The Pet War

by Allan Woodrow

  TO MADELYN AND EMMY. AND EMMY AND MADELYN. NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I stood at the bottom of the driveway in my pajamas with a serious case of bed head. Across the street, a large yellow rental moving van backed out of our neighbor’s driveway. I felt a cold, deep pang of loneliness seep through my body.

  Or maybe it was just the wind. These weren’t very warm pajamas.

  From the driver’s seat, Mr. Finch smiled at me. He stuck his hand out the window, his other hand on the steering wheel. “Bye, Otto,” he said. “Take care!”

  “I’ll miss you!” I hollered. But I wasn’t yelling to Mr. Finch. I wouldn’t miss him. I screamed to Alfalfa, their golden retriever, who sat in the backseat. I think I even heard an Arf!, a single gruff, depressed bark answering my shout.

  “Bye!” I croaked, my yell catching in my throat. I couldn’t hear much over the loud clacking of the truck. But I imagined a bark rang out as full of sadness and misery as I felt.

  Then they were gone — the Finches, Alfalfa, and their truckload of stuff — around the corner and out of sight. Mom said a new family would be moving into the house in a few weeks. I asked if they had a dog, or if they had kids, or if they were professional soccer players.

  Mom said no, no, and she highly doubted it.

  I stood in the driveway for a moment longer, lonely, shivering, and wishing I’d worn shoes.

  I’d feared this day. I’d feared it for weeks. So I’d pretended it was never going to happen. But ignoring bad things never worked. I sometimes ignored my homework and watched TV. But then I just had to do my homework the next day and Mom wouldn’t let me watch television for a week. Unfortunately, things don’t vanish just because you stop paying attention to them. Too bad. If they did, I’d have just ignored my sister, Lexi — and poof! — life would have been perfect.

  But I figured life was going to stink now that Alfalfa had left. I had played with him almost every day since he was a puppy. I mean, the dog was practically more mine than the Finches’. I knew which ear he liked scratched (the right ear), his favorite game (keep-away with the tennis ball), and exactly how long he wanted his tummy rubbed (until he barked twice).

  Alfalfa’s new neighbors, whoever they were, wouldn’t know any of that. What if they didn’t even like dogs? What if they liked cats?

  There are two types of people in the world: dog people and cat people. Dog people are clever, friendly, good-looking, funny, and overall fantastically wonderful. Cat people, on the other hand, are ugly, boring, and smell bad. I’m not making that up — those are the facts.

  I, by the way, am a dog person.

  But now that Alfalfa had moved away, there was only one thing I could do. Well, there were two things I could do. The first thing was to move to Montana into the house next door to the Finches’. Then I could play with Alfalfa every day.

  But I didn’t think Mom would agree to move to Montana.

  The second solution, the more likely one, was for me to get a dog of my own.

  I wasn’t picky. I’d have taken just about any dog. We could adopt a quiet dog or a barking dog, a grumpy dog or a happy dog, a sitting dog or a running dog, a shaggy dog or a hairless dog. Mom wasn’t exactly a pet person, though. She didn’t love dogs or cats or anything. I needed help convincing her.

  I needed Lexi.

  I couldn’t believe Lexi and I were related, to be totally honest. We were barely alike. She had long, straight hair. Mine was short and curly — Mom called it unruly. Lexi spent hours picking out her clothes, and I just wore whatever jeans and T-shirt were on my floor, usually because I missed the hamper. She got As in school. I got grades that shared the same alphabet as As, but were a few letters later. Most of all, I wasn’t annoying, and Lexi was the most annoying person in the world.

  But while Lexi wasn’t good for much, she was good at winning Mom over. Something I wasn’t so good at. Usually, I hated that about Lexi. But not now. Because with my sister on my side, we could convince Mom in a nanosecond that the family should get a dog.

  I found Lexi on her bed reading a magazine. It was one of those magazines with some annoying teen singer on the cover. The kind of magazine I wouldn’t read if you tied me up and forced me to eat horseradish.

  Have you ever eaten horseradish? If you have, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, don’t. You’ve been warned.

  “Lexi, we need to talk,” I said, stepping into her room.

  “You didn’t knock.” She didn’t even look up.

  “The door was open.”

  “Did someone say something?” She continued reading her magazine. “There can’t be anyone here, because I didn’t hear a knock first.”

  So I walked backward out of my annoying sister’s room and knocked. Now wasn’t the time to argue. There would be plenty of time to call her names after we had a dog.

  “Yes, baby brother?” she sang. She liked to call me baby brother because she knew it bothered me.

  “I’m not a baby!” I barked. Then I took a deep breath, reminding myself that I needed to ignore Lexi’s annoyingness if I wanted to get her on board.

  Lexi put down her magazine while I explained what I wanted. Lexi and I argued about a lot of things. Actually we argued about everything. But I knew we couldn’t argue about getting a dog. Who wouldn’t want a dog?

  Apparently, Lexi wouldn’t want a dog.

  “No way.” She shook her head. “Dogs smell. They’re dirty. They lick everything. I’m not cleaning up after it goes outside — that’s just gross. Cats are much better pets. Everyone knows that.”

  But everyone did not know cats were better pets than dogs, because it wasn’t true. Just because Lexi was twelve, a measly year older than me, she thought she knew everything. Which also wasn’t true. I should have known she’d cause trouble.

  “Dogs are loyal. They’re fun. They’re your best friends. A dog will do anything for you,” I said. “He’ll lay his life down for you. But a cat? You’re lucky if a cat gives you the time of day. They act all high-and-mighty like they’re better than everyone. Just like certain sisters.” Sure, I wanted Lexi on my side, but a guy needs to stand by his principles.

  “That’s because cats are smart,” said Lexi. “Just like certain sisters. We are so not getting a dog.” She picked up her magazine again, ignoring me.

  “We are so not getting a cat,” I growled.

  Lexi smirked from behind her magazine. I knew that smirk. It meant she was up to no good. It meant she was hatching a plan. “We’ll see,” she said, turning the page and continuing her reading, as if I were invisible and not standing in her room, balling my fists in anger.

  I wheeled around, stomped out of the room as loudly as I could, and slammed the door behind me. There was nothing to “see.” We were not getting a cat; we were getting a dog. We needed a d
og. This wasn’t just an everyday argument, like who got to eat the last bowl of ice cream or who got to use the bathroom first. It wasn’t even an argument about who sat on the passenger side of the backseat of Dad’s car. That was the better side because there was more legroom. No, this was big. It was bigger than big. It was humongous. This was the difference between right (dogs) and wrong (cats). Between getting a true-blue friend or an annoying, stuck-up hair ball. This wasn’t your simple, everyday disagreement.

  This was war.

  I wasn’t going to just jog up to Mom and demand we get a dog. I’d made the mistake of blindly nagging her for things before, like the ill-fated trampoline grovel from last summer. No, I needed to be ready. I needed to have my case down pat and my facts on straight. Like Lexi would. So I practiced responses for all the objections Mom might raise. She wanted a dog that didn’t shed? Some dogs barely shed at all, like Yorkshire terriers or poodles. Mom wanted a quiet dog? A bunch of dogs are mostly quiet, like bulldogs. Mom wanted protection against burglars? I could name a million great guard dogs.

  So when Mom got home from work and started making dinner, I was ready to strike. The time was right. She was alone. She didn’t seem to be in a bad mood since she was humming a song I didn’t know. I rolled up my sleeves, took a deep breath, and laid out my perfectly practiced plea.

  “Mom? Got a second?” She stopped humming, and I went through my list of reasons we needed a dog, the joy of owning one, the fun we would have, how they’re great friends and she would love playing with a dog as much as me. “And that is why we should get a dog,” I concluded, a big grin spread over my face. There was no way Mom could turn me down after that speech.

  “Absolutely not,” said Mom.

  Mom still wore her nurse’s uniform from work. She was probably tired from a long day standing on her feet. I should have waited. I should have brought flowers. I should have offered to set the table, complimented her hair, and generally buttered her up. I hadn’t thought of all the angles.

  But I needed to talk to her before Lexi came home. I still didn’t trust my sister’s smirk from the day before.

  It was too late to rewind, so I pressed forward. “Why not? You won’t have to do anything. I’ll feed him twice a day. I’ll let him out. I’ll clean up after him. I’m responsible.”

  After dumping spaghetti into the pot of boiling water, Mom shook her head. Head shaking is never a good response when you ask for something. “Did you hang your jacket up like you’re supposed to?”

  I leaned back and peeked into the hallway. My spring coat lay in a heap next to the front door, which is where I usually threw it.

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Did you put your shoes away?” asked Mom.

  My shoes were under my jacket.

  “No,” I repeated.

  “Then how can I trust you to take care of a dog?”

  “Because a dog isn’t a jacket or shoes. He’s your best friend. And I wouldn’t leave my best friend in the hallway. And if I did, dogs have feet. He’d just run over to the kitchen.” I could be responsible. I could! I trotted to the front hall and picked up my shoes and jacket. “See? I’m putting these away right now.”

  I marched my stuff — very responsibly — into the mudroom. Mom watched closely as I tossed them inside. I wiped my hands and shouted, “Ta-da!”

  “The coat goes on a hook. The shoes go in the shoe bin.” She sighed.

  “I know that,” I muttered. “I was doing that next.” Not really. But I hung up the coat and put my shoes in the shoe bin, nice and neat. “Now can I have a dog?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Which means I cleaned up for no reason at all. But I couldn’t give up. This was too important. I didn’t just want a dog. I needed a dog.

  The front door swung open and Lexi strolled in. Without a word, she glided into the mudroom, where she hung up her coat and placed her shoes in the bin. Then she said in her most annoyingly fake-sweet voice, “Mom, can we get a cat?” She threw me one of her smirks. I cringed.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Now it was my turn to smirk.

  “Please! I’ll take care of the cat all by myself,” she pleaded. “I’m responsible.”

  Mom arched her eyebrow. Her left eyebrow, to be exact, which is pretty impressive. I’ve tried to arch one of my eyebrows, but I can’t. You’d think something like eyebrow arching would be hereditary. Apparently it’s a talent that wasn’t passed on to me. I blame Dad.

  “I know you are responsible,” Mom said as she stirred the spaghetti in the pot. “How’s cheerleading going?”

  “Cheerleading?” asked Lexi. “Mom, you know I quit cheerleading.”

  “And how’s choir at school?”

  “Mom, you know I quit choir.”

  “And how is ice-skating? And softball?”

  “Mom, you know I quit …” Lexi quieted and scrunched up her lips. She furrowed her brow. “Okay. Fine. I get the point. But I’m not going to quit a cat.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Because it’s an adorable, furry kitten that will depend on me. That is way different than ice-skating lessons.”

  “Ice-skating lessons that cost a lot of money,” said Mom as she lifted the pot of spaghetti and drained it in the colander. A big cloud of steam filled the sink.

  “That wasn’t my fault,” Lexi protested. “The teacher was a tyrant. But imagine how cute and fuzzy little kittens are!”

  “A cute kitten that will turn into a not-as-cute cat. And then who’s going to be stuck caring for it while you’re on to the next thing?” asked Mom as she plopped the pasta into a serving bowl.

  “But a cat is different.”

  “How?”

  Lexi smiled with her Little-Miss-Perfect smile, the smile that had everyone in the world fooled, except me. The smile was worse than the smirk, because the smile meant she knew something I didn’t. It meant she had a plan. “I have charts.”

  More evil words have never been spoken.

  “After dinner,” said Mom. “Let’s eat!” She hoisted the pasta bowl and carried it over to the kitchen table. But my appetite was disappearing as quickly as the steam rising from the bowl of spaghetti.

  After dinner, Lexi propped open her easel in the family room and began organizing a whole assortment of poster boards. I knew I had to act fast. I cornered Mom in the kitchen.

  “Dogs are great exercise,” I pointed out. “By walking them every day you sweat off the pounds!” Mom threw me a dirty look. “Not that you need to lose weight. You look great!” From her continued frown I knew I needed to change tactics. “Some dogs don’t shed!” I added, reaching into my bag of dog tricks. “And some are really quiet. We can get one of those.”

  Mom didn’t seem impressed. She tried to sidestep around me and out of the kitchen, but I moved in front of her again. I quickly shifted to Plan B. Or maybe Plan F. I didn’t really have them lettered.

  “Please, please, please!” I begged. Begging didn’t usually work with Mom, but I was desperate.

  “Excuse me,” Mom said, still attempting to walk around me. But I wasn’t budging.

  “I’ll do anything. I’ll mow the lawn. I’ll cook dinner. I won’t hang up just my coat, but your coat. I’ll make my bed. I’ll make Lexi’s bed.” Mom arched her left eyebrow. “Okay, I won’t make Lexi’s bed, but that’s only because she wouldn’t want me in her room without permission.”

  Mom tried to wriggle past me once more, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. “It’s not fair!” I moaned. “You never get me what I want. You wouldn’t let me buy Grand Theft Zombie Fighters last month, or those basketball sneakers, or let me paint my room, or anything!”

  Mom frowned. “The sneakers cost two hundred dollars, and there are more important things to spend money on.” I doubted that. “That video game was too violent. And you are not painting your room in blue, green, and yellow stripes, end of story.” I got on my knees to grovel, but this turned out to be a mi
stake. Mom easily walked around the kneeling me and into the family room, where Lexi and her posters waited. My sister stood next to her easel. It propped up a sign that read:

  WHY WE SHOULD GET A CAT

  A PRESENTATION IN VIVID COLOR BY LEXI

  Gold and silver glitter covered the poster. The letters were stenciled and painted in bright colors. And it had — I hate to admit this — a really impressive drawing of a cat. Lexi might have been annoying, and wrong about pets, but she made excellent posters.

  “Why we should get a cat. Presented by me.” Lexi cleared her throat. She removed the first poster from the easel, revealing the board behind it. “Item number one. Cats are quiet.”

  The poster was titled: HUSH! THE QUIET CAT. She must have used an entire tube of glitter glue on it. The board listed the noise levels, in decibels, of a rocket launch, a thunderclap, a rock concert, a dog bark, a lawn mower, a soft whisper, and a cat. Guess which was the quietest?

  “As you can see,” Lexi lectured, pointing to the board, “the average cat purr is quieter than even a soft whisper. Compare that to a dog’s bark, which can be as loud as a power tool.”

  “Some of us like the sound of power tools,” I argued. Lexi rolled her eyes.

  I sat on the sofa with my arms crossed as Lexi took Mom through a series of posters, each with more glitter than the last. They covered various cat topics, including THE INDEPENDENT CAT; CATS AND MICE: A HISTORY; and CAT GOT YOUR TONGUE? CATS AND CLEANLINESS. Sure, cats might not need to be walked. But so what? Walking a dog is fun, if it’s not raining or cold. Cats chase away mice and rodents, but I was almost positive we didn’t have a mouse problem. And sure, cats give themselves tongue baths, but isn’t that sort of gross if you think about it?

  Still, Mom nodded the entire time. Head nods are not a good sign when they’re working against you.

  I don’t know how Lexi found time to create six posters, each loaded with silver and gold glitter, painted pictures, and elaborately detailed statistics. But things were looking bleaker for me with every poster.

  I did not want to live with a cat. I was not going to live with a cat. No way, no how.