As anyone can see, I did my best to make Ugly feel at home in my room.
When Ugly was lying on my mat beside my bed, looking relaxed, I crouched down and spoke to him.
“Ugly,” I said, “You must watch what I do.” Ugly looked at me.
I held the pocket watch by the chain and started swinging it slowly back and forth. “You will love and obey me. You will love and obey me,” I started to say. Ugly liked this. For a moment, he was really interested. His ears pricked up straight. His eyes looked bright. He smiled. But then he did something silly.
He snapped at the watch! He was trying to bite it.
I held the watch farther from his face. Ugly thought this was fun.
He thumped his tail on the floor, gave a happy bark, and threw himself at the watch again. Luckily, it swung away from his mouth.
“This is not a game, Ugly,” I said. “Get serious.” I clipped his leash onto his collar and tied the other end to the doorknob, so Ugly couldn’t jump at the watch again. I pushed down on Ugly’s butt to make him sit. Then I started all over again. Back and forth with the pocket watch.
It looked like Ugly had got the idea. His ears were up straight again, and he watched the clock swing. His shaggy head tilted left and right. He was grinning and panting.
“Love and obey me. Love and obey me,” I said.
Ugly yapped. Then he leaped so hard at the watch that he yanked the leash and fell backward. Even that didn’t stop him. He got up and went for the watch again.
“You idiot!” I screamed. I threw myself on the bed and jammed my face into the pillow. Tears leaked out of my eyes without permission.
Ugly was barking away. He sounded glad that I was upset.
I heard a knock on my door.
“What’s going on in there?” It was Grandpa’s voice. “Can I come in?”
“Okay.”
Grandpa opened the door halfway.
Ugly swung around and started pawing Grandpa’s legs.
“Why’s your dog tied to the door handle?”
“He’s not my dog. He doesn’t want to be.”
“Well, what are you doing mistreating the poor dog?” asked Grandpa. He immediately untied Ugly, who escaped out of my room.
What a traitor that dog was. “Trying to hypnotize him.”
“What would a silly fool like you want to do that for?”
“To make him like me.” I sat up on my bed.
Grandpa spotted his pocket watch still clutched in my hand. “And you were using my father’s watch to do this?”
“You know about using a watch?”
“Of course I do,” said Grandpa. “But even if that sort of thing works, in your situation, your chances are slim to none.”
I guessed Grandpa was using an idiom here, but I was too upset to ask for it to be explained. I just knew Grandpa meant I had no hope of hypnotizing Ugly.
“No use?” I asked.
“The first thing you need to know about hypnosis is that the subject has to want to do the thing you’re suggesting.”
“Subject?”
“The person—or dog—you’re hypnotizing. They’ll only agree to do what they want to do.”
“So because Ugly wasn’t interested in being hypnotized, it means…he…doesn’t…want…to…be…my…friend,” I said, between little gulps. It felt like my heart was crying. It was going all the way up my throat.
• • •
Grandpa did something he doesn’t often do. He sat down on my bed and gave me a hug. He smelled of mown grass and sweaty armpits. The prickly white stubble on his chin scratched my forehead, but I liked the way he crushed me to his bony chest.
“It’s not too late. Your dog can still be your friend. You just have to be his leader.”
“But how? I’ve been trying!”
I didn’t know what Grandpa meant. I really had been trying. And I’d failed.
“I said leader, not dictator.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A good leader is kind.”
I still felt a little confused, but one thing was clear: my grandfather was hugging me because I was sad and lonely, and he wished I wasn’t. That was good enough.
12
In a lot of made-up stories that I’ve read, the problems seem to get solved really quickly. In a make-believe story, I would have woken up the next morning and somehow Ugly would instantly look up to me as his leader. But that’s not real life.
What happened was this: I woke up the next day feeling calm. I knew I wasn’t all alone in trying to get Ugly to like me. Grandpa understood my problem, so I’d ask him to help me.
It was a Sunday morning, a few days back. I had dressed quickly and then gone to have breakfast. Ugly was under the kitchen table. As I walked in, he thumped his tail in a welcoming sort of way.
“Morning, Ugly,” I said. As I bent down to give him a pat, I realized he had probably said hello to me many times before, but I was in the habit of only noticing what Ugly did wrong. Maybe I should take more notice of when Ugly did things right. But for the moment, I needed to concentrate on figuring out how to be his leader. After eating my porridge, which Grandpa makes for the family every morning, I went out into the backyard to look for Grandpa. He was tidying up his tools in the shed. “Hey, Grandpa,” I said, “can you tell me more about how to be Ugly’s leader?”
“Sure thing. You can help me hang these tools on the shadow board. We’ll talk as we work.”
I started to pass Grandpa tools as he asked for them. He hung them on hooks on a pegboard he’d built on the wall.
“First off,” said Grandpa, “if you’re the one who looks after your dog, he will naturally see you as the important one. Looking after means feeding, grooming, walking, playing, and training.”
“I already do some of that,” I started to say.
“Listen up,” said Grandpa. “It’s the same old story for a lot of youngsters. It’s the mom who does most of the hard work.”
“So?”
“So, unless Ugly sees you doing most of the work, this talk of ours is going to be pointless. Pass that hammer, please.”
To be honest, the word “work” sounded boring. Having to do jobs, even stuff like learning multiplication, at a certain time every single day isn’t my thing. Moms are good at it, not kids.
“I’ve got school and all that. I’m pretty busy,” I said.
Grandpa was just standing there, staring at me with his eyes all big. He snorted in an annoyed way and pointed at the door. “If you’re busy, what does that make your poor, overworked mom? Out you go! You’re wasting my time.”
That scared me. I really wanted Grandpa’s help. I realized I was skating on thin ice.
I held my hands up, like people do in films when a gun is pointed at them. “Kidding! I’m listening, Grandpa. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“For starters, you should write up a timetable. You’ll have to ask your mom what sort of chores she does for Ugly. When you’ve done that, come back and we’ll talk some more.”
• • •
I found Mom. She was giving Ugly’s grooming brush and comb a wash in the laundry bucket. I wrote down everything she said. I already knew most of it, but making the list made me take notice. What she did for Ugly made me feel bad. This is my list of Mom’s chores:
And all of this was before and after she went to work. Saying I had school was a weak excuse.
Next, I started on my timetable. Trying to fit in the morning jobs meant I had to wake up earlier. Then, I added the evening jobs, and realized I’d have to cut back on my free time if I was going to get everything done. I read my new timetable and sensed something was missing. What had Grandpa said you had to do for a dog? Then I remembered. It was feeding, grooming, walking, playing, and training. I looked at the incredi
bly long list of things Mom did for Ugly. She fed, groomed, walked, and watched Ugly’s health. But I was right—two things were still missing. They were things Mom had not had enough time to do: train Ugly effectively and play with him. I felt a light bulb go off in my head. I knew why Ugly had chewed up my Parthenon project. He was bored.
13
“How do you make a dog unbored?” I asked Grandpa at breakfast the next morning.
Mom and Dad had already left for work, although Gretchen was rushing through the kitchen to get her car keys off the wall hook. She heard what I said and joined in.
“Try having a personality change, Ec. That might help.”
“Very funny. Ha, ha,” I said in a deadpan voice. I surprised myself by speaking this way. It was better than sulking. For once, Gretchen didn’t have a nasty comeback.
“It’s actually an interesting question,” said Grandpa, taking a gulp of hot black tea and a bite of marmalade toast. “And, Eric, you’ve put your finger on one of the keys to encouraging a dog to willingly obey you.”
“Likely!” said Gretchen, throwing her keys in her handbag.
“Your words exactly, Gretchen,” said Grandpa. “More than likely—a certainty. Naturally, all dogs love playing, but an intelligent dog like Ugly also enjoys learning and communicating. In a nutshell, if someone plays with and trains Ugly, he will not be bored.”
Gretchen tossed her head in a snooty way. “Well, bored dogs are low on my list. I have more important things to do, like get to work and talk to human beings.” She rushed out of the room.
Grandpa said we’d talk more at the end of the day after school. “Now, put your timetable under one of those magnets on the fridge, and get that dog fed. You do your part, and I’ll spend the day thinking about what Ugly and you need to do.”
It was comforting knowing that a grown-up cared enough about my problems to spend a day thinking about them.
At school, when I told Hugh and Milly about what Grandpa was saying, they both agreed I was lucky to have a grandfather to give me advice.
None of Hugh’s grandfathers were alive. “But I have a lovely grandma. She taught me to knit,” he said.
“Grandparents can teach you useful things.” All four of Milly’s grandparents lived in other states. “We chat online,” said Milly. “I sometimes play a word game called Scrabble with one of my grandfathers.”
“Yes,” I said, “grandparents are special. I wonder what Grandpa will say makes a dog unbored?”
“Spending time with your dog,” said Hugh. “It was somewhere on that list when we did the research. I’m always wanting my dad to spend time with me.”
“Me too,” said Milly. “Dads seem to be at work a lot.”
“And moms too,” I said. “They seem tired and worried a lot of the time; that’s why grandparents are good. They’re too old to go to work, but not too old to spend time with you.”
When I got home after school, Grandpa handed me a fruit juice and a muffin. “As soon as you’ve had your afternoon snack, you need to read your timetable and start working on your dog chores.”
“What about your ideas for making Ugly unbored?” I asked.
“Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten. My first idea is that if you’re the one feeding and exercising Ugly, he’ll be easier for you to train. Easier to train means he won’t be bored. First things first: What does your timetable say?”
I looked at the timetable on the fridge:
After school—four o’clock: Feed Ugly. Groom Ugly. Walk Ugly.
“Boring,” I said. I folded my arms on the kitchen table and dropped my head on them. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day at school. Even longer than usual.”
“That makes no sense,” said Grandpa. “How can a school day be longer?”
Oh dear. I’d said too much. I tried to get Grandpa offtrack. “Nice muffin,” I said. “Did you make it?”
“You know I’m the muffin king around here. Stop stalling. Why was your day long?”
“I was kept in at recess. Unfairly.”
“How so?”
“Because I failed my multiplication test.”
“Why did you fail?”
“No time to practice.”
“Why no time?”
“I’m too busy.” I waved my hand at Ugly’s care timetable stuck on the fridge.
“Busy!” said Grandpa. He didn’t actually say it. He snorted like a horse. “Now listen up: Training a dog. Doing schoolwork. Learning multiplication. Being a sports star. Playing a musical instrument. It’s the same thing. Discipline and routine. You start looking after your dog adequately, every day—even when it’s boring, even when you’re tired and don’t feel like it, even when there’s something better to do. Then we’ll talk.”
Talk about cranky. How come I thought Grandpa was the nicest one in my family?
So I fed Ugly. Then, I made him lie on his mat while I combed him and gathered up all the clumps of hair and put them in the garbage. Then, I walked him.
14
The walk wasn’t any better than usual. It was a drag. That’s a pun. There are two meanings for drag, see? “Drag,” meaning “really, really boring,” and “drag” as in “pull.” Ugly tugged on his leash and pulled me along. His nose would find an interesting smell and he’d drag me around: back, forth, left, right, and around in circles. Worst of all, on our way back from the park, Ugly met Penelope, the ginger cat who lives next door at Mrs. Manchester’s. She was sunbathing on Mrs. Manchester’s low brick fence. For the billionth time on one of our walks, I lost control of Ugly.
Ugly flew after the cat. I hung onto his leash. If I could draw well (which I can’t), I’d have Ugly moving like one of those Japanese bullet trains and me in the air behind him, clutching his leash—wind pushing the hair back off my face and my legs flying straight out behind me like a flag in a storm.
I expected Penelope to run away, but she stayed put. She had attitude. Her back went into a spiky arch the shape of Sydney Harbour Bridge. She spat, snarled, and clawed at Ugly’s face. Ugly put his tail between his legs and backed off for a moment. Then, his tail started wagging. He turned his head to the side and raised his little brown eyebrows up and down, as if he wanted to ask the cat a question. The cat hunched low. Ugly was smiling, and then he started yapping. He was glad the cat was standing up to him.
I thought Ugly might want a playmate. But I instantly changed my mind. Ugly growled and pulled his lips back in a nasty, wolfish way. He leaped at the cat, who shot up into the air as if she had been thrown straight upward. Penelope did this amazing midair twist, and the next minute she was off, tearing toward her house. Ugly tried to jump the brick fence to follow the cat, but I hung on with all my strength.
By the time we got home, my right arm was nearly pulled out of its socket. Ugly trotted along beside me, pretending he didn’t know I was upset. I call that emotional bullying. We learned about that in school. It is when you mean to hurt someone’s feelings and then you make it even worse by ignoring the person, like Ugly was doing.
If Ugly could talk, he would have said, “I was just having fun. What’s the problem?”
I knew he’d say that, so I answered him out loud, “You’re a bully. I’m telling.”
• • •
What did Grandpa say when he heard all this? “It’ll get better. Stick to it.”
But things got worse. The phone rang. I heard Grandpa saying, “Sorry... Yes... Of course. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again…”
After putting the phone down, Grandpa turned to me. “That’s old Mrs. Manchester. She’s very upset about her cat being traumatized by your dog. I don’t want to hear a complaint from her again.”
So once again, it’s “your dog” when Ugly does something wrong.
I don’t like Ugly, and I don’t like my grandfather.
15
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This is Ugly’s last chance, of course. It’s a long-last chance. Hugh and Milly say I should stick to what Grandpa has told me to do, so I’ve been trying. I’ve been doing most of the feeding and some of grooming and walking. I promised Grandpa I’d do this for two whole weeks, and I’ve mostly kept my promise, but I’m a little forgetful. My family doesn’t seem to appreciate the effort I’m making.
Dad says “forgetful” is an excuse for “don’t want to.” Mom says, “Parents can’t pick and choose when they’ll look after their children. It should be the same with you and your dog.” Gretchen usually says something to my parents like, “I keep telling you he’s spoiled.”
There have been some improvements with Ugly—slower than a snail, mind you. He now knows it’s me who mostly does the feeding. A few times when he’s wanted his dinner, he’s found me wherever I am and nudged me with his nose, or he’s sat next to where I’m sitting and stuck his paw on my knee, staring hard at me with those big brown eyes of his. I think he’s trying to hypnotize me now.
• • •
The best thing is that Ugly now greets me when I get home from school. He can hear me as soon as I come in the front door. He runs up to me, barking, smiling, and hitting me with his tail.
I’m also becoming more alert to Ugly’s naughty tricks. The other day I prevented a crime Ugly almost committed. I was doing my math homework at my bedroom desk when out of the corner of my eye I saw a dark shadow moving very slowly—almost gliding like a shark does. It was Ugly, creeping toward the door with something in his mouth. I slowly turned my head a little more. Ugly had one of my sneakers in his mouth. He didn’t know I could see him. What amazed me was his sneakiness. Ugly knew he was being a thief. He knew he shouldn’t be stealing my things, but he had it all planned out. Just before he got to the door, he started to speed up.
My Dog Made Me Write This Book Page 4