Everything for a Dog

by Ann M. Martin

  I took several more steps.

  When I was very near to the woman she held her hand even closer to me. Tentatively I stretched my neck forward. And suddenly the meat was on the ground and the woman’s hands were grasping my front legs.

  In a flash I pulled free and ran as fast as I could between two houses and away from the road.

  “Come back!” the woman called. “I want to help you. I know you’re lost.”

  It wasn’t easy to run fast with no food in my belly, but I didn’t stop until I was far, far from the houses. Then I walked and walked and walked. It was later, when the weak sun was at its highest point in the sky, that I found the stream. It ran out from some woods, under a road, and along a field toward a house that stood all by itself in a grove of trees.

  I stepped carefully down the bank to the water and took a long drink. After that I followed the stream. I followed it to the house. I didn’t want to go into the woods again. I didn’t want to meet any more people either, but I thought maybe I would find a garbage heap by the house.

  I didn’t find a garbage heap, but I did find garbage. It was in a metal can like the ones in the yard behind Franklin’s apartment. Those cans were topped off with lids that Mr. Bruce kept tightly in place. The lid on this can was loose and I knocked it off easily. Then I tipped over the can and inside . . . inside were the ends of a loaf of bread and some pieces of dry ham and a mouthful of cooked eggs, enough food to fill me up nicely. There were other things too, things that were not meant to be eaten, but I pawed them aside and concentrated on the food.

  All this took a while and I stopped frequently to look around me and to listen carefully. No people came out of the house, though, or drove close to me in a car. Even so, I decided to leave after I had finished eating. I trotted back to the stream and continued to follow it. When the sky grew dark at the end of the day I came to another house in the country. I slept in the shelter of a stone wall at the edge of the yard. The next morning I ate a nice breakfast from a bowl of crunchy food on the patio behind the house. I don’t know who the food was meant for, but I was too hungry to care. When I had licked the bowl clean I hurried away from the house.

  This was the beginning of my time of wandering. I wandered from house to house and town to town while the cold air nipped at the tips of my ears and the snows fell and covered the ground. I wandered while the air grew warm again and the leaves returned to the trees and the outside animals had their babies. I wandered while the warm air grew hot and then very hot and sometimes water was hard to find.

  I never stayed long in one place. A night or two, a week or two, and it was time to move on. Finding garbage and eating it secretly and quickly became easier. Occasionally I caught small animals in the woods and made a meal of them, but I didn’t like the woods much. I was a country dog and a town dog, but not a woods dog.

  The air was growing cool again and the leaves on the trees had a different look to them and were starting to fall to the ground when I emerged from a grassy meadow one afternoon, found myself at the side of a road, and came to an abrupt stop. I had been to this place before. I was sure of it. The smells were familiar. Not recently familiar, but familiar from some time in the past.

  I sniffed. I sniffed the air and the ground and then the air again.

  Something told me to cross the road, so I did, after listening for cars first. When I reached the other side, I followed the road for a while and then when I reached a particular lane leading from the road, I turned and followed that.

  This place, wherever I was, felt like a home. But I wasn’t on the road to George and Marcy’s house (which hadn’t felt like a home anyway), and I wasn’t on any of the streets around Thad and Isabel’s house or Franklin’s apartment building. They had lived in towns and I was in the country, and the smells here were different from town smells, but familiar all the same.

  Sniff, sniff, sniff. From the many smells in the air I selected several that I knew well: cat (but not Estelle), bird (especially barn swallow), and boy. My heart quickened and so did my pace. I trotted along and when I came to a stone wall, my pace quickened even further so that I reached the garbage heap in no time. I was so excited that I didn’t notice that nothing in the heap was fresh. Instead I loped on through the woods until I came to the shed. It stood before me with its open window, the door still ajar. And even as I watched the shed, the face of a young cat, a tabby with black stripes along his forehead, peered around the door and surveyed the yard before heading across it in a purposeful way.

  I had stumbled across the Merrions’ property.

  Back then, back when I accidentally returned to the Merrions’, I didn’t know the names of the seasons. Now I do, and I can say that Squirrel and I had left this place at the end of a summer, and that I had been away from it for the autumn, the winter, the spring, the summer, the next autumn, the next winter, the next spring, the next summer, and that now it was autumn again.

  The yard looked largely the same as it had on the day Squirrel and I walked away from it, except that it was wearing its autumn face, a face I had never seen, since Squirrel and I had lived at the Merrions’ for only two seasons—spring and summer. There were the gardens, as carefully tended as always, but barer now, with more earth showing, the summer plants beginning to die back. There was the swing the Merrion children used to ride on. There was the driveway, although no car was parked on it.

  No car, and the property was quiet except for outdoor autumn sounds. The Merrions were not here.

  I trotted from the woods and poked my snout through the door to the shed. There were the flowerpots, the wheelbarrow, and the old nesting boxes, still inhabited, I saw at once, by cats. Several of them hissed at me. They didn’t know me and I didn’t know them. I backed out.

  I sat in the yard. The Merrions’ yard was pleasant when no Merrions were in it. But then I checked the garbage heap and found only the remains of old things; nothing I could eat.

  I went to sleep with an empty belly that evening. I slept in the shed, very near the door, which was how I happened to hear the Merrions’ car as soon as it turned onto their drive. I had been asleep for just a short while when my ears picked up the sound of the tires on the pavement. I got to my feet and peered through the door.

  And there they were, spilling out of their car in the glow of several outdoor lights: the Merrion parents, the older boy, the girl, and Matthias. Matthias was much larger than he had been the last time I’d seen him. His legs were long and I saw that he walked more quickly. He lifted things out of the car and set them on the drive, and the very last thing he lifted out was a fluffy white dog with poofs of fur around her legs and on top of her head.

  “Good girl,” Matthias said to her when she ambled over to the lawn and squatted to pee. “Good girl, Princess.” Then Matthias picked her up, cradling her in his arms, and carried her into the house.

  The Merrions’ yard grew quiet again. In the morning I left it without even bothering to check the garbage heap.

  A few days later, after more wandering, more hiding, more eating from trash cans, I came to the top of a small mountain. I sat down for a rest and noticed that a little town had grown up in the valley between this mountain and another one not far away. Many of the streets in the town ran from mountain to mountain. I could see the roofs of houses dotting those streets. Rooftops, treetops, a sleepy-looking town, and maybe one with lots of garbage.

  Food in the town and good hiding places just outside of the town. This looked like a place for me.

  12. HENRY

  Henry thought that for the rest of his life he would remember the first time he saw the tan dog. It was on an autumn day so clear and lovely that the weather was the first thing anyone mentioned when starting a conversation. The newscaster on the radio program that Henry and his parents listened to while they ate their breakfast even called that Thursday one of the ten best days of the year. The air was cool, the sun shone brilliantly, and when Henry walked to school that morning and ti
pped his head back to gaze through the branches of the maple trees, the red and yellow and orange leaves against the deep blue of the sky reminded him of the crazy quilt his father’s aunt had made the year Henry was born.

  Henry walked along by himself and tried to forget how mad he was at his parents. But he was mad—too mad to walk through town with either one of them, and so he slogged along Tinker Lane, weighed down by his full backpack and his angry thoughts, and looked at the familiar early morning sights. There was the big old house with the bird feeders and the birdhouse and the birdbath, but no sign of an occupant. There was the little school bus picking up Mackey Brannigan’s sister. There were Antony and Owen and the pack of kids who always walked to school together. They were turning the corner onto Nassau Street.

  Henry was just thinking that maybe he ought to run to catch up with them when out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement where there should be no movement. He swiveled his head to the right and saw three garbage cans in the narrow yard between two houses a block from Nassau. Henry stared at the cans. He stared at the yard and the houses on either side of it. Nothing was moving. He looked at the cans again. And a slender tan paw appeared between two of them, reaching delicately, followed by a scruffy tan head.

  Henry came to a stop. “Hey,” he whispered.

  As he watched, the dog tentatively squeezed the rest of his body between the cans, then turned, stood on his hind legs, and began to explore the lids of the cans with his front paws and his snout.

  Henry held his breath. Who was this dog? He wasn’t wearing a collar, and he didn’t look cared for. Henry could see the outlines of ribs under his fur. And the dog was dirty. He was so dirty, in fact, that Henry wasn’t even sure he was tan. Maybe he was white and needed a very thorough bath.

  “Dog?” said Henry curiously.

  He had spoken quietly, but in an instant the dog dropped to the ground and spun around. When he caught sight of Henry, he shot back between the cans and disappeared.

  “Well,” said Henry in a louder voice. “This is interesting.”

  Henry didn’t see the dog again until Saturday. He was spending the afternoon in a solitary fashion, wandering the roads of Claremont the way he used to do with Matthew. He had been spending the day indoors until his mother had clucked her tongue and told him to please go outside and not waste the sunshine. So Henry had made the rounds of the stores on Nassau Street, and now he was walking along the alley behind them to see what he might find there. (He and Matthew had once come across a lone sneaker in perfectly good condition, and another time Matthew had pounced on four one-dollar bills wadded up in a dried-out rubber band.) Henry leaned over to examine something shiny by the back door of the jewelry store (it turned out to be a gum wrapper), and when he straightened up he found himself face-to-face with the scruffy dog, who had just peered suspiciously around the corner of the alley.

  Henry, who had thought he was alone, let out a shout, the dog barked shrilly, and Henry ran back to Nassau Street while the dog took off in the other direction. When Henry had recovered, he returned to the alley, but found it deserted.

  “Dog?” called Henry. “Boy?” He was fairly certain the dog was a male. “Come here, boy. . . . Where did you go?”

  Despite his scare, Henry took this encounter as a good sign. He had now spotted the dog twice—and not hanging around the edges of town, where in the past he had spotted stray dogs from time to time, but right in town, and right in Henry’s own neighborhood.

  Henry made a deal with himself. If he saw the dog again, then he would find a way to convince his parents to let him keep him. Maybe they would say okay to a free dog. After all, one of their objections to getting a dog was the expense involved. But if Henry presented them with this stray, then they wouldn’t have to pay an adoption fee. Furthermore (Henry began to smile as his idea took shape), if Henry could teach the dog some manners and housebreak him before his mother and father met him, then Henry could say, “And we don’t even need to train him. I already took care of that.”

  Henry didn’t have to wait long to see the dog again. He spotted him later that very afternoon. The dog was back on Tinker Lane, nosing around someone else’s garbage cans.

  “Hello, boy!” called Henry, and this time the dog paused and watched Henry with his solemn brown eyes for several seconds before disappearing behind the trash cans.

  Henry put on speed as he ran toward his house. True to his word, he headed straight for his bedroom to draw up a plan for training the dog, his dog.

  “I’m going to do my homework now,” Henry called to his mother, certain she wouldn’t tell him to go back outside if she thought he was starting his weekend assignments.

  He closed his door, sat at his desk, and removed a large pad of paper from the drawer. He found a pen, thought for a moment, then headed the top sheet of paper: REHABILITATION PLAN.

  How, wondered Henry, was he to take the pup from a wary, unwashed stray to a friendly, attractive, well-trained dog, fit to be a family pet? One day at a time, that was how. And so he drew up his plan:

  Day 1—approach dog and allow him to sniff hand

  Day 2—pat dog

  Day 3—attempt to hug dog

  Day 4—tell dog his new name (Buddy)

  Day 5—call Buddy and give him a cookie when he comes

  Day 6—teach Buddy to sit

  Henry wasn’t sure how step 6 was to be accomplished, but he was reasonably certain that he could find a book on dog training in the library.

  Day 7—teach Buddy to do something that will impress Mom and Dad

  Day 8—teach Buddy how to walk on a leash (make sure to buy a collar and a leash first)

  Henry glanced across the room at his dresser, on which sat his wallet.

  Day 9—give Buddy a bath

  Day 10—make sure Buddy is housebroken.

  Henry was particularly uncertain about this last step. How would he know if Buddy was housebroken without first bringing him inside the house? And he knew that Buddy must remain a secret outdoor dog until the entire rehabilitation plan had been accomplished.

  Still, the plan was very exciting. In just ten days—less than two weeks from now—Henry would have a fully trained, friendly, and clean dog. He didn’t expect to see Buddy again until the next day (that would be asking for too much), but he could still start on his plan, and the first thing he needed to do was count the money in his wallet to see if he had enough to buy a collar and a leash and also some dog treats. This was when Henry remembered that he had rashly decided to donate his money to the animal shelter and that it was not in his wallet but stuffed into the envelope that his mother had put somewhere in the kitchen. Well, too bad. Henry needed that money now. His original plan hadn’t worked, but this one would. Henry could make a donation to the shelter some other time. He crept into the kitchen, found the envelope, and tiptoed back to his room with it. He dumped the money on his bed and counted it. Yes, he had enough for a collar, a leash, and treats, with a fair amount left over.

  “I’m going back to town!” Henry called a few minutes later as he dashed down the stairs.

  “Now? It’s almost dinnertime,” his mother replied.

  “I’ll be quick,” said Henry. And he was. He made a hurried trip to the pet supply store, and then checked two books on dog training out of the public library. As he did so, he crossed his fingers, hoping that Ms. Delacroix, the librarian on duty, wouldn’t mention the books to his father. Books on dog training might raise eyebrows, and Henry didn’t want his father to become suspicious. He ran home and stashed the books, his purchases, and the rehabilitation plan under his bed.

  The next morning, Henry awoke with a delicious feeling of anticipation in his stomach. It was time to begin his plan. Even though he had already memorized every step of it, he pulled the plan from beneath his bed and read, “Day One—approach dog and allow him to sniff hand.” He returned the plan to its hiding place. “Okay. That’s what I’ll do today,” said Henry. And he decide
d it might be a good idea to do it more than once in order to let Buddy become familiar with him. As an afterthought, Henry stuffed the bag of treats in his pocket. It couldn’t hurt to reward Buddy after he had been brave enough to sniff Henry’s hand.

  Henry headed outside early that morning. He found that the day was not as nice as the previous one had been. There was a chill in the air, and a damp fog had settled over Claremont. It curled around the houses and trees on Tinker Lane like steam rising from a bowl of soup. The fog was not going to make finding Buddy any easier, but Henry was determined to stay on schedule with the Rehabilitation Plan.

  He walked slowly across his yard and turned right when he reached the sidewalk. It had been a while since he had been outdoors so early on a Sunday morning, and Henry was surprised by how quiet Tinker Lane was. “Buddy!” Henry called softly, and then he realized that the tan dog didn’t know his name yet. “Here, boy!” he called. “Here, boy! Come get a treat!”

  Henry heard all sorts of gentle autumn noises, but no dog noises. He heard wet leaves falling to the ground, and a crow cawing in the distance, and the rustle of chrysanthemums and yellowing ferns stirred by the breeze. But he did not hear any barking or yipping or whining. Henry crossed the street and soon another sound reached his ears—a soft tinkling, like a musical instrument.

  The tinkling sound grew louder and at the same time the fog shifted and suddenly the lavender house belonging to the person Henry never saw gradually appeared, as if a magician had lifted a scarf. Henry realized that the sound came from a ring of metal chimes hanging from the branch of a tree. Henry stopped and stared at the yard—and jumped when a timid voice said, “Hello.”

  Henry scanned the yard.

  “I’m over here,” said the voice. “I’m hard to see in the fog.”

  Henry continued to stare, and finally made out a tiny woman carrying a bucket of birdseed. “Oh,” said Henry. “Hello.” And then, because he didn’t know what else to say, he asked, “Have you seen a dog?”