The Pet War

by Allan Woodrow

  “I’ll be back at the same time tomorrow,” I said to Mr. Schnood.

  He squinted and scrunched his eyebrows. “You still look very familiar.”

  “I just have that sort of face,” I blurted, hurrying off.

  The next day started off even better. I got pretty good at figuring out who needed help. Old people needed assistance, as did moms with kids, people with crutches, and that sort of thing. Generally, the more miserable people looked, the more they needed me, and the more they paid. One guy with an arm in a sling and an eye patch gave me seven bucks! But a young guy in a tracksuit handed me eleven cents. I kept hoping someone would get wheeled in wearing a complete body cast. I’d be rich! But people in full body casts don’t grocery shop, I guess. Still, at this rate I’d have enough money in a couple of weeks. I felt good. I felt dog-owning rich.

  I’m sure Lexi wasn’t making this sort of money, even with all her tutoring work. Plus, she had to help do everyone’s homework. You couldn’t pay me enough to do extra homework.

  As I carried Mrs. Printz’s bag across the parking lot, I practically heard my new dog’s joyful bark and smelled his thick, cotton-soft fur. “Here, dog-not-named-Fluffernutter,” I said in my head, throwing an imaginary stick and having my imaginary dog fetch it. “Good boy, good boy.” My imaginary dog loved me more than anything in the world. And he hated Lexi, because my imaginary dog had excellent taste in people. We rolled around in an imaginary meadow laughing, while dog-not-named-Fluffernutter yapped in delight and then ran off to chase an imaginary butterfly.

  Lost in thought, I put the bag in the backseat of the car. I walked over to the driver’s side window and held out my hand.

  “Young man, what are you doing?”

  Mrs. Printz looked thin and weak, and it took her about five minutes to walk to her car, but you wouldn’t know it from her shrill voice. It cut through the parking lot like a burning-cookie-triggered smoke alarm. She stood six cars away in front of an empty trunk, tapping her foot.

  I scratched my head, confused. I wandered a few steps toward where she stood, and then the car behind me, a two-door convertible, honked and began backing out of its spot.

  “Where are my groceries?” demanded Mrs. Printz, hands on hips, her voice shattering the air between us like a baseball through a bedroom window.

  By the time I realized I had put the bags in the wrong car, it was too late. “Come back!” I screamed, waving at the convertible, chasing after it. But the car was already merging into traffic on Grand River Avenue. The old and shrill-voiced Mrs. Printz stood by her trunk, waiting.

  “Where are my groceries?” she screeched.

  “D-driving away,” I stuttered, pointing to the convertible a block away and getting farther in the distance.

  She yelled at me, and I bet they could hear her shouting on the moon. Astronauts probably covered their ears. She used words and phrases like irresponsible; well, I never; and you should be fired. And those were just the ones I could repeat without getting in trouble. After a good minute, Mr. Schnood hurried outside. He wore his white apron, streaked with blood. I’m sure Mrs. Printz wished it was my blood splattered on him.

  I explained that it was an honest mistake. I put the groceries in the wrong car. It was sort of funny if you thought about it, right? But I guess Mrs. Printz didn’t think it was funny one little bit. She said she would never come back. That I was a disgrace to bag boys all over the world. That unless I was fired on the spot, she would visit the store every day for the rest of her natural born life and tell everyone what a terrible place it was.

  “How about if you were a vampire?” I asked. “Then that would be an unnatural born life, right?” Mrs. Printz just stared at me. I didn’t repeat the question.

  Mr. Schnood made me pay for the groceries out of my own pocket, which wiped out all the money I earned that day. “And you’re fired,” he added.

  “But you’re not paying me anything,” I pointed out, “so you can’t technically fire me, can you?” Apparently he could.

  As I walked away, Mr. Schnood shouted after me. “Now I know who you are! You’re that kid who ruined my canned-fruit pyramid display last year! Good riddance!”

  Mr. Schnood had a pretty good memory after all.

  So just like that, I needed a new job again. It wasn’t my fault at all, though. It was the convertible’s fault. And Lexi’s, just because she’s Lexi and everything is her fault.

  But I needed to start earning money. If not, dog-not-named-Fluffernutter would never bark while chasing a butterfly, imaginary or otherwise. I thought about cat-named-Fluffernutter meowing in a meadow, chasing a butterfly of her own. I shuddered at the horror of it.

  Lexi’s signs still hung from the school halls, taunting me. Their glitter reflected off the fluorescent ceiling lights like a million sparkling diamond specks of mockery. I stared at a sign featuring a worm with glasses. BE A BOOKWORM, the sign jeered. I wanted to squash it. Although, I hated to admit, the worm was pretty cute.

  “This stinks,” I growled to Malcolm as we stared at the revolting tutoring sign. “I should tutor kids for money.”

  Malcolm laughed. “Supply and demand. No one’s demanding your tutoring and you couldn’t supply it anyway.”

  “Sure I could.”

  Who would pay you to tutor?”

  “Lots of people,” I huffed.

  “Name one.”

  Well, okay. I couldn’t name anybody. “She can’t win. I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll brag about Fluffernutter the rest of our lives.”

  “You’ll try your best and —”

  Malcolm didn’t get it. I cut him off. “No. Trying isn’t good enough. I have to win. I have to do more than win — I have to demolish her! Don’t you understand? This is payback time for all the terrible things she’s done.”

  “Like what?” mumbled Malcolm. I sensed skepticism in his voice.

  “Like being born before me! And being smart! Two months ago Mom said, ‘Why can’t you get good grades like your sister?’ Well, maybe I don’t want good grades!”

  Malcolm blinked. “Why wouldn’t you want good grades?”

  “That’s not the point!” I raged. “Don’t you see? There’s a lifetime of wrongs here. Grades are just the tip of the iceberg with Miss I’m-More-Perfect-Than-You! I have to put her in her place! Show her who’s boss!”

  Malcolm shook his head. “I thought this was about getting a dog.”

  “Well, that, too.”

  As I tromped into language arts class, I overheard Mr. Corgi talking to Noah Grumb. Noah was a grade ahead of me. He was tall and played basketball. He didn’t seem like the smartest guy in school, though. He always walked around with his mouth open. It’s hard to look intelligent if you walk around with your mouth open. Plus, flies can swarm inside. Or drool can dribble down your chin.

  It’s hard to look smart with drool on you, too.

  “You should call Lexi for help,” suggested Mr. Corgi. “Her phone number is on those terrific signs in the hallway.”

  “Thanks a bunch, Mr. Corgi.” Noah beamed, wiping his chin.

  “Lexi is a great student,” Mr. Corgi added. “She’ll help you a lot.”

  I was sick of hearing about Miss Perfect Student everywhere I went. I grabbed Noah’s arm. “She can’t help,” I blabbered. “She’s too busy. She’s closed her business. She broke her arm. She’s very sick and can’t get out of bed.”

  “I saw her in the hallway five minutes ago,” said Noah.

  “Well, her illness was very sudden,” I explained.

  I’m not sure if Noah was convinced. But much, much worse, my own teachers were recommending Lexi! Mr. Corgi, who had the last name of a dog, for heaven’s sake, was helping my sister get a cat! It was hard enough living up to Little Miss Can’t-Do-Anything-Wrong all day, but now this? I sat down in my seat with an angry plop.

  The conversation repeated itself in my head all day, too: You should call Lexi for help. Lexi is a great student.r />
  “Cheer up,” said Malcolm at lunchtime.

  “You’re not the one facing a life with Fluffernutter,” I moaned, removing the lettuce from my turkey sandwich. Mom insists on adding lettuce to my sandwich every day, and every day I remove it. “What if Lexi came down with a terrible disease?” I added. “No one will hire her then.”

  “Like what?” scoffed Malcolm.

  “Annoying sister-itis?”

  Malcolm rolled his eyes. “It’s all about supply and demand, remember? You just have to figure out what you can supply.” Malcolm pointed to the lettuce lying on the table. “You’re like that. Unwanted. No demand. A worn-out, dried-up piece of wilting lettuce. A senseless sprig of parsley.”

  “If this is your idea of a pep talk, you’re not very good at it.”

  Malcolm just shrugged.

  “But you’re right. I’m parsley,” I whimpered. “That’s exactly what I am. I can’t tutor. I can’t carry grocery bags. I can’t throw a telethon.” I ripped a bite off my sandwich, pretending it was Lexi’s head. I chewed extra hard, but I didn’t feel better. I just felt worthless.

  “You’re good at stuff,” said Malcolm.

  I stared at him and scratched my chin. Then I scratched some more. “I’m drawing a blank here.”

  “You’re good at soccer.”

  “Was good,” I moaned.

  “You’re just rusty. You’re a good friend.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Great. You want to pay me five hundred dollars?”

  “And you’re a pretty good writer,” said Malcolm, ignoring my comment. “You got an A on that social studies report about igloos last month.”

  “I got a B. And you wrote half of it.”

  “I thought everyone got an A on that social studies report. As long as it was five pages you got an A.”

  “I only wrote four pages. There just isn’t that much to say about igloos.” I ripped off another chunk of turkey sandwich and munched unhappily.

  “You’re going to win. You’re going to earn that money,” said Malcolm.

  “Then how?”

  I waited for Malcolm to answer me. He didn’t.

  Back at home, I felt as depressed as a leaky bike tire. Mom was at work. Lexi was tutoring in the kitchen. I needed air. I grabbed my bike and rode downtown. Maybe I’d find a new Help Wanted sign. I’d do anything at this point, even a job as a horseradish taster.

  I found two Help Wanted signs. But I didn’t have my own car, so I couldn’t be a pizza delivery guy, and I wasn’t going to step foot inside the beauty salon, in case someone from school saw me. There was no way I would ever live that down.

  I even looked into a couple of trash cans for returnable bottles, but I found nothing.

  I dragged myself into the You Pet-Cha! Pet Store. They didn’t have a Help Wanted sign out front, but I asked the manager if he had any odd jobs. He didn’t. I told him that if he paid me five hundred dollars right then and there, I’d work for free for the rest of my natural born life. He still wasn’t interested. That seemed like a pretty good offer to me.

  But I didn’t leave. I trudged past the birdcages and the fish supplies, past the lizards and cat toys, all the way, way back to where they kept the dogs. They sat in stacked cages behind a big glass wall in a small, enclosed, carpeted room. If you asked, you could play with a dog for a few minutes, before you bought one.

  There were eight cages: five with dogs, and three empty ones. That meant three newly adopted dogs. Somewhere, three families happily played fetch and rolled around meadows that weren’t imaginary. But not me. All the dogs here were puppies: a boxer, a dachshund, a border collie, and two golden retrievers. I focused on the golden retrievers. They reminded me of younger Alfalfas with their light brown hair.

  That just made me sadder. I wondered how Alfalfa was doing. Was he happy? Had he made any doggy friends? Did anyone know which ear he liked scratched best, and how long he liked his tummy rubbed?

  Probably not. Poor guy.

  One of those retrievers in the cages jumped around, tongue out, excited. Just looking at it made you smile. It would be impossible to feel sad with a dog like that jumping around you all day long.

  The other retriever sat in its cage, way in the back. This dog didn’t move and kept its head buried in its paws. But I could see its eyes peeking out and looking at me. This was a sneaky fellow.

  “Can I see that one, please?” I asked.

  “His name is Thumper,” said the pet store girl, a teenager with a pierced lip, a pierced eyebrow, and orange streaks in her hair. She unlocked the cage. “He doesn’t really do much,” she explained. “He’s kind of a dud.” I sat on the ground and she handed Thumper to me. He didn’t move, but he snuck peeks between his flaps of fur. “His sister, Marta, is a lot more fun,” said Ms. Orange Hair, gesturing to the other golden retriever still bouncing around.

  “Thumper’s not a dud,” I said. “He’s just sad.” I stroked his golden fur and scratched his right ear. He seemed to like that, because he closed his eyes and squirmed into my lap a little deeper. I continued rubbing and scratching. “You’d be sad too if your sister got the attention all day. She probably gets straight As in school, and he always feels like he’s second best. Right, boy?” Thumper wiggled a little bit tighter into my legs. “You’d be a lot happier if your teachers stopped comparing you to your sister all the time. And if your sister caught a disease and couldn’t tutor anyone. Nothing too horrible, just one that would keep her in bed for a few weeks. I bet your sister wants a cat, too. Right?”

  Thumper yawned. I’m not sure if I made him feel better, but he made me feel better.

  There were a lot of great kinds of dogs. But dogs that sat quietly and made you feel better were probably the best kinds of all.

  “You know what you need, boy?” I said to Thumper, staring into his dark eyes, which never seemed to blink. “You just need to figure out what you’re good at. That’s all. Then you’d show everyone you’re better than your sister at something.”

  “You’re sort of weird, kid,” said the pet store worker.

  “I bet she’s a cat lover,” I whispered into Thumper’s ear. “And she has orange hair. So really, who’s the weird one?”

  Thumper nodded, I’m sure of it.

  I sat with Thumper for a while, until the pet store girl told me if I wasn’t buying Thumper, she needed to put him away. I gave Thumper a good-bye scratch and handed him to Miss Orange Hair.

  But I felt better. The scent of dog remained on my hands, even after I got home. I loved that wonderful, rugged puppy smell. If I could sell dog smell, I’d be so rich I could buy a million dogs.

  But I didn’t need a million dogs. I just needed one.

  I needed a dog playing peekaboo under his paws, shyly pretending not to look at me as he wiggled in my lap.

  I felt low all night, especially because Lexi sat in the kitchen hour after hour, tutoring. When Noah Grumb entered the house, I groaned. It was just another reminder of my teachers working against me.

  I sat on the couch trying to think of ideas, but my mind was empty. All my ideas were locked in a cage like a pet store dog. I stared at my notebook. The pages remained empty.

  When Noah finally left, Lexi sat down on the couch next to me. I shot her two evil eyes. “I could tutor you on how to make money.” She giggled.

  “I know how to make money,” I snapped. “It’s all about supply and demand. I’m in a lot of demand.”

  “Yes, everyone wants to hire worthless baby brothers.”

  “I’m not a baby,” I grumbled. “And this isn’t over. Thumper understands. He won’t let Marta beat him, and I won’t let you!”

  “Baby brother, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lexi leaned back on the cushions. “Where do you think we should put Fluffernutter’s litter box?” She pointed to the corner of the room. “Over there?”

  I felt my face turning red with anger. “I don’t hear any purring in this house yet.”

 
“Then you must not be listening. Shhh. Hear that?” I stiffened. Had she bought a cat already? “Yes, I can practically hear Fluffernutter’s soft, mellow meowing as she licks her milk from her bowl.”

  So she didn’t have a cat. Not yet. Relieved but annoyed, I jumped up. “Yeah? Yeah?” I stammered. “Well, I’ll lick you!”

  “Gross. You are not licking me.”

  “I mean in our money battle. I wouldn’t actually lick you,” I admitted. “That’s disgusting.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “You are.”

  “You are.”

  “You are a disgusting flea-bitten catnip-craving fur-ball freak!” I shouted. Where was Malcolm when I finally came up with a great insult?

  It didn’t faze Lexi, though. She laughed. “Even if I were a catnip-craving freak, I also happen to be crushing you at earning money. So you know what that makes you?” I shrugged. “Losing!” Lexi was laughing so hard she had to hold her stomach.

  I marched upstairs, but her laughter lingered in my ears for so long I eventually needed to use a Q-tip to get it out.

  “Welcome to Château Dad,” Dad announced as we dropped our bags on the floor of his apartment. That’s what he said every time we came over. We just rolled our eyes.

  Ever since my parents had split up a couple of years earlier, we stayed with Mom during the week and with Dad every other weekend. He only lived about two miles away, but it felt like going to another planet. His place was completely different from Mom’s house. He was sort of a slob, and he couldn’t cook, and never had anything good to eat in the pantry, and his apartment was really small, and there was no yard to play in or other kids around. But I was still excited to come over because he loved dogs, and we still needed Dad to agree to our challenge. He’d wanted a dog growing up — he told me that once. So I knew he’d be on my side. If he hated cats, this contest could be over before I had saved very much money at all.

  I just needed to get on Dad’s good side before we laid the news on him. I wasn’t repeating the same mistake I made with Mom. I needed to sweet-talk him first. “I love what you’ve done with the place, Dad. Is that a new sofa?”