Nicholas says, “Cat” at the same time I say, “Dog.”
Angel smiles. “Cats and dogs are opposite but compatible. Let’s go.”
Mom and Dad’s vet friend, Dr. Herschel, is working in the front office today.
“Give yourselves some time,” says Dad. “Mom and I will be in here.”
The shelter is big and echoing.
“It smells nice,” says Nicholas. “I’m glad there’s no dog-poop smell.”
I sniff. It’s true. The shelter smells a little bit like kibble and a little bit like bleach. I can feel a lot of animal liveliness, even though all I see are crates and just the shadows of movement from the dogs or cats inside. For some reason, I’d imagined that the animals would be roaming in packs, doing whatever they wanted. But the space in here is more like a giant-sized version of the back of the vet’s office, where the x-rays and surgeries happen.
It’s an animal orphanage, really. I am quiet, thinking about the importance of adopting. I’m giving myself one chance, and I’m also giving a dog one chance. Animals are not the same as shoes, where if you get the wrong size or color you can just exchange it. If you bring an alive animal with feelings into your home, you want to be sure you’re both the right fit for each other. It’s kind of a big deal.
I wish I spoke dog. My ears wriggle as I try to crack the bark code.
Aroo-roo-roo! Beck-urf, Beck-urf!
Pick me! Pick me! Please, please, please! I’m your dog!
So many dogs in this shelter are in need of love and care. How can I possibly decide on just one? I lap the rows of crates while keeping my eyes straight ahead. I wonder if there are other forces here, guiding me. I don’t want to get myself too upset about all the animals I don’t pick, but part of my heart is in a permanent tug because I can’t adopt them all. What if all it takes is one millisecond of eye contact, and I bond with a dog instantly and forever? Then what?
Because once I bond, it’s very hard for me to unbond. I’ve got to be careful.
Down the aisle, a kid in a faded red hoodie, plus his grown-up, are peering down at a crate. “Look—this one’s called Star. He’s got a white star mark on his forehead!” says the kid. “Hey, Star!” He straightens. “Maybe I like him best. But what if there’s a better one somewhere? Actually, that marking on his face makes him look kind of crooked.”
A better one? What’s better than a friendly face and a lopsided star marking? I don’t even like the word better when it comes to comparing dogs.
“Let’s explore the whole shelter before we make any decisions,” says the grown-up. “We want to connect with the perfect dog.”
The perfect dog? All dogs are perfect!
Nicholas has slipped away to the cat aisle, but Angel sticks at my side.
“It’s good that you’ve got an outside run,” I say when we stop at the back of the building and stare out the big, scratchy glass window. A bunch of dogs are chasing after balls thrown by green-shirted volunteers.
“Keep watching them as long as you want,” says Angel. “I’m going to check in with your sibling.”
I squint. I close one eye, then the other. Then both. Can I hear my special one and only dog, barking just for me? I need to feel where to look. I stick my hands in front of me, using my outstretched fingers as a guide, as I do a loop around, listening.
On my second loop, I bump right into Angel and Nicholas.
“Becket, why are you walking around with your eyes closed?”
I pop my eyes open. “Because I am trying to find my pet by its bark language!”
“I guess I just found mine the regular way. They call her Tiger. It was love at first sight.”
The enormous amber-eyed, striped cat in Nicholas’s arms really does look like a baby tiger. “She’s huge!”
“Otherwise known as the perfect size,” says Nicholas.
Awl-Roo-oo-O-OOO-oooooo!
I turn to stare through the metal bars of a crate, and into a pair of eyes that are the same glossy brown as Dad’s homemade fudge frosting.
“Awl-ROO!”
Star’s raggedy ears are pricked up. There’s a lopsided white star mark on his forehead. It doesn’t make his face look crooked, just mischievous! He bounces in place. Will you be the one to take me home? is how that bounce feels to me.
“Would the dog in there want to meet this cat out here?” I ask Angel.
“More importantly, do you want to meet that dog in there?” Angel asks me.
I think I do. I crouch down. “Hey, buddy. You’ve got a lot of spring in your step!” Seeing a living creature jammed up in a small space reminds me how it feels when I’m at my desk during Sustained Silent Focus class. It is so hard to keep my body still during SSF—also known as Something Smells Funny, because that’s the class where Travis lets go of his worst lunch burps.
Star whimpers. Thump, thump, thump, beats his crooked tail like a bent asparagus.
I peer up at Angel. “Yes,” I say. “I want to meet this dog.”
As soon as Angel opens the barred metal door, Star bounds straight into my arms, and for a moment, I am merged—part Becket, part lovable ball of coppery fur, shaggy ears, crooked asparagus tail and soft, slobbering tongue. It’s pretty easy for me to stand up while holding on to this dog. He is floppy but sturdy, and he weighs about as much as my backpack when it’s full of homework.
Nicholas’s cat stretches out a paw. Tiger bats Star’s ears. Then Star pitches forward, and his wide-tongued kisses nearly cover the cat’s pointy face.
“They’re saying hi!” I can’t get over their friendly if different dog-cat body language. “Do they know each other?”
Angel is typing into a tablet. “Funny thing—they probably don’t. But Star and Tiger were brought into the shelter on the same day. Both of them were found on the side of the road, about a mile apart. The cat was probably domestic, but turned feral. She had a broken leg that needed a splint. The dog was fully domesticated. We doubt he’d have made it another week in the wild.” All the smile lights go out of Angel’s face. “We get a lot of that.”
“A lot of what?” asks Nicholas.
“Abandoned animals. People who want a pet just for the summer. Then they let them go ‘free.’ ” Angel makes air quotes. “Letting an animal loose means putting it in danger. House pets are easy prey for coyotes. So it’s unusual this cat managed to live for some time on her smarts.”
“Amazing,” says Nicholas. “A warrior cat.”
“As for Star,” says Angel, “he shines when he feels safe. But he scares easy. He’s young, so he can learn new rules. He’s got a lot of love to give a family that loves him.”
Nicholas and I inch nearer together, so that the cat and dog can sniff each other out. Just then the red hoodie kid comes wheeling around the corner.
“Hold up! Is that Star?” The kid’s lower lip thrusts into a pout. “It is Star! That’s the dog I wanted! That’s my dog! Dad, tell them!”
“We did have our eye on the, uh, brownish-red dog. With the crooked white star marking,” says the kid’s dad.
In my arms, Star is panting nervously. Like he can sense the tension.
“Not too big. Not too scrawny,” says the kid. “Not too quiet. Not too growly.”
“But, unfortunately, too late,” says Angel apologetically. “Our rules give first dibs to the person who asks to see the dog out of crate. I’m very sorry.”
“Hey! I’d wanted to check out all the dogs first.” The boy sounds pretty ticked off, with a dose of bratty.
“This dog picked me,” I tell him. I challenge his stare. He looks away. When he looks back up, I’ve still got my glare-stare on him.
Star is in my Favorite Names sketchbook. It’s a strong name choice for this adorable dog. But the North End Animal League and this kid have already named my dog Star.
How is my dog really mine unless I choose his name?
“I’m renaming Tiger,” says Nichol
as firmly. “She’s the most important thing I’ve ever been given—so I’m calling her Given. It’s a name that always will remind me to be grateful for her.”
“Good one, Nicholas,” I say, meaning it. But now the pressure is on me. My brain swirls with all the other names since I picked Noble, my favorite dog name for almost a year. Since then, I have added Bagel, Rocket, Shadow, Peeper, Pixel, Peanut, Tater, Java, Snicker, Noodle, Bean, Wink, Kit, Bolt, Spade, Dune . . . and Butterscotch.
For every dog, there is a best dog name. Big dog, skinny dog, watchdog, jumping dog, silly dog. None of those names equals the crooked star marking and kinked tail and bounce of this specific dog.
My dog feels like he knows I’m thinking about him. His body has gone quiet. It’s almost like he’s listening to my thoughts. He has stopped panting, too.
The boy slinks away from me, giving one last backward wistful look at “his” dog all cuddled up in my arms.
Too bad. I had dibs on this dog, and this dog has dibs on me, too. I nuzzle my nose into my new pet’s soft, warm neck.
“Hey, friend,” I whisper. “I think I’ll name you Dibs.”
Chapter 7
This Home Is Your Home
Up front, Mom and Dad sign some papers.
“Dibs and Given have different dispositions, but they’ve got interesting stuff in common,” says Angel. “They’re both about the same age—between three and five years old. They’re both about twelve pounds. And since they both came into North End on the very same day, March 18—they’ve got the same birthday. Because that is the day we put them on record.”
“They’re TWINS,” I shout. “I have never heard a luckier thing happening to anyone who walked into an animal adoption center, ever! Twins adopting twins!” I turn to Nicholas. “Can you even believe this luck?”
“They can still have different birthdays,” says Nicholas.
“Sure,” says Angel. “You’re in charge of everything about them now.”
“I DON’T THINK SO!” I say. “Why would I ever turn my back on such a Beautiful Alert as pets with the same birthdays?”
“Your pets survived hard times, living out on their own,” says Angel. “Every day is a celebration for a pet that feels safe and cared for.”
“Any other tips?” asks Nicholas.
“Given thrives on attention,” Angel tells us. “And Dibs seems to like music. If you hum or sing to him, sometimes it calms him down.” Then Angel tosses me a small pink tennis ball. “Dibs and I were working on a trick. See if you can get him to balance this ball on his nose.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I pocket the ball.
On the way home, Mom and Dad talk to us about how Nicholas and I are 100 percent in charge of the pets. “We’ve got the clinic, and Gran’s got the store,” says Mom. “So we’re already a busy family. You need to pull your weight.”
Nicholas’s owl eyes are worry mirrors. “I’ve never been totally responsible for a pet on my own,” he says.
“We’ve got this, Nicholas,” I say.
“I just hope we learn how to understand them,” says Nicholas.
“You’re just overthinking it,” I tell him. “We understand them already!”
We make a big racket coming into the kitchen!
Everyone is carrying something—pets in carriers, bags of kibble, cans of wet food, a scratching post, a toy mouse, a chew bone, and two comfy saucer beds that we picked up at Schneckenburgers’ Dry Goods in town—deep forest green for Dibs and plaid for Given.
“What pet did you get? Let’s see! Show us!” Mai, Daisy, and Caroline are all jumping and clamoring for a peek.
“Meet Given!” Nicholas sets the cat carrier on the kitchen counter and pops it open. Given leaps out like the freed mini tiger she is.
“That’s some cat!” exclaims Mai. “What a predator!”
“Actually, a warrior,” says Nicholas.
Daisy reaches out to touch her, and Given bonks her head against Daisy’s hand.
“She does that with me, too,” says Nicholas. “She’s superfriendly, especially for a half-wild cat.”
“Tiger stripes are my favorite,” says Daisy.
“That cat is all muscle,” says Mai.
“Maybe she really is part tiger,” says Caroline. She keeps her hands clasped together as she leans forward to see. “Do you think she’s dangerous?”
“Oh, no!” Nicholas rushes to rescue Gran’s vase before Given’s powerful tail nearly topples it.
“So let me get this straight. You two compromised on one pet?” asks Caroline, her voice slightly disbelieving. “And you agreed to get a big cat—that’s the size of a small dog?”
“Actually—presenting Dibs!” I say. “He slept in my lap part of the way, and he’s still sleeping in his carrier. Come on out, Dibs!” I’ve put Dibs’s carrier on the ground. I unzip the top. Then I unzip its other side.
“Three ways to exit,” I say. “Out you go, Dibs. Time to meet everyone.”
But Dibs won’t budge.
Dibs still won’t budge when I set down a bowl of water, using his new bright-yellow bowl, which I place in front of the carrier.
And Dibs won’t budge even when I dangle his new chew bone in front of him.
“Okay, let’s try this a different way,” I tell him. “Let’s go outside.” I zip the carrier back up and take him outside so we can sit on the bottom step of the porch. “How do you like this sunset?”
Before we lived full-time on Blackberry Farm, we would visit Gran for holidays, and I could never pick my favorite season. I still can’t! Spring, summer, fall, and winter—each is a different paint box of Beautiful Alerts. But if I could only make one single painting, I’d use the colors I see today. I’d mix my thick, happy acrylic paints to fire up my pink and red apples, yellow piles of leaves, and blue wide-open sky. While I’m staring at the sky, a V-shaped wedge of geese passes overhead. I close my eyes to take a picture for my memory scrapbook.
“Here, boy. Come enjoy the fresh air!” People think that dogs being color-blind means they just see in black and white, but my parents told me that dogs are actually limited-spectrum, which means they see a different range of colors. Imagine a fall day through a dog’s eyes, with violet-blue grass and laser-green apples!
But Dibs won’t budge. Not even for a sunset.
It’s not how Dibs acted in the shelter. I guess it’s a big adjustment, trading a crate and a kennel for a new home and a new life as Dibs Branch.
“The rules around here are easy, Dibs,” I tell him. “They are . . .” But I have to think about it for a minute. “Move around! You’re an inside-outside dog. Check out how much space we’ve got! No crates, no cement, and no more all-gravel doggy runs.”
Dibs cocks his head at me, looking confused.
“So let’s run! C’mon!” I jump up and start running across the field. “The air will feel so good on your face!” I dash and gallop all over the place. When I turn, the dog carrier is just a shoebox on my horizon.
I whistle between my fingers, how Gran taught me this summer.
It took me three weeks to learn to whistle like that. It does the trick!
A little snout pokes from the carrier.
I whistle again. Dibs pops out! Barking and running, he’s a turbocharged streak of copper straight into my arms, where he plants a big, slobbery doggy lick over my whole face. I can feel his heart pounding wildly.
“You did it!”
Dad has come out onto the porch. “He can get some speed when he wants!”
At the sound of Dad’s voice, Dibs does a funny thing. He turns right around and bolts across the field, all the way back into the carrier. When I catch up to him, I hear him from inside, panting soft and fast, the way I’d imagine a bunny rabbit would breathe.
“It’s okay, Dibs,” I say. “No need to panic. That’s just Dad.” I
sort of sing it, to make Dibs feel soothed.
I zip up the carrier and haul it on top of my shoulder.
“Becket, I think Dibs likes your voice better than mine,” says Dad. “So for now, I’m going to try to be quiet around your dog, while he gets used to us, okay?”
“Yes,” I say. “He won’t be shy for long. Right, Dibsie?”
Inside the carrier, Dibs has gone very still.
Chapter 8
The Big Idea
Right away, Dibs lets us know that he’s shy about lots of things. He won’t go up or down the stairs unless I carry him. When Daisy shakes some kibble into his bowl, he won’t eat it. He slinks into his crate when Mai and Caroline laugh too hard, or if he hears a door slam, or if he hears dogs barking on TV.
He is definitely not sure about Dad’s voice.
“There’s things in Dibs’s past that we’ll never get to the bottom of,” I say. “I wish he could talk.”
“You don’t need to know his past,” says Gran. “You just need to show up for Dibs now.”
“Given is in Dibs’s bed,” says Nicholas. “Are you okay with that?”
“As long as Dibs is okay with it.” I peer in at Dibs, who is in his crate. He doesn’t seem to care about where Given is. Aren’t dogs territorial?
Maybe Dibs doesn’t know what his territory is yet.
“Given is gorgeous. That cat should be on a calendar,” says Mai. “Doesn’t it seem like she’s posing for a calendar picture right now?”
“It does,” says Daisy. “I can see the hashtags! Hashtag ‘CalendarCat.’ Hashtag ‘TigerCat.’ Hashtag ‘MeowStyle’!”
“What’s cuter than twelve months of Given?” asks Caroline. “Wouldn’t you love to see her peeking out from under a Christmas tree? Or wearing a Fourth of July neckerchief? You could fluff her hair, or tie a ribbon around her neck and put her in a basket. Everyone loves when a pet is fresh and clean and looks like a present.”
All Pets Allowed Page 3
