The Windfields,
Joseph, Holly, Mindy, and Mandy
I study the picture again. I can tell it was taken in a kitchen. The walls are painted a soft yellow. In the bottom corner of the photo I see plaid, a doggy bed. And I’m sure, even though I can’t see it, somewhere in the room are food and water bowls printed with his name, just like in my dream.
I can’t tell who is happier, Beauregard or those twin girls hugging him. Beauregard’s nose is upturned, and I swear all that loose skin hanging from his mouth is gathered into a sloppy smile. The twins are hugging him so hard their inside cheeks are buried in the fur of his neck. I look at both their beaming faces, and something unexpected happens. I start to cry. Hard.
Justin Lee, done with his snack in the kitchen, comes running back to the living room. I quickly choke back my wayward sobs and wipe at my eyes. I fold the letter up and stick it and the picture back in the envelope, placing it on the coffee table.
“High fife,” Justin Lee says, holding up his hand.
I go to smack his hand, fully expecting him to jerk it away, but he doesn’t, and my hand splats onto something slimy.
“Yuck!” I quickly withdraw my hand and look at it as Justin Lee falls, laughing, to the floor.
Though disgusted, I laugh, too.
Mama hurries into the room, a damp washcloth in her hand. “Sorry. Banana,” she tells me, grabbing Justin Lee to clean off the squished banana remaining on his hand.
“Oh.” I head to the bathroom to wash my own hand off.
After I’m done washing off my hand, I give Mama a break by reading a story to Justin Lee. Reading to him is about the only thing that will keep him still. He snuggles into my lap and grins up at me, tiny baby teeth visible.
When I close the book, I hear the back door and voices.
“Look at what Daddy brought home!” I hear Agnes say.
I hear Mama in the kitchen yell, “What on earth?”
I rush into the kitchen with Justin Lee still in my arms.
Daddy has a golf bag with clubs slung over his shoulder.
“You don’t play golf,” Mama says.
“Not yet. Hank, the accountant at work, got a new set and practically gave these to me. Worth about six hundred dollars. I only paid seventy-five.”
“We can’t afford the green fees,” Mama says.
“Hank is a member of West Townfield Country Club. He has five times he can bring a guest for free. He said he can bring me along when he goes, just so I can try it out.” Daddy sets down the clubs, spreads his legs apart, and takes an imaginary swing.
“Okay, Arnold Palmer.” Mama laughs.
The whole family is in the kitchen and grinning and things feel the way they should be.
No dog worries.
No Mama worries.
Back to normal.
Finally.
Chapter 38
The following day is Friday, and after school Luanne, Grace, and I walk to Petunia’s. She recovered well enough to come back home in March, although Rhonda, Barth, and Amber Rose moved in with her because she needed extra care. Rhonda said it was an adjustment at first for them all but that Petunia truly enjoys the baby and that it all seems to have worked out.
When we reach the house, the three of us stand in front for a moment, gaping with admiration at the new paint job we see. Last week Rhonda took the snapshot of Petunia’s father after he had finished painting the house to a paint store. The shop used the photo to mix up some new paint to match. So now the house looks just as cheerful and happy on the outside as it does on the inside.
We finally go up to the porch to ring the doorbell and after a few moments see Petunia’s face as the door opens.
“The house looks great!” Luanne says.
“Oh, thanks,” Petunia says. “I was so afraid they wouldn’t get the color right. But it ended up being just perfect. My father would approve, I’m sure.” Petunia showers us with her half grin, and it conveys just as much joy as any full grin would have.
Rhonda is at the beauty shop, Barth is at work, and Amber Rose is at her grandma’s house, so it’s just the four of us. On the way to the kitchen table I walk by my gift to Petunia. My work of art is hanging on a wall in the parlor. It looks grand, if I do say so myself. I’m hoping the new painting I started last night of Beauregard and his new family will turn out just as good.
We get settled at the kitchen table. As Grace deals the cards, I open my backpack and take out the letter and picture of Beauregard’s new family. I brought them along to share with everyone since they all played a part in his newfound happiness.
“The girls look really nice,” Grace says.
“And the parents, too!” says Luanne.
“Oh, how wonderful,” Petunia says after she is done reading the letter and looking at the picture. “Beauregard is positively glowing. What an amazing thing to have happened to him and that family. A happy ending. That’s what we all want, isn’t it?”
I nod, unable to speak because I start to get all choked up again. I feel hot and red-faced. Just when I think I’m about to burst out bawling, Luanne says, “Charlotte, I just passed. You need to decide which suit to call trump.”
I study my hand. I have an ace of hearts, a queen of hearts, and a jack of diamonds. “Hearts,” I say, relieved at having successfully shoved the teary feeling away.
I’m not sad, and everything is fine and dandy, so why on earth do I keep on feeling like I need to cry?
After Petunia’s, we walk to the shelter over on Fenton Street. I want to thank Kathleen for bringing over the letter from Beauregard’s new family and for all her help.
When we troop through the door, Kathleen looks up from the front desk and greets us with a “Hey, girls!” She stands up. “Did you get the letter?” she asks me.
“Yes. Thanks. I feel so much better now, knowing where he is.”
“Couldn’t ask for him to have a better home,” Kathleen says.
“I really appreciate what you did, making the arrangements with the rescue group and everything. I bet Beauregard appreciates it, too.”
“Well, that’s what we’re here for. You all want to visit some of the dogs we have?” she asks. “They’d love the attention if you have some time to spare.” Without waiting for an answer, she starts walking. We follow her back to the dog adoption room. Five dogs welcome us with their tails wagging.
“You know, I was thinking of trying to start a volunteer program for kids to come for a couple of hours a week to walk the dogs. Maybe brush them or bathe them and spend time with them, too. Would you three be interested? As long as your parents give permission, of course.”
Luanne and Grace give an enthusiastic “yes!”
I don’t say anything. One of the dogs reminds me a bit of Beauregard. Large, boxy head, a bit of drool hanging out of his mouth, but with a smooth solid reddish coat. A mixed breed of some sort. He looks at me with deep brown eyes and whimpers. I flash back to when I last saw Beauregard, right here at the shelter, and I suddenly wish with all my heart I had hugged him after all. I feel my throat tighten up.
“Sure, I’ll volunteer,” I tell Kathleen, my voice kind of high and squeaky-sounding.
Oh, why did I just say that? After all I went through to get rid of Beauregard, and here I’ll be doing dog chores again. Am I crazy?
I blink away a few tears and stick my hand through the cage to pet the dog. And, like a ton of bricks, it hits me why I’ve been so emotional lately. I miss Beauregard. A bunch.
Maybe I am a dog person?
Even though I wasn’t exactly born one, I happen to feel like one now.
“What’s his name?” I ask Kathleen.
“The people who turned him in called him Fang.”
I lean in and whisper to him, “We’ll have to do something about that name of yours.”
He thumps his tail. I find myself wondering if I bring some gingersnaps with me when I come back, how long it will take me to teach this dog to shake hands.
I guess I might as well admit this straight up.
I can hardly wait to find out.
Afterword
I had a Saint Bernard growing up. We got her when she was a few months old and named her Heidi. Shortly after she arrived, I came down with the mumps, and Heidi stayed snuggled up on the couch with me for days. She made having the mumps easy, almost enjoyable. I loved having her company, and she loved being with me. Heidi grew into 150 pounds of pure sweetness and affection. She was an integral and important part of our family. We truly doted on that big, slobbery dog of ours.
Charlotte and Beauregard’s story came into being nearly thirty-six years after my bout with the mumps. I was on my way to pick up my son at the home of his friend who lived an hour and a half away. During the long drive there, I noticed a sad looking Saint Bernard chained up in someone’s backyard. I began to worry about that dog, even though I honestly didn’t know the particulars of his situation. It could have been that he was just waiting for his owner to come home, bring him inside, and lavish attention on him. But I also knew that perhaps this might be all his life amounted to—loneliness bound to a chain. I thought about that dog long after I drove by him, and the echoes became The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes.
While researching this story I learned about the Saint Bernard Rescue Foundation. You can visit them at www.saintrescue.org, just like Charlotte did. Each year they place hundreds of these big, wonderful dogs into loving homes. There are also breed rescue groups for nearly every sort of dog imaginable—from the enormous Irish wolfhound to the tiny Chihuahua and all sizes in between. These groups are dedicated to making sure the dogs in their care have the best life possible ahead of them. And, of course, there are millions of mixed breeds in shelters across the nation, eagerly waiting for families to call their own. Like Beauregard, they all deserve a happy ending.
About the Author
Marlane Kennedy knows all about Saint Bernard puppies. When she was growing up, her family’s gentle giant, Heidi, had two litters of puppies that she helped to raise. Now she lives with her family—including an enormous chocolate Lab and a black cat—in Wooster, Ohio.
Marlane Kennedy is the author of Me and the Pumpkin Queen.
www.marlanekennedy.com
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE DOG DAYS OF CHARLOTTE HAYES. Copyright © 2009 by Marlane Kennedy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780061923104
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