fille!” the woman who owned the pastry shop was shrieking in Skip’s direction. “He is getting away! After him, rapidement!”

(You may not need translation for these words, but just in case, ma fille means “my girl” in French, and rapidement in French means “quickly”.)

Skip heard the sound of click-d’a-patter-click-click-click-patter, indicating a four-legged animal was behind him. Chasing him. When I get my paws on Fang!

He didn’t get a chance to finish the thought, ducking into an alley and springing on top of a pile of wooden crates, panting hard. He looked up. A brick wall was in front of him, the crates stacked against it. A dead end!

“Arrêt!” Came the French-accented female voice behind him, sounding ferociously angry. (Again, for translation, arrêt in French means “halt”.)

Skip turned around and found himself staring into the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen. Bluer than the sky, bluer than the rivers at his home, the town’s Park. They sparkled with fury, but were nonetheless beautiful beyond compare.

“Uh…” Skip swallowed hard. He was in trouble. Big, big trouble. Aw, man.

It was a breathtaking female pup, white with long ears and dark, chocolate-brown spots with a light blue collar and golden license, aforementioned dazzling blue eyes, and a sky-blue bow behind her right ear—the bow was wilted because of her chase after Skip.

“Quevoulez-vous dire, venir ici et de voler les pâtisseries de mon propriétaire?” The French pup spat out angrily, with feeling—and a cute little accent.

Skip cocked his head. “Uh…say that again?”

The French pup glared at him, growling out her words in a repeat, this time less garbled but still in her native, foreign tongue.

Skip shook his head hard, eyes scrunched shut, eyebrows lowered, annoyed. He opened his eyes and continued to glower at her. “English, lady, English!” he growled, scowling.

The French pup looked confused, still furious, then her eyes lit up and she snarled, in perfect English—still with an accent, “What do you mean by coming here and stealing my owner’s pastries?”

Skip glared at her. “Don’t get your tail in a twist, okay? I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, got it?” He lowered his eyelids. “The Retriever’s the mug you want.”

The dog looked at him, mouth open in an O and looking as if she still hadn’t understood a word he’d just said. Then she shot back, with her accent and sharp voice, in—again—flawless English, “Where is this Retriever?”

Skip found himself gazing at her pool-blue eyes again.

He shook it off. “Look, I hate to tell you this, but I know him, and if I get him in trouble like this, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

She narrowed her eyes, taking a step toward the box crates. “Mon propriétaire m'a chargé de disposer de vous.” Although it was garbled with barely-contained fury, what she said was still incoherent to Skip.

Skip shook his head. “Alright. Time out.” He hopped down from crate to crate landing in front of her. He leaned in close, avoiding those endlessly-blue eyes. “I speak English,” he snarled in a loud voice. “English, got it? Just English.”

She blinked.

“Talk normal,” he practically shouted at her. Skip blinked right back at her, curling his lip.

The girl pup sighed and rolled her eyes. She looked at him again, saying in English, “My owner has instructed me to dispose of you.” She bared her teeth and took a step forward.

Skip backed up against the crates. “Hang on, pastry pup, it wasn’t me—you got the wrong dog.”

She looked at him a long moment, then said, “Désolé, my friend—I apologize. I was mistaken.”

Skip looked at her blankly. Then, frowning, eyebrows still lowered in the bad-mood pose he usually wore, he muttered, “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?”

She cocked her head at him, blue bow behind her right ear swishing with her body’s movement. “Piecedetravail? What do you mean?”

Skip shook himself, edging away. “Ah…nothing. I gotta go.”

“Attendre,” she cried.

Skip stopped.

The pup blushed apologetically. “I mean, wait,” she stammered. “What do they call you?”

Skip blinked at her. “Huh?”

“Your name.” The pup nodded to him expectantly. “What is it?”

“Uh…Skipper.” Skip lifted a hind leg and scratched an ear with it.

“After him!” came the cry from around the alley’s entrance corner. The pastry owner woman was screeching again. “That thief has stolen my chocolate éclair!”

“Gotta go,” Skip repeated. “They’re on my tail. Later.” He sprang up the crates again, to the top, and scanned the alley. Maybe he could get on top of the roof to his left if he jumped—yes, that was looking better all the time. That’s what he’d do.

“I am Ariella,” the French pup with the blue collar and blue bow—and very, very blue eyes called up in her sounding-more-pretty-every-minute accent. “Venezà nouveau!”

Skip, in a hurry and angrier than ever, glared down at her and hissed, “What?”

“Come again!” Ariella whispered up in her French accent. “I will lead them away.”

Skip blinked twice. “Er, thanks. See you.”

Ariella smiled prettily up at him. “Vousêtesla bienvenue—”

Skip rolled his eyes. “Yeah yeah, whatever,” he growled. He bunched his muscles and sprang onto the roof to his left.

“What I meant to say—you’re welcome!” Ariella called up. Skip looked down over the edge of the roof. She had watched him leap up, admiration written all over her facial expressions.

“Uh…sure…fine. Bye.” Skip turned on the rooftop and skidded away as quickly as he could, mind foggy. The image in his brain wouldn’t go away—blue, blue eyes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 

“Lay off, Affy, it’s mine—I stole it fair an’ square, ‘kay?” Fang sprang up his mound of cardboard boxes. That was where he lived, basically, in an alley that was—to a bird’s eye view—shaped like an upside-down L, and to the right his pile of cardboard boxes lay.

“You made quite a scene, I heard,” Afghanna snorted. “You could’ve shared, y’know.”

“He probably meant to,” Rose defended the Golden Retriever. “Didn’t you, Fang?”

Fang looked up from his chocolate éclair. “Huh?”

Afghanna snorted. “Yeah, Rose, he’s a real saint.”

“What d’you know?” Fang scoffed between bites. “No offense, but yer girls. How does my dog Skip feel, eh?” He raised his eyebrows down at Skip, who was curled up with his back to the group in the corner of the alley.

Skip didn’t answer.

Afghanna and Rose exchanged a glance.

Afghanna, always with a soft spot for the young Labrador, trotted over behind Skip, clearing her throat. “Uh, Skip? You okay?”

Fang stopped eating and blinked. Rose looked at him. He looked at Rose. They both turned back to Skip.

“Skip?” Afghanna coughed.

Skip didn’t make one move.

“Maybe he’s asleep,” Rose suggested, dropping her voice to a courteous whisper.

“Only one way t’find out,” Fang nodded.

He ducked into his cardboard box mound and came out—with his mouth full of puddle-water.

He spat it out onto Skip’s head.

The Yellow Lab pup shot up, yelping, “Fa-ang! Aw, gross!” He shook himself, and then rounded on Fang, growling.

“Y’know, Skip, I never thought it’d rain with the sun out…” Fang bobbed to an invisible beat that only he could hear, apparently, as he strolled coolly back to his cardboard mound, hopping up to the top box and scratching at a flea with his hind leg.

“Shut up,” Skip snarled. “What’d you do that for?”

Rose half-laughed nervously. “We, uh, we thought you were sleeping.”

“That’s how you’d wake me up?” Skip shook out his fur again, furious. “I wasn’t asleep, for crying out loud!”

“My mistake, shorty,” Fang put one front paw over the other as he lay down on top of his cardboard box mound. “Ain’t you gonna answer when a pup—”

“Just leave me alone.” Skip trotted out of the alley.

His friends watched him go.

As soon as Skip disappeared around the corner, Bachelor’s head poked out from behind it. “Hey,