The Missing Dog Is Spotted

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  “Mr. Fester, 951 Willow Lane,” he read out loud. “That’s close to the park gate,” he said confidently.

  He took charge by tucking the paper into his pocket. She handed them their safety vests, walkie-talkies and plastic bags.

  When Trevor and Loyola stepped outside, Loyola turned, towering over him, and demanded, “Do you want to go to Mr. Fester’s house, or should I?”

  This irritated Trevor no end, because he was the one with the address. He was about to point that out, but instantly knew that it wasn’t a good enough reason for getting his way. Perhaps he could challenge her to a race, but then he remembered that he would have Duncan, and Duncan couldn’t be rushed. Out of options, and resenting how Loyola was still towering over him, Trevor offered the only thing left.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “We’ll pick up our dogs, just like last time, and meet at his house.”

  “Fine,” Loyola said, sounding put out, and she strode off to pick up her first dog.

  Trevor collected Misty, Duncan and Poppy in that order and headed to the new address. Loyola was waiting for him with her dogs on the front lawn of a little brick house with black shutters and a winding stone path to the front steps.

  They tied up their dogs, then jockeyed on the porch for the best position. Trevor won that struggle by ducking in front of Loyola to be closest to the door.

  He was so happy that he had managed to beat her, he was caught off guard when Loyola reached around him with her made-for-basketball arm to ring the doorbell.

  “I’ve got it,” Trevor insisted, a beat too late.

  She pressed the bell with ease, then dropped her hand to her side.

  Nothing happened.

  “Strange,” Trevor said.

  “Do we have the right address?” Loyola asked.

  Trevor pulled out the slip of paper and double-checked the address against the number on the house.

  “Yes,” he confirmed.

  This time he knocked on the door with force.

  Still not a sound.

  Then they heard a shuffling noise inside the house, and the door slowly creaked open.

  “Mr. Fester?” Trevor said at his first glimpse of the elderly man inside. “We’re volunteers with the animal shelter and we’re here about your dog.”

  Mr. Fester stepped out from behind the door. He wore a shirt and tie, leather slippers and a woman’s apron with big bold flowers.

  “My dog!” he said hoarsely. “You found my dog?”

  “No,” Trevor said quickly, realizing his mistake. “Not yet, but we wanted you to know that we’re going to keep a lookout.”

  Mr. Fester studied Trevor, then Loyola, then Trevor again. His eyes filled with tears. Trevor had never seen an old man cry before, not even his dad. It was horrible.

  “Buster’s been lost for days,” Mr. Fester said, wiping his eyes with the back of his shaky hand. “Please, please find him.”

  “We’re so sorry,” Loyola said gently. “Where did you lose him?”

  “At the park,” Mr. Fester said. “One minute I took him over to the water fountain for a drink.” He gulped. “The next minute I turned around but couldn’t clap my eyes on him. He was gone.”

  Mr. Fester wiped his eyes again.

  “We’ve seen your posters. Buster is white with brown spots. Can you tell us anything else about him?” Trevor asked.

  “He’s not a big dog, but not small, either. He’s very smart and full of beans. He loves to hide my slippers. He sleeps on his back. He has the softest ears. And …”

  Mr. Fester’s voice went all choky. Trevor couldn’t stand much more.

  “We’re going to the park with these other dogs,” Trevor said. “We’ll look for Buster while we’re there. We’ll find him. Don’t worry.”

  Mr. Fester nodded pitifully and shut the door.

  “How sad,” Loyola said. “Do you think we’ll really find his dog? It’s a big park.”

  “We can try,” Trevor said, anxious to do something.

  They untied their dogs and walked toward the park gate. The dogs drank from the fountain while they worked out a plan.

  “I think we should go through the middle of the park by taking one of the paths that leads through the wooded area. That’s probably where Buster is lost,” Loyola suggested.

  “There’re too many paths through the wooded area. Finding the right one would be like finding an empty airplane seat on Thanksgiving weekend,” Trevor said.

  “What an odd comparison,” Loyola said.

  “My parents are pilots,” Trevor said with a shrug. And then he continued. “I think our best bet would be to stick to the outside path that circles the park. That’s where most people walk and we can ask them if they’ve seen a spotted dog.”

  Loyola mulled this over while Trevor waited for her to acknowledge his brilliance.

  “I guess,” was all she offered.

  It was not the full-hearted endorsement he was looking for.

  They gathered their dogs and began the walk. It wasn’t long before they were stopped by a group of joggers.

  The joggers asked the usual questions about the dogs, only this time Trevor was able to answer more of them. He was especially good at answering questions about bulldogs.

  Then, when the joggers were about to move on, Trevor said, “We’re looking for a spotted dog named Buster. Have you seen him?”

  “You’ve lost one of your dogs?” a jogger asked, eyebrows raised in alarm.

  “No, not us. The owner did. He wants us to keep a lookout.”

  “I haven’t seen a spotted dog,” the jogger said while his fellow joggers shook their heads in agreement. “But we’ll let you know if we do.”

  The joggers headed down the path.

  “You seem to know a lot more about dogs than last week,” Loyola said.

  “I went to the public library,” Trevor said. “The one that used to be a church.”

  “I love that one!” Loyola exclaimed. “Especially the windows. I’m going to be a librarian someday.”

  Trevor wanted to say, “You’d make a great librarian because you can already reach the top shelves without a rolling stool,” but he knew better. Still, he wanted to continue their conversation.

  “I ran into Mr. Creelman at the library,” Trevor said.

  “You did?” Loyola said, eyes widening.

  “He does volunteer work there, too,” Trevor said.

  “Did you talk to him?” Loyola asked in awe.

  For some reason, Trevor wanted to sound brave, braver than he was, anyway.

  “Sure, I did.”

  Duncan interrupted their conversation by pooping on the path.

  Trevor cleaned it up with a plastic bag. This time he didn’t shudder. Was it because Loyola was watching or because he was getting used to the icky task?

  Before they could finish their conversation, another crowd of runners stopped by. Same questions about the dogs. And no one had seen Buster. Trevor and Loyola continued on their walk all the way around the park, with many stops along the way.

  Sadly, no Buster.

  “What are we going to tell Mr. Fester?” Loyola asked as the dogs had their final drink at the water fountain before going home.

  “All we can report is that Buster’s not at the park. But he’s got to be somewhere. It’s a small town. We’ll find him.”

  When they arrived at Mr. Fester’s house, neither of them wanted to knock or ring the doorbell. They both stood awkwardly on the porch, until Scout barked at Ginger, who was biting at the part of her leash tied to the railing in an obvious attempt to escape. Loyola was retying Ginger’s knot when Mr. Fester opened the door.

  “Buster?” he called out gleefully.

  “No,” Trevor said. “That was Scout. We went all around the park, but Buster w
asn’t there.”

  Mr. Fester’s face fell. He was no longer wearing an apron. Instead, he was hugging a leather-bound photo album to his chest.

  “My poor dog,” he said sadly.

  Trevor felt a lump in his own throat. He was convinced that there was nothing worse than a sad old man who had lost his dog.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll keep a lookout for Buster this week. As soon as we find him, we’ll let you know,” Trevor assured him.

  “Then I’ll give you my telephone number,” Mr. Fester said. “Come inside.”

  Loyola and Trevor stepped indoors, leaving the dogs tied to the railing and Scout guarding the whole pack, especially Ginger who was now tied with triple knots.

  Mr. Fester disappeared into the kitchen. Between them and the kitchen were stacks and stacks of books crowding the hallway and all the way up one side of the stairs to the second floor. Mr. Fester returned and handed each of them a business card.

  “A Likely Story Used Bookstore,” Trevor read out loud. “Are you the owner?”

  “I used to be,” Mr. Fester said. “Years ago. The cards are still good though, because my telephone number is the same.”

  “A Likely Story. Is that the one on Tulip Street?” Loyola asked.

  “Yes. It’s right beside the florist, near the cemetery.”

  “Twillingate Cemetery,” Trevor added, just for clarity.

  “That’s right,” Mr. Fester said. “Buster likes to run there, too.”

  Trevor thought back to the sign posted at the cemetery gate. No Dogs Allowed.

  “We’ll keep a lookout,” he assured Mr. Fester all the same.

  When they were returning their gear to the animal shelter at the end of their walk, Trevor and Loyola reported on their sad conversation with Mr. Fester.

  “Well, if you don’t spot Buster, there’s a good chance someone else will bring him here,” Isabelle Myers reassured them. “If that happens, we’ll take Buster home, don’t you worry.”

  Still, Trevor worried. The memory of Mr. Fester’s stricken face kept urging him to keep a lookout after school and to take different routes home. That way he would pass the tennis courts, the melted outdoor skating rink and even the preschoolers’ playground with the squeaky swings. He walked by every place he could think of where a dog might like to run.

  No Buster.

  When he reported to the animal shelter the following Wednesday, Loyola was already there wearing her usual blend-in attire. She turned to him as soon as he came through the door.

  “No sign of Buster,” she reported sadly. “Not even here.”

  “I’ve been chatting with Mr. Fester on the phone all week,” Isabelle Myers said. “Poor man. Perhaps you can swing by his house and reassure him.”

  Trevor and Loyola nodded.

  Once outside, Loyola said, “Let’s pick up our dogs and meet at Mr. Fester’s house. We’ll talk to him together.”

  Trevor easily agreed. He did not want to face Mr. Fester alone. It was just too sad.

  He started down his side of the street and knocked on the door of his first house.

  As soon as he did, barking erupted. It was Misty, fooling no one.

  “Hello, Mrs. Tanelli. How’s Misty today?”

  “She’s been a very good dog. We went to the beauty parlor this week, didn’t we, Misty?”

  Misty wore a pink bow in the poufy mound of snow-white fur on the top of her head.

  “Now, where did I put your coat?”

  Mrs. Tanelli wandered off to the kitchen. Misty sat down at Trevor’s feet and looked up at him with a grin. Despite her ridiculous frilly accessory, Trevor smiled back and gave her a neck rubby. She smelled like lilacs.

  “Here you go,” Mrs. Tanelli said. Only this time it wasn’t the panda jacket. This one featured a leopard print.

  Misty stood patiently as Mrs. Tanelli zipped her in, then handed Trevor the pink leash.

  “All set?” Trevor asked Misty.

  She wagged her tail, which ended in a silly pom-pom.

  They set out for the next house.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ruggles,” Trevor said when she answered the door.

  Duncan was nowhere to be seen.

  “Duncan!” Mrs. Ruggles called out gaily from behind her gigantic, thick glasses. “Walkies!”

  After what seemed like forever, Duncan appeared from around the corner. He trundled up to Trevor and stood stoically at the door, waiting for his leash like a condemned prisoner.

  Was he happy? Was he grumpy? Impossible to tell.

  Trevor patted his wide, wrinkled head all the same. Duncan grunted.

  Outside, Misty whined, eager for Duncan’s company.

  Mrs. Ruggles squeezed past Trevor and looked out the door at Misty. She adjusted her glasses, then clucked her tongue.

  “Just look at that outfit. Hardly daytime attire,” she muttered. “And that’s no way to get my Duncan’s attention.”

  Trevor looked down at Duncan, who was paying attention to no one at all.

  Mrs. Ruggles clipped Duncan’s leash to his collar with the anchor print.

  “Good boy,” she said.

  If Duncan took her praise to heart, he certainly didn’t show it. Instead, he grunted and shifted his massive bulk to face the door.

  “All set?” Trevor asked.

  Nothing from Duncan.

  “All right, then,” Trevor said, taking that as a yes, and they headed out.

  Trevor tied both dogs to the railing of the third house. He rang the bell.

  An explosion of barking erupted from somewhere deep inside the house and grew louder and louder until Trevor heard scratching and barking from right behind the door.

  “Sit, Poppy! Sit! Sit! Sit, I say! Poppy! Poppy, sit!”

  He looked back at his two dogs. Misty was prancing around Duncan. Duncan, unmoved, was staring at the back of his calves.

  The door creaked open.

  “Hello, Mr. Fines,” Trevor said.

  “Do come in,” Mr. Fines said in his English accent while adjusting his bow tie.

  Trevor stepped inside, and Poppy immediately jumped up on him, her mouth a wide smile, her stubby tail wagging a million miles an hour.

  “Down, Poppy, down,” Mr. Fines ordered. “Mind your manners!”

  Poppy reluctantly dropped to all fours, but her shiny brown eyes were pinned on Trevor. She shook her head in glee, long ears flapping above her like a helicopter, spittle flying everywhere. One ear landed inside out. Poppy didn’t seem to mind. Trevor flipped it back to rights all the same.

  Outside, Misty yipped and pranced by the porch. Poppy heard the sound and pushed past Trevor to look out the screen door. Her tail started wagging all over again. It was a blur.

  “How many dogs do you walk?” Mr. Fines asked.

  “Three, including Poppy,” Trevor said. “And my classmate, Loyola, also walks three. So we have six altogether.”

  “Six dogs? However do you manage?”

  “We do all right,” Trevor said proudly. And then, just to show off how responsible they were, he added, “We’re also on the lookout for a lost dog.”

  “You lost a dog?” Mr. Fines said, worry creeping into his voice.

  “No, not us. The owner did. He reported it to the animal shelter.”

  “Oh, how dreadful,” Mr. Fines said. “I can’t imagine life without Poppy.”

  “We’ll find the dog,” Trevor assured him.

  “How will you know you’ve found the right one?” Mr. Fines asked.

  “We have a good description. It has brown spots all over,” Trevor said.

  “I once knew a dog with spots,” Mr. Fines recalled.

  “I guess there must be lots of dogs with spots,” Trevor said. He started to grow alarmed at his own realization. Finding Buster might be
harder than he thought.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Fines said. “But the spotted dog I once knew was quite unique. Very excitable even though it was old. It spent its days at my favorite bookstore keeping the owner company. The owner would read to that dog for hours at a time. If I recall correctly, the spotted dog loved movie scripts the best.”

  “That’s funny,” Trevor said. “The owner of the missing dog used to run a bookstore.”

  Mr. Fines, who had been stroking Poppy’s ears, looked up.

  “Are you talking about Heimlich Fester?”

  “Yes, that’s him,” Trevor said with surprise.

  “Oh dear,” Mr. Fines said.

  “What?” Trevor said.

  “Heimlich sold his bookstore years ago.”

  “That’s right. He told us that. It was called A Likely Story Used Bookstore.”

  Mr. Fines returned his attention to Poppy. He kept talking, but he no longer looked Trevor in the eye.

  “Heimlich must be confused.”

  “Confused? What do you mean?”

  “There’s no need to keep a lookout for his dog.”

  “I don’t understand,” Trevor said.

  “Heimlich’s dog was fifteen years old when he sold his bookstore. And that was years ago. His dog couldn’t possibly be alive today.”

  “Dogs don’t live that long?” Trevor asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Are you sure?” Trevor said.

  Mr. Fines said nothing.

  “Do you remember its name?” Trevor persisted.

  “Buster,” Mr. Fines said, handing Poppy’s leash to Trevor. “The spotted dog’s name was Buster.”

  Five

  —

  Tattle

  “TIME TO FLY,” Trevor urged his dogs as soon as he was out of earshot of Mr. Fines, who waved them goodbye from his front porch.

  Trevor was determined to catch up to Loyola before she reached Mr. Fester’s house.

  How sad that Mr. Fester was confused. And now they were going to have to tell him that there was no Buster after all. That meant the old man would be confused and sad. Trevor couldn’t think of anything worse.

  He spied Loyola up ahead almost as soon as he left Mr. Fines’ house. She had gathered her three dogs and stopped to clean up after one of them. She dropped her unpleasant package in a nearby garbage can next to a mailbox.