The Pet War

by Allan Woodrow

  As my eyes closed, I noticed my soccer cleats in the middle of the floor. I needed to put them away. As soon as I woke up.

  At least with Malcolm out of the picture, I kept every penny I earned. Who needed him anyway?

  I could do just fine without him, if only I could read my handwriting. I really needed to work on my penmanship. I went to the wrong houses. I accidentally showed up at the wrong times.

  I even charged people the wrong amounts of money.

  The worst money exchange happened when I dropped off Chucky the Chihuahua.

  “That’s six dollars, please,” I said to Ms. Greenleaf.

  “I have a ten,” she said, dipping into her purse. “Do you have change?”

  I counted out four singles. “Here you go.”

  “Wait. Here’s a twenty.”

  “No problem.” I counted out five more singles and a five.

  “I don’t want all these singles.” She handed five of them back to me. “Can I have another five-dollar bill?”

  “Sure.” I gave her one.

  “Oh, look. I have a ten. Can I get change for it?”

  I handed her two five-dollar bills.

  She handed me one of the bills back. “I’ll take ones, please.”

  I counted out five ones.

  “And can I have my twenty-dollar bill back?”

  “Sure.” I handed her the twenty and she handed me a stack of singles and fives.

  “And do you have change for the twenty?”

  I sighed but gave her some fives and some singles back.

  This went on for a while. When I got home I realized that somehow I paid her five dollars.

  I also walked a pig. On the phone, I thought Mrs. Ryan said she needed me to walk a pug. Hamlet the potbellied pig was small, fat, and slow. Plus, he snorted constantly and did not want to move. Mrs. Ryan told me he would chase after food, so I had to hold some corn in my hand and have him run after me. I was scared to death of banging into something and then having Hamlet jump on top of me and eat all the corn. Then I’d never get him home again. I’d probably never get him off me, either.

  But it went all right, I guess. We made it around the entire block. But I wasn’t planning on walking any more pigs.

  After that, I rode my bike up to Grand River Avenue, my fliers tucked under my arm. I put them on lampposts and car windshields and walls and anywhere else I could think of. I’d make You Oughta Call Otto’s Dog Walking Service a household name.

  Dog walking. Not pig walking.

  But I hadn’t been the only one putting up signs. Lexi had been busy. Again. Unfortunately for me.

  Everywhere I turned, I saw signs that made me feel more and more depressed. In the window of the hair salon was a bright pink poster that read, HAIR’S LOOKING AT YOU, KID! but with Lexi’s unmistakable glitter style. When I went to get a better look, my fears were confirmed. In small print at the bottom were the words, SIGNS BY LEXI.

  I felt dizzy and had to sit down on the sidewalk for a moment.

  I noticed other signs, too. The hardware store window featured a poster with a picture of a hammer and the words IT’S HAMMER TIME AT LOUIE’S HARDWARE HOUSE! On the bottom were those three dreadful words that felt like someone had pummeled me in the stomach with a watermelon: SIGNS BY LEXI.

  I put some of my signs up, but my heart wasn’t in it. My signs seemed so small and uninteresting compared to Lexi’s glitter monstrosities.

  Had she earned five hundred dollars for a pet? Was she close? I was so far away from earning that much. After doing horrible at school, in soccer, and losing my best friend — what if I lost the Pet War, too?

  The thought was too horrible to even imagine.

  Toby looked a lot like his owner, Mr. Jacoby. They both had stubby noses, wide heads, and big jowls. They both made an odd ticking sound in their throats, too. Dogs often take after their owners, though. Napoleon the Scottish terrier had a mustache just like Mr. Spanolli. Dakota the Afghan hound could’ve been Ms. Preston’s long-lost sister, if Ms. Preston was a dog.

  Which means my dog would be the best and handsomest dog ever.

  I bet my dog would even play soccer.

  Toby was a bulldog with a major slobbering issue. I’m not sure if Mr. Jacoby slobbered, too. He probably did. Toby was like a leaky faucet. Occasionally he’d shake his head and spray saliva everywhere in big, thick, sticky droplets. So I had to be on my toes to avoid them.

  He walked faster than you’d think he could. I tried to pull the leash back, but I was no match for him. It was either keep up or be dragged. Whenever I told him to slow down, he’d cock his head to one side as if asking, “Really? You can’t keep up? Are you kidding me? Look how short my legs are!”

  Still, he was a great dog — energetic, fun, friendly. Really, those might be the best sorts of dogs of them all, if you thought about it. When I yelled at him, he didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t listen, either, but you can’t have everything.

  Mr. Jacoby had warned me not to feed Toby anything. I guess he got sick easily. But we were here to walk, not eat, so I didn’t worry about it.

  Just thinking about food made me hungry, though. It was really tiring jogging for so long. So when I passed the Wow Cow Ice Cream Parlor, and saw a kid about my age walking out the door with a vanilla ice-cream cone, my stomach started growling.

  Ice cream is practically the best food ever made.

  I had money in my pocket. I needed to save every penny, but two dollars wouldn’t be the end of the world. Every now and then you have to treat yourself, right?

  Too bad there was a sign on the ice-cream shop door that said, NO DOGS ALLOWED. But at least there wasn’t any glitter on the sign.

  I didn’t know the kid with the ice-cream cone, but he looked honest enough. He was tall with freckles, and I didn’t see any scars. You should never trust people with scars.

  And he was eating vanilla ice cream. Bad people didn’t eat vanilla.

  “Hey,” I said with a friendly wave. “Could you hold my dog while I grab a cone? It’ll just be a minute.”

  The boy sniffed. “I’ll do it for a dollar.”

  “It’ll just be a few seconds,” I replied.

  “A dollar,” he repeated, spitting.

  He was a tough negotiator. But it was only a buck, and I really wanted the ice cream, so I handed him the leash.

  “Pay in advance,” he demanded, palm out.

  I grumbled, but I fished a buck from my pocket and handed it over. “Hold it tight, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the kid said, shaking his head. “I know how to hold a leash.”

  As I walked away, I thought about telling the kid what Mr. Jacoby said about Toby’s delicate stomach and all.

  Nah. What sort of irresponsible kid would feed someone’s dog ice cream? I dashed inside.

  There were practically a million flavors to choose from. I couldn’t decide, so I asked if I could taste a dozen of them, including pistachio almond and cherries jubilee. I finally settled on tin roof: vanilla ice cream, chocolate-covered peanuts, and fudge ripple. It’s practically heaven on a cone.

  “Keep the change.” I slipped the guy behind the counter two bucks. The price was $1.98. I felt generous. Ice cream will do that to you.

  When I stepped back outside, the freckled kid and Toby were still there. They hadn’t moved. Except Toby was the one with the ice-cream cone now. The boy laughed while Toby ate it up. Toby loved it, too. I thought it was pretty funny until I remembered Toby’s eating problems.

  Toby took a step back. The cone was all eaten. He didn’t look very happy.

  “What’s wrong with your dog?” asked the freckled kid.

  “How much did you give him?” I asked.

  The kid shrugged. “All of it.”

  Then Toby vomited all over the sidewalk and part of my shoe.

  “He has a weak stomach,” I explained meekly.

  I tossed my own cone away. The smell of vomit will kill your appetite. Toby threw
up again.

  “Are you okay, boy?” I asked him.

  In response, Toby belched.

  We walked home pretty slowly after that. Toby didn’t feel like jogging anymore. I wasn’t in a hurry to get back, either. I was going to have a hard time looking Mr. Jacoby in the eye.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Mr. Jacoby when we got back. Toby looked a little green. Then he burped again.

  “Your dog loves ice cream,” I stammered, handing him Toby’s leash and wiping the back of my shoe on his patio step.

  I didn’t get a tip.

  My appointments were messed up again. I had an appointment with a new dog, Gaga. I showed up at exactly five o’clock. I was pretty proud that I was on time for once.

  “I needed you at four o’clock,” fumed Mrs. Polansky. She shot me a frosty stare under slanted eyebrows. She held Gaga, a small, fuzzy white Havanese, in her arms. Normally, they’re cute, happy dogs. But Gaga shared the same evil stare as her owner. She even had the same eyebrows. But then again, dogs do look like their owners.

  “I thought it was now,” I blurted out.

  “Now is not four o’clock.”

  “Maybe you forgot to set your clocks ahead during daylight savings time a few months ago. Or is it moved them back? I always get confused.”

  She closed the door on me, so I guess that wasn’t it.

  But at least it meant I wouldn’t be too late for the five fifteen appointment that I’d made and had misread. It was with Buttercup, and she still annoyingly yapped and jumped the entire walk. After the Dog Party Debacle, I was surprised Mrs. Linkletter even called me. I guess she recognized my dog walking excellence, even though she claimed I was the cheapest dog walker around and better than nothing.

  But I’d show her! I walked Buttercup extra long to impress her. Unfortunately that meant I missed my next appointment, which I remembered about two hours after it was scheduled. I called to apologize, but the owner hung up on me. I guess I can’t blame him, though.

  The new, responsible Otto wasn’t feeling very responsible.

  My fliers kept getting new customers, but many only used me once and never again. They said they needed someone who was more dependable. I was dependable, I told them. I just wasn’t particularly good with addresses or time or money. But I was trying. That had to count for something. Right?

  I needed Malcolm. Malcolm knew exactly how much to charge. He told me exactly where to go and when.

  That’s a funny thing about being a boss. It doesn’t do any good if you have no one to boss. But if you boss people too much, then they won’t stick around to be bossed anymore. No wonder bosses make so much money. They need to get paid just to keep track of the whole thing.

  And I’d never tell Malcolm this, but I sort of missed hanging out with him.

  So I knocked on Malcolm’s door after dinner. His mom answered and told me Malcolm was up in his room. I ran upstairs. He was doing homework. I was so far behind in my homework, I hated to even think about doing my own. So I tried not to. It was just depressing.

  “What do you want?” Malcolm snarled, looking up from his desk.

  “Whatcha doing?” I asked with a warm, casual smile, as if nothing had happened between us.

  “Homework. What do you think?” he replied.

  I stared at him for a moment, and he glared back.

  “Look. I’m sorry,” I muttered softly, breaking the quiet.

  “What?” asked Malcolm. “You’ll need to speak louder.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered again.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry!” I yelled. “I know I was too bossy.”

  “You weren’t bossy. You were an inconsiderate, egomaniacal, narcissistic turd brain.”

  “I don’t know what half those words mean,” I admitted. “But I probably was.”

  “Say them out loud: ‘I was an inconsiderate, egomaniacal, narcissistic turd brain.’”

  I sighed. “I was an inconsiderate, ego-something, something turd brain.”

  “Close enough.” Malcolm smiled, and his smile was the best thing that had happened to me in days.

  I plopped down on his bed, relieved. “You could rejoin the business, if you want.”

  “No thanks.”

  “You could make lots of money.”

  “No thanks.”

  I decided to throw pride out the window. I sat up and clasped my hands together. “Please? I can’t do this alone. Everything is messed up. I need you to balance my books. Make my appointments. Tell me how much to charge. I’m a great dog walker. Well, maybe not great. But with my dog walking and your business savvy, there will be no stopping us. Maybe.”

  Malcolm looked at me. His mouth curved from a smile, down to a frown, and then back up to a smile again. “Fine. Okay. I’m in. But I want twenty-five percent of the profits this time.”

  “But that’s more than half!” I shouted.

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Fine,” I relented. We shook on it. But I would have given him more than half the money to be my friend again. Not that I would have told him that. I know dogs are a man’s best friend, but everyone needs a human best friend, too. Having both is best of all.

  Mom made tacos for dinner. I loved taco night, especially when Mom served both the hard, crispy tacos and the soft flour ones. I liked to have one of each.

  “One more week,” said Lexi with a sigh. “I’ll be glad when it’s over. Win or lose.”

  “I know what you mean. But it’s been so much work. What if neither of us earns enough money?”

  Lexi shook her head. “One of us will win. One of us has to.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t sure what would be worse: having a cat, or having no pet at all.

  Then I remembered I was talking to Lexi. Perfect, horrible Lexi. Having a cat would be way, way worse.

  I eyed the hard taco tortillas on the plate between us. Lexi spied them, too. I reached for them. Lexi reached faster.

  She grabbed all four.

  “Hey, one at a time!” I complained.

  “Says who, baby brother?” snorted Lexi.

  “I’m not a baby!” I groused. “Mom!” She came over to the table carrying the lettuce and the tomatoes for the tacos. Not that I would ever put any vegetables in mine. I was purely a cheese and meat guy.

  “Yes, Otto?” Mom said in a tired voice.

  “Lexi took four taco shells,” I whined, pointing. “She never eats four tacos.”

  “I’m hungry,” she claimed. Mom threw her an I’m-not-in-the-mood look, and Lexi put one of the shells back on the serving plate. The shell cracked in half. “Whoops,” Lexi said.

  “She did that on purpose!” I hooted.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Lexi.

  “You’re always ruining everything.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re the worst sister in the world.”

  “You’re the worst brother.”

  “We are not getting a cat,” I growled.

  “We are not getting a dog,” she growled back.

  “Otto! Lexi! Please!” yelled Mom. “Can’t we just eat in peace?”

  Lexi and I stared at each other. She opened her eyes wide, and I opened mine wider. I wasn’t going to blink before she did. No way. But my eyes watered, especially my left one. It was getting increasingly hard to keep them open. I just had to concentrate a little more.

  And I blinked.

  Lexi smirked.

  “So how is the challenge going?” asked Mom, picking up a flour tortilla. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “Great,” Lexi and I answered at the exact same time.

  “My dog walking is breaking records for moneymaking,” I added. “And I’m very responsible.” I didn’t mention all the problems I had.

  “My sign painting is helping me explore my artistic side. It’s important to be well-rounded. I should get extra points for that.”

  “Your butt is well-rounded,” I said.

  “You are so
dead,” Lexi spat, burrowing holes in my head with her eyes.

  “Well, my dog walking is helping dog owners and dogs, so I should get double extra points for that,” I said.

  “I should get triple extra points because Otto is a loser,” snapped Lexi.

  “There are no such things as triple extra points,” I yelled.

  “There are no such things as extra points at all!” Lexi yelled back.

  “If you two don’t knock it off, this contest is over, got it?” Mom hollered.

  So that shut us both up. I reached across the table and grabbed one of the hard shells from Lexi’s plate, but I grabbed it too hard and the tortilla shell snapped into pieces.

  “Nice job,” Lexi chortled.

  “I’m going to crush you like that taco shell,” I muttered under my breath. Mom glared at me. “Just kidding!” I said with a smile.

  Mom put down the soft taco she was in the process of folding. When she spoke, her tone was anything but friendly. “Is this about getting a dog, Otto? Or about beating your sister?”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “I don’t like how this is going,” said Mom. “This should be healthy competition, not … this.” She waved her hands while she said the last word.

  “What’s this?” I asked

  “War,” she said. “It’s like war. And it isn’t pretty.”

  “War isn’t pretty,” I grumbled.

  “I wasn’t kidding,” said Mom. “If you two can’t get along, no one is getting a pet. Understand?”

  “I’m sorry, Lexi,” I croaked, gritting my teeth.

  “Me, too,” said Lexi. I’m sure she meant it as little as I did. “Done!” she yelled. She somehow managed to eat two entire tacos while we were talking. “I need to go downtown and buy more art supplies. Can you drive me, Mom?”

  “After I eat,” Mom mumbled, picking up her newly created taco, but not looking particularly hungry. “I haven’t even started my dinner yet.”

  “Well, I’ll be waiting in the car.” Lexi walked her empty plate to the dishwasher.