Mr. P picks up a plate from a side table and hands it to me. “We have a treat while we talk. I make baklava for us. Baking, it is a hobby.” On the plate is a square-looking biscuit with something dripping off it. He picks up an identical plate, takes a bite, and looks at me.
“Uh, exactly what is … bak-la-va?” I flip the biscuit over, watch shiny stuff like Halloween slime string off my fork.
“You never have baklava?” He stares at me like I’m one of the Third World kids on TV. “Greek dessert, honey and nuts. Try it, you will like.”
What else can I do? I fork a piece, place it between my teeth, and bite down.
Baklava is delicious. Mr. P talks as I eat.
“We settle in this country after we leave Greece. I help build skyscrapers in Chicago.” Chicago sounds like Ja-car-go when he says it. “Work on buildings like Sears Tower. Trump Tower. Then I retire. We leave Chicago and move here to the country. The security gate, it makes us safe from gangs. No shootings here. Not so noisy.”
Not so noisy? Whiskery dog rumbles like a rocket on a launch pad every time I look at it.
“But we still got delinquents. In April, they wake us up, so I yell at them through the window. What do they do? Break the statue next to our front door. Run away, cackling like laughing jackals!”
Laughing jackals? I get it. He’s talking about hyenas.
“Delinquents. Everywhere we live is delinquents.”
That “we” again.
“Um, they woke up you and your wife?”
“My wife, she passed on …” He holds up three fingers. “This many years now. We are married fifty years.”
“Oh. Sorry.” My plate empty, I set it on the table next to me. Mr. P has been so busy talking, he’s hardly touched his baklava.
“So.” He looks at the scrapbook in my lap. “What do you know about Yorkies?”
Time to show my credentials. I turn quickly through my book and find the page on Yorkshire terriers. My collection is made up of things I’ve gotten from magazines and the web and glued into different sections. Choosing one of the clippings, I start talking, hoping to pass the test.
“See, this printout tells how the Yorkshire was developed in Yorkshire, England, as a ratter. And this one tells how it was brought to the U.S. in 1878 and became one of the most popular breeds of toy dogs because of its ‘sweet expression’ and ‘cheerful character.’ ”
I stare at the words sweet expression and cheerful character, glance toward the dog at Mr. P’s feet. It answers with a growl.
“A ratter, huh?” Mr. P raises scraggy eyebrows, looking pleased. “Like me, a hard worker—and an emigrant. After I get off boat, I work very hard, too.”
As Mr. P finishes his baklava, I read the same section again to make sure I read it right. I’m surprised that a Yorkie is considered a working dog. All dogs started out as wild animals, but people tamed them and started breeding them to handle different jobs. Hunting. Herding. Protection. Even ratting. Now they’re bred for other reasons. As people toys. Noisy people toys.
I make eye contact with the Yorkie. He bristles and starts up the boat motor. Ready to tear the big rat in the red velvet chair to shreds.
“I get him a treat so maybe he is happy.” Mr. P hobbles to the kitchen.
While he’s gone, I do more cramming. I learn that Yorkshire terriers will bark when anything changes—but especially when a stranger enters their living area. I groan as I read another clipping that tells how Yorkies have been known to bark incessantly while being walked on a leash.
Great, just great. In my mind’s eye, I see Chief Beaumont writing out a citation.
I chance a look at the dog again, get rumbling in response, and drop my eyes to my scrapbook. Spotting a crumb of baklava on red velvet, I flick it off.
Like I just hit an Off button, the growling stops. Whiskery dog snarfs up the crumb and wags his tail at me.
Aha. I hold my plate close to the floor and let him lick it clean. He jumps in my lap when the crumbs are gone, licking my face.
I laugh. “No, that’s all there is. I don’t have any more.” A happy dog lies down beside me. Man’s best friend.
“Hey, he likes you now.” Mr. P looks pleased when he sees the dog next to me. “Tell me more.” He calls the dog to him and feeds it treats.
“Uh, well, this article tells how the Yorkshire makes a good guard dog despite its size.”
Mr. P’s eyes shine like bright black marbles. “That is my Apollo, all right. A good guard dog. Anyone comes close to the house, he wake me up … like that.” He snaps his fingers.
Apollo. The dog’s name is Apollo. I debate whether it’s named after the Greek god or the spacecraft that went to the moon. Considering Mr. P emigrated from Greece, I opt for the god. This particular Greek god weighs about four pounds.
Mr. P’s eyes turn sad. “See Apollo’s belly? Because of no walking, he gets fat. The vet, she says he must walk more.” He pats his own stomach, a basketball under his striped T-shirt. “I get fat, too. But my legs, they are not so good for walking anymore. Arthritis in the joints, you see.” He pats his knees.
For him, that’s bad. For me, it’s good.
Mr. P points to my scrapbook again. “You, uh, you going to walk any peekapoos?”
Peekapoos? Why’s he asking about peekapoos?
“Um, yes, sir. I’m going to see Mrs. Callahan next. She has two peekapoos.”
“Mrs. Callahan is nice lady. We talk about our dogs when I go to the office. Very nice lady.” His mouth turns downward. “She reminds me of my wife. I miss her very much.”
Suddenly, Mr. P slaps his thigh. “Okay. A deal, we got. You start tomorrow, ten o’clock.”
“Great.” I debate how to bring up the money part. “Um, did Yee and Anise talk to you about salary?”
“Salary? Oh. How much to walk my Apollo.” Looking stern, he smacks a fist into the other hand and says, “Five-dollar bill, not a dime more.”
“Each time?”
“Each time.” Another smack. “Not a dime more.”
Cool. Fifteen dollars a week for walking a dog that fits in the palm of my hand.
I smack my fist, too, and say, “Not a dime more.”
I leave my bike at Mr. P’s house like Chief Beaumont told me to do and head for Mrs. Callahan’s to meet her two peekapoos. Her house is close by, just down the block and across the street.
Along the driveways, I see lights on posts. Solar-powered LEDs with red, blue, or yellow glass. Some posts are plastic, some aluminum. Others stainless steel. We have a big halogen light on a telephone pole to light our driveway. People at CountryWood have Christmas lights.
As I walk, I become a calculator, figuring how long it will take to make enough to buy one of the puppies in the newspaper. If I can get fifteen a week for the four dogs, I’ll make sixty dollars a week. In a little over four weeks, I’ll have two hundred and sixty dollars. Ten dollars more than I need.
Woohoo. I’m a laughing jackal all the way to Mrs. Callahan’s.
Chapter 11
When I saw Mrs. Callahan at the office, I couldn’t see her very well behind her desk, so I’m surprised when she opens the door. She’s as opposite Mr. Petropoulos as summer is to winter. Her hair is sunshine. Cheeks pink rose petals. Mouth a never-ending smile. In a singsong voice, she invites me into a living room filled with flowers that will never wilt. Flowery patterns cover the sofa and chairs. Pictures of flowers hang on walls. Vases of silk flowers fill every table. She introduces me to two white dogs, curly marshmallows with bows on their ears. Baby and Buddy hide behind her legs, growling at me.
“I don’t know, Sammy.” Mrs. Callahan’s smile starts to droop. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to work.”
But it has to work… .
“Wait, let me show you what I know about peekapoos.” I sit down on the flowery sofa, open my scrapbook, and pause, remembering that Buddy and Baby are designer dogs, not purebred. And remembering that Beth gave me a printout about
peekapoos.
I flip pages furiously, looking for the printout. It’s gone.
Mrs. Callahan stares at me. Eyes expectant.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll have to look at two sections because Buddy and Baby … well, uh, they’re not purebreds. They’re a mix of poodle and Pekingese.”
The golden smile makes another showing. “Phish—like I care about purebred?” Mrs. Callahan settles into a flowery chair.
As I did with Mr. P, I talk about the best parts to Mrs. Callahan. She’s happy to hear that poodles are considered loyal and playful. That Pekingese, once considered sacred dogs, are dignified and aristocratic.
Buddy and Baby aren’t so happy. Neither will come near me. When Mrs. Callahan’s smile starts to droop again, my heart pummels my ribs. Silently, I regurgitate what I just read, select the choicest piece, and spit it out before I forget it.
“Buddy and Baby are acting this way ’cause they take more after the Pekingese than the poodle. You know, dignified. I’m sure as soon as they get to know me better, they’ll warm right up.”
“Yes, dignified.” Smiling again, Mrs. Callahan gives both dogs a treat. Little dog biscuits shaped like bow ties. Then she turns her smile on me and says, “Now, a treat for us.”
She disappears before I can tell her about the treat at Mr. P’s house. As I wait for her, I read a description of the two dogs’ temperaments, hoping to find something that will make them like me. I learn that Pekingese are independent, assertive, and stubborn. Poodles, especially the miniatures, are picky and excitable.
A mental picture emerges. Chief Beaumont issuing me another citation for disturbing the peace.
I notice a bunch of dog toys on one end of the sofa and pick up a tennis ball. Immediately, Buddy and Baby are in front of me, ears alert. I toss it across the room, and they make a dash for it. One of them returns it, and I toss it again. They’re both gone in a flash.
Mrs. Callahan returns with a tray holding two bowls and a glass of milk. “Oh, you found their weak spot. They both love to chase tennis balls.”
One of the dogs brings the ball back to me, covered in slime. I toss the ball again, wipe my hands on my shorts, and take the bowl she hands me.
“What else does it say?” Mrs. Callahan has noticed I’ve been doing more reading.
I don’t answer because I’m looking at what’s in the bowl. Vanilla ice cream scooped onto something resembling melted candle wax. Lumpy, mucus-colored candle wax.
She notices my hesitation. “I thought a hot day like today would be perfect for jelly and ice cream. It’s a traditional Irish dessert. That’s what I am, you know. Irish. I get Granny Smith apples at the orchard—organic, so no sprays—and make the jelly myself.” Beaming her smile, she says, “Organic means it’s good for you, Sammy.”
“Yes, ma’am. My grandma used to make her own jelly, too.”
It’s my first time for jelly with ice cream topping, but the first bite tells me it’s good. Very good. I eat fast before the ice cream can melt and use my hand to blot a milky drop off something stuck between my legs. The clipping on peekapoos.
“Look.” I hold up the clipping like it’s a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. “This says the peekapoo is a hybrid dog that originated in the United States in the 1950s.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Callahan claps her hands together. “That’s when I grew up. I had a felt skirt with a pink poodle on it and wore saddle oxfords and bobby socks. Now I have to wear these clunky orthopedic shoes.”
I look at Mrs. Callahan’s feet. Before she mentioned them, all I saw was her smile.
She points to the clipping. “Go on. Please go on.”
“Yes, ma’am. It says now-a-days some breeders are crossing peekapoos with toy poodles, making an even smaller dog.” I glance at Buddy and Baby and estimate their weight at five or six pounds each. A little bigger than Mr. P’s Yorkie, Apollo.
“That’s exactly what Baby and Buddy are,” Mrs. Callahan says. “My toys.” Her face glows when she looks at the two “dignified” pooches. She hands me the bag of dog biscuits. “Here, Sammy. Now that you’ve finished your treat, you can give Buddy and Baby a cookie. They love anyone who gives them cookies.”
I give Buddy and Baby three dog biscuits each. I want them to love me a lot. As they sit down in front of me, I notice that one dog’s ear ribbon has come loose, so I retie it in a double knot.
“Why, that’s very good,” Mrs. Callahan says. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“I have a little sister—her name is Rosie. I watch her when Mom’s working and have to tie her hair up all the time.” When Mrs. Callahan smiles, I know I’ve got the job.
“Are you walking other dogs?” Mrs. Callahan asks as I’m bribing her “toys” with more cookies.
“Yes, ma’am. One for Mr. P and a dog for Mr. Muller.”
“I talk to them at the office sometimes. They seem like very nice men.”
“I’ve already talked to Mr. P. I start walking Apollo tomorrow.”
“Oh?” Suddenly, summer turns to winter. Mrs. Callahan’s face becomes a pasty-colored sack filled with flabby mouth, eyes, jaws. Sagging flaps for a neck. “And just how much are you charging to walk Apollo?”
“Five dollars, three times a week. Um, that’s five dollars for one dog … each time.”
“Goodness gracious. That’s a lot of money for me. You see, I only get my late husband’s Social and the little bit they pay me for working in the office here.”
Social. I get it. She’s on Social Security—her husband’s Social Security. My grandma does the same thing. I look around Mrs. Callahan’s house. Like Mr. P’s, it’s nice, but not fancy. Neither of them is rich enough to burn money.
As I try to figure out what to do, I get an idea: I could walk all the dogs at the same time and get through faster.
I tell Mrs. Callahan what I’m thinking. “You see, I can save time by walking all the dogs at once. If you call Mr. P and Mr. Muller and arrange it with them, I’ll only charge you five dollars to walk both Buddy and Baby. But it has to be three times a week, and five dollars each time.”
“Oh, that’s a piece of cake.” Her sagging cheeks lift in a smile. “I’m very good with words. That’s why I do the newsletter for CountryWood… .” She pauses. “But you’ll need to come by the office and pick up my house key so you can get in. And after you’re through walking Buddy and Baby, lock them inside and bring it back to me.”
“Yes, ma’am, no problem.” Grinning, I hand Mrs. Callahan my empty bowl and milk glass. At forty-five dollars a week, I can earn two hundred and fifty dollars in five and a half weeks. Still plenty of time to get a puppy this summer.
Mrs. Callahan, Buddy, and Baby walk me to the door. “I’ll call Mr. Muller first,” she says. “That way, everything will be all set by the time you meet him.”
“Great.”
“And, uh …” Mrs. Callahan pauses, her smile wavering. “Don’t worry about Mr. Muller’s bearing. I sense that underneath, he’s a nice man. Just lonely, like the rest of us.”
Underneath? What does that mean?
Chapter 12
Mr. Muller looks like he just stepped out of Hogwarts Castle in the Harry Potter movies. Dark eyes. Pale skin. Wire glasses pinching his nose. His house is filled with dark leather chairs, dark tables with stout legs, and dark bookshelves stuffed with books.
Siegfried is a muscular brown dog with black ears sharpened to a point and dark eyes that never blink. He looks to weigh only nine or ten pounds, but for a little dog, he’s intense.
How can a dog that doesn’t bark be more intimidating than one that does?
Right away, I learn that Mr. Muller is really Dr. Muller. Not the kind of doctor that prescribes pills, but the kind that teaches you. And he prefers that I call him Professor Muller.
“I taught medieval studies, specializing in myth and legends.” He runs fingers along the crease in his dark trousers. Straightens the stiff collar on his gray shirt. “Do you kn
ow what that is, Samuel?”
“Yes, sir. Stories about dead heroes and stuff.”
“Stuff—” Professor Muller makes a choking sound, his Adam’s apple moving up and down like it’s on a mechanical pulley. “But you are in part correct. Siegfried was named for a Germanic mythical warrior hero.”
“He was?” I glance at the dog, who looks awfully small to be a warrior, then at Professor Muller. “Mr. P named his dog after Apollo, but I can’t remember what he was the god of.”
“Apollo was the Greek god of music, poetry, and many other things.” Because of his knee, Professor Muller has to use a cane to get around. Stiffly, he shuffles to his bookshelves, which line three walls in his living room. A minute later, he returns with a small dark book.
“This will acquaint you with some of the more popular heroes, gods, and goddesses. You may keep it, as I have no further need of it.” He sits down again, resting his leg on a footstool. “And now let me see the book you have brought.”
I open my scrapbook to the section on miniature pinschers and begin. “Well, for short, miniature pinschers are called Min Pins and they came from Germany. They’re real popular as watchdogs and house pets—”
Without warning, Dr. Muller leans toward me and takes the book from my hand. “I am quite capable of reading for myself,” he says.
“Yes, sir.” I sit quietly, watching him read. Siegfried the warrior dog sits quietly, watching me. Seconds pass. Then minutes. Professor Muller reads everything I’ve collected about Min Pins. Then he sighs, cheeks hollow. Face unhappy. I wonder if my scrapbook didn’t pass the test. If I didn’t pass the test. How I could have made it better.
I breathe deep. “You, uh, you don’t like the scrapbook?”
“No, it is good, actually.” He taps the scrapbook with a yellowed fingernail. “A thorough job. I would give you an A-for completeness, a B+ for organization.” He pauses, looking through the pages again. “And a B for neatness. You could have used a little less paste.” He peels a dried blob of Elmer’s glue off the corner of a clipping.
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Thanks. My older sister helped me. She works a lot with animals and wants to be a veterinarian.”
Immortal Max Page 8
