Ribsy

by Beverly Cleary

  “He’s still pretty damp,” said Mrs. Dingley, when they grew tired of rubbing Ribsy. Now that the family had a wet dog on its hands no one knew quite what to do with him. “I wish we had left him on the parking lot where we found him.”

  “I always knew it would be fun to have a dog,” said Louanne wistfully.

  “We’d better not let him catch cold,” said Zibby. “We might not get a reward for him.”

  “I’ll turn up the furnace,” said Mr. Dingley, appearing in a dry shirt. “Maybe we can coax him to stand over the heat.”

  But Ribsy, persuaded to the furnace outlet, did not care to stand over it. He did not like breathing hot, dry, violet-scented air. He pulled away from Zibby, who was trying to hold him. Seeing no way to escape from the house, he jumped up on a comfortable chair, as was his habit in the Hugginses’ house when no one was looking, and tried to curl up into the smallest possible space.

  Mrs. Dingley, who was a very calm woman, was not that calm. “Don’t let him lie in that good chair when he’s all wet,” she said, and her husband pulled the unwilling dog to the floor.

  “Maybe we could use Mother’s hair drier,” suggested Zibby. “We could dry one piece of him at a time, starting with his head.”

  “He would never stand still for that,” answered her father.

  “My, it’s warm in here,” said Mrs. Dingley. “There must be some way to dry a dog without roasting the whole family.”

  Ribsy tried to jump on the couch and was pulled to the floor.

  “I know!” Mrs. Dingley had an inspiration. “I once read in that pet column in the paper that one way to dry a dog is to take him for a ride in a car with the heater turned on. It seemed like a silly idea at the time, but it might work.” It also might get all the children and the dog out of the house for a while, so she could enjoy a little peace and quiet. She was beginning to feel she needed it.

  The girls all agreed that this sounded like fun. “Can we, Daddy? Please, can we?” they begged.

  Mr. Dingley was amused. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try,” he conceded. “And I can dry my hair at the same time. Get your jackets on.”

  Mrs. Dingley reached for a mop to start swabbing out the bathroom.

  And so Ribsy, along with four girls and George, was bundled into the station wagon; the windows were closed and the heater turned on. Mr. Dingley drove aimlessly around the neighborhood while the girls petted and consoled the damp dog. As Ribsy began to dry, the windows of the station wagon began to steam. Mr. Dingley wiped the windshield with the back of his hand so that he could see to drive, and the girls polished their windows with their sleeves. Ribsy tried to curl up on the seat and ignore the whole situation as best he could, but Zibby boosted him to his feet. “You won’t dry all over if you lie down,” she explained.

  Gradually Ribsy, whose hair was medium-long except on his ears, where it was short, and on his tail, where it was long, dried. He felt more comfortable, and the mean hungry flea no longer bothered him. It had been driven off by the bath, or perhaps it was too stunned by its experiences to bite. In some ways things were better for Ribsy, but in another way they were worse. He still smelled of violets, except that no violets ever smelled that strong. The perfume of violets is sweet and gentle. Ribsy reeked.

  Louanne buried her face in his hair. “M-m-m,” she inhaled. “You smell pretty. Just like flowers.”

  “He must be the cleanest dog in the U.S.A.,” remarked Zibby.

  Ribsy’s sensitive nose did not care at all for the pretty smell, which was not only unpleasant to him but made him uneasy. Smelling strongly of violets as he did, he could not smell anything else. A dog depends on his nose to tell him a lot of things, the most important of which is the presence of danger.

  “He certainly smells strong,” said Mr. Dingley. “Like a whole field of violets.” He turned the car toward home, and as he drove he began to sing.

  “Sweet vi-o-lets,

  Sweeter than all the roses.”

  The girls were delighted. They had never heard this song before. “Sweet vi-o-lets,” they joined in. “Sweeter than all the roses.” It was a good song for singing at the top of their voices, and that was the way the four girls and their father sang.

  “Sweet vi-o-lets,

  Sweeter than all the roses.

  Covered all over from head to toes,

  Covered all over with sweet vi-o-lets.”

  When they finished the verse, they started all over again.

  Ribsy did not enjoy the singing. It was just noise to him. He flopped down on the seat and tried to ignore the girls, but he could not. He was too warm; he was surrounded by the unwanted smell; and the girls were too noisy for his sensitive ears.

  The singers were carried away by the song as they drove into the garage. “Sweet vi-o-lets,” they were singing as loud as they could while they tumbled out of the station wagon. “Sweeter than all the roses.”

  No one remembered to hang on to Ribsy, who knew an opportunity when he saw one. He leaped from the station wagon, slipped past the girls, and burst out of the garage into the damp and the dusk, where he began running as fast as he could run, down the driveway and across the road and across some woodsy vacant lots toward the highway. Behind him the singing stopped.

  “He got away!” shrieked Zibby. “Catch him! Catch him!” screamed the younger girls.

  “Hey, come back here!” called Mr. Dingley.

  Ribsy paid no attention. His feet were on asphalt now, and he was going fast, putting as much distance as he could between himself and all those girls and George. The voices grew faint in the distance, but Ribsy kept on running.

  After a while he felt safe from the girls, but still he ran, trying to outrun the smell of violets. This he could not do, and when at last he could run no more he stopped and rolled in the dirt and gravel in a ditch at the edge of the highway, to try to free himself from the hated smell. He rolled and rubbed and wriggled on his back with his four feet in the air, but nothing helped. The smell clung no matter what he did.

  Panting, exhausted, and hungry, Ribsy lay in the ditch and wondered what to do next.

  3

  Ribsy and Mrs. Frawley

  We’ve gone back to the parking lot twice to look for Ribsy,” said Mr. Huggins late in the afternoon on the Saturday Ribsy had disappeared. “We’ve called the Humane Society three times to see if someone has brought him in. Now the only thing left to do is advertise in the newspaper.”

  Mrs. Huggins picked up a pencil and paper from the desk. “What shall we say?” she asked.

  “Lost: the best dog in the whole world,” said Henry, who was looking out the window hoping to see Ribsy finding his own way home.

  “Henry,” said his mother, “it won’t do any good to keep staring out the window.”

  “In books dogs find their way home,” said Henry. “They travel miles and miles, but they always come home.”

  “But the lost-and-found notices are full of ads for dogs that apparently can’t,” said Mr. Huggins. “And when I was a boy I knew some people who lost their dog, and six years later they found it living a mile away.”

  “Ribsy is smarter than that,” said Henry. “And he likes it here. The dog you’re talking about probably ran away.”

  “To get back to the ad,” said Mrs. Huggins. “How are we going to describe Ribsy?”

  “Medium-sized, patchy spots, and a long tail,” said Mr. Huggins. “The trouble with Ribsy is that so many dogs look like him.”

  “Not to me they don’t,” said Henry.

  “Then think of something different about Ribsy,” suggested Mrs. Huggins. “Something that would help identify him. Remember, he isn’t wearing his collar.”

  Henry thought the matter over. He did not want to believe his dog was just like any old dog. There had to be something different about him. What was different about Ribsy, aside from his being the friendliest, most companionable dog in the world? Ribsy hung around the school yard, but so did ever
y other dog that had a boy in school. He followed the mailman, but so did lots of other dogs. Sometimes the Klickitat Street mailman had so many dogs following him he would call “Column right,” or “Column left,” whenever he crossed the street. Ribsy could sit up and beg and he could shake hands, but so could…

  “Hey! I’ve got it!” Henry exclaimed suddenly. “He’s left-handed. I mean left-pawed. He always shakes hands with his left paw!”

  About that time rain began to fall again on muddy, violet-smelling Ribsy as he loped down the highway in the dark. Now he was not only bewildered, he was frightened as well. Unused to being out at night except on his own block on Klickitat Street, he found the world a strange and scary place. A gasoline truck, roaring down the highway dragging its dancing chain against the pavement, terrified him. Speeding cars came so close he was forced to run along the rocky edge of the pavement, and his paw pads, accustomed to lawns and sidewalks, began to hurt. And worst of all, the smell of violets clung and confused his sense of smell no matter how often he stopped and rolled.

  Even though he was tired and footsore, Ribsy kept on traveling along the highway, because he somehow knew that this was the direction from which he had come. Once another dog startled Ribsy, who had not caught his scent through the violets, and after he and Ribsy had sniffed each other, the stranger made it plain that a perfumed dog was not welcome in that neighborhood. Ribsy did not even have the spirit to argue the matter. He slunk away with his tail between his legs. After glancing back over his shoulder at the dog, who was standing there defying him to return, he began to run again.

  When Ribsy had run until he could run no more, he knew he had to find a place to rest out of the rain. The first shelter he found was a gasoline station, which had been locked up for the night. There was a roof over the three gasoline pumps. Ribsy curled up against the center pump, which made a shield against the wind. Shivering, he fell asleep in an aura of violets and gasoline.

  Early the next morning Ribsy was awakened when the owner of the station came to work. “Beat it, mutt,” said the man. He was not angry, but he did not want a dog getting in the way.

  Ribsy obeyed. He was cold, damp, stiff, perfumed, and hungry, which was all bad enough. He did not want to be unwelcome, too, so he trotted off down the highway, looking for a way to improve his situation.

  He had not gone far when his nose caught a familiar smell that was strong enough to rise above the now-fading violets. Coffee! To Ribsy that smell meant breakfast. Not that Ribsy drank coffee. In the Huggins household coffee was always bubbling in the electric pot when Henry opened the refrigerator door to get out the dog food for Ribsy. Thus the smell of coffee had come to stand for breakfast to Ribsy just as it did to people.

  Ribsy let his nose lead him to the source of the coffee smell, a window that was open a few inches at the rear of a small white house, set back from the highway. Ribsy could hear someone moving around in a kitchen. At home when Ribsy was outdoors and wanted to be fed he scratched at the door. That was what he did now. When the door was opened by an old lady, Ribsy lifted his ears and wagged his tail hopefully.

  “My goodness!” exclaimed the old lady, whose name was Mrs. Frawley. “A dog. Shoo! Go away!”

  Her voice was not unkind, so Ribsy whimpered hopefully and wagged his tail harder. That coffee smell must mean that dog food was near.

  “Shoo.” Mrs. Frawley started to shut the door in Ribsy’s face. She had shooed dogs out of her yard for so many years that it had become a habit with her. Then the eager, beseeching look on Ribsy’s face must have caught her attention, because she hesitated.

  Ribsy moved a step closer.

  “I believe you’re hungry,” said the old lady.

  Ribsy sat down and held up his left paw. This often pleased people.

  It pleased Mrs. Frawley. “Why, Mr. Dog, how do you do?” she inquired.

  “Wuf!” answered Ribsy, who felt that the situation looked hopeful.

  “Did someone dump you out on the highway to get rid of you?” she asked, because this often happened here, at the edge of the city.

  “Wuf!” said Ribsy agreeably. He was making every effort to be charming.

  Mrs. Frawley relented. “All right. You look like a nice dog. I’ll give you something to eat. Don’t go away.”

  Ribsy had no intention of leaving, especially when he heard the refrigerator door open.

  Mrs. Frawley relented even further. She returned to the door and pushed it open. “You must be cold. Come on in. This is my day to scrub the kitchen floor, anyway.”

  Willingly Ribsy entered the kitchen, and the door was shut behind him.

  “Now let’s see,” mused Mrs. Frawley. “What can I find for a dog to eat?” There was not much in her refrigerator. Mrs. Frawley, whose husband was dead and whose children were grown, lived alone. “How would you like a scrambled egg?” She looked at Ribsy’s eager face. “Two scrambled eggs?” She poured a bowl of milk and set it on the floor. While Ribsy lapped thirstily she set about scrambling two eggs, which she set on the floor beside the empty milk bowl. Ribsy sniffed and then licked cautiously, and as soon as the eggs had cooled enough he wolfed them down and looked hopefully for more.

  “You are a hungry dog,” said Mrs. Frawley, and agreeably scrambled two more eggs. “And you smell so nice. Like violets.” While she watched Ribsy eat she could not help thinking that it was pleasant to prepare breakfast for someone once more, even if it was only a dog.

  Mrs. Frawley was a very lonely person. Her eyesight was not as good as it used to be, and she could no longer crochet or read very much. Mrs. Frawley was a person who liked to keep busy. Her days were long, because she had little to do and no one to talk to—at least not until Ribsy had appeared at her back door.

  With four eggs in his stomach, Ribsy felt much better. He was warm, too, and after exploring the kitchen he walked into Mrs. Frawley’s small living room. It was a fussy room full of artificial flowers, crocheted doilies, little pictures, and figurines. The carpet was soothing to his sore paw pads and, after looking around, Ribsy curled up in front of the gas heater and went to sleep.

  “Just as if you lived here,” said Mrs. Frawley, and smiled. She washed her breakfast dishes quickly and wiped up Ribsy’s muddy paw prints. Then she put on her best hat, coat, and galoshes, and took her pocketbook and umbrella, and quietly left the house. She started her old car and, still smiling, drove slowly off down the highway, ignoring the cars that honked at her to go faster. Mrs. Frawley’s social security check had arrived the day before. She felt like going on a little spree after church.

  Ribsy did not awaken until Mrs. Frawley returned. When he went to the back door to be let out, she said, “Just a minute. I have a surprise for you. Something I found at the supermarket. Aren’t we lucky it’s open on Sunday?”

  She opened a bundle and took out a leash and red collar, which she fastened in place. The collar was trimmed with rhinestones. Mrs. Frawley liked things fancy. Ribsy did not mind. He struggled only a little bit when she dressed him in a nice warm plaid coat. He was used to wearing a collar, but the coat puzzled him. He shook himself, but it did not come off. He tried standing on three legs and scratching at it with his left hind foot, but that did not work, either.

  “My, don’t you look nice,” said Mrs. Frawley, and led Ribsy out the door.

  Still puzzled, Ribsy walked along on the end of the leash. Mrs. Frawley allowed him to pause by bushes, and then kept on walking him along the edge of the highway. He was agreeable to this, because it was the direction in which his instincts told him he should be going.

  “Morning, Mrs. Frawley,” said a tottery old gentleman, who had shuffled out to get his morning paper from a round metal box fastened to a post. “See you have a dog.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Someone must have brought him outside the city limits and dumped him. I don’t know what makes people do things like that.”

  The old gentleman shook his head. “I’ve taken in so many stray cat
s my daughter says we don’t have room for any more. Just last week we gathered up three more and put them in gunnysacks, and she drove them into town to the Humane Society.” He looked Ribsy over. “Seems like a nice fellow. I always wondered why you didn’t get some kind of an animal, living all alone the way you do. What do you call him?”

  “Rags,” answered Mrs. Frawley, after a moment’s hesitation. “His name is Rags.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Rags,” said the old gentleman.

  “Anything interesting in the paper this morning?” inquired Mrs. Frawley. “I’ve stopped taking it. Since they raised the price, I decided there was no sense in spending the money when my eyes are getting so bad. I can get the news on the radio.”

  “Nothing much.” The old gentleman glanced at the headlines. “They are talking about raising property taxes again.”

  But the old gentleman was mistaken. There was something in the paper that would have interested Mrs. Frawley if she had seen it. Toward the back of the second section under “Lost and Found” were three small lines of type that read:

  LOST at shopping center: mongrel dog, black, white, brown. Answers to Ribsy. Shakes hands with left paw. No collar. AT. 7-4139. Reward.

  “Come on, Rags,” said Mrs. Frawley, tugging at the leash. “Time to go home now.”

  This time Ribsy resisted, because he did not want to go back. He wanted to go on down the highway that led toward Klickitat Street. Mrs. Frawley pulled while Ribsy braced all four feet.

  “Nice doggie,” coaxed Mrs. Frawley. “Come on home, Rags.” She pulled harder at the leash.