The Pet War

by Allan Woodrow

  “I’ll never get used to a cat.”

  “That’s a shame, because Mom says we can put her litter box in your room.”

  “What?” I shouted in horror, and Lexi laughed as she walked her friend downstairs.

  I could still feel the lingering tingles of where the cat had rubbed against my leg. It spread through my body like an ice cube dropped down your shirt.

  Time was wasting. I had less than three weeks, and I had so much money to earn.

  I shouted to my mom that I was heading out and zoomed out the door with my dog walking fliers. I taped a few on lampposts in the neighborhood — people might notice them as they walked their pets. I put fliers on doors of houses that had dog toys in their yard, or had fences. I even rode my bike all the way to Grand River Avenue and put a flier on the bulletin board inside Schnood’s Grocery Store, although I was careful Mr. Schnood didn’t see me, and I stayed away from giant stacks of cans.

  Many people tacked up signs on that bulletin board. There were ads for babysitting services, housekeeping services, used furniture, old bikes, and tutoring.

  Tutoring.

  One sign stood out because it was covered in glitter.

  LEXI’S AFTER SCHOOL TUTORING.

  It included her phone number and a drawing of some books and pencils. I taped my flier on top of it.

  When I got home, I plunked my butt on the couch and put the phone on my lap. “No one is allowed on the phone!” I yelled. “I’m expecting important calls! Dozens! Maybe hundreds! All day and night!”

  “Give me the phone,” demanded Mom, about two minutes later. “I need to make a call.”

  “No way, José.” I shook my head. “This phone is tied up.”

  “I’m not kidding. Give it to me,” insisted Mom, holding her hand out.

  “You’re the one that won’t let me get a cell phone,” I complained. “All my friends have cell phones. Lexi has a cell phone.”

  “You’ll just lose it.”

  “I’m responsible!”

  Mom arched her eyebrow. “Your jacket is sitting in the front hallway. And you lost a shoe last month. How does someone lose a shoe?”

  Losing a shoe is actually really easy. Easier than you’d think, anyway.

  “When we get a dog, you’ll see!” I said. “I’ll be the most responsible kid in the entire world. I’ll probably win responsibility awards. Trophies and stuff. Giant ones the size of my head.” Still, I got up and hung my coat in the mudroom. But I held on to the phone, too.

  I sat on that couch for two hours. I didn’t turn on the television, since I didn’t want to be distracted. I should have done homework, but I didn’t think I could concentrate long enough. I was way too excited. But the phone never rang, no matter how long I stared at it, and no matter how hard I thought positive phone thoughts. I hoped my brain energy would reach out to all the dog owners in the world and make them dial our phone number.

  Finally, the phone rang. I picked it up before the first ring ended.

  “Otto’s Dog Walking Service!” I shouted. “You oughta call Otto! And you did! Call Otto, that is.” I needed to work on my phone answering skills.

  “Hi, Otto. This is Mrs. Schmidt. Is your mother home?” Mrs. Schmidt was one of Mom’s nurse friends.

  “She is,” I said, and hung up. It was rude, maybe. But I couldn’t tie up the line.

  A few minutes later, the phone rang again. This time I answered a little more cautiously. “Hello?”

  “Is this Otto’s Dog Walking Service?” said a low, muffled voice. “I want to hire someone to walk my fourteen vicious, people-hating Doberman pinschers. I can pay you five hundred dollars.”

  “Hi, Malcolm.” I sighed.

  “My mom saw your sign at the grocery store.”

  “Really?” I asked, perking up.

  “She said it covered up a really pretty, glittery sign, so she moved it over.”

  I groaned. “No one has called yet.” I lay down on the couch and rested the back of my hand on my forehead. “My signs have been up for over two hours. Lexi is in the kitchen tutoring someone right now,” I whined.

  “Want to play soccer, then?” said Malcolm.

  “I’m waiting for the phone to ring with dog walking appointments. I can’t.”

  “But you just said no one is calling. And you could use the practice.”

  “I said no one has called yet. The yet is an important part. They could call any second. And I don’t need soccer practice,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I’m a star.”

  “Were a star. You couldn’t beat a potato in soccer right now.”

  “Sure, I could.” I was pretty positive I could crush a potato in soccer. “And I’m still better than you. You couldn’t beat a worm in soccer. A dead worm.”

  “You’re a head-butting soccer butt.”

  “You’re a dead-worm-losing soccer stinker.”

  “You’re an uncoordinated butter-footed leather-ball-eating baboon.”

  I probably could have topped that insult, but I didn’t want to stay on the phone too long. People might be calling any moment. “I should go.”

  “Good luck, ball baboon.”

  “Later, soccer stinker.”

  I waited almost a half hour for the phone to ring again. I took a deep breath and answered. “Hello,” I murmured. “This is Otto.”

  “Otto’s Dog Walking Service? Is this the right number?” It was a lady’s voice, old and cracked. I imagined an elderly woman with a cane, someone who hadn’t taken her dog out for a walk in years.

  “You oughta call Otto!” I blurted, my heart beating rapidly. “No dog is too big or too small.”

  “Hello, Otto. My name is Mrs. Linkletter. I need someone to walk Buttercup. She’s very lively.”

  “So am I,” I promised.

  “Then you should be perfect. Can you come over around four o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”

  I nearly leapt off my couch. My first job! And with a dog named Buttercup! I couldn’t think of an easier first dog-walking assignment. But I would have been happy to walk any dog, even one named Killer, Kid Eater, or — worst of all — Fluffernutter. I could almost count my soon-to-have fortune in my head. In less than three weeks I’d have my own dog to play with and walk every day. My very own dog. And not a cat.

  I’d wipe that smug smile off Lexi’s face. Let her tutor the entire school if she wanted. I would win this war. I would be the best, highest-paid dog walker in the history of dog walkers. Buttercup was just the start.

  So there.

  I arrived fifteen minutes early to my appointment at Buttercup’s house. (I wanted to scream out: “See, Mom and Dad — I am getting the hang of this responsibility thing!”) It was too early to knock at the door, though, so I walked around the block six times. I pretended to walk Buttercup. “Good girl!” I praised, and “Thatta girl!” and “Don’t pee on the flowers!” Finally, at exactly four o’clock, I rang the doorbell, and forty-two seconds later the door opened.

  Not that I was checking my watch every four seconds or anything.

  I had pictured Mrs. Linkletter to be old and frail. She wasn’t. But she was enormously wide, as if she were hiding a piano under her sweater. She had red cheeks and a tall tangle of curly hair. “Are you Otto?” she asked with her scratchy voice.

  “You oughta call Otto!” I answered.

  Mrs. Linkletter smiled at me. Behind Mrs. Linkletter leapt Buttercup, a white miniature poodle. She kept leaping in the air and yapping like she had just eaten ten jars of jumping beans. “As I said, she’s lively.”

  “Just a little,” I agreed.

  Yap, jump, yap, jump.

  “I have to run errands,” said Mrs. Linkletter. “You’ll need to walk Buttercup for at least an hour.”

  “No problem. I charge six dollars for thirty minutes.” I had researched dog walking prices on Mom’s computer the night before. I called Malcolm, too. I wanted to charge a hundred dollars a dog, but Malcolm convinced me that no one would h
ire me for a hundred dollars. Professional dog walkers are paid a lot more than six dollars for a half hour. But I was just starting out, so I couldn’t charge higher fees. Yet.

  The yet is always important.

  Mrs. Linkletter handed me a five-dollar bill. “This is for an hour,” she said. “Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it!” I couldn’t be too choosy. Not until I built my dog walking moneymaking empire, at least. So I’d make an exception just this once. Mrs. Linkletter bent over and kissed Buttercup on the forehead. “Momma will be back soon,” she cooed. She handed me the leash. And then Buttercup and I were off for our walk.

  If Buttercup didn’t eat jumping beans, maybe she had eaten a pogo stick. She leapt the entire walk. I don’t know if her front paws touched the ground once. She constantly sprang up and down on her back legs.

  She snapped at everything we passed, too, like people, mailboxes, butterflies, the wind, and invisible dust mites. She sprang at trees, a bush, some tulips, a candy wrapper, and, highest of all, at joggers.

  “Get out much?” I asked. She just yelped and leapt in answer. “I guess not.”

  Buttercup was probably the most excited dog ever. “That’s just a flower,” I told her. And, “Really, Buttercup? Haven’t you seen a bird before?”

  We went to the park, which only gave her more things to yap at. She barked at the gravel in the parking lot. And at the Do Not Litter sign. And at a leaf. And at the benches, with and without people on them.

  A group of kids played soccer, and we strolled closer. Well, I strolled. Buttercup jumped and yipped. There were seven guys, and I knew a couple from my team: Eric Lansing, our midfielder, and Kyle Krovitch, our goalie. Eric waved. “Otto! Hey! We could use one more!”

  “I’m working!” I pointed to Buttercup, who was busy snarling at a butterfly.

  “Come on! We don’t have even teams. We need one more player!”

  “I shouldn’t!” But there’s a difference between shouldn’t and can’t. A big difference. Besides, I needed the practice badly. I thought of Coach Drago shooting me a disappointing look as he marched away the other night. I’d show him! Buttercup could keep herself busy barking at whatever for a few minutes.

  There was a tree nearby with low branches. “What do you think?” I asked Buttercup. She yapped at a gnat in response. “Do you think I could play?”

  “C’mon!” yelled Eric.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” I asked Buttercup. She growled at a weed.

  “Hurry up!” shouted Eric.

  “Coming!” I walked Buttercup to the tree and wrapped the leash around the lowest branch. “Stay here, okay?” Buttercup yapped at a wisp of air. “I’ll be right over there.” I pointed to the game. Buttercup yapped at a daisy. “Okay? Buttercup?” Yap, yap, yap. So I ran over to the guys. Eric high-fived me. “I can play for ten minutes,” I said, glancing back at Buttercup. She yapped and jumped at nothing.

  I don’t how long we played. I scored a lucky goal, and I think we won, but we weren’t really keeping score. Still, it was great to run around without having to worry about being hollered at by Coach Drago, and I could forget about sneering sisters, too. I still didn’t play very well, and I missed three goals I shouldn’t have missed. It was a start, though.

  But the best part? I was actually getting paid for this! Sure, I was supposed to be walking Buttercup, but she was fine playing with random, make-believe insects. I bet Mom would have said I was being irresponsible. But I just felt smart.

  Really smart! The possibilities were endless. I could get paid for doing homework, while walking dogs. Paid for playing ball, while walking dogs. Paid for filling Lexi’s shoes with grape juice (as long as she didn’t catch me), while walking dogs. This would be the best job ever.

  I hadn’t even heard Buttercup yap in a while. I glanced over at her tree. I bet she was napping — it must be tiring barking at everything all day.

  Or not.

  She was gone.

  “Where are you going?” cried Eric. “Let’s play another game!” I didn’t answer. I could barely breathe as I ran to the tree. No leash. No Buttercup. My stomach tightened with fear.

  “Buttercup?” I yelled, gulping. “Buttercup!” I shouted, louder.

  Nothing. Not a yap anywhere.

  My first job and I lost the dog! “Buttercup!” I screamed about ten more times, my heart racing faster and faster with each shout.

  “Excuse me, have you seen a crazy, barking dog?” I asked a woman on a bench who was reading a book. She shook her head.

  “Dog? Annoying? Yapping? Seen her?” I asked a jogger. But he hadn’t, either.

  I was in deep, deep trouble. So deep, you could dig to China and not reach it. Buttercup could be hurt. Or stuck in a tree. Or captured by dog stealers. Or one of a million horrible things.

  My stomach was flittering with worry like it caged a thousand frightened moths. I kept imagining Buttercup being injured or worse. Why had I left her alone? What had I been thinking?

  I hadn’t been thinking, that’s what.

  Maybe being responsible was important.

  None of the soccer kids had seen Buttercup, either. I raced around asking people if they saw an insane white miniature poodle running around.

  Finally, I talked to some guy in a red sweat suit at the far end of the park. He nodded. “I think so. Over there. Jumpy thing.” The guy pointed to a set of trees. I sprinted as quickly as I could, my feet pounding nearly as rapidly as my heart did. I had never run faster.

  As I neared the line of trees, I heard yapping: annoying, repetitive, but wonderful, wonderful yapping.

  There, right next to a tree, just at the edge of the park, was Buttercup. If she had stepped into the woods, just a few feet farther, I might never have found her. She barked at a flower, her fur up and her teeth bared. That flower was in deep trouble. I grabbed Buttercup’s leash and collapsed onto the grass next to her. My legs felt like Jell-O, all wobbly and uneasy. “You scared the heck out of me, you know that?”

  Yap, yap, yap. And then jump.

  I had never been happier to hear a dog bark in my life.

  I sat up and caught my breath, scratching Buttercup’s neck in a rare non-jumping moment. My heart began to slow. I wondered if my guardian angel was watching that moment. I whispered my thanks to him.

  If I was going to walk dogs, I needed to try to be more responsible.

  No. Trying wasn’t going to do it. I would be more responsible. End of story.

  When I handed the leash back to Mrs. Linkletter, she seemed overjoyed to have Buttercup back. I didn’t mention our little adventure. She gave her dog a big hug. “How was your walk?” she asked.

  “Great,” I croaked. “No problems.”

  “You’re obviously a natural dog walker.”

  “Yep. That’s me,” I replied, but there was still a big bucket of guilt in my stomach. When Mrs. Linkletter gave me a one-dollar tip, the bucket got even fuller.

  There were four messages for dog walking jobs waiting for me at home. I grabbed an empty notepad from the junk drawer.

  And I made a special note in it:

  “Took notepad from Mom. I owe her $1.”

  I’d keep track of what I took from Mom and pay back every cent after the contest was over. Sure, I would need the money, but this was the new, responsible Otto!

  Mom and Dad would be impressed.

  I called everyone who left a message right back. In the notebook I scribbled addresses and pickup times. Unfortunately, my pen ran out in the middle of the second call. I was filled up with bookings, though — as long as I could read what I wrote.

  I arranged three walking jobs for the very next day. The fourth person I called back asked if I walked cats. I hung up on him.

  I had soccer practice that night, but things didn’t go well. Every time the ball came to me, my mind wandered back to the Buttercup disaster earlier that day, and Lexi’s tutoring. She was back home tutoring kids right then, while I was
playing soccer. Poorly.

  I didn’t play well in the park earlier, but with Drago yelling at me and Lexi’s snarls flapping about my brain, I played far worse. I couldn’t concentrate at all. During our scrimmage, Malcolm scored three goals, which was three more goals than me. He really looked good. Every time I made a mistake I’d look at Coach Drago, and he’d be muttering and shaking his head.

  From what I could tell, he did a whole bunch of muttering and head shaking. I’d have to start playing a lot better if I was going to be our star player. Coach Drago told Malcolm to keep it up and he’d soon be starting.

  We play the same position.

  So I didn’t like the sound of that at all.

  But when I got home I saw that I had two more phone messages. I returned them and made appointments. I was too tired from practice to run upstairs and get my notebook, so I didn’t write down the information until later. But I thought I wrote everything down correctly.

  Lexi wasn’t smirking anymore, though. In the middle of one of my calls, I caught her watching me, and I threw her a smirk of my own, although I’m not sure if I did it right. I’m not an accomplished smirker like she is. She just looked sort of confused, shrugged, and marched upstairs back to her bedroom.

  I got the feeling maybe things weren’t going as well for her as I’d feared.

  I hoped so, anyway.

  Mom’s color printer putt-putts out paper. I woke up early to print one hundred of my awesome You Oughta Call Otto fliers. I almost missed the school bus. I kept pacing as the printer spat out one copy. And another. And another. And another.

  “I hope you’re not using all of my ink!” yelled Mom from the kitchen.

  Uh-oh. “No,” I answered, although I only printed fifty-six fliers because the printer ran out of toner. I didn’t know how much ink costs. I added a line to my notebook:

  “Used Mom’s printer cartridges: I owe her $?”

  I’d need to look up cartridge costs later.

  But I needed the fliers now. To be successful you have to promote yourself. I thought about hiring a blimp, but I figured those were pretty expensive, and I didn’t know where you would rent a blimp. So instead I passed my fliers out everywhere. I gave them to my teachers. I passed them out to kids.