The Missing Dog Is Spotted

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  Mr. Fester’s old store.

  Trevor had never been in there before, and his curiosity won him over. He passed the cemetery and ducked inside.

  Ink. Ink and dust. That’s what he smelled. And something familiar that reminded him of the animal shelter. Lasagna?

  “Don’t mind me,” a voice floated toward him. “I haven’t had my lunch yet.”

  Trevor stood uncertainly at the door. He had a hard time locating the owner of the voice among the enormous clutter and the stacks and stacks of used books crammed next to each other from floor to ceiling. There was barely any place to walk between the sagging, overstuffed bookcases. And there were far too many top shelves for Trevor’s liking.

  “Come in, come in!” the voice merrily called out.

  And then Trevor spied her — a young woman wearing an elephant-print scarf and black triangle-shaped glasses. She came out from behind the camouflaged desk to greet him. She was wearing polka-dot tights and holding a take-out carton from Sacred Grounds Cafe, fork poised over a thick slice of cheesy lasagna.

  “Sacred Grounds Cafe makes the best,” she said, pointing to her lunch with her fork.

  “I heard that,” said Trevor, realizing he was hungry because he hadn’t eaten much of his own lunch that day on account of writing the note to Mr. Creelman.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Trevor said hesitantly.

  And he wasn’t. He had no real reason to be in the store, other than stalling his visit to the cemetery. He tried to make up something.

  “I’m here to buy a gift,” he said in haste.

  “Lovely! For who?” she asked.

  “Um,” he said in an attempt to think of someone’s name and coming up empty. He was still out of sorts.

  “Oh. I see,” she said and smiled slyly at him. “A girl.”

  “Right,” Trevor said. He knew a girl. “Loyola,” he said.

  “Loyola. What a pretty name.”

  “I guess,” Trevor said. He had never thought about it.

  “Tell me about Loyola,” she said.

  “I don’t know. She’s in grade six? She likes dogs?” His statements came out sounding more like questions.

  “Lots of girls like dogs. Tell me something specific about Loyola so that we can find the perfect book for her. Something unique that she’s interested in.”

  “Something unique?” he repeated.

  Trevor thought back to when he started community service duty with Loyola and the first time they discovered that they actually had something in common.

  “Loyola likes solving puzzles,” he said triumphantly, remembering their conversation in the park.

  “Perfect!” she exclaimed, setting down her lunch on her desk. “Come with me.”

  Trevor followed her as she zigzagged through the maze of books toward the back of the store. They came to a section with a sign hanging overhead that read, Detectives and Mysteries. Then she started running her finger over the spines of the books on the shelves below the sign, reading the titles to herself.

  “No. No. No,” she kept saying, before moving onto another row. And then, “Ah! Here we are!”

  She pulled out a bright yellow book and handed it to Trevor. The front cover featured a boy secretively passing along a note to a girl while they were sitting in a classroom. He read the title out loud. “How to Crack Codes, Ciphers and Other Secret Messages.”

  Trevor opened the book to flip through the pages. Each chapter started with a story, and then sprinkled throughout the chapters were plenty of diagrams that showed codes, signals, ciphers, sign language and invisible writing. The blurb on the back read, A fun-filled book about codes and secret writing used during real world events.

  Loyola might actually like this book, he thought. He certainly would. He checked the price, which was handwritten on the inside cover. Did he have enough money? Trevor reached around and set his knapsack on the ground. He opened the small outside pocket where he stored whatever was left of his allowance. He counted the money. Not quite enough.

  He must have looked sad, or crestfallen as Noah would say, because the store owner said, “No worries. That’s close enough. It’s for a girl, after all.” She beamed at him.

  Trevor shrugged. He was happy to get a good deal. He walked with her to the front counter, which was also covered with stacks of books, to pay. As he was sliding his purchase into his knapsack, he remembered something unusual about the used bookstore.

  “Do you ever come across playing cards tucked into some of the books?” he asked.

  “Why, yes, I do,” she said with astonishment. “Always the queen.”

  “Are they wearing a hand-drawn pair of glasses? Red glasses?”

  Her eyes widened even more.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed. “What do you know about them?”

  “I met the previous owner of this store. His name is Mr. Fester.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Heimlich Fester. I bought the store from someone who bought it from him years ago.”

  “Well, he had a wife who loved to play cards. She was in tournaments and everything. He nicknamed her the Queen of Bridge. Anyway, before she died, she tucked playing cards with the queen into books throughout the store, just to remind him of her.”

  “Oh my! What a beautiful love story!” she said, surveying her inventory in awe.

  Trevor shrugged again and turned to go.

  “I hope your special friend enjoys the book,” she said, returning to her lasagna.

  “Thanks,” Trevor said as he found the door.

  He crossed the street and headed back down the sidewalk to the gate of the cemetery. As he walked along the iron fence, he scanned the grounds for any signs of Mr. Creelman. There were none. Trevor set his knapsack down to fish out the note that he had written. He spotted it jammed between Loyola’s book and a pad of paper with Mr. Easton’s description of the last assignment written inside. He plucked the note out and wedged it between the decorative curls of the open iron gate. He heard something that made him look up.

  A bark.

  He scanned the cemetery. A gray sea of silent gravestones faced him with their eroding names and dates. The only movement came from the birds overhead, flitting from treetop to treetop, and a squirrel who scolded him from the top of the gate. Then he saw a dog.

  Just a glimpse.

  By the first hedgerow, under a bench.

  The dog had spots.

  “Buster,” Trevor called, his heart pounding.

  He took a tentative step inside the cemetery. Then another step. Then another. Pretty soon he was well inside, past the first ten rows of headstones, past the double grave marker with one side missing its epitaph, and headed in the direction of where he last saw Buster.

  Now he was well past the oldest section of the cemetery with the ominous skulls and crossbones plastered everywhere, and he wandered into the newer section filled with white marble sculptures. Many of the headstones were deeply carved with angels or had statues of figures in mourning, weeping into their hands or looking sorrowfully up at the sky. One of them had the carving of a small lamb resting on top, its little head of curly wool tilted slightly as if it was watching passersby. A child’s grave marker.

  Trevor reached out to touch the lamb’s head. It was warm from the sun.

  He pressed on, feeling bold. Now he was in the newest section of the cemetery, with rows and rows and rows of polished granite gravestones lined up with precision. These were much smaller, much less elaborate than the marbles and more squat, but the names and dates were deeply carved in razor-sharp letters, and they gave him the feeling that they would last forever.

  Trevor also noticed that some of the rows had gaps, places where people had bought a plot but were not yet buried. Way off to his right, at the end of one of the rows, wa
s a fresh mound of soil without grass. A recent burial. Trevor walked toward it and saw bouquets of wilting flowers arranged at the base of the grave marker. He could also make out the epitaph. It read, Only in darkness can you see the stars.

  Trevor didn’t want to get too close, but that wasn’t what stopped him. He had stumbled across a stuffed toy ladybug lying on the grass between two granite rows. Trevor picked it up. It was still damp from being held in a dog’s mouth.

  “Buster?” he called.

  But Buster was nowhere to be found, probably having already doubled back and escaped through the front gate. All Trevor heard was the sound of the birds in the trees, and, way off in the distance, the engine of a jet airliner flying overhead. He put the toy in his knapsack.

  “Good afternoon, young man,” said a gravelly voice behind him.

  Trevor whirled around and came face to face with Mr. Creelman in his orange coveralls holding a grass trimmer. Trevor’s mouth went dry.

  “Did you leave this for me?” Mr. Creelman held Trevor’s note up with his gnarly fingers. His tone was accusatory.

  “Yes,” Trevor said, trying very hard not to sound so nervous. “I … I’m worried about Buster. About finding a good home for him.”

  Mr. Creelman’s face softened, but only a little. Then he scowled again.

  “I’ve already tried reading out loud. Hasn’t worked so far.”

  “Did you read from your book of epitaphs?” Trevor asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Creelman said matter-of-factly, shoving the note into the pocket of his coveralls.

  “Is Buster here often?” Trevor asked.

  “Comes and goes,” Mr. Creelman said.

  “Does he look hungry? I have a box of dog cookies,” Trevor said eagerly, desperate to help. He was about to set his knapsack on the ground and fish out the box, but Mr. Creelman stopped him.

  “Already have cookies,” he said, arms crossed, hugging the grass trimmer handle to his chest, not giving Trevor an inch.

  “Oh,” Trevor said, deflated and out of ideas.

  “It’s not a matter of catching him,” Mr. Creelman said. “It’s a matter of what to do with him after he’s caught. Heimlich can’t take him at the seniors’ residence, and his son’s children are highly allergic to dogs, so Buster can’t go there, either. That’s why he’s been begging everyone to find Buster a new home.”

  Trevor gulped. Poor Buster.

  “Can you take him?” Mr. Creelman asked, giving him a level glare.

  “Me? I’d really like to,” Trevor said, and he meant it. “But my parents are pilots and we move around too much to own a dog.” Then he added, but not as cheerfully as he would have liked, “We’re about to move again, right after school ends.”

  “You’re moving?” Mr. Creelman asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes. This weekend, actually. Everything is in boxes.”

  “Must be tough,” Mr. Creelman said. His face softened once again, but only a little.

  Trevor usually made some comment at this point in the conversation about liking change so as to brighten the mood, but this time he couldn’t manage it. He looked at Mr. Creelman, with his bushy eyebrows and the deep lines around his mouth, and then he looked around the gloomy place and declared, “I hate moving.”

  Even as the words came out, he was surprised. He was telling the truth for once. He had no reason to pretend with Mr. Creelman. And it felt good to confess.

  “Most don’t,” Mr. Creelman said, “but not everyone.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Trevor said. “Our teacher, Mr. Easton, is moving back to Ferndale and he seems happy about it.”

  “I know. I ran into him at the public library, returning all his books and paying his overdue fines. If he keeps up with his writing and teaching, he’s going to need someone to help organize him.”

  “I think there’s someone in Ferndale he wants to marry,” Trevor said.

  “Yes. So I’ve heard.” He paused and then he shot his hand up in the air in a way that told Trevor to stop talking.

  They both stood frozen, Trevor having no idea why.

  Then, after a long moment, Mr. Creelman slowly lowered his hand to his side.

  “Thought I heard Buster,” he explained.

  Trevor looked around. No Buster. Just headstones.

  “What about that girl you hang out with?” Mr. Creelman said.

  “Who? Loyola?” Trevor asked.

  Mr. Creelman nodded.

  “What about her?” Trevor demanded, surprising himself for the second time in the conversation. Why was he feeling so protective of Loyola?

  “Could she take Buster?” Mr. Creelman asked.

  “Oh. I don’t think so,” Trevor said, standing down. “She lives in a condominium. No dogs allowed.”

  “Hurrumph,” Mr. Creelman said, sounding like Duncan. “Well, I have to get back to work.” He repositioned the grass trimmer in both hands. “This cemetery doesn’t take care of itself.”

  Trevor felt bad about bailing out on cemetery duty. And now Mr. Creelman was the only person who might be able to help him catch Buster and put his mind at rest before he left this place for good. He took a step toward Mr. Creelman.

  “About that,” Trevor said. “Maybe Loyola and I should have volunteered with the Twillingate Cemetery Brigade after all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s because we volunteered with the Pet Patrol that Buster doesn’t have a home.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “We didn’t believe Mr. Fester about Buster. And now he’s moved to the seniors’ residence because no one believed him.”

  “I see,” Mr. Creelman said, scowling all the more.

  “So maybe we would have been better off here,” Trevor said, his voice trailing away, “cleaning gravestones and not interfering with living things and all.”

  “What about the other dogs?” Mr. Creelman said.

  “The other dogs?” Trevor repeated.

  “You’ve been walking all those other dogs. Who would do that if you weren’t volunteering at the animal shelter?”

  “No one, I guess,” Trevor admitted.

  Mr. Creelman took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He rubbed his stubbly face with his gnarly, yellow-stained fingers. He cleared his throat.

  “Trevor,” he said, less gravelly than before. “Those dogs deserve good care. All dogs do.” He shrugged. “Life is for the living. Don’t you ever forget that, no matter what the future throws your way.”

  Trevor looked at Mr. Creelman, who stood surrounded by grave markers with the words on the bottom rows covered by tall grass that needed trimming. But that’s not what he would remember when he thought back to this day. Trevor would remember Mr. Creelman’s advice, which brought him enormous relief now, and would bring him relief many times down the road, move after move after move.

  As Trevor left the cemetery, he decided he would stop by the public library across the street, where he first learned about dog breeds, to complete his last assignment. He called home as soon as he arrived.

  “Don’t be too late,” his dad advised. “Your mom’s flying in around five.”

  “I didn’t know she had a flight today,” Trevor said.

  Even the fridge calendar with their flight schedules — always one of the last household items to be packed — had been boxed up.

  After Trevor made the call, he settled at the table underneath the stained-glass window with the Twillingate Cemetery Brigade plaque. The sunlight coming through the window was spectacular — jewels of ruby red, indigo blue, pumpkin orange, grass green and lemon yellow. He dug out his notebook and a pen and opened to a fresh page.

  Then he wrote his opening line: This is a story about Buster.

  When Trevor arrived at the animal shelter for the last time, Loyol
a was already there. They put on their safety vests, grabbed their walkie-talkies and some plastic bags, then headed out, Trevor still on his sidewalk, Loyola on hers, a wide-open street between them. It was a cloudy day, cooler than the day before when Trevor had met Mr. Creelman at the cemetery.

  Trevor caught up to Loyola and her dogs at the water fountain, just like always. This time none of his dogs tried to pull into Mr. Fester’s yard. It was as if they could read the brand-new sold sign.

  “Nice outfit,” Loyola said as Trevor’s dogs took their drink.

  She wasn’t talking about Trevor. She was talking about Misty, who was sporting a purple jacket with a feather boa around the neckline. Her toenails were also painted purple.

  “Yes, Duncan certainly thinks so,” Trevor said.

  He, Loyola and Misty all looked at Duncan.

  Duncan didn’t even flinch at the mention of his name. He had planted himself in the shadow of a nearby tree, his enormous tongue doing its usual thing. He was staring at the path ahead of him, completely oblivious to Misty.

  “I’m going to miss Duncan,” Trevor admitted.

  “Me, too,” Loyola said. “I’m going to miss all the dogs.”

  Silence followed, and what Trevor really wanted to say next was, “I’m going to miss you, too.”

  But he couldn’t. He wasn’t brave enough. And besides, he’d never said that to anyone before.

  Instead, he thought that maybe he would give the book in his knapsack to her now.

  No.

  He wasn’t ready to say goodbye. So he avoided looking at Loyola, all the while hoping she might say that she would miss him.

  “We’d better get going,” Loyola said, cutting into the silence, and they gathered their dogs.

  As they walked along the outside path, Trevor noticed that the dogs had not changed one bit since they first started walking them. Poppy was always on the hunt for birds, her long ears perking up whenever she heard a caw or a chirp. MacPherson was continually scanning the skies for incoming Frisbees. Ginger was always hanging back plotting her escape route. And Scout never let up casting Trevor a look of suspicion, as if to say, “You’re not fooling me, young man.”