Immortal Max

by Lutricia Clifton

  “A vet, you say.”

  “Yes, sir. She’s leaving for college in the fall.”

  He nods slowly. “And have you learned how to care properly for animals from her? That could be a big advantage for someone who walks dogs.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. She’s taught me a lot. And I’ve taken care of an old dog for years. He’s probably not going to be around much longer, though. I’m going to buy my own dog when I have enough money. And I’ll take care of it, too.”

  “Is that why you’re working?”

  “Yes, sir.” I pause, noticing he’s still not smiling. “I’d take real good care of Siegfried, and watch him extra close.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you would.” He taps a section of one page and sighs again. “This part is what saddens me.” Straightening his glasses, he points to a clipping. “It tells how the breed needs a daily walk on a lead, or short hours of free exercise in a safe area.” He closes the book with a clap. “In the university town where I lived, there was such a place. A fenced area to take our dogs where they could run free. Now …” He waves his hand like he’s casting a spell. “We pay for many, many amenities here—swimming pool, tennis court, boat docks—and yet we don’t have a dog run.”

  As an ornate clock on the mantel chimes the half hour, Siegfried places a paw on the footstool.

  “Ah. Time for Siegfried’s walk. We follow a strict regimen here. Breakfast at eight, lunch at noon, dinner at six. Walks at midmorning and midafternoon. Regrettably, the routine has been interrupted.”

  I notice the dog leash lying on the footstool and pick it up. Immediately, Siegfried is at my side. Ears raised. Mouth open, panting.

  “He may need to go outside,” Professor Muller says. “I’ve been putting him on a rope just outside the back door. It’s long enough for him to do what he needs to do and get a little exercise, but not nearly enough. I’ll let him out as soon as we finish our business.”

  “No walk today,” I say, rubbing the dog’s head. “Maybe tomorrow …” I look at Professor Muller.

  “Yes, perhaps …” Professor Muller pulls a plastic bag containing dog biscuits shaped like little bones from his pocket. “I worry so much about Siegfried.” He rubs the dog’s head.

  “Why?” Siegfried looks to be four or five years old and healthy. “Is he sick?”

  “Certainly not! I make sure he is properly cared for.” He hands me the bag so I can give the dog a biscuit, too. “I worry that I will die before he does. I don’t want him ending up in a cage at a pet store.” He looks at me. “You’ve seen them. Cages with signs on the front that describe the animal’s character traits. The kind of home it would do well in.”

  “Yes, sir.” As Siegfried munches down a dog biscuit, I picture him in a cage with a sign that says WARRIOR DOG ACCUSTOMED TO A STRICT REGIMEN. ENJOYS GERMAN MEDIEVAL STUDIES.

  Oh, yeah, he’d be adopted in a heartbeat.

  For some reason, I think of Max, envisioning the sign that would go on his cage if he were being adopted. BIG SMELLY DOG WITH GARBAGE DISPOSAL FOR STOMACH. PRONE TO EXPLOSIVE ERUPTIONS OF NOXIOUS GASES AND BILIOUS AIR. His chances of adoption would be as bad as Siegfried’s.

  No, worse. Which is why he ended up with us.

  “Well, maybe someone would adopt him. That’s how we got our old dog. He’s been living with us four years now.”

  “Is that so?” Professor Muller nods, looking thoughtful. “Well, clearly, he found a good home.” He looks at me, eyes unswerving. “All right then, it’s settled. Mrs. Callahan called and explained the terms and I find them agreeable … on one condition. That you also pick up the waste in my backyard on those days that you come. I should be able to handle that job myself in a few weeks, but not right now. Is that agreeable to you?”

  “Yeah, sure. Great. Super-great.” I stick out my hand for a handshake to clinch the deal. Professor Muller’s fingers are all bones. His knuckles are knotty knobs.

  Professor Muller accompanies me to the door, his back a steel girder. “Until tomorrow, Samuel.” But as the door closes, the wooden face cracks open in a smile.

  I grin. Mrs. Callahan pegged Dr. Muller right.

  I sprout wings after I pick up my bike and head for the security gate. Flying around golf carts, cars, trucks.

  I’ve done it.

  Suddenly, I hear a golf cart, the gasoline-powered kind. I stop pedaling and push my bike onto the right-of-way. Seconds later, Justin comes speeding up.

  “I’m gonna get you, Spammy!” he yells. He spins around as the security gate comes into view, driving off fast.

  Chief Beaumont walks outside when I turn in my pass. The ball cap is pulled low to keep off the sun’s glare. Curly black hair, starting to gray at the temples, pokes out around his ears. “How’d things go, Sam?”

  “Solid. I’ll be walking dogs Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Starting tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

  He nods toward the woman at the window. “Bertha here will have a pass waiting for you.” The woman behind the sliding glass panel smiles at me.

  I smile, too, then hesitate, wondering if I should mention Justin’s threat.

  “Something else, Sam?” Chief Beaumont’s eyes slice through his glasses.

  I shake my head. But on the way home, I think about Justin a lot. I can’t remember a time he got into it with anyone at school in the three years he’s been here. Really got into it. Not one black eye. Or bloody nose. A shoving match. He won’t even play contact sports. But at CountryWood, he’s the Terminator.

  And now there’s a new bull’s-eye painted on his target.

  Me.

  Chapter 13

  Sid arrived right on time Tuesday afternoon, with George. For the last half hour, George has been investigating the inside of Rosie’s blue plastic wading pool. Like a corral, its walls keep him contained. A jar lid serves as a water bowl.

  Gerbil heaven.

  Sid insisted we drag the pool around to the barn because he wanted to see Max guarding Birdie. But right after we got there, he asked to look at my dog scrapbook. His head has been stuck in it ever since. And as he turns the pages, he looks toward Max.

  “How long did it take you to get here?” I pull grass, toss it in the wading pool, watch George nibble.

  “Twenty-five minutes, maybe thirty.”

  “That’s not too bad. ’Bout the same time it takes to get to CountryWood.”

  Sid turns more pages.

  “George is glad to get out of his cage.” I pull a dandelion, toss it into the wading pool, watch George push it around like a soccer ball.

  Sid nods his reply. Turns another page.

  I swat at a fly. Scratch an itch. Blow out my breath. “What are you looking for, Sid? The section on Chihuahuas is closer to the front. I made the book alphabetical.”

  “Yes, I read about Chihuahuas… .” He turns another page, glancing toward Max. “But I am determining Max’s breed.”

  That makes me laugh. “Max doesn’t have a breed, Sid.”

  He looks at me, poker-faced. “Sam, all dogs start out as some breed.”

  “Well, yeah, I know that, but …”

  “I believe Max is Bouvier des Flandres and Schapendoes. And perhaps some Pyrenean sheepdog.”

  “You’re kidding.” Sid’s face says he’s dead serious.

  “Look here.” He begins to talk, pointing out sections in my dog book as he turns pages. “You see, it tells how the Bouvier des Flandres originated in Belgium, France, and the Netherlands.”

  Sid pronounces the name so that it sounds like Boo-vee-ay duh Flahnders. Since he’s one of the smartest kids in class, I figure he knows.

  “It says the Bouvier is square built with a big head and a large nose, high-set ears, and dark brown eyes covered with long eyebrows that give the dog a melancholy look.” Another glance at Max. “I think Max looks very melancholy.”

  I look at Max. See stringy hair. A long tongue drooling slime.

  “And further, Bouvier means ‘cowherd’ in French.�
� Sid gives me a satisfied look.

  “Look around, Sid.” I laugh. “You see any cows?”

  “Obviously not, but I think Max has substituted birds for cows.” He frowns. “I do find it a bit strange that he has switched his loyalty to birds.”

  It’s because you told Max to pester someone else, the voice in my head whispers.

  “And …” Sid turns to the section on Schapendoes and pronounces the syllables carefully. “The SHA-pone-dues is similar looking, but smaller, and the coat is blue-gray in color. It is very loyal to its owner.” He looks at Max again. “In this case, that would be a bird.”

  I look at Max, too. His coat is bluish gray, except around his mouth where the hair has turned white. Snow white.

  Max is getting old. Real old.

  “And here …” Sid turns to another section of my dog book. “The Pyrenean sheepdog”—pronounced Pi-REN-e-an—“is also from the same part of the world as the Bouvier. Its color is basically gray, often tipped with grayish silver, white, or yellow. It, too, has a black nose, but its eyes are chestnut.” He looks at me. “What color are Max’s eyes?”

  “I don’t know.” I hunch my shoulders. “What color’s a chestnut?”

  Sid raises his eyebrows. “The color of a chestnut nut, Sam.”

  “Sid, I’ve never seen a chestnut nut.”

  Sid rolls his eyes, walks to a chinquapin oak tree, and returns with fuzzy nut he picked up off the ground. Peeling off the husk, he holds up a glossy red-brown nut. “A chestnut nut.”

  “Oh. We call those hairy acorns.”

  Together, we walk over to Max and lift the hair so we can see his eyes.

  “Chestnut,” Sid says, looking smug.

  “So … what? You’re saying Max is a … a Boo-sha-peer.”

  Sid grins. “That’s very good, Sam. I like it.”

  “I was kidding, Sid,” I groan. “You don’t find any of those breeds around here—much less all three.”

  “Do you know Max’s history?”

  “Well, no. I think he was found running loose. You know, a stray.”

  “Then perhaps he did not come from around here. I, too, am different. Why? Because I emigrated here from India.”

  Even nonsense makes sense when Sid says it. Then I wake up. “That’s crazy, Sid. All you’ve done is mix up a bunch of different breeds.”

  “So? Until a few years ago, I had never heard of a Shi-poo, a labradoodle, or a Morkie.”

  “A Morkie?”

  “Yes. A cross between a Maltese and a Yorkshire terrier.”

  “You just made that up.”

  “One of our motel guests last week had a Morkie. He paid six hundred dollars for it.”

  I should have known better. Sid never makes things up. Besides, he’s right again. The peekapoos I’ll be walking at CountryWood are a made-up breed.

  Correction: designer breed.

  “What are you doing?” Rosie runs around the corner of the barn, and she’s not alone. Bailey is with her, and she’s smiling.

  Sid quickly explains how we have concluded that Max is a Boo-sha-peer.

  “Wow.” Rosie gives Max a wide-eyed look. “That’s elegant.”

  Elegant. Another word that sounds like it came out of a British news commentator’s mouth. Namely, Sid’s.

  As Sid shows the appropriate pages in the dog book to Rosie, Bailey sits down next to me. She’s wearing one of her creations, a yellow-and-purple tie-dyed tee, and her feet tap the ground like two drumsticks wearing Converses. She’s bursting to tell me something.

  “Yee and Anise called.” Soft whispering. “They might be coming over to practice at my house on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You know, opposite days we have cheerleading. They said you told them I have a good place to practice.”

  “Well, you do.” I shrug like it’s not important. Inside, I’m all shouts.

  “But you didn’t have to tell them.”

  “It was the truth.”

  “They’re biking over today to see how long it takes them”—she pauses, frowning—“and to see if they think it would work out. I told them Rosie and I would be over here ’cause Sid was coming out.”

  Just then, I see two bikes pull into the driveway. Yee and Anise walk into the backyard, looking hot and sweaty. I motion them over.

  “Gee,” Anise says, looking around the backyard. “This is like a park.” She sits down next to Sid.

  “It is?” I look around our backyard to see if something has changed. It hasn’t.

  “Really, it is.” Yee sits down next to Anise. “So big and green. Not just the grass, but … everything. And your mom’s flowers are beautiful.” She indicates Mom’s perennial garden. “This is a lot prettier than CountryWood.”

  Just what Mom said… .

  “I think so, too,” Sid says. “Much more pleasant than our asphalt parking lot.” He catches everyone up on Max’s new pedigree as a Boo-sha-peer.

  “Doesn’t that make Max sound splendid.” Bailey gives Anise and Yee her smiley-face grin.

  Anise and Yee roll their eyes.

  Translation: Bailey’s being too “perky.”

  “He would be much more splendid if he were clean.” Sid wrinkles his nose at Max, who is doing his thing. Lying in a heap. Imitating a pile of dead leaves. Emitting foul odors.

  Looking at his watch, Sid puts George back in his cage.

  “Where you going?” Rosie says, eyes wide. “I didn’t get to play with George yet.”

  “I must be home before three o’clock. That is when we eat dinner.”

  “Three o’clock?” I stare at Sid. “You eat at three o’clock?”

  “Yes. We must have the smell out of the lobby before checkin time. That starts at four o’clock.” Sid’s face blooms rosy pink. “You see, we enjoy our food with a lot of spices, and some of our guests find the smell repulsive.”

  I walk Sid to his bike and watch as he straps George’s cage on the back. A blue bandanna serves as a sunshade.

  “Thank you for inviting me over, Sam. Perhaps George and I can come back again?”

  “Sure. How ’bout every Tuesday and Thursday?”

  “Splendid.”

  Suddenly, I have an idea. “Hey, I could use a favor, Sid.” I tell him how Rosie thinks she’s a shoo-in to win the pageant because he and I are friends.

  “Oh, that is a very big problem. Have you explained to her that she may not win?”

  “Sure, but I’m her brother. Sisters never listen to brothers.”

  He nods, looking sympathetic. “If you think it would help, I can talk to Rosie. I will explain that we are only supplying the space for the pageant, nothing more. The judges are unknown to us.”

  “Solid.”

  Sid wheels off, George’s blue sunshade rippling behind. I wait until he reaches the corner, wondering if he will turn to wave. He does.

  I grin. Three big problems solved in one day. Bailey isn’t mad at me anymore. Sid’s going to straighten out Rosie’s thinking about the pageant. And Yee and Anise are going to start practicing with Bailey … maybe.

  I return to the backyard, feeling good. But I’m the only one smiling when I get there. I look around and see that Rosie is gone.

  “Where’s my little sister?” I sit down next to Yee. Anise is next to her, and Bailey sits across from us.

  “Making lemonade,” Bailey says, grinning big. “She said your mom buys the packaged kind that gets mixed with cold water and ice because it’s healthier than soda pop.” She looks at Yee and Anise again. “Isn’t that cool—I mean, their mom is so into this healthy food thing! Wish I could be more like her. I’m into ice cream … and cookies … and mayo. Geez …” She grins bigger. “I just love mayo. I put mayo on everything. Sandwiches and hamburgers—I even dip French fries in mayo. Do you do that? Dip French fries in mayo?”

  Yee and Anise look at their shoes.

  Bailey grins bigger.

  I nudge Yee in the ribs.

  Yee glares at me, then turns to face Bailey
. “Um, why do you do that?”

  “You mean, dip French fries in mayo?” Bailey’s grin is plastic now.

  Yee nudges Anise in the ribs.

  “No.” Anise glares at Yee. “Smile all the time.”

  “Yeah,” Yee says, her voice sounding stronger. “You know, you don’t have to be so … perky all the time.”

  “Perky?” The plastic smile slides off Bailey’s face. She’s figured out that she’s on trial. “Because that’s what fat kids do,” she says. “I mean, we’re not pretty, so we have to be … perky.”

  “Huh.” Anise looks at Yee and me. “Did you know that? I didn’t know that.”

  I hunch my shoulders and look at Yee.

  “But doesn’t your mouth get tired?” Yee stares at Bailey. “My mouth would ache if I grinned like that all the time.”

  Things are so quiet, you can hear the wind blowing through the trees. All at once, Bailey falls back on the grass, arms flopped out to her side.

  “Ohmigosh, yes!” she cries. “Sometimes my cheeks hurt so bad, I think they’re gonna fall off my face. I hate smiling all the time.” She sits up quickly, looking between Yee and Anise. “But just ’cause I’m fat doesn’t mean I’m not strong. I mean, I could be part of a pyramid easy ’cause my folks make me do chores—outside chores. Under all this fat is muscle.” She flexes her arm, showing off her bicep. “You wanna feel?”

  “No,” Anise says, pushing Bailey’s arm away. “It’s just that … well, it’s okay not to smile so much, especially when we’re practicing.”

  “And at cheer practice,” Yee says. “And in school … and after school … and during gym … and—”

  “All the time, Bailey,” I say. “They’re saying just be yourself all the time. You know, like you are when you’re with me?”

  “Oh, is that all?” Bailey raises her shoulders, lets them drop. “Sure.”

  And before I know it, they’re all smiling at each other. Real smiles, not plastic.

  “What’s so funny?” Rosie sets a sloshing pitcher of lemonade on the picnic table.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I say, and run to the house to get glasses.