The Adventures of Puckatoo -MG

[suz]

I am working on my query over in the query section. I thought I would put up the first chapter here to see what folks' response was like. Let 'er rip.

Thanks.
Suz

I thought it was the perfect day to be a dog. I was speeding down the highway in Tom’s car, my paws hanging over the side of the door, my head poking out of the passenger’s window. A roaring wind pounded over my ears, and the scent of spruce and wild lupine that bloomed along the side of the road danced in my nose. I pulled my head inside the car. I jumped onto Tom’s lap and off again, from the front seat to the back and again to the window.

“Puckatoo, calm down,” snapped Tom. But I couldn’t. I was crazy as a rabid raccoon. Where we were going, I wondered. When we would get there? And most importantly, would there be food? Of course, if I had known I was headed into the biggest disaster of my life, I wouldn’t have been so excited.

We drove for two hours when Tom left the highway and made his way to a street lined with homes. He stopped and parked in front of an old, cedar-shingle house ripe with the smell of moss on the porch and a great, big maple in the front yard. He let me out. I darted for the tree.

Who was in the neighborhood, I wondered. Were they big? Were they mean? Were they tough? No problem, I thought. I might be shorter than average, but I could take ‘em. I was a Jack Russell Terrier, after all.

“Here girl,” called Tom. My paws had barely hit the ground. Aw, I thought, as I trotted back to him. Let a dog go, at least.

Tom bent down and snapped on a leash he had been hiding in his pocket. Ooh that was tricky. I should have smelled that one coming. I hated that plastic thing that held me back, back, back when I wanted to go, go, go. He fiddled with the round, metal tag that hung from my collar. It had my name on one side and Tom and Sharly’s phone number on the other, in case I got lost. I snorted at the thought. I would never let that happen.

He walked me up the creaky steps of the porch to the front door. He pushed the doorbell. I sniffed the threshold: dirt, stinky feet, oil from a piece of cheese, cookie crumbs and --. My inventory was cut short by someone coming. It sounded like a ‘he’: big, strong steps. There was yelling behind him: children, three of them. A man opened the storm door. I sniffed his shoes. He had the stinky feet.

“You must be Tom,” said the stinky-footed man. “Silas Littlefield. Good to meet you. Come on in.” He held the door open with one hand, and led us into a hallway.

“I need to do this short and sweet,” said Tom. He said something else to the stinky-footed man, but I stopped paying attention. My legs shook, and my mouth watered. I was standing in the middle of play-time heaven. There were two rooms off the front hall. Every spot on the floor between the furniture in both was covered with stuff just waiting to be chewed on: wooden blocks, dried out markers, skateboards, papers, stuffed animals, socks, shoes, plastic building pieces, shields and swords, and in the middle of it all -- boys.

The biggest was tall. A mop of thick, curly hair hung in his eyes. The middle boy smelled like an orange a couple of days past eating, and he was nothing but skin and bones. The youngest boy was a pup, trying to be in the middle of everything. He smelled sweet like the cookies hidden in his pockets. A woman with a slightly soapy fragrance was holding them back.

“My wife Molly,” said the man. As the woman picked her way across the floor, the boys charged. They were like a pack of wild dogs. I strained against the leash. I wanted in.

They surrounded me. The big one petted my head. I jumped up and licked his face. The skinny one elbowed his way in to rub me behind the ears and under my chin. Yes, yes, yes, yes, under the chin. I craned my neck upward so he wouldn’t miss a spot.

“You’re in the way,” said the big one. He pushed the skinny one to the ground. The pup squeezed into the empty space. He tickled the air above my back.

“Nice doggy. Good doggy. Don’t bite doggy,” he said in a high, sing-song voice.

“Make space for me,” said the skinny one. He sprang up and muscled his way back in with his shoulders. He rubbed my tummy. Oh, the tummy. I rolled over on my back. I could do this all day, I thought. I lay back to enjoy, when I heard Tom’s voice hitch. I jumped to my paws. I cocked my head, thoughts of a tummy rub gone.

“Just make sure she gets to run a lot,” said Tom. “Every day. And you don’t want to leave her home alone too long. She’ll get bored. You really don’t want that to happen to your house.”

“I’m not sure anything else could happen to our house,” said the woman.

“She’s been with us for two and a half years, since she was a puppy,” said Tom. “We don’t want to do this… but with a brand new baby… it’s changed everything…she’s just too much. We can’t give her the attention she needs.”
What was Tom saying? It sounded like he was giving them instructions about how to take care of me. I looked up at him. He was crying.

“Don’t worry,” said the stinky-footed man, “she’ll be great with our boys.”

“Even your little one?” asked Tom.

“He’s four. He’ll be fine. If he can survive his brothers, he can survive anything.”

Suddenly I was hot and panting. It all started to make sense. The long drive, instructions, ’she’s just too much’.
Tom knelt down beside me. The boys moved aside. He unclipped the leash from my collar and took my face in his hands.

“You’re going to get to play with kids who can really play with you, Puckatoo. Their mom and dad will take good care of you. I’ll miss you girl.” He nuzzled me then stood up and walked out, letting the glass door slam behind him.

“No. Don’t go,” I barked. I ran to the door, and scratched my paws against the glass. I could see Tom, but I couldn’t get to him. “Wait for me. Don’t leave me here,” I yelped. Tom walked down the path, his back toward me. “I’ll be calmer. I will. I won’t ever jump or bark near the baby again.” I jumped up and barked. I won’t ever jump or bark again, ever.” He got into his car, and I heard the engine come to life. I saw him look at me through the window. His eyes locked with mine. It was my last chance. I barked as loud as I could. “I’ll be different. I promise. Don’t leave me here! They smell wrong! They’re not you! They’re not you!” Tom turned to look straight ahead, and the car pulled away from the curb. I clawed at the door. How could he do this to me? I thought. How could he leave me here? I was his dog. His dog.

[Krista G.]

I thought It was the perfect day to be a dog. I was speeding down the highway in Tom’s car, my paws hanging over the side of the door, my head poking out of the passenger’s window. A roaring wind pounded over my ears, and the scent of spruce and wild lupine that bloomed along the side of the road danced in my nose. I pulled my head inside the car. I jumped onto Tom’s lap and off again, from the front seat to the back and again to the window.

“Puckatoo, calm down,” snapped Tom. But I couldn’t. I was crazy as a rabid raccoon. Where were we going? , I wondered. When we would get there? And most importantly, would there be food? Of course, if I had known I was headed into the biggest disaster of my life, I wouldn’t have been so excited. You might want to make this last sentence its own paragraph, just so it stands out more.

We drove for two hours when Tom left the highway and made his way to a street lined with homes. He stopped and parked in front of an old, cedar-shingle house ripe with the smell of moss on the porch and a great, big maple in the front yard. He let me out. I darted for the tree.

Who was in the neighborhood? , I wondered. I don't think you need these "I wondereds" and "I thoughts" because you're writing in first person. Were they big? Were they mean? Were they tough? No problem, I thought. I might be shorter than average, but I could take ‘em. I was a Jack Russell Terrier, after all.

“Here, girl,” called Tom. My paws had barely hit the ground. Aw, I thought, as I trotted back to him. This "I thought" is all right, I think, but you probably don't need the second comma. Let a dog go, at least.

Tom bent down and snapped on a leash he had been hiding in his pocket. Ooh, that was tricky. I should have smelled that one coming. I hated that plastic thing that held me back, back, back when I wanted to go, go, go. He fiddled with the round, metal tag that hung from my collar. Two adjectives on "tag" drags down the pace. I'd pick your favorite one and cut the other. It had my name on one side and Tom and Sharly’s phone number on the other, in case I got lost. I snorted at the thought. I would never let that happen.

He walked me up the creaky steps of the porch to the front door and pushed the doorbell. I'd go with just "bell," to avoid the repetition of "door." I sniffed the threshold: dirt, stinky feet, oil from a piece of cheese, cookie crumbs and --. The period here is a little awkward. My inventory was cut short by someone coming. It sounded like a ‘he’: big, strong steps. There was yelling behind him: children, three of them. A man opened the storm door. I sniffed his shoes. He had the stinky feet. Lots of colons in this paragraph. You might consider rewriting several of these sentences to eliminate at least one or two.

“You must be Tom,” said the stinky-footed man. “Silas Littlefield. Good to meet you. Come on in.” He held the door open with one hand, and led us into a hallway.

“I need to do this short and sweet,” said Tom. He said something else to the stinky-footed man, but I stopped paying attention. My legs shook, and my mouth watered. I was standing in the middle of play-time heaven. There were two rooms off the front hall. Every spot on the floor between the furniture in both was covered with stuff just waiting to be chewed on: wooden blocks, dried out markers, skateboards, papers, stuffed animals, socks, shoes, plastic building pieces, shields and swords, and in the middle of it all -- boys.

The biggest was tall. A mop of thick, curly hair hung in his eyes. The middle boy smelled like an orange a couple of days past eating, and he was nothing but skin and bones. The youngest boy was a pup, trying to be in the middle of everything. He smelled sweet like the cookies hidden in his pockets. A woman with a slightly soapy fragrance was holding them back. I love how she identifies them by their scents.

“My wife Molly,” said the man. As the woman picked her way across the floor, the boys charged. They were like a pack of wild dogs. I strained against the leash. I wanted in.

They surrounded me. The big one petted my head. I jumped up and licked his face. The skinny one elbowed his way in to rub me behind the ears and under my chin. Yes, yes, yes, yes, under the chin. I craned my neck upward so he wouldn’t miss a spot.

“You’re in the way,” said the big one. He pushed the skinny one to the ground. The pup squeezed into the empty space. He tickled the air above my back.

“Nice doggy. Good doggy. Don’t bite doggy,” he said in a high, sing-song voice. Here's another spot that would benefit from just one adjective, methinks.

“Make space for me,” said the skinny one. He sprang up and muscled his way back in with his shoulders. He rubbed my tummy. Oh, the tummy. I rolled over on my back. I could do this all day, I thought. I lay back to enjoy, when I heard Tom’s voice hitch. I jumped to my paws. I cocked my head, thoughts of a tummy rub gone.

“Just make sure she gets to run a lot,” said Tom. “Every day. And you don’t want to leave her home alone too long. She’ll get bored. You really don’t want that to happen to your house.”

“I’m not sure anything else could happen to our house,” said the woman.

“She’s been with us for two and a half years, since she was a puppy,” said Tom. “We don’t want to do this… but with a brand new baby… it’s changed everything…she’s just too much. We can’t give her the attention she needs.”

What was Tom saying? It sounded like he was giving them instructions about how to take care of me. I looked up at him. He was crying.

“Don’t worry,” said the stinky-footed man. “She’ll be great with our boys.”

“Even your little one?” asked Tom.

“He’s four. He’ll be fine. If he can survive his brothers, he can survive anything.”

Suddenly I was hot and panting. It all started to make sense. The long drive, instructions, ’she’s just too much’. The period should go inside the quotation marks. And I think these should be double quotation marks - the only reason to use single ones is if they're on the inside of a quotation.

Tom knelt down beside me. The boys moved aside. He unclipped the leash from my collar and took my face in his hands.

“You’re going to get to play with kids who can really play with you, Puckatoo. Their mom and dad will take good care of you. I’ll miss you, girl.” He nuzzled me, then stood up and walked out, letting the glass door slam behind him.

“No. Don’t go,” I barked. I ran to the door, and scratched my paws against the glass. I could see Tom, but I couldn’t get to him. “Wait for me. Don’t leave me here,” I yelped. Tom walked down the path, his back toward me. “I’ll be calmer. I will. I won’t ever jump or bark near the baby again.” I jumped up and barked. "I won’t ever jump or bark again, ever.” He got into his car, and I heard the engine come roared to life. I saw him look at me through the window. His eyes locked with mine through the window. It was my last chance. I barked as loud as I could. “I’ll be different. I promise. Don’t leave me here! They smell wrong! They’re not you! They’re not you!” Tom turned to look straight ahead, and the car pulled away from the curb. I clawed at the door. How could he do this to me? I thought. How could he leave me here? I was his dog. His dog.

By the end, I liked this quite a bit, but here's how my reaction went over the course of the chapter:

First line: Love it. I'm imagining a nine-year-old boy saying it.
End of first paragraph: Oh. Puckatoo's a real dog. Huh. Seems like I've heard agents say they're tired of animal narrators in MG...
End of second paragraph: "Of course, if I had known I was headed into the biggest disaster of my life, I wouldn't have been so excited." Interesting. I'm wondering what a dog's biggest disaster would be.
Puckatoo gives us the low-down on the house's smells: Loving this.
Tom's stumbling explanation: Oh, no! He's leaving her!
End of final paragraph: Wanting to read more:)

When you send out your queries, agents will obviously know that this is a story with an animal narrator, so if they request the pages, I think this could definitely hook them. Also, I pointed out a few things in the chapter itself that you might want to incorporate. Best of luck!

[Quill]

Great suggestions from Krista G. for an otherwise very nice opening!

[NickB]

Ditto Krista G. and Quill. Other things I noticed: I'd say, "I am a Jack Russell..." instead of was and I kept wanting to call the dog Puck...more accessible, but then I'm a nicknamer. But it seemed like they should. Then again, I once knew a dog named Terrapin and I never called him Terry or Pin...but then we were never that close.

I love James Howe's Bunnicula series...probably you've read those. Some of my favorite books ever with Harold the Dog as narrator.

This is great. I hope you post more. Good luck, Nick

[belindasmith]

Besides those small edits that have been pointed out it reads well. Your writing has the pace of a Jack Russell and I loved all the smells and doggy interests. Good work and goodluck