43

“Mrs. Pochinko?” Mr. Crumpler yelled into his walkie-talkie. “Alert animal control! We need a tranquilizer gun!”

He and the new janitor had chased the dog west, out of the main hall, past a few classrooms, up the steps, and into the cafeteria.

The fifth graders, who ate earliest, were squealing with delight as the mangy mutt scampered under their tables.

“Stop! Bad dog! Bad dog!” Mr. Crumpler was screaming. The bewildered children stared at him. “Eat your vegetables!” he hollered. “Eat them now!” He punched the talk button on his radio again. “Mrs. Pochinko?”

“Sir?”

“Give me a hallway lockdown. Give it to me now!”

“On it, sir.”

Mr. Crumpler stood frozen, mopping the top of his bald head with a paper napkin he had swiped from a boy who looked like he used his shirt sleeve instead of his napkin anyway.

This was Carl D. Crumpler’s worst nightmare come true. A wild dog running amuck, jeopardizing the safety of all his students. Chaos. Rabies. Armageddon.

“You think maybe we should chase after it?” asked the rookie janitor.

Crumpler gave the man a look. “You bet I do, mush mouth!”

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