by Bill Wallace
“Nice dog.” His voice quavered. “Nice dog. Hope you’re a good dog.”
The smell of fear was strong. It hurt my nose, but at the same time it made me feel big and strong inside. I followed him as he eased his way to the back of my master’s house. There he moved a bush aside with the back of his hand and looked down at something.
I watched.
“I’m just reading the electric meter,” he assured me, looking down at a glass thing that stuck up from some pipes at the back of the house. “Nice dog. I’m not going to bother anything. Good puppy.”
He took a sharp pointed thing from his pocket and scratched on a pad. Then he let go of the bush and moved slowly away.
I watched.
But I didn’t follow him. His smell of fear was simply a smell of fear. There was no sneaky taste to it. There was nothing sly or evil about the way he moved. He slipped through the gate at the back of my fence and closed it behind him.
Poky came over that afternoon. He was excited and happy because his master had finally gotten him a new chewy bone. When Red crawled through the hole from his side of the fence, Poky offered to share his chewy bone with us.
He was so proud of his new bone that Red and I just didn’t have the heart to get slobbers all over it. We decided to at least let Poky chew the new off his bone before we shared it.
• • •
It was early spring when trouble came to visit. It came at night, just as it had before. I lay in my doghouse with my paws folded, resting my chin on them where they draped over the edge of my floor.
There was a sound at the back fence. My ears perked.
I watched.
A black stocking cap appeared at the top of my fence. There was a clunk as a man’s foot found the bottom rail. He climbed over the fence.
I watched.
The man was dressed in black. His shirt was black, and he wore black pants and black gloves. For a moment he hesitated and looked around.
I watched.
Boldly he walked across the yard, straight to my doghouse.
“Hi, you dumb mutt.” He smiled. “You remember me? I remember you. You’re the same dog who was here last time I broke into this place.”
The smell of fear came from him. It was not the simple smell of fear. This was the same sly, sneaky smell that had come from this man when he stole things from my master’s house. It was the same sneaky smell that had come from the coyotes when they stole our food. It was the smell of fear that came when someone did something they knew was wrong and they were afraid they might get caught.
I felt the hair stand on end along my back. I eased to my feet.
“I may look like the same dog,” I said. “But I’m not. You’d better get out of my master’s yard.”
But I guess people just don’t understand Dog.
The man walked to the back door and started jiggling the doorknob. I walked right up behind him.
“Figure it’s been long enough since I was here last for the folks inside to collect their insurance money and buy all new stuff.” The man’s voice was as sneaky as his smell.
“I warned you,” I growled. “You’d better leave. You’d better not rob my master’s house again.”
He gave me a funny look when I growled at him, but even with my second warning, I guess he still didn’t understand. “Beat it, mutt,” he said. “I’m busy. Bet the guy’s got a new VCR and TV and new everything.” He took a long bar from a black bag that he carried. He pushed it into the side of the door and started to pry it open.
I shrugged my ears. “All right. I tried to warn you.”
• • •
Red and blue lights flashed. Weird, funny shadows danced across my yard. A tall, lean man in a blue uniform stood beside my master. He scratched his head and looked at me. I smiled back. Then he turned to my master.
“I can’t quite figure it out, Mr. Shaffer,” the man said. “Your neighbors called us. They reported hearing screams, like someone was being killed. Before you got home, we checked the premises. There’s a mark on your back door, as if someone tried to break in with a crowbar or something. And we found a pant leg from a pair of black slacks hanging on your back fence. But that’s all we found.”
Mr. Shaffer looked at me and scratched his head. “Officer, may I borrow your flashlight for a moment?”
The policeman handed Mr. Shaffer his light and followed him to my doghouse. My master dropped to one knee and shone his light inside. In the back corner of my house were my trophies—my reminders that I wasn’t really a bully if I fought to protect myself or my friends.
“See anything?” The policeman leaned down next to him.
Mr. Shaffer almost laughed. “Not much. Just a coyote tail, a crowbar, and a black stocking cap.”
The policeman chuckled as he got to his feet. “Looks like an attempted burglary. Your dog must have run the thief off before he could get into the house. Looks like you got yourself one heck of a watchdog there, Mr. Shaffer.”
My master grunted as he got to his feet. He handed the officer his flashlight, then came over and started patting my head.
“Best watchdog a man could ever want,” he bragged. “Sweetie, you’re some watchdog.”
This time, when my master said the word “watchdog,” that was exactly what he meant. I felt so big and proud I could have popped. My tail began to wag. It almost knocked the policeman down. It pounded against the side of my doghouse like someone beating on a bass drum.
“You’re some watchdog.” My master’s words drummed in my ears even louder than my tail drummed against my doghouse. Those were the words I had always wanted to hear more than anything else in the world.
“Watchdog.”
The word made my chest fill with pride. My tail wagged harder. Suddenly my whole back end was wagging. Then my middle and even my shoulders wagged. I wasn’t wagging my tail—my tail was wagging me. Even my ears began to flop. Finally I was a watchdog.
About the Author
BILL WALLACE has had pets for as long as he can remember. He grew up with all sorts of animals around the house.
“Our dogs and cats always got along,” Bill said. “Fact was, I just knew they could communicate and tell what the other was thinking.”
But a friend of Bill’s had a dog who didn’t like cats. When he rode over on his bicycle to play, the dog almost got Mike, a Siamese that Bill really liked.
He used that dog for Butch in the book Snot Stew. Butch was really a “bad guy.” Then a fan wrote and wanted to know why Bill made dogs the villains and told him how his dogs and cats always got along. It was that letter—and the six dogs and one cat that live on the Wallaces’ farm in Oklahoma, combined with Bill and Carol’s “granddogs”—that gave him the idea for this story.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Aladdin Paperbacks edition December 2002
Text copyright © 1995 by Bill Wallace
ALADDIN
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Aladdin is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
ISBN-13: 978-0-671-89075-9 (Aladdin pbk.)
ISBN-10: 0-671-89075-1 (Aladdin pbk.)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4814-3142-2 (eBook)
