Because of Shoe and Other Dog Stories Page 7

  “You’re welcome,” I say anyway. “Well, you probably want to get back home. Thanks for the demonstration.”

  Cynthia expertly parks the Prius in the Wilsons’ garage, and I lope across the road and up my driveway. I have absolutely no idea what to do next.

  I fix myself some lunch. Then I sit on the front porch for a while. I remember the time Picasso poked his head through the railings to get a better view of a Pop-Tart that Anthony had accidentally dropped over the side and how he barked and sniffed and barked some more before realizing that he couldn’t pull his head back out.

  “Dad! Picasso’s stuck!” I had yelled into the house.

  “Why am I not surprised?” replied my father, appearing at the screen door and surveying the situation.

  Dad had to get his saw and remove part of one of the railings in order to free Picasso, and he wasn’t happy about it.

  The railing has never been repaired. I kick my foot through the space.

  “Picasso!” I shout, but without any conviction.

  The phone rings, and I nearly fall down the porch steps—that’s how nervous I am now. I tear inside. Maybe someone has found Picasso. I don’t even care if it’s Cynthia Wilson and I have to confess the real purpose of the driving demonstration.

  I snatch up the phone without looking at the Caller ID display. “Hello? Hello?”

  “Hi, honey,” says my mother’s voice. “Just checking in. Everything all right?”

  “Well,” I say, and luckily I don’t get any further before I hear a lot of static and some whooshing and crackling noises.

  “Uh-oh,” says Mom. “I think I’m breaking up.” (Whoooosh.) “I’m not” (crackle, crackle) “be using my cell phone.” (Creeeak, crackle, crackle.) “So we’ll see you—”

  The line goes dead.

  “When? You’ll see me when?” I cry. I shake the phone as if that will restore our connection. I’m not even sure where Mom was calling from. For all I know, they’re on their way home. I imagine Dad turning onto our road two miles from here where it intersects with the highway and then screeching to a halt as Picasso saunters out of the woods.

  I return to the porch, where I look toward the road and yell, “Picasso! You’d better come back right now, or you will be in very, very big trouble. And I mean it!”

  Of course nothing happens. I stomp around to the backyard, stand in the middle of it, and am about to yell Picasso’s name in a crabby and annoyed manner, when suddenly I remember last winter when I had the flu and Picasso spent nearly two weeks sleeping at my side. While I coughed and sneezed and burned up with fever and shivered with chills, Picasso lay peacefully on my bed. He didn’t care when I tossed back the covers and started sweating, and then hugged him to me five minutes later when I was cold. He did avoid the mound of tissues that piled up when I was too weak to aim for the wastebasket, but he didn’t seem to care that I had bad dreams (the kind that make you shout yourself awake) or that I smelled (a combination of sweat, cough medicine, and nose spray) or that I also had bad breath. He lay with his head on my knee and snored, day and night, until I was well.

  “Picasso, where are you?” I say. I don’t even bother to shout.

  Now how long has he been missing? I look at my watch. Close to three hours.

  This is very, very bad.

  I plop down in the grass, which is starting to turn brown. It’s only July third, but the last few weeks have been hot, not to mention entirely free of rain, and my parents are worrying about a drought and whether our well will go dry. I pull a fat blade of brown grass off of its stem, arrange it between my thumbs, and blow. The sound it makes is pathetic.

  I’m beginning to think that I am pathetic too when something drifts to me on a little breeze and I lift my nose in the air and sniff just the way Picasso does when someone opens a package of hot dogs.

  Then I realize that I actually do smell hot dogs, or something cooking on a barbecue—hot dogs, hamburgers, steak, vegetables. It’s hard to tell. But this is when it dawns on me that this is Fourth of July weekend. As if to drive the point home, just as I’m getting to my feet, I hear a pop, pop, pop in the distance. Fireworks. I ignore the fireworks, though, and concentrate on the smell. Someone is having a cookout nearby. And if I can smell the food, then Picasso can certainly smell it (if he’s still nearby). All at once, I know what I must do. I have to figure out who’s having the barbecue, and then I have to crash it.

  For the second time that day, I dash through our yard and down to the road. When I reach the end of our driveway, I stand there and pretend I’m Picasso. I sniff the air again. Left or right? I can’t tell. Picasso would be able to follow an odor the way I follow a trail through the woods, but I have no idea which way to go. Eventually I turn right, since we have more neighbors in that direction.

  I walk about half a mile, the smell goes away, and I don’t hear or see anything that would indicate a party, so I turn around, walk back, pass my driveway, and continue in the other direction until I notice a mailbox with a dinky red balloon tied to it. The balloon is so small that I’m not surprised I didn’t see it when I was driving around with Cynthia. I pause and listen. I hear laughter. I hear voices. I hear something clinking. At the end of the long driveway I see cars. And I definitely smell hot dogs.

  This is it. I have outwitted Picasso. (Of course, he isn’t very bright.)

  I turn up the driveway and tiptoe along the edge of it toward a small white house with another dinky red balloon, this one fastened to a lamppost by the front door. I picture myself returning home with Picasso and making a beeline for the refrigerator, where I will add hot dogs to our shopping list. As long as we always have hot dogs in the freezer, I think, I will never be in this situation again. The only thing I’ll have to do the next time he disappears is heat up a hot dog and wave it around in the yard.

  I stand at the top of the driveway and try to figure out how, exactly, I will lure Picasso back to our house, considering that I haven’t brought his leash with me. (Maybe I’m not too bright.) I could ask someone to give me a hot dog, I think, and I could feed him little bits of it as we walk home.

  I tiptoe on around to the backyard, where the party is in full swing. So many thoughts about getting Picasso home are whirling around in my head that at least a full minute goes by before I realize that Picasso is nowhere in sight. He’s not begging from any of the guests who are sitting in lawn chairs with plates of food in their laps; he’s not under a table guiltily eating a stolen hot dog; he’s not even waiting by the grill.

  I skirt the yard, trying to stay out of view. I look and look and look.

  The number of dogs at the party is zero.

  I wonder if anyone would notice if I suddenly yelled, “Picasso!” but I really don’t see the point.

  He isn’t here.

  I walk back to the road and amble along toward my house. I don’t even bother to hurry. Why should I? Picasso has been missing for hours, and Mom and Dad and Anthony will probably be home any minute.

  I have blown the biggest opportunity of my entire twelve-year-old life.

  I near my driveway. Across the road, I see Cynthia hosing down the Prius in the Wilsons’ driveway. I wave sadly to her, and she gives me a little wave back. She must think I spend all day roaming aimlessly around our neighborhood.

  Finally I turn right and walk up my own driveway. I watch my feet and notice that I have a hole in the toe of my left sneaker. I need new shoes. I’ll probably have to buy them myself. After today, my parents will never give me another nickel.

  I reach the top of the driveway, eyes still downcast, and this is when I trip over Picasso. He’s sitting under the basketball net, tongue hanging out, giving me a doggie grin.

  Picasso lets out a yip, and I let out a scream. “Picasso!”

  He gets to his feet. I crouch down and check him over thoroughly. He looks just fine.

  “Where on earth were you?” I cry. I fling my arms around him and hug him, thinking how nice it is that h
e’s hugging me back. Then I realize that Picasso isn’t hugging me, he’s sniffing me. I smell like barbecue.

  Picasso gazes into my eyes and produces an award-winning belch.

  I take him inside and direct him to his water bowl. He has a long, sloppy drink. Then I snap his leash onto his collar and lead him to the front porch. We’re sitting there in a relaxed fashion when a car turns into our driveway. Mom and Dad and Anthony pile out, Anthony waving his arm around, showing off his cast like he has just had a great adventure.

  “Hi, honey!” calls my mother. “How was your day?”

  “Fine,” I say, getting to my feet.

  Picasso stands up, too, and sticks his head through the porch railings. He tries to back up and can’t.

  “Picasso just got stuck again,” I announce.

  My father closes his eyes briefly, then opens them and looks at the place where he has already removed one railing. “Why couldn’t he have put his head there?” he asks, and huffs inside to find his tools.

  The God of the Pond

  by Valerie Hobbs

  illustrated by Olga and Aleksey Ivanov

  Bertha

  What Emmy wanted more than anything, more than new ice skates, more than a job for her father, even more than to be tall, was to do a full flip jump. Just one perfect flip jump. Maybe even a not-so-perfect flip jump. Just as long as it was the real thing. As long as she leapt and turned in the air, landed on a back outside edge, and at least one person was there to see her do it.

  Bobby. Bobby would be the perfect person. If she closed her eyes, she could see him standing right there at the edge of the pond, with his hands stuffed in his pockets, his bright blue eyes, and his cheeks pink from the cold. Emmy would leap, turn, and come down perfectly onto the ice, and Bobby would cheer and punch the air. “Yeah!”

  Walking home, he might just take her hand. Perfect!

  But life wasn’t perfect, and Emmy knew it. She wasn’t a baby. She was eleven, almost twelve. It was an actual fact that you didn’t always get what you wanted, even if you asked God for it.

  How many times had she prayed for new skates? A hundred?

  Or you got what you asked for, but not exactly. Like praying for a dog and getting Bertha. Emmy had begged her parents for a dog for so long that she had almost given up. Then one day, one plain old, unsurprising day, her father had come home with a surprise. Sweet, shy Bertha, whose time at the shelter had almost run out. Bertha, with her sad eyes and long, wet doggie kisses. Bertha, who wriggled all over with love.

  Bertha, the chicken killer. Bertha, the dog no fence could keep in.

  If life were perfect, Bobby would have the perfect grandfather, not Old Man Brennan. Mean Old Man Brennan with his hundreds of chickens.

  Just this morning, she had opened the front door and there he had been.

  “This your mutt?” he’d said.

  Emmy had nodded.

  Old Man Brennan had handed her the rope he’d tied to Bertha’s collar.

  “He got another one of my chickens,” he’d said. “And if I find him after my chickens again, he’s a dead dog.” His words had come out in great white puffs.

  Under his left arm, pointed down, was a gun with two long barrels.

  “She,” said Emmy. Bertha had pushed her wet nose into Emmy’s hand. Her skinny tail slapped against Emmy’s legs.

  Mr. Brennan’s red face had creased up in a frown. “Are you sassing me, young lady?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You tell your folks what I said. One more chicken, no more dog.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Emmy.

  Old Man Brennan had turned away, and Emmy quietly closed the door.

  Her heart was beating as hard as Bertha’s tail.

  She shook her finger at Bertha. “You’re a bad girl, Bertha,” she’d said.

  Bertha had done her little yip-yip. What’s wrong? What’s all the fuss about?

  But Bertha knew. She had been grounded for a month, ever since she’d come home covered with feathers.

  “No chickens. Do you understand?” Emmy had said.

  Bertha had cocked her head, as if trying her best to do what Emmy said: understand.

  “Did you hear me? NO CHICKENS.”

  Bertha had pawed Emmy’s foot and wriggled her skinny backside. She smiled like no dog Emmy had ever seen. Pet me, pet me. I’m your best friend.

  Emmy’s mother had come out of the bathroom smelling like lemon, her favorite shower gel. “Who was that?”

  Emmy’s pulses were all on alarm. “Just the paper guy.” She had not been able to look her mother in the eye, so she’d patted Bertha instead.

  “Don’t let Bertha out,” said her mother.

  “I didn’t do it!” said Emmy. “It was Dad!”

  Emmy had put on her down jacket, hat, and gloves, and grabbed up her ice skates. “I’m going skating,” she said. “Bertha’s coming with me.”

  “Be careful,” her mother said, which was what she always said, even in the dead of winter when the ice was rock hard.

  Bertha had submitted to the muzzle and the leash, her eyes dark and tragic. Trust me, her eyes said, even though she couldn’t be trusted and probably knew it.

  Bertha had pulled Emmy up the road that had been cleared the week before. Little mounds of crunchy, sooty snow lay along the side. It had been a long, cold winter with plenty of good days for skating, and Emmy had finally learned to do a half flip. Now, at winter’s end, she was working on the full. If she did just one, she’d be the only kid besides Sara Stewart to do that trick. Sara actually did a triple once, but she was sixteen, a whole five years older than Emmy.

  Emmy stood at the top of the hill, looking down at Brennan’s Pond.

  The boys had been busy with their brooms, and the ice was half cleared.

  No Bobby.

  Emmy’s heart fell. She tried to tell herself that the day wasn’t ruined, but it was. It had started out ruined.

  Emmy tied Bertha’s leash to a tree and took off her muzzle. Bertha whined and slapped her tail against the tree. Then she turned three times and plopped down on a patch of dirt to sulk.

  Every inch of ice was scarred over with skate marks. Emmy stepped onto “the girls’ side” and glided off. Turning, she looked back across the ice at Bertha, who was on her feet again.

  Sara Stewart and a couple of her friends were coming down from the road, their skates slung around their necks. They all wore tights that looked brand-new and short skirts.

  Emmy’s tights had a hole in the knee from when she had taken a particularly bad fall, but her skirt almost hid it. She was never going to grow. All her life she would be four feet six inches, a shrimp.

  Turning lazy circles, Emmy watched Sara step onto the ice in her snow boots and jump a few times, then go a little farther out and do the same thing. She shook her head and went back to her friends. Emmy heard them shout, “The ice is no good!” But the boys waved them off and kept skating.

  Emmy began skating back. She listened, as she hadn’t earlier, for the ominous sound of ice breaking up. But the boys were still skating, slamming the puck and each other as if nothing in the world mattered but making a goal. She skated back to shore.

  Bertha was busy strangling herself. She had run round and round the tree until her leash was wound tight. Emmy had a hard time convincing her that she had to go back the other way, and an even harder time trying to get her muzzle back on. Why the muzzle when poor old Bertha was on her leash? Emmy’s mother was just being extra cautious, as usual.

  Her father never was. He knew better than to let Bertha out without her muzzle, but he did it anyway. “What’s a chicken or two?” he’d said the first time Bertha came home with feathers.

  But her father had not seen Old Man Brennan standing on the porch this morning with a shotgun.

  She was going to have to tell her parents.

  But she couldn’t. If she did, her mother would say it was “time.” Time to find Bertha a good home somewhere
else, a place where there were no chickens.

  But she had to. If she didn’t, her father would let Bertha out tomorrow, and Old Man Brennan would shoot her. Which was worse than Bertha living somewhere else, or even the shelter. Worse than anything Emmy could imagine.

  All afternoon, as Emmy worked on an art project and Bertha paced back and forth behind the door, she thought about how to tell her parents.

  At dinner, she couldn’t eat. Every bite felt like a hockey puck going down her throat.

  At last, she forced herself to say, “Um, this morning?”

  Bertha gave a little groan, as if she knew what was coming.

  Her mother smiled encouragingly. “Yes?”

  Her father looked up from his potatoes.

  “I meant to tell you this morning, only—”

  Her mother’s eyebrows came together. “Only what?”

  “Well … the snow and all … and it is Saturday.…”

  Which had nothing to do with anything.

  Her mother tilted her head and did her little mother frown. “And?”

  “Mom. Dad. Bertha killed another chicken.”

  “No!” said her mother.

  “Huh,” said her father, setting his fork down.

  “Mr. Brennan brought her home on a rope, and he had this gun and—”

  “What?” Her mother stood. Pushing back her chair, she stepped on Bertha’s paw. Bertha yelped like she’d been shot. “I will not have guns in my house. What was that man thinking of! Guns around children!”

  “Calm down, Alice,” Emmy’s father said.

  “He wasn’t actually in the house,” said Emmy. “He was on the porch the whole time.”

  Her mother was wringing the life out of a dish towel. “As if that makes one bit of difference!” She grimaced and made up her mind. “It’s time for Bertha to go,” she said.

  “No!” cried Emmy.

  Her mother brushed the hair back from Emmy’s face. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  Emmy jumped up and ran to her room. Slamming the door, she threw herself on her bed and cried until she made herself sick. It wasn’t Bertha’s fault. She loved to chase chickens the way Emmy loved to skate. It was in her blood.