“You go back,” Loyola argued. “I like dogs.”
Loyola held her ground, arms crossed, but at a safe distance from Trevor. Trevor stood firm, too.
“There are plenty of dogs to go around,” the woman in the lab coat cut in jovially, ignoring their standoff.
Obviously, she did not know about their secret pact.
“Here you are,” she said, handing Trevor a plastic vest with a chest-sized reflective X on the front and back. It was the kind of vest that crossing guards or construction workers wore so that motorists could see them in blizzards or fog.
She handed a vest to Loyola, too.
“One size fits all,” the woman in the lab coat added cheerfully.
Was she trying to be funny? Trevor wondered as he reluctantly put on his vest.
“Here are your walkie-talkies. They have a long range in case you need me.”
She showed them how to work the buttons.
“And here’s the list of addresses of the senior citizens to whom you’ve been assigned.”
She retrieved the list from her desk and handed it to Loyola.
Trevor frowned. He knew Loyola got the list because she looked older than him. She looked older and more responsible just because of her height. It wasn’t fair.
“We’re the same age,” he wanted to state for the record, but he didn’t. He thought that it would make him sound small.
Loyola studied the list.
“Are all the addresses near here?” she asked, returning to her soft voice, her I’m-smaller-than-I-look voice.
The woman in the lab coat nodded as she pulled out a map from the drawer of her desk and laid it out for them. She pointed to their location.
“Here’s where we are,” she said. “And here’s the park where you might want to take the dogs. The seniors live on these blocks between the two.”
“They’re very close by,” Trevor observed out loud to show that he was perfectly capable of reading maps, despite being short.
“That’s right,” the woman said. “You’ll have six dogs between you so be sure to keep them on their leashes. And remember to wear your vests and use crosswalks at all times.”
“Will do,” Trevor said, using his large I’m-responsible voice. He was still smarting over Loyola getting the list of addresses. He turned to leave.
“Oh! One more thing,” the woman in the lab coat said.
She pushed through a swinging door behind her desk, and Trevor heard different barks start up, with every dog sounding desperate for companionship.
“You keep the dogs back there?” he asked when she returned seconds later, and all the barking stopped.
“Dogs, cats and one bunny at the moment,” she said. “They’re waiting for good homes.”
“Someone called our school looking for a lost dog,” Trevor said.
“Lost, abandoned, runaways. We take care of them all,” she said.
She handed Trevor and Loyola a clump of plastic bags each.
“What are these for?” Trevor asked.
“Doo-doo,” the woman said with a smile. “It’s the town’s by-law. Don’t worry. The bags are biodegradable.”
That was not what Trevor was worried about. He had never had to pick up dog poop before. Could he even do it?
“You better get going,” the woman said, eyeing the clock on the wall. “The seniors are expecting you. When you have finished your walk and returned the dogs, please report back here before you go home for the day. Have fun!”
“Tell you what,” Loyola said as soon as she was outside, a sour look on her face. “There’s no need for both of us to go to each house on this list. That’s not very efficient and the dogs won’t get as long a walk. So why don’t I take the addresses that are on one side of the street, and you take the addresses on the other?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Trevor said, just as happy not to be seen with her as she obviously was not to be seen with him.
She pulled out a notepad from her knapsack and began to copy out half the list of addresses for Trevor in her teeny-tiny handwriting.
“What about the park?” he added.
Regardless of their secret pact, the park was big and he did not want to get lost on his own with three strange dogs.
Loyola hesitated with her pen, weighing her options, which were as limited as his.
“Why don’t we meet at the park gate by the water fountain once we’ve picked up all the dogs, then figure out what to do.”
She handed Trevor his list of addresses.
“Okay, time to fly,” Trevor said, using a favorite family expression.
With that, Loyola crossed the street taking giant strides and started up the opposite sidewalk to the first address on her list.
Trevor was left in the dust.
Get used to it, he thought glumly.
Three
—
Dogs
TREVOR TRAILED Loyola by about a half a block from his side of the street. He came to his first address: Mrs. Tanelli, 657 Willow Lane. Trevor climbed the crumbling concrete front steps of the little blue house and rang the doorbell.
Barking erupted from behind the door, the type of bark a small dog makes when it means business despite its size.
“Down, Misty. Down, girl,” chided an elderly voice from within. The barking quieted.
The door slowly creaked open. A tiny lady, her hair in a tight bun, stood with a puffy white poodle at her heels. The poodle was sitting at high alert, her black eyes trained on Trevor. She growled slightly, which did nothing to intimidate him, since he was certainly not afraid of poodles.
“My name’s Trevor. I’m a volunteer from the animal shelter,” he said. “I’m here to walk your dog.”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Tanelli said, clasping her hands together. “Come in, come in! Misty can’t wait. Now, where did I put her leash?”
Trevor eased himself into the house. Misty did not look thrilled. Mrs. Tanelli wandered into the kitchen in search of the leash, leaving him in a face-off with the suspicious poodle.
“You’re gutsy. I’ll give you that,” Trevor said to Misty.
“Would you like anything to drink?” Mrs. Tanelli called from the kitchen. “I can make tea.”
“No, thank you. I better keep going. I have other dogs to pick up.”
Mrs. Tanelli wandered back into the hallway, bright pink leash in hand.
“Here you are,” she said, clipping it to Misty’s collar. “Now, where’s your coat?”
Misty cocked her head.
Mrs. Tanelli wandered into the kitchen again.
Trevor shifted from one foot to the other. A quick calculation told him that if each house took this long, he was never going to get to the park.
Mrs. Tanelli came back with a dog coat. No wonder Misty was on edge. The coat was black and white and patterned like a panda bear. It even came with a hoodie. The hoodie had two little black ears sewn on.
Trevor watched in amazement as Mrs. Tanelli draped the coat over Misty’s back and zipped her in. Misty didn’t even put up a fight.
“All set,” Mrs. Tanelli said with pride as she handed the pink leash to Trevor.
Trevor made for the door with the panda in tow.
Once outside, he looked up his next address: Mrs. Ruggles, 727 Willow Lane.
Trevor walked along the sidewalk, Misty trotting beside him. She was surprisingly well behaved for a dog forced to wear a humiliating panda suit in public. He climbed the front steps to Mrs. Ruggles’ house, a white bungalow with green shutters. He rang the doorbell, which sounded like the bells of a clock tower.
A couple of low barks signaled from deep inside the house, but then silence.
The door opened.
“Can I help you?” an elderly woman wearing gigantic, thick glasses asked
.
“I’m Trevor. I’m here to walk your dog.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m Mrs. Ruggles. And this …” Mrs. Ruggles turned to look behind her, but came up empty. “Duncan! Come here, you rascal!”
From around the corner at the end of the hall waddled Duncan, an enormous tan-and-white bulldog. He plowed up to Trevor’s feet, staring straight ahead, and didn’t budge again.
Misty, whom Trevor had tied to the outside railing, began to whine.
“I see you’ve brought Misty,” Mrs. Ruggles said, her brow furrowing. “You’ll need to watch her around my Duncan. She’s a bit of a hussy.”
Trevor looked down at Duncan’s tremendously wide and wrinkled head.
“Are you sure he wants to go for a walk?” he asked uncertainly. He had never seen a dog so disinterested, so impartial. His little curled-up tail stayed wedged to his behind.
“Sure he does!” Mrs. Ruggles exclaimed. She pulled a leash from a basket by the front door and attached it to his collar. The collar was navy with anchors printed all around it. “Off you go, Duncan. Walkies!”
“Hurrumph,” Duncan said, nobody’s fool, and shifted himself to face the door.
Misty whined louder.
“Okay. See you soon,” Trevor said, and out the door he went with Duncan, who ignored Misty completely, despite her best efforts to distract him with her panda attire.
The last address on Trevor’s list was Mr. Fines, 869 Willow Lane. It was a narrow two-story house with a large maple tree in the middle of the front yard. Trevor tied the two dogs to the railing and rang the bell.
Barking erupted, along with scratching behind the door. It was quite a frenzy.
“Poppy! Sit! Sit, Poppy, sit! Poppy! Sit! Sit, I say! Sit!”
Trevor turned to look at Misty and Duncan. Misty sat on high alert with her head cocked. Duncan stood stoically, staring into the middle distance at nothing at all, his gargantuan pink tongue hanging out to one side. He seemed oblivious to the hysteria inside the house.
Eventually, the door swung open.
“Hello?” a gray-haired man wearing a vest and a bow tie called out.
“I’m Trevor. I’m here to walk your dog.”
“Jolly good. Do come in, Trevor,” Mr. Fines said.
Mr. Fines had an English accent. Beside him, barely able to sit, was a medium-sized brown-and-white dog with soft jowls, droopy ears, wavy fur along her stomach and the backs of her legs, and a short, cropped tail. She was so wound up, she trembled with excitement. At least, that’s what Trevor hoped she was trembling with. Her stubby tail did not stop wagging.
“This is Poppy,” Mr. Fines said. “Poppy, this is Trevor.”
Poppy shook her head and her ears helicoptered above her making flappity sounds. Some spit from her soft mouth hit the nearest wall.
Mr. Fines attached Poppy’s leash and handed it to Trevor.
“Watch her around birds, I dare say,” he warned. “She’s an English springer spaniel.”
When Trevor reached the sidewalk with all three dogs, he consulted his list. That was it. He now had to head to the park gate where he was to meet Loyola. He looked down the block and spotted her way up ahead, her assortment of dogs surrounding her.
Of course she was ahead, Trevor thought bitterly. It was those giraffe-length legs of hers. Not only would people surely point and tease as they walked together, but he also realized that he was going to have a hard time just keeping up with her. It would be utterly humiliating and far worse than her helping him reach the top shelf for a book.
Trevor looked down at his dogs, who seemed to sense that the park was nearby. All three pulled at their leashes, driving him toward Loyola, a head-on collision in the making.
Trevor looked around for the brakes.
There weren’t any.
Loyola’s dogs had gathered at the foot of the water fountain, drinking in great slurps, when Trevor arrived with his lot. He looked up at the fountain’s five stone cherubs who were busy pouring water from seashells to the thirsty dogs below.
“You’re here,” Loyola said flatly and not at all welcoming. Her choice of clothing helped her blend into the gray fountain surrounded by trees with tall brown trunks.
Trevor wanted to tell her that he didn’t like the idea of walking together any more than she did, but he decided that he was going to be big about their situation, even if she wasn’t.
“Who do you have there?” he asked pleasantly as his own dogs started to drink from the fountain.
Loyola pointed to her first dog, a little white Scottie wearing a plaid neckerchief. His stumpy tail and triangle ears were pointed straight up. He looked like a hand purse.
“This is MacPherson. He attacks Frisbees.”
“Why?”
“He was accidently hit by one when he was a puppy. Now he spends all his time on the lookout. If he gets hold of one, he’ll chew it to bits.”
Trevor petted MacPherson’s small head. The dog barely acknowledged him and continued to scan the sky for any incoming missiles, now that he had had his drink.
“This is Ginger.”
Loyola pointed to an Irish setter with glossy red fur, long ears, horsey legs and a whippy tail.
“She loves to run away and hide, or roll in things that smell.”
“Great,” Trevor said. “That’s just what you want for a dog. A stinky escape artist.”
“I thought so, too,” Loyola said dryly. “And this is Scout. He’s a former police dog, now retired.”
Scout was a German shepherd. He was all business and studied Trevor as if Trevor was contemplating criminal activities, like vandalizing park signs with spray paint or stealing rare plants in the protected wooded areas. There were a few medals dangling from his collar, probably for bravery in the line of duty.
“Watch out,” Scout seemed to say. “I’m on to you.”
“Okay, well this is Misty, this is Duncan, and this is Poppy,” Trevor said, pointing to each of his dogs. “Apparently, Misty has a thing for Duncan, Duncan couldn’t care less, and Poppy is a menace to birds.”
“Interesting pack,” Loyola said.
“Agreed,” Trevor said, and then, because there was no way out, he added, “Well, time to fly. Which path should we take?”
“You decide,” Loyola said, looking away as if he wasn’t even there.
Trevor had been to the park a couple of times during his year at Queensview Elementary. It was a large one for a small town, and a winding creek ran through the middle of it. There were foot bridges, a playground area for small kids and picnic grounds with a bandstand for families. There were many inside paths to take through the heavily wooded areas that led to some remnants of former stone fortifications. The wide outside path that circled the park was used by runners and bicyclists. Trevor thought that it would be the safest route. There would be less chance of a Frisbee encounter, fewer birds and not many places for runaway dogs to hide or roll in smelly things.
“Let’s take the outside route,” he suggested.
Loyola hesitated. Trevor could tell that she was working out some calculations in her head. Sure, there would be fewer Frisbees and birds, and there would be less chance of losing a dog or two. But the wide outside path that circled the park was also the one that was most crowded with people.
The more people, the more likelihood of teasing if they were seen walking together.
“Maybe I should go ahead,” Loyola suggested.
“Why?” Trevor asked sharply. He knew exactly why, but he was taken aback by her overly belittling tone.
“You’ve got Duncan, and he’s probably going to slow your group down.”
As if on cue, the rest of the dogs stopped sniffing whatever they were sniffing and studied Duncan. Duncan, oblivious, seemed rooted to his spot and stared ahead at nothing.
Tr
evor, however, saw red. How dare she imply that just because Duncan had short legs he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the rest of the dogs!
“What are you saying?” Trevor demanded, puffing out his chest and standing tall, as tall he could, anyway.
Loyola hesitated. She bent down to pet Ginger, already her favorite, no doubt because of Ginger’s long prancing legs.
“I’m not saying anything,” Loyola said quietly, stroking the dog.
Her face turned pink, which meant, of course, that she knew she was saying plenty.
Meanwhile, Poppy began to point like a bird dog, lifting one front leg and bending her knee, then staring transfixed at the upper part of a tree where two crows glared at them with their beady black eyes. Poppy started to tremble and whimper.
“Time to fly,” Trevor repeated, seizing the opportunity to get moving. “And I’ll take the lead because Poppy looks like she’s going to explode.”
He didn’t wait for Loyola’s agreement before setting off with Poppy, who kept looking back at the tree; Misty, who stayed glued to Duncan’s side; and Duncan, who grunted as he toddled along the path at a modest but unshakeable pace.
Like a wide snow plow after a heavy winter storm.
Or a slow-moving conveyor belt crammed with over-stuffed holiday luggage.
“Good boy, Duncan,” Trevor muttered from time to time, determined to keep ahead of Loyola’s lot.
Duncan didn’t acknowledge the encouragement. He just trudged along at his own unwavering amble, looking neither left nor right, and certainly not looking at Misty, who was practically dancing circles around him in her silly panda outfit.
Then, horror of horrors, Duncan steered to the side of the path and squatted down.
It was over pretty quickly, a fresh lump of poop on the ground. Duncan stood, scratched the ground with his back paws in a symbolic gesture to bury the evidence, then stared at the path ahead, patiently waiting for Trevor to pick it up.
“Right,” Trevor said out loud, digging a plastic bag from his pocket and hoping his own bold voice would give him strength.
He braced himself, held his breath and started a countdown — three, two, one. He scooped the turd into the plastic bag, but even in his quickness he could feel its warmth through the plastic. He shuddered as he tossed the nasty package into a nearby garbage can as fast as he could.
The Missing Dog Is Spotted Page 3
