“Furbish as a Second Language”
by Tina Ferraro

          Petting the small dog’s white furry head, I carried him  down the sidewalk. He panted contentedly against my arm in response, his tongue more like a kiss than a slobber, or what the only pet I’d ever been allowed to have--a battery-powered Furby--used to call a may-tah in its native language.

          Kah/may-may/u-nye, I remembered as stepped onto my neighbor’s front walk, was Furbish for “I love you.” Wah meant “yay” and noh-lah stood for “dance.” All super-relevant when you’re eight years-old and you’ve just worked your butt off helping (and nagging) your mom to buy you a Furby.

          But not so important at sixteen, when the electronic robot toy of your long-ago dreams was now just a dust collector on your shelf. And the things you wanted didn’t come with price-tags or parents who could make them happen.

          But luckily, I still had the same get-outta-my-way intensity, which I’d been currently using to prove to my high school soccer coach that I had the stuff to play first string varsity. (Once she promoted all us sophomores up from JV at the end of this summer, that was.)

          And it was that sort of relentlessness that had inspired me to do something about this adorable stray who I’d seen poking around neighborhood trash cans. I’d fed him and cuddled him and played with him; now I needed to find his collarless self a home.

          Preferably his home, the one he’d wandered from. And in the worst case, I’d take him to the Humane Society. Because my parents were a total no-go as far as living, breathing pets in our house (can you say “allergies?”), and the little guy wouldn’t last on our Minnesota streets--especially once the winds started blowing off Lake Superior.

          First up was trying to find someone who recognized him.

          “Sorry, Parker,” one neighbor had just told me. “Can’t help you.”

          “Never seen it before,” said Mrs. Logan next door, who was all but blind, anyway, so what did she know?
          “All dogs look the same to me,” said another.

          Okay, so now I was down to last house on our cul-de-sac, the practically perfect two-story across from ours, occupied by the perfectly evil (as my dad would say) George Murphy, and his fifteen year-old son.

          My dad and Mr. Murphy had been at war for ages, going back to when “someone” (and don’t get my dad started on how he knew who) called the city on the height of our side wall. Red-faced, my father had then found a violation on the Murphy’s property to counter-report. And it took off from there, to the point where I wouldn’t be surprised if they bumped into each other in the dark, both creeping around in search of infractions.

          Stupid, stupid, stupid.

          Knocking on the Murphy’s door, I hoped the little ah-may in my arms didn’t suddenly relieve himself, bite or do something that sent Mr. Murphy running for his phone. Then there was also the possibility that his soon-to-be-a-freshman son, Tristan, would answer, and that would be equally awkward. He and I hadn’t talked since they’d first moved in, and were accustomed to passing on the street without acknowledgement.

          The door swung back to reveal Mr. Murphy. Tall, thin, he had too much nose and not enough hair. Meeting my eyes, he arched a brow that asked what the heck I wanted.

          It could only go uphill from here, right?

          “Yeah, hi, Mr. Murphy. I’m wondering if you recognize this dog?”

          He just glared.

          “Well, if I can’t track down his owner, I’m going to try to find him a home.”

          He squinted. “Did your father put you up to this? Send you over here with that...thing...so I’d take it in? So it would dig up my garden, soil my carpets, and bark all night?”

          My eyes went wide. “No--”

          “Well, no thanks.”

          And with that, the door closed. Not exactly in my face, but his point was clear.

          Cray-app, I thought, turning away, not technically sure it was a Furbish curse word, but figuring it ought to be. I hoped I hadn’t just make tensions between Mr. Murphy and my dad even worse.

          Cradling the dog in the crook of my arm, I pulled my cell phone from my jeans pocket.

          Time for Plan B. I happened to be tight with the most connected sophomore in DeGroot High School--in fact, I was one third of the trio who surrounded her. If anyone could find out about this dog, or find him a home, it was Chrissandra Hickey.

          She answered on the first ring, which I’ll admit made me proud. Chrissandra did not pick up for just anybody. “Parker,” she said. “Speak.”

          I loved how she didn’t waste words. She got right to the heart of matters. Unless it had to do with her problems or her boyfriend, in which we were expected to listen all night. But that was a discussion for another time.

          I explained about the dog, what he looked like, where I’d found him, and how I hoped she could help. Then I paused, expecting her to say...well, something.

          But as the seconds ticked away, my heartbeats picked up the slack. Ka-thud, ka-thud.

          Had I been so totally uncool with talk of this dog that she didn’t deem a response appropriate? (Wait--had I been speaking Furbish?)

          “I’m coming over,” she finally said, putting an end to the silence and my panic. “Hold tight.”

          I hung up and basically followed instructions. For that’s what Mandy, Elaine and I did. Not because we were wimpy or mindless, but because the pay-offs of being around Chrissandra--the popularity by association, the insider info, the parties, the attention--were simply worth it.

          I sat down on the curb outside the Murphy’s house, petting the little furball, and talking to him. In my language and in “his.” I liked how his eyes lit up when I spoke Furbish, and decided for lack of a better name, I’d call him (wait for it...wait for it...) Furby.
          Was I creative or what?

          Minutes later, Chrissandra rolled up in her sixteenth birthday present, a red hatchback. The driver’s door flying open, she emerged, and as inevitably happened, there was more of her than I expected. For she wasn’t the x-ray thin, chiseled beauty that her voice and personality implied, but a sort of average-looking girl--and rather lumpy in places. But she didn’t seem to know it, and God knows, she’d never hear it from me.

          “No,” she simply said, checking out the dog. “Never seen the mutt before. Does he have a tag? Do you know his name?”

          “I’m calling him Furby,” I said, throwing out lots of attitude to emphasize its retro-ness.

          “Lose the name.”

          “What?” I let loose my hold of the dog, and he scampered over to some low-lying ground cover. “Didn’t you have one of those--”

          “Yeah. Two or three. They were totally creepy. Sometimes kept talking even after I turned them off. Even when I took the batteries out. Even when I threw them out the window.”

          Oh-kay. (Which was one of the only words exactly the same word in English and Furbish...how was that for a random fun fact?)

          “Look,” she continued, then looked on past me, over my shoulder. “I’m headed over to school. Hartley called another  scrimmage.”

          I nodded. I’d gotten the coach’s e-mail, too. And it was my plan to attend all the summer scrimmages, as well. In fact, I could practically hear my name announced as first string.

          “You coming?” she asked.

          “Later.” I pointed at the little furball, who was busy sniffing something on the Murphy’s lawn. “But...soon.”

          “Okay.” She exhaled, saying more with air than a hundred words. “See you there.”

          She jumped into her car. Watching her zoom off, I reached for the-dog-with-no-name before he did something that got us both in trouble. That’s when a voice cut out from behind me.

          Deep, strong. “He lived over on Crestview.”

          I looked up to see Mr. Murphy taking long strides toward me. “Excuse me?” I said, hoisting the dog upright so his head rested against my shoulder.

          “I know the dog,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact now. “Belonged to a boy in my son’s grade who moved at the end of the school year.”

          I’m pretty sure I blanched. “What? The family just left him?”

          He pressed his lips together and nodded, like he agreed with my contempt. “I’d like to think he ran off during all the confusion with the moving van.”

          “Oh. That’s...better.”

          “Yeah. Look, sorry about before. I didn’t know what you, what your dad...” He shook his head. “But then I heard you talking to the girl, and I realized...”

          That I wasn’t the spawn of the devil?

          “So,” he asked, “what are you going to do with him?”

          I shook my head.

          “Well, my ex is one of those airy fairy types who takes in strays. She’s dropping Tristan off any time now. Why don’t you hang around and we’ll see what she thinks?”

          I shifted my weight on the sidewalk, eyeing the horrible, terrible, despicable enemy of my father, who suddenly didn’t seem horrible, terrible or despicable in the least. “Thank you.”

          He did a throat clear and pointed to the dog. “Did I hear his name is Furby?”

          “Oh, that was just a joke.” A loo-loo, as a real Furby would say. “And apparently,” I added, “a bad one.”  

          A car engine sounded from the mouth of our cul-de-sac. Within moments, the former Mrs. Murphy pulled into the drive, right up alongside me. Powering down the window, she made this “awww...” sound at the little guy in my arms, then broke into doggie-baby talk.

          Which put me and my Furbish to shame. (Okay, maybe it was a toss-up.)

          In any case, explaining the situation as I handed him over, I watched her expression go all butter-over-steaming-hot-corn-on-the-cob. Just past her, a tall figure I knew to be Tristan, opened the car door and got out.

          I kept my gaze on the ex-Mrs. Murphy.

          “So he needs a home?” she repeated.

          I nodded.

          “Can I...keep him?”

          “He’s all yours.”

          Which pleased me. It did. But it stopped short of being a perfect moment, like when the sales clerk had handed me the bought-and-paid-for Furby, or when I’d made JV soccer two years ago. Because deep down, I’d wanted to keep Furby myself.

          But I had parents with allergies, and that was that. And while I was unabashedly headstrong when I wanted something, I was logical, too. This was the best case scenario.

          So I did a finger wave to my furry friend, a big wave at the Murphys, and took off.

          Half-hearing Mr. Murphy telling his ex that this dog “wouldn’t change anything,” although whether he meant between the two of them or between he and my dad was anybody’s guess.

          And half-hearing a happy little bark.

          For now, the memory of my few hours with the adorable mutt would have to be put on a shelf (undoubtedly to collect my mental dust). And then it was on to my next crusade.

          Out to the soccer field. Because first string varsity, here I came!

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      To read more about Parker, her friends, family and neighbors, pick up The ABC’s of Kissing Boys by Tina Ferraro.