The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes

by Marlane Kennedy

  I feel a compulsion to say something, so to my surprise I hurl out the words “Justin Lee doesn’t really have an allergy.” My hand flies up to my mouth. I’m not used to telling lies, I guess.

  “Why did you say he did then?” Grace frowns. She doesn’t look mad, just confused.

  I tell her about my problem with Beauregard. How I have to take care of him when I don’t even like dogs. And how he deserves a better life. “He is chained up all the time,” I say. “I think he’s horribly lonely.”

  “Well, I have a lot in common with Beauregard then. I’m lonely, too,” Grace says. She tells me how much she misses her old friends and how scared she’s been that she won’t make any new ones here. She says she loved living in Pittsburgh and isn’t so sure about the move here. She doesn’t sound snotty or stuck-up about it at all, just a little sad.

  “Moving would be tough,” I say. “I’d hate to have to say good-bye to Luanne, so I understand what you mean.”

  “I was so happy when you and Luanne sat with me at lunch yesterday and today.” Grace leans against the white post of her canopy bed. “But then I froze up. I was afraid I would say something wrong or stupid and then you wouldn’t like me, I guess.”

  “Well, Luanne and I sometimes say stupid things to each other.” I laugh, sitting on her bed. “And we’re still friends. So you have nothing to worry about.”

  Before long Grace is sitting on the bed with me, and we are leaning in close and talking and laughing, and there is no room for any silence between us.

  When Mama comes to pick me up a couple of hours later, Mrs. Walters takes a few minutes to make small talk. All of a sudden I get worried she might mention Justin Lee’s allergies. Mama’s big on not telling lies. And Mrs. Walters might wonder what kind of new friend her daughter had if she discovered I told a whopper within minutes of meeting her. But luckily Mama had left the baby home with Agnes, and he was never brought up. As we are leaving and walking down the sidewalk, though, Mrs. Walters calls out, “I’ll keep an ear open for someone who wants a Saint Bernard.”

  Once we’re in the car, Mama just shakes her head. “Charlotte, your daddy isn’t about to let go of that dog. And I’ve got more important things to do than force the issue. You need to drop the subject. Okay?”

  I look down at my hands and mutter, “Okay,” not wanting to cause Mama any trouble by arguing with her. But I just told another lie. I’m not about to give up yet. Besides, Mama said before that she wouldn’t mind getting rid of Beauregard. If I can find a way to do it without stirring up waves, maybe it will make her happy, too.

  When we get home, I rush out back to get Beauregard’s water bowl filled. Since I went straight to Grace’s house after school, he has had to wait an extralong time for me. After he laps up plenty of fresh water and I give him his expected belly rub, I decide to try to teach him to shake hands, like Grace’s dog, Figaro. I figure it will make him more desirable as a pet, so he can get a good home. Just because he can’t go live with Grace and her family doesn’t mean no one else is out there who would be willing to buy him.

  I push his hind end down so he is sitting.

  “Shake!” I say. I reach down and grab a huge front paw, pumping it up and down. “Good boy!”

  Beauregard cocks his head to the side, like he doesn’t know quite what to make of this new activity.

  I repeat the process over and over again.

  Finally I try saying, “Shake,” without grabbing his paw, fully expecting him to lift it on his own. But his big old paw stays firmly planted on the ground. He wrinkles his brow, locking eyes with me. “I don’t get it,” he seems to be saying.

  “Oh, come on now,” I say, disappointed.

  I think for a moment, then dash back to the house and into the kitchen. I grab about five gingersnap cookies, Daddy’s favorite, from a package in the pantry and beat a quick path back to Beauregard.

  I still grab his paw for him when I say, “Shake,” but this time, as soon as I tell him, “Good boy,” I hold out half a gingersnap. The way he wolfs down food in his bowl, I’m half afraid he’ll take my fingers with the cookie, but he sniffs it first, then gently curls his lips around it and takes it from my hand. He sticks out his tongue to give his mouth a lick and stares at me like I presented him with the most wondrous treasure in the whole wide world.

  By the time I’m on the third gingersnap, he raises his own paw without me grabbing it. I’m so proud of him I hug him after he gobbles down his treat.

  He still smells like his bath, and I linger with my face pressed against his neck for a few moments.

  I love the smell of strawberries. Maybe I should start using Agnes’s shampoo, too.

  Chapter 7

  On Friday morning our sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Delenor, greets us with a huge smile on her face, almost like she has a secret she can’t wait to share. As soon as the bell rings and we all get seated, she goes over to her desk and picks up a photo frame. She turns it out, facing us, so we can all see the picture inside. It’s a little dog, white and fluffy. Some of the girls in class start oohing and aahing.

  “This is Snowflake,” Mrs. Delenor says. “She’s a new member of my family. Did any of you read in the paper last week about the animal shelter that opened on Fenton Street?”

  A few kids say they did. I read only the funnies, so this is news to me. The funnies are Daddy’s favorite part of the paper, too. Agnes likes the horoscope and advice columns. I think Mama is the only one in the house who really reads the newspaper for news.

  “Well,” Mrs. Delenor continues, “I adopted Snowflake from the shelter yesterday.” She takes the framed picture and gives it to a boy near the front of the class, so it can be passed around for everyone to get a closer look. “I talked to the shelter manager and found out it needs a lot of help to keep everything up and running. It really depends on donations from the community. So I thought the shelter might make a good service project for our class.”

  Mrs. Delenor gets a pile of handouts from her desk and starts to pass them out. “I want everyone to collect the items on this list: used or new leashes or collars, dog food, cat food, cat litter, paper towels, blankets, trash bags, and also aluminum cans, which the shelter can turn in for recycling money. Bring the collected items to school a week from Monday; that will give you plenty of time to gather your items. We will then make a short field trip to the shelter to present the donations. I’ve also arranged a tour.”

  The framed picture of Mrs. Delenor’s new dog makes its way to me. Snowball is a cute dog, I guess, and pretty lucky she has a home with Mrs. Delenor. I instantly wish I could take Beauregard to the shelter and find him a home. But there’s no way Daddy would give his two-hundred-dollar dog away to any shelter, that much is for sure.

  At lunch me, Grace, and Luanne sit together again. I wonder if Grace will get nervous and clam up like before, but she leans over and whispers, “Maybe the shelter is the answer to your problem.”

  Luanne overhears her. “What problem?”

  I explain to her about how I’ve decided to solve Beauregard’s problems (and mine) by finding him a better home.

  “You’ve been complaining to me about having to take care of him, but you never told me about trying to find him a new home.” Luanne seems a little hurt that Grace knows something she didn’t.

  “Well, I was thinking maybe Grace’s family would buy him, but it didn’t work out. Her mother’s allergic,” I say.

  Luanne looks even more hurt. “Why didn’t you ask if my family would buy him?”

  “’Cause you just told me the other day that your mom said Jester was enough.”

  “Oh. Right.” Now Luanne looks a little sheepish for acting jealous. She takes a sip of her milk through her straw, then says, “So now you’re thinking about taking him to the shelter?”

  I shake my head. “Daddy wouldn’t allow it. He wants to keep Beauregard.”

  “Why?” Luanne asks. “He doesn’t really seem to care about that dog.”<
br />
  I shrug. “He says he loves him. I guess it’s sort of like…like he gets distracted and doesn’t stop to think about Beauregard much. Plus Beauregard’s an expensive dog that he got for a good deal. And Daddy thinks he’ll scare robbers away from the house.”

  Grace starts paying attention to Luanne and asking her questions. I think she feels bad that Luanne’s feelings got hurt a minute ago. Pretty soon the two are talking up a storm. Grace, who seemed so shy at first, is now a chatterbox. She’s just like a windup doll needing her key turned, and I guess me being friendly to her yesterday, when I visited, is what finally did the trick. Right now she is smiling, showing her crossed teeth, and she looks much more relaxed and comfortable than I’ve ever seen her at school.

  So even though I wasn’t able to help Beauregard by approaching her, I do feel kind of good because at least I was able to help her.

  Daddy spends an hour or so after dinner working on his painting for Mama while I watch. He explains to me that oil painting is done in layers and that oil paint dries real slow, so you don’t actually have to finish the painting right away. What he has done so far doesn’t look much like the picture in the how-to book, but he doesn’t seem discouraged yet.

  I’m not discouraged about my project either. Sooner or later I’ll find Beauregard a home. Just got to come up with the right idea.

  Chapter 8

  When I go out to feed Beauregard on Monday morning, I can see my breath come out in steamy puffs. Overnight we have gone from summerlike weather to fall. The grass is crunchy with frost. I dump the dog food into the bowl and wrap my jacket tightly around me. We got Beauregard near the beginning of spring. I started caring for him when summer was about to hit. It was bad enough doing it in the ninety-plus-degree heat, I don’t want to think about doing it in the snow and cold that will be coming this winter.

  However, with the plan I came up with over the weekend, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about taking care of him much longer.

  Beauregard, done scarfing down his food, rolls over for a belly rub. My hands are freezing, so I don’t mind obliging today. The friction with his fur warms my hands.

  Finally I stand, and he sits up. “Shake,” I say, wondering if he’ll remember. And he does! He lifts his paw, and I take it in my hand. I don’t have any gingersnaps to give him, but he seems content with me telling him, “good boy.” And he really is good. Smart, too. There’s no denying that. It makes me feel a little sad that I’m not a dog person.

  The whole day long at school all I can think about is my plan. I want to share it with Grace and Luanne at lunch, but I decide to wait until everything’s done and over with and a success. Then I’ll tell them what happened.

  Instead of going straight out back to fill Beauregard’s water bowl once I get home, I go inside. Mama looks especially tired. Justin Lee kept her up half the night, she says. He’s taking a nap, so she tells me she’s headed upstairs to take one, too. I feel bad for her and wonder how long this postpartum depression stuff lasts. Surely not too much longer. I just want Mama back, the mama who brushed my hair away from my face and always had time to ask me about school when I came home.

  Anyway, Agnes is at some high school club meeting, I know, and won’t be home till later.

  So now’s the perfect time for my plan.

  As Mama climbs the stairway, I tell her I’m going over to Luanne’s for a bit. She nods and tells me to be home by dinner.

  I don’t go over to Luanne’s, though. I get a piece of rope from the garage, go to the backyard, unclip Beauregard from his chain, thread the rope through his collar, and we’re off.

  Chapter 9

  The handout Mrs. Delenor gave us said the shelter was located at 258 Fenton Street. I figure it will be about a fifteen-minute walk. Over the weekend I realized this shelter was meant to be. I mean, it opened just in time for Beauregard. It was like a sign from above. I just have to be a little devious about it, that’s all.

  Beauregard is pulling hard at the rope, and he’s practically prancing he’s so happy to be going somewhere. The rope starts slipping through my hands, even though I’m gripping it with all my strength, and it hurts.

  “Ouch!” I shriek. I think about what Daddy said—that Beauregard’s too strong for me to handle—and I imagine how terrible it would be if he got away from me and got hit by a car.

  I yell at Beauregard, and he slows down a bit. He cocks his head, looks at me like he is suddenly aware I am traveling with him, and begins to stay closer to my side. I keep talking to him, so he won’t start pulling again. He seems to understand he shouldn’t pull, and I feel a bit more confident having him on my makeshift leash.

  Here is my devious plan:

  I figure if I show up at the shelter and tell them Beauregard belongs to me and my family and that we don’t want him anymore, they’d want to call Mama and Daddy to make sure it’s all right. And of course it wouldn’t be, and I’d be in big trouble. But if I show up with Beauregard and tell them he’s a stray I found, well, what can they do but take him in and find him a home?

  The shelter is located between Rhonda’s Cut and Curl, where Mama, Agnes, and I get our hair done, and a store that sells tires. I recognize the building. There used to be a pizza shop there, but it went out of business.

  Across the street is a house Mama is in love with. It’s one of the biggest in town but is pretty rundown–looking. Mama has always said if she won the lottery, she’d buy it and fix it up to its former glory. Our old house wouldn’t be much fixed up, she says, but that one would be something else. Some old lady lives there now, I guess, who doesn’t get out a lot. Mama told me that she had plenty of money to make the house look good and that it was such a pity she didn’t.

  I wish we’d win the lottery. I wish Mama could buy her dream house and fix it up. Maybe then she’d be happy enough to put on her running shoes every day.

  I open the door, and Beauregard stands back, like he’s not sure he should go in.

  “Come on,” I say, and I almost slip up and call him by name, but I stop myself right in time. He’s a stray, I remind myself, so he doesn’t have a name.

  Beauregard follows me in and starts sniffing the floor, smelling other dog scents, I’m sure.

  There is a lady at the front desk who greets me. She’s got short, straight brown hair and she’s wearing a dark green T-shirt, with the shelter logo, and jeans.

  “What have we here?” she asks. She comes from behind the counter and leans over to pet Beauregard. He wags his tail and stops sniffing the ground. Instead he begins sniffing her.

  “I found him running loose in the streets,” I tell her. “Almost got hit by a car. Poor thing.” I shake my head in mock concern.

  The lady looks Beauregard over real good. “Hmm…he has a collar but no tags. Doesn’t look underweight.” She rakes her fingers through his hair. “Fairly clean, too. He doesn’t look like a stray, but you never know.”

  I instantly regret giving him that bath; maybe I should have rubbed him down with dirt before coming here.

  “If he does belong to someone, they have three days to pick him up.” She smiles at me. I notice her nametag. It says “Kathleen.” “Well, let’s get him all set up. You can come along, if you like,” she says.

  Kathleen takes Beauregard’s rope, and I follow her through a small room that has ten small cages. Six are empty, but four contain cats. They start meowing at us and rubbing back and forth against the fronts of their cages. We then enter a hallway and go through a door to the left where there are five large kennel cages set up, all empty.

  “This is where we keep the dogs that have just come in. After three days, if no one claims them and if they seem reasonably healthy and social, we move them into the adoption room. I just moved two dogs into the adoption room this morning, so this guy here that you found will be our only resident for now.” She opens the wire door to the nearest kennel and ends up actually having to shove Beauregard in from behind because he wants to st
ay right by my side. He looks mighty puzzled and kind of hurt when she closes the door on him. He drops his head, paws at the metal grating, and whimpers.

  I feel a little bad for Beauregard, but I know better things are in store for him: a nice home of his own. I remember the yellow kitchen walls and fancy printed dog bowls from my dream. I smile, and a real sense of accomplishment sinks in. I’ve done exactly what I set out to do.

  “It was so nice of you to bring him here. We’ll take good care of him,” Kathleen tells me. “Would you like to see our other dog room?”

  I nod, to be polite.

  Down the other side of the hall is the adoption room. As soon as we step inside, I want to cover my ears. Terrible barking and yapping. I count five dogs, but it sounds more like thirty. They are all jumping against the sides of their kennels.

  “I shouldn’t have brought you in here,” Kathleen says, raising her voice above the commotion. She grins. “You’ll probably want to take them all home!”

  I nod again. I don’t bother telling her I’m not a dog person.

  Chapter 10

  I squeeze some ketchup onto my hamburger and take a bite. Daddy and Agnes have been home for nearly two hours now, and no one has even noticed that Beauregard’s gone. Maybe no one ever will. It wouldn’t surprise me. Agnes is telling Mama and Daddy about the dress she wants for homecoming. There is a mall about an hour away, and her friend Janelle’s mother took the two of them shopping there last night. “The dress is royal blue,” she says, “and it fits perfect. Plus it’s on sale.”

  “How much?” Daddy asks.

  When she tells him, he pretends to choke on a french fry, even though the price doesn’t really sound that bad.