand—I mean paw? asked Beezus.

There are left-handed people. Why shouldn’t there be left-pawed dogs? This seemed reasonable to Henry.

Ramona ran to Ribsy, dropped to her knees even though the ground was wet, and threw her arms around his neck good and tight. Ribsy knew what to do about a small girl like Ramona. Patience was the answer. Just stand still long enough and she would go away. It sometimes took quite a bit of patience to get rid of Ramona.

She pressed her face against his and said, Don’t I look cute? Daddy ought to get a picture of this.

Oh, Ramona, said Beezus crossly. Daddy can’t take a picture of everything you do. Come on. Stop choking Ribsy, and let’s go to the park.

Patience had worked. Ribsy was free of Ramona.

So long, said Henry to Beezus, as his mother and father came out of the house and climbed into the front seat of the station wagon. Henry threw the ball down the street and started to climb in after them. This time Ribsy did not chase his ball, which he knew was perfectly safe lying in the gutter. No one ever bothered his soggy old ball no matter where he left it.

When Ribsy was a few feet from the station wagon, the mean hungry flea gave him an extra hard nip. Ribsy could not stand it. He had to sit down for one quick scratch.

Henry, don’t let that dog in this car, said Mrs. Huggins.

Henry hopped in and slammed the door. Sorry, old boy, he said to his dog, who had finished scratching and was wagging his tail.

The car started and Ribsy was left behind. Ribsy was not a dog to give up easily. He could be almost as persistent as his flea, and now he started running down the street as fast as he could after his family’s new car. This had happened before with the old car, and he knew that by running fast he could catch up at the first stop sign. He managed to stay close enough to get thoroughly drenched with muddy water when the car drove through a puddle. As he expected, he made it to the stop sign, where he stood panting and looking hopefully at his family.

Henry pushed the button that lowered the window. Ribsy! Go home! he called out.

Ribsy answered with a short, sharp bark that meant, No, I don’t want to go home. When the car started up, he continued his chase. Water spattered as the tires sucked at the pavement. He caught up at the second stop sign, three blocks away.

Wuf! said Ribsy, wagging his tail. For a middle-aged dog Ribsy could run pretty fast.

Ribsy, go home! said Henry, speaking less sharply this time.

Don’t pay any attention to him, said Mrs. Huggins. Just ignore him, and he’ll go home when he gets tired.

That dog can run twenty miles an hour, said Mr. Huggins, who had been clocking Ribsy with the speedometer.

As the car started, Ribsy gathered all his strength and, even though he was getting tired and that flea was chewing away under his collar, he managed to catch up at the third stop sign.

Don’t even look at him, said Mrs. Huggins. Just pretend he isn’t there.

Aw, Mom, protested Henry. He’s getting tired. He’s panting so he can’t even bark.

Good, said Mrs. Huggins, who was usually a kind woman. Now maybe he’ll go home. He’s not going to ride in our clean new car.

Mr. Huggins went on, and so did Ribsy, his tongue flapping like a flag and his feet scissoring back and forth as fast as he could make them go. Henry’s worried face watched him from the tailgate of the station wagon. Ribsy barely made it to the next stop, which was a traffic light at a busy intersection. He stood panting with his sides going in and out like bellows.

But Mom, he’ll get run over, Henry was saying. He wants to come with us so much he isn’t even paying any attention to the other cars.

Mrs. Huggins glanced unwillingly at Ribsy. Oh, all right, she said. Just this once. But keep him on the floor. I don’t want him on the seat with those wet paws, and I don’t want any smeary nose prints on the windows.

Henry opened the door, and Ribsy, the winner, jumped in. The first thing he did was shake himself. Muddy drops splattered over the new plastic upholstery. Silently Mrs. Huggins handed Henry a Kleenex, and without a word he wiped the spatters. Until Ribsy had caught his breath he was satisfied to stay on the floor, even though he did not like the strong smell of the new car. As soon as he was breathing normally he tried to climb on the seat, where the smell was not so strong, and where he could ride with his nose out the window and smell more things faster.

No, Ribsy, said Henry, shoving his