The Last Dog on Earth

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  “Mr. Boone isn't going to let you in!” Devon yelled.

  Sure enough, there was a big sign on the deli's sliding glass double doors. It hung right at eye level. Logan could read it from a good fifteen feet away. NO DOGS ALLOWED.

  Funny, he had never noticed it before. Then again, he'd never noticed a lot of things before.

  Ever since he'd gotten Jack, certain little details of life had suddenly started jumping out at him. Like the way different people behaved with their dogs. Some people controlled their dogs with punishment—Devon Wallace, for example. Other people allowed their dogs to control them. Like Mr. Boone.

  Not that Logan could blame the guy. If Logan owned Thor, he'd probably have a hard time keeping control, too. Thor was a German shepherd, but he looked more like a wolf. He was huge—maybe a hundred and forty pounds (he definitely weighed more than Logan), with thick, splotchy, brownish-gray fur. His eyes weren't bright and intelligent, like Jack's. They were hard and cold, like two black stones. And when Thor stared at you, you couldn't help wondering: Is he sizing me up for a meal?

  Logan looked at Thor through the window.

  The drizzle was turning into a full-fledged downpour. Logan didn't want to leave Jack out in this cruddy weather.

  This is stupid, he thought. Buying whole milk wasn't going to take longer than ten seconds. Mr. Boone could deal with another dog for ten seconds, especially if it was raining. Right. Logan hurried forward, pulling Jack along with him. The sliding doors parted with a swish.

  The store was bright and warm. Logan wiped his feet on the mat and took a deep breath. His eyes flashed to the refrigerated aisle in the back, the one with all the dairy products. He'd be in and out before Mr. Boone even noticed.

  “Hey!” Mr. Boone shouted. “Get that mutt out of here! Can't you read?”

  Mr. Boone had never been Logan's biggest fan. Mr. Boone wasn't a big fan of anyone, really. Except Thor. He reminded Logan of Robert, only he was older. He was probably close to sixty. Like Robert, he yelled a lot. He wore the same blue polyester shirt every day—either that, or he had a bunch of shirts that were all exactly alike. His skin was the color of rotten lettuce.

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Boone,” Logan said. “I saw the sign, but I figured since it's raining and all, and I only have to buy one thing, I could just run in and—”

  “Get out!” Mr. Boone shouted.

  Logan could see Thor's ears pricking up behind the cash register.

  “I promise I won't be long,” Logan said. He started toward the dairy case.

  Thor barked at him. It was a loud bark. Louder than Jack's, even. Logan stopped.

  Thor stood up on his hind legs. He eyed Logan and Jack across the counter with his cold, hungry stare.

  Mr. Boone grabbed Thor's thick leather collar to hold him still.

  Logan felt nervous. But for some completely unfathomable reason, he laughed. Thor really did look as though he wanted to eat Logan and Jack for breakfast. He was actually slobbering. Foamy drool fell from his jowls. He was quivering, too, as if he couldn't contain his excitement at the prospect of tearing both Logan and Jack to shreds.

  “I'm not going to tell you again,” Mr. Boone said through his teeth, which were clenched under the strain of holding on to Thor's collar. His knuckles turned white. “Get out of here. That dog of yours might be sick. I'm not taking any chances. No way am I going to send Thor to a quarantine center just because some idiot brought his sick dog in here.”

  “A what center?” Logan asked.

  “You heard me,” Mr. Boone said.

  Quarantine center? They were quarantining dogs now? Logan's stomach contracted. This disease thing was getting pretty freaky.

  Jack tugged on her leash. She tried to pull Logan toward the counter. She was staring straight at Thor. A low growl rumbled deep in her throat.

  “She's not sick,” Logan said. “I promise. We had her totally checked out last week. I'll only be a second. My stepdad just wants me to buy him some whole milk for his coffee.”

  Mr. Boone's face darkened. “Fine,” he murmured. “You want to play games with me, go ahead.” He flashed a humorless smile, then let go of Thor's collar. “Go get 'em, Thor.”

  Thor didn't need any more encouragement. With a mighty jump, he sprang over the counter and dove down into the main aisle—skidding halfway across the floor, his front legs splayed in front of him.

  Logan's jaw dropped. He couldn't move. He couldn't believe this was happening. He stared in horror as Thor's thick, barrel-like body slammed into a display rack of potato chips and knocked a couple of bags loose. One hit Thor's head. He didn't even seem to notice.

  “Jack, run!” Logan shouted.

  He sprinted toward the dairy case, clutching the leash as tightly as he could. He wasn't thinking; he was just trying to put as much distance between himself and Thor as possible. Luckily, Jack followed him. Thor came within inches of nipping one of Jack's paws. But he skidded on the muddy linoleum and bumped into a table that had a microwave oven on it. The table's legs wobbled. So did Thor's. He fell on his side.

  “Ahh-oooo,” he howled.

  Logan spun around.

  He was at a dead end. His eyes darted to Thor, then to Jack, then to Mr. Boone, then to the sliding glass doors—now fifteen feet away. Thor blocked his exit.

  Think, think, think!

  Thor was having a hard time getting back up. He kept slipping and falling back down. There was too much water on the floor.

  “Go on, boy!” Mr. Boone shouted. “Go on!”

  Logan gaped at Mr. Boone. The guy was smiling. Smiling. Over the fact that his demon wolf-dog was terrorizing one of his customers.

  All at once, a switch flipped inside Logan's brain. Click! The frightened part of him shut down. The angry part of him took control.

  Something on one of the shelves caught his eye. It was a can of bug spray marked fifty percent off.

  The plan came together even before Logan realized it. Sometimes an idea just came to him like a big, soft mallet falling out of the sky— and when it hit, it didn't hurt so much as tickle, and everything suddenly became crystal clear.

  “Come on, Thor!” Mr. Boone hollered.

  Logan bolted back down the aisle. With his right hand, he held Jack's leash. With his left, he snagged the bug spray. In a single, deft maneuver, he jumped over Thor—and as he landed, he shoved the spray can into the panel that popped open the microwave's door: ping.

  “Hey!” Mr. Boone yelled. “Get away from there!”

  Logan could hear Thor scrabbling to get up. He could practically feel those teeth. Jack was straining to get to the sliding doors—as far away from Thor as possible. She pulled the leash tight. But there was no time to worry about all that. Logan tossed the bug spray into the microwave. He slammed the door shut and punched Popcorn, then hit Start. His legs were already in motion.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Mr. Boone shrieked.

  Logan broke into a full-on sprint.

  The sliding doors parted. Logan and Jack flew through them, picking up speed as they sloshed down the sidewalk. A smile crept across Logan's face. Rain pelted his skin. His legs burned. His lungs felt as if they were about to burst. Jack ran beside him—mouth wide open, as if she were smiling, too. Logan could hear Mr. Boone's muffled voice behind them, although he couldn't understand what Mr. Boone was saying. It sounded like gibberish.

  A few seconds later, Logan heard a soft pop. More like a pffft. Very short. It was followed by the tinkle of shattering glass.

  Apparently, the plan had worked.

  Logan reached the end of the block and spun around. He doubled over, struggling to catch his breath. Then he looked up.

  The plan had worked a little better than expected.

  One of the deli's sliding doors was stuck in the closed position. Thor must have hurled himself against it because he lay beside it, in the opening where the other door should have been. A crazy, jagged, spiderweb pattern spread from a six-inch hole in
the glass—at about the same height as Thor's snout. A small blaze was raging inside the store. There was a lot of smoke. Mr. Boone was busy trying to put it out with a fire extinguisher. He hadn't stopped yelling, although Logan still couldn't understand what he was saying.

  For a second, Logan felt kind of sick. Maybe he should stick around and try to help Mr. Boone put the fire out….

  But no, sticking around was a bad idea. Sticking around meant getting into some serious trouble. The kind of trouble that involved fire trucks and cops and a very angry Robert.

  So Logan did the only thing left to do.

  He took off, running as fast as he could. Jack loped beside him, her tongue hanging out. When he looked down at her, he could have sworn she was grinning.

  “Sorry I took so long,” Logan called as he opened the front door. “I had to go all the way to the supermarket to get whole milk. Mr. Boone had a little—”

  He broke off in midsentence.

  Mom and Robert were standing in the hall, side by side. Robert's face was blank. There was no expression—no anger, even. Nothing. But that wasn't what freaked Logan out. What freaked him out was that Mom looked as if she were about to cry. She swallowed a few times. Her lips were trembling.

  Jack's leash slipped from Logan's fingers. He clutched the carton of milk against his chest. His hands felt clammy all of a sudden.

  “Mr. Boone isn't going to press charges,” Robert said.

  Logan's insides curled into a painful knot. “Mr. Boone …” He left the words hanging. His eyes wandered from Mom to Robert and back again. He didn't even know what he wanted to say. Or if there was anything to say.

  “I just got off the phone with him,” Robert said. “Insurance should cover the fire and door damage. But he's going to have to close up shop for the next few days. Which means he's going to lose money.”

  Robert's voice was as flat and even as radio static. There was no emotion. Computers spoke with more feeling.

  Jack ran upstairs. The leash dragged behind her.

  “I can get a job,” Logan said. “I can pay him back. I'll take care of it.” He hadn't planned on confessing or apologizing, but the offers just exploded from his mouth. Warning. Flammable. Contents under pressure. Do not expose to high temperatures. “I mean it. I'm fourteen years old. Maybe I can—”

  “Be quiet, Logan,” Mom breathed.

  “Mom, seriously, I didn't—”

  “Enough, Logan,” Robert said. “Don't turn this into a production.”

  A tear slid down Mom's left cheek.

  Why are you crying? Logan wanted to shout at her. Stop it! A large, painful lump lodged in his throat.

  “I'm going to take care of paying Mr. Boone back,” Robert said. “That's not the issue. The issue is that you destroyed somebody's property. That's vandalism, Logan. It's a crime. You've gone too far this time.”

  “Mom, please,” Logan croaked.

  “You can stop trying to get your mother to side with you,” Robert said. “She and I are in full agreement on this.”

  Logan stiffened. “Full agreement on what?”

  Mom sniffed. She turned and hurried into the kitchen. The door swung behind her, back and forth, back and forth … until finally it came to a standstill.

  “What's going on?” Logan asked. Panic started creeping along his nerves. “What are you talking about?”

  “We're sending you to the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys,” Robert said.

  Logan shook his head. For some reason, all he could think about was Jack. If he went to boot camp, he wouldn't be able to keep training her. And training Jack was about the only thing that didn't make him want to punch somebody in the face or blow up all of Pinewood or run away to Antarctica. It kept him out of the house, away from Robert, away from trouble, away from everything that made him angry. “But I thought—”

  “We thought you were showing some real improvement,” Robert continued, as if Logan hadn't even opened his mouth. “We really did. Your mother thought you were doing well with the dog. And I have to admit, you were staying out of trouble. It seemed you'd made that attitude adjustment we were talking about. But now it's clear to us that you were just plotting your next big move.” Robert folded his arms across his chest. His jaw twitched. “You've got problems, Logan. We can't handle you. It's that simple.”

  Logan stepped forward. “I wasn't plotting anything, Robert,” he promised. “I swear. You have to believe me. Mr. Boone ordered Thor to attack Jack.”

  Robert sighed. He trudged into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind him, too.

  “The July session starts Monday,” he called. “That gives you three days. I suggest you start packing. And bring your hiking boots. I understand they do a lot of hiking at that place.”

  Logan could hear Mom crying softly at the kitchen table. He tried to ignore her. “Well, what about Jack?” he yelled. “Who's going to take care of her if I go away? I thought—”

  “That's not your concern,” Robert interrupted. “Jack will be just fine. Your only concern is shaping up. And shaping up fast.”

  Logan opened his mouth again.

  Then he stopped.

  What can I do? he asked himself.

  It was a good question. What could he possibly do? Go in there and beg and plead and say he was sorry a billion more times? Promise Mom and Robert that he wouldn't get in more trouble? Yeah. Sure. He didn't even believe that himself. He doubted he could talk, anyway. The lump was taking up all the space in his throat.

  Besides, that closed door sent a pretty clear message. It told Logan everything he needed to know: They were in there, and Logan was out here. Or just out. Period. The decision had been made. Mom had given up. Robert had won. He'd gotten Logan the greatest quick fix of all: boot camp. And like he said, it was time to pack.

  Right. Well, Logan had better get started, then. Jack could help. She could chew up all the clothes he didn't need to take with him.

  “Jack?” he called. “Jack?”

  Upstairs, he found Jack in Mom and Robert's bathroom, peeing on the floor.

  PART III

  JULY 6–JULY 23

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  When Logan first arrived at the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys, he wondered for a second if Robert was playing some kind of practical joke on him. Well, maybe not a joke. But as far as Logan could tell, the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys was abandoned.

  The entrance was just a gate in a chain-link fence on the side of a dirt road. There was a sign next to it—the kind with movable plastic letters so you can change what it says. The Plexiglas cover was scratched and flecked with mud, and several of the letters had fallen down into the trough at the bottom of the sign. It looked like this:

  LUE MOUNT IN MP FOR OYS

  Est. 1993

  When they drove up the bumpy dirt track to the actual camp, Logan wasn't much reassured. On the way they passed two or three long, low, barrackslike buildings squatting among the evergreens. They were built of cinder blocks and painted a sickly, institutional green. Stenciled on the side of each building in red paint was a number: 4, 5, then 6. Vines crawled up the walls, partially covering the numbers.

  Robert stopped the car in front of a Quonset hut that stood by itself in a clearing. A flagpole loomed over the building, with a limp American flag hanging from its top.

  There wasn't a person in sight.

  “Spooky,” Logan muttered. He draped an arm around Jack, who'd been sharing the front passenger seat with him. She at least had enjoyed the drive up into the mountains, riding with her head thrust out the open window, ears blowing in the breeze. Robert hadn't wanted to bring her along—he'd said she'd mark up his leather upholstery and slobber all over his clean windows—but when he'd tried to drive away from the house earlier that day, she'd twisted free of Logan's mother's grip and raced after the car, howling. Finally Robert had pulled over and, scowling furiously, allowed Logan to let her in.

  Robert opened his door. “Stay here,
” he snapped as Logan started to open the passenger-side door. “The last thing we need is your dog running wild around here. I'll go in and see where you're supposed to go.”

  So Logan stayed in the car, his arm still around Jack's neck. She leaned against him, panting gently, gazing out through the windshield. He could feel her heartbeat through his T-shirt, almost as if it were his own.

  Logan lolled his head against the seat back and looked out his open window. The morning was still, almost windless, and hot. A few birds chirped. A mosquito buzzed by his ear.

  “This might not be so bad,” Logan said to Jack.

  She cocked an eye at him as if to say, Don't try to kid a kidder. Then she went back to gazing out the windshield.

  “Then again, it might suck hugely,” he added.

  Finally, after what felt like ten years, Robert stepped out of the Quonset hut, shaking his head.

  “What's going on?” Logan asked.

  “You're late, so you missed the orientation hike,” Robert muttered— as if it were somehow Logan's fault, even though Logan had had no idea what time he was supposed to arrive. “The rest of the kids won't be back until lunch. Sergeant Bell left a note saying you should wait here. He'll come back and show you around as soon as he's finished giving his opening speech.”

  “Sergeant Bell?” Logan repeated.

  “He's the head of this place.” Robert opened the trunk of the car and tossed out Logan's duffel bag. It hit the ground with a thud. “Look, I can't wait around. I've got to get back to work.” He slammed the trunk shut and looked Logan in the eye. “So I guess this is it. I hope this does you some good.”

  Logan shrugged and burrowed his hand into the soft fur on Jack's chest. He doubted being here would do anyone any good, but what point was there in saying that now?

  “Destroying somebody's property is never okay, Logan,” Robert stated. “Blowing up a microwave oven and causing hundreds of dollars' worth of damage is never okay.”

  “I know,” Logan said. He stepped out of the car and cleared his throat. “Hey, Robert. Will you do me a favor? Will you keep an eye on Jack for me? I'm worried people might think she has that disease and try to do something to her—”