Banjo and the Attack of the Squirrels: Part 1

In a small town in a small house lived a small dog with a big heart.  His name was Banjo.

Banjo lived with a small boy and his mom.  She was a pretty lady, but extremely sad.  She hadn’t always been unhappy, just since the nice man in the uniform came to the door that day. Banjo didn’t know much human, but he knew whatever “Missing in Action” meant, it wasn’t good.

Banjo noticed she cried a lot. Particularly at night.  Banjo didn’t know why — he suspected it was because of squirrels.  Had to be. All the evil in the world flowed back to squirrels.  At least in his mind.

World War 2 was raging across the globe.  The small boy’s dad had enlisted to fight the Axis powers and protect democracy. One fateful day he had vanished.  The war moved on.  A family waited, frozen in place.

Well, not totally frozen. The small boy and Banjo still found time to play.  The boy had toy soldiers and planes. Banjo had his ball.  The boy loved to throw Banjo’s ball in the backyard.  Banjo loved to chase it.

It was a cool early May morning when the boy threw the ball toward the giant oak tree. Banjo ran around the back of the tree after the ball. And didn’t return.

“Banjo!” the boy cried. “C’mon Banjo! Come here, boy.”

Silence.

“Quit playing around, Banjo! Get back here now!”

Still nothing.

The small boy ran to the tree to look for his best friend.  Nothing. Banjo had vanished.

The boy looked frantically around the backyard. There were no holes in the fence.  The gate was shut tightly.  The boy stopped and put his head in his hands.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw it: A big hole in the base of the tree. The small boy went over to the tree and found the biggest stick he could find. He poked the stick into the hole and he couldn’t hit anything.  Thrust, stab, poke – nothing. The boy shoved it in one more time and the stick slipped out of his hand.  It was gone.

What?  The boy got down on his hands and knees and looked into the hole.  It was like trying to peer through a bottle of ink.  Nothing.  The boy inched forward to try to get a better look.  Dirt shifted.  He plunged forward.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

The boy hit with a thump and the blackness got darker. He fell unconscious.

The black turned to gray.  The gray turned to white.  The boy woke, opened his eyes and focused on the room around him.  It was a bare room with white walls and black metal bars separating him from an empty hallway.  “Hello?” he cried.  His voice echoed down the hallway.

The boy slumped in despair. Minutes seemed like hours.  And then he heard it.  A feint bark.

“Banjo!” the boy cried.  Banjo heard the boy and barked louder.

Now to figure out how to get out of the cell.

Click to read Part 2

© 2011 Marshall Ramsey