The Pet War

by Allan Woodrow

  “Very nice presentation, Lexi,” praised Mom, followed by more head nods. I felt a large lump growing in my throat. “You put a lot of work into this.” Lexi beamed and I wanted to throw up. “But I have some questions.”

  Lexi gulped and my lump shrunk. Mom asking questions was a good sign. It meant she wasn’t convinced. It meant I had a sliver of hope after all: a small, rice-sized sliver, but still a sliver.

  Mom turned and looked at me, too. “I have questions for both of you.”

  My lump grew back, extra large.

  “Ask away,” said Lexi. She stood straight, trying to look calm and confident, but Mom was famous for her tough questions. Her questions were even worse than a math teacher asking you a problem involving trains, distance, starting times, and when the trains would pass each other assuming one traveled forty-five miles per hour in an easterly direction and the other traveled thirty miles per hour in a westerly direction. I mean, when would I ever need to know what time two trains pass? Teachers had too much time on their hands if they were coming up with questions like that.

  “What happens to the pet when you two visit your dad for the weekend?” Mom asked. “I’m not going to take care of it while you’re away.”

  “Dad loves cats,” said Lexi. Mom arched her eyebrow again. “He’ll grow to love them, at least. Everyone loves cats! I’m sure Dad will be happy to let Fluffernutter stay over with us.”

  “Fluffernutter?” asked Mom, scratching her head.

  “That’s what I thought we might name her,” mumbled Lexi, blushing slightly. She shuffled through a thick notepad. “I started making a chart of cat names but ran out of time. I have a list somewhere….”

  “But Dad loves dogs more,” I jumped into the argument while Lexi was distracted. “He wanted a dog when he was growing up. He told me that once. I bet he’d love a dog, and I’ll even let you and Dad name it. You can name it something way cooler than Fluffernutter.”

  Score one for me.

  Mom neither smiled nor frowned. She was as easy to read as a math textbook. “I have another question,” she said. “Who’s going to pay for it? Pets are expensive and money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

  “I’ll get a job,” I said before Lexi could answer. I had thought this one out already. “And I’ll pay for the dog myself out of my earnings. The dog, I should add, that you and Dad get to name something other than Fluffernutter.”

  Mom still looked dead serious. She wasn’t yet convinced. “I don’t know. It’s not a one-time price. There are vet bills and food and a lot of other costs. And who’s going to hire an eleven-year-old kid?”

  “A lot of people,” I said. “I can do all sorts of things to make money. And I’ll keep my job even after we get a dog so I can continue to pay for it.”

  “I’m not sure,” Mom mumbled to herself. But she didn’t leave the couch and she didn’t shake her head. She was softening like an overripe banana. “How will you have time for a job and play soccer, and hang out with your friends and keep up with your schoolwork? You’re already struggling in math.”

  “I can do this, Mom. I know I can. Trust me.” I flashed my brightest smile. “I can be responsible.”

  Mom was silent. Mulling things over. I had a good feeling about this. It was going to happen. My own dog!

  “If your grades slip, or if you get too busy, we would have to get rid of it,” said Mom.

  “But they won’t. I’ll study extra hard, I promise. You’ll love a dog, Mom. I bet the dog, whose name isn’t Fluffernutter, will be your best friend!” I couldn’t believe it. I had beat Lexi and her stupid posters. I never beat Lexi at anything. I felt so happy I could almost burst, a balloon of joy being filled with helium and floating up and up and up to the ceiling.

  “Wait a second,” said Lexi. “I have an idea.” She smiled, and just like that, a toothpick pricked my helium balloon of happiness. It flittered helplessly all around the room before finally landing on the floor, a worthless heap of rubber. “I think Otto trying to earn enough money for a pet is a great idea.”

  If I could have arched my eyebrow, this would have been the ideal time for it. Instead, I furrowed my forehead, which is the next best thing. “You do?”

  “What better way to show Mom you can be responsible? Of course, if you can’t earn enough money it would be a shame. Especially since owning a cat costs way less money than owning a dog.”

  “How much less?” asked Mom, leaning forward.

  Lexi pulled down poster number six to reveal a final poster. It was coated with glitter an inch thick. It had little red hearts and a bright green, three-dimensional dollar sign. She had spent a lot of time on this board. “I call your attention to chart number seven!” She waved at it broadly, like a ringmaster introducing trained seals. “I bring you: PETS AND MONEY. OR: WHY DOGS ARE REALLY, REALLY TOO EXPENSIVE.”

  Lexi had written down categories with dollar amounts separated in columns for dogs and cats. “As you can see,” she said, pointing to the first column on the board, “dogs have much higher vet bills compared to cats. Look how much money it costs for vaccines, heartworm medication, dog food, a doghouse, and so on. Owning a dog costs a small fortune!” She pointed to the second column. “Now look at how much less it costs to own a cat. Food is less. Medical costs are less.” She tapped the bottom of the board, where the totals were written in bold numbers. “In conclusion, the total cost of caring for an average-sized dog is more than one thousand five hundred dollars a year, compared to less than a thousand dollars a year for a cat.”

  “But it doesn’t matter,” I protested. “I’m going to work for the money.”

  “Exactly,” said Lexi. “And I know you can raise the money.” She said this in such a sweet, smiling voice that I knew she was lying through her teeth. “But what if you can’t? I propose a small contest. We each raise money for our pet. Whoever raises it soonest, wins. Of course, Otto will need to earn a lot more money, since dogs cost so much more. It’s only fair.”

  “That’s not fair!” I complained. “It’s not my fault dogs are twice as expensive.”

  “They’re only fifty percent more expensive, math genius,” Lexi scoffed. “And you’re the one that wants a pricier pet.”

  “Dogs cost more because they’re better animals. Nice cars cost more than cheap cars. Nice houses cost more than lousy houses. Dogs cost more than disgusting cats because they’re better.” I mean, everyone knows that, and Mom shouldn’t need to read a stupid poster to know it. I was so angry, I could feel my face burning red.

  “Dogs are not better. Dogs have horrible breath. They just ooze smell. Do we really want a walking stink bomb in this house?” asked Lexi, wincing.

  “Why not? We already have you!” I yelled.

  “It’s called perfume!” Lexi screamed back. “And it’s a mix of honeysuckle, green apple, vanilla, and mandarin.”

  “Stink bomb! Stink bomb!”

  “Knock it off!” yelled Mom. “I agree with Otto.”

  “You think Lexi is a stink bomb?” I asked, surprised.

  Mom shook her head. “No. I agree it wouldn’t be fair for you to have to earn more money. But I like the idea of a contest. Here’s what we’ll do. Whoever raises five hundred dollars, wins. And the winner decides what pet we get.”

  “But, Mom —” said Lexi.

  “No buts,” interrupted Mom. “Except for a few ground rules. You still have to do all your chores and homework. If either of your grades at school slip, you’re disqualified, no matter how much money you’ve saved. Your father has to agree, too. And one more thing. Both of you have to share the responsibility of taking care of the winning pet, dog or cat. Agreed?”

  “Agreed!” Lexi and I shouted at the same time.

  “Today is March second. I’ll give you both until the end of the month. If neither of you has raised enough money, we don’t get a pet. Understood?”

  I nodded my head. You bet I understood. I sprinted toward the phone to call Dad. I needed
to get him on board immediately. “Your father’s out of town on business,” Mom called out. “You can ask him when you see him next weekend.”

  I skidded to a halt. Lexi snickered at me, but I couldn’t wait to throw those snickers back to her hair-ball-loving face.

  Lexi didn’t have a chance. I could earn this money in my sleep.

  Assuming someone would pay me to sleep.

  I was confident I could come up with even better ideas to earn money in no time at all.

  Malcolm and I were in his backyard, which was just a few streets away from mine. “Watch this,” I shouted, getting ready to amaze him with my soccer juggling skills.

  Soccer juggling is when you bounce the ball from one foot or leg to another foot or leg without the ball hitting the ground. I once juggled a ball forty-two times in a row. No one else on my team could come close.

  I bounced the ball twice on my knee: one, two … and then the ball careened awkwardly and landed on the grass.

  “Impressive,” said Malcolm, clapping.

  “You’re so not funny.” I nudged the ball to him, but a little too hard, and it skittered past and into his bushes. “Sorry. I’m distracted, that’s all. I have less than a month to raise five hundred dollars.”

  “So why are you playing soccer?” asked Malcolm. “Shouldn’t you be out robbing a bank or something?” He bounced the ball from foot to foot. I had been teaching him how to juggle for the past few weeks, as part of my special Otto’s Soccer Clinic. Malcolm was my only student. “I don’t see how you’re going to earn that kind of money without robbing a bank, anyway. Have you heard of Pretty Boy Floyd? You could be Ugly Face Otto.”

  Malcolm smiled when he said it. He was my best friend, so he was allowed to insult me. We had this game where we took turns insulting each other, but he usually won. He was better at language arts than me, too. And math. But I was better at soccer, so it all evened out. You need friends who are better than you at stuff. Then you can get them to do things, like think of ideas to earn money so you can get a dog.

  “Soccer players get paid millions of dollars a year,” I said. “Do you think I could find a team to sign me for five hundred dollars? That’d be a bargain.”

  Malcolm kneed the ball to his foot, under his leg, and then to his knee. It was a pretty nice trick. Maybe I shouldn’t have taught him how to juggle so well. Then he kicked the ball back to me. Now it was my turn to show off my soccer skills. After all, I was the soccer star here. I bounced the ball twice on my left foot, hopped right, but then smacked it too hard and the ball rolled into the bushes again.

  “A team wouldn’t want you even if you paid them five hundred dollars.” Malcolm giggled.

  “That’s so funny I forgot to laugh.” I needed a plan, and maybe more soccer practice. “I can’t let Lexi win. I’ll never hear the end of it. I just need one great idea to raise cash and I’m set.” I snapped my fingers. “I know. I could expand Otto’s Soccer Clinic. Show kids how to juggle! I’d make a fortune.”

  I nudged the ball up on my right knee, bounced it on my left knee, my right foot, and then into the bushes yet again.

  I really needed to practice.

  “That’s a great idea,” said Malcolm. He began speaking to an imaginary group of soccer students. “Kids, watch me, and then do the opposite.”

  “You’re not being very helpful.”

  “Sorry. But your ideas stink. Don’t blame the messenger.”

  “Fart face.”

  “Pickle head.”

  “French-fry breath.”

  “Amoeba-brained fungus-oozing scooter head.”

  “Good one.”

  “Thanks.”

  See? He’s a lot better than me at insults.

  “But I have a moneymaking idea that you’ll think is simply brilliant.” I had done a little research on the computer that morning. I needed to find just the right idea: easy, well-paid, and not impossible, maybe. “Ready?” Malcolm nodded. “Are you sure?” Malcolm nodded again. “Here I go.”

  “Just tell me already.”

  “I can move to Hollywood and get my own TV show.”

  He stared at me. “Really? That’s your genius plan? You can’t act. Or dance. Or sing.”

  “But I have Hollywood good looks. TV actors make a mint. Or I could just get a reality show. Anyone can have one of those.”

  “Great idea. They could call it The Biggest Total Loser,” Malcolm suggested with a laugh.

  “I’m serious!”

  “That’s what scares me,” said Malcolm. “You’re never getting your own show. What else do you have?”

  “Okay. This next one is excellent. Really.” Malcolm didn’t look convinced. “I could become a lawyer.” Lawyers get paid like five hundred dollars an hour. I work for one hour and I’m done. But Malcolm didn’t even have to respond to that last idea for me to know it was lousy.

  “You need to start smaller.” Malcolm juggled as he talked, barely paying attention to what he was doing, but kicking flawlessly. “How about doing work around the neighborhood?”

  “You mean like real labor? It could take weeks to make five hundred dollars if I had to actually work for it.”

  “Then you better get started.” Malcolm continued his fancy footwork. I would have to put in some extra practice time if I was going to remain the team soccer-juggling champion.

  But I had to admit it. Malcolm’s idea made sense. That’s why they call it earning money. Besides, I’d do just about anything to remove that smirk from Lexi’s face, even if it meant a real day’s work, however awful the idea sounded. I just needed to be responsible and I’d start earning money out of my ears. Sort of like earwax, but with money.

  I decided mowing lawns was the perfect way to earn money. I was wrong.

  “Our lawn doesn’t need to be mowed. Come back in June,” said Mr. Weinstein, patting his stomach. I’m not sure why he patted his stomach. Maybe he just ate. You don’t get a stomach as big as his without eating a lot. Exercise isn’t really his thing. That’s why I thought he would be eager for someone to mow his lawn.

  The next house wasn’t any better. “Aren’t you a bit early in the season?” said Ms. Strepp. She didn’t have kids, so I figured she’d be a sure customer. People without children love hiring kids to do stuff. I think it’s because they feel guilty that other people raise kids while they go on fancy vacations all the time.

  “Are you nuts? Go away,” said Mr. Paris, who then closed the door on me. Mr. Paris isn’t the nicest neighbor. But when you need money, you can’t be choosy. Even mean people have cash.

  So, maybe I hadn’t thought through the lawn mowing idea very well. Finding a lawn to mow was as easy as eating horseradish, and I’ve already told you my feelings about horseradish. I guess March isn’t the best time of year for lawn mowing. I had wasted almost an hour and a half knocking on doors and hadn’t made a red cent. Or any colored cent.

  I didn’t know what Lexi was doing, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn she was raking in the dough already.

  Knocking on doors all day is tiring, especially when wheeling around a heavy, old lawn mower. After steering it back in our garage, I grabbed a cold bottle of soda from our fridge and practically downed it in one gulp.

  But before I tossed the bottle in the trash, I couldn’t help notice the words printed on the side of it:

  DEPOSIT: 5¢.

  That means I could get a nickel for every bottle I brought back to a store! Now, a nickel isn’t a fortune, but I bet if I walked around the city I could find hundreds of empty bottles in no time. I just needed one thousand bottles and I’d be set. Or maybe I needed ten thousand bottles. I had a hard time carrying the zeros, but money was money.

  “Why am I coming along?” howled Malcolm. I dragged my old red wagon behind me as we walked down the sidewalk toward the park. The wheels were really rusty and made a loud squealing racket when they rolled. So we had to yell to be heard. “I have better things to do!”

  �
��What was that?” I asked, shouting.

  “Better things to do!” he screamed. “I have better things to do!”

  “Like what?”

  “What?”

  “Like what?”

  I stopped dragging the red wagon so we could talk. “I could be doing lots of things,” said Malcolm. “Brushing my teeth. Watching paint dry. Really, anything in the whole world. I’m not the one who wants a dog.”

  “But best friends help best friends. Do you want Lexi to win?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you want to see her demolished like an old soda can, smashed into smithereens, and then thrown into a trash compactor?”

  “I don’t know,” said Malcolm. “That sounds a bit harsh.”

  “Harsh? We’re talking Lexi! We’re talking cats! Do you want me to lose?” Malcolm shook his head. “Then let’s go.” I yanked the red wagon forward. If Malcolm said anything else, I couldn’t hear. I think he might have groaned.

  But didn’t Malcolm know that this was war? War wasn’t for the squeamish. It was kill or be killed! Dog eat dog! Or rather, dog eat cat.

  We arrived at the park and walked down the long gravel parking lot. There were no cars. Although the park was empty, people always left bottles behind. Our family went on a picnic a few years ago — this was before Mom and Dad got divorced — and we found four bottles without even trying. Dad flew off the handle, saying litterers didn’t respect the environment, and he used a bunch of other words, some not very nice. But the more people littered, the more moola for me.

  Hopefully, there was an epidemic of littering going on.

  Malcolm and I had the entire park to ourselves. It was a bit chilly. Maybe if it were warmer there would have been more bottles. After about twenty minutes of searching, we found one.

  “This stinks!” I complained. “You’d think someone would trash the place up a bit. Why is the park so clean, anyway?”

  “Some people like clean parks,” said Malcolm.

  “Sure. Cat lovers probably,” I grumbled.

  We spent the next hour walking around looking for bottles. We even walked all the way to Grand River Avenue, with its long string of stores and lots of people. There weren’t humongous megastores, it wasn’t that sort of downtown, but there were a couple dozen smaller places, like the Wow Cow Ice Cream Parlor, Schnood’s Grocery Store, Dry Cleaner’s Dry Cleaning (that’s what the sign said), Hair Sensations Beauty Salon, the library, the You Pet-Cha! Pet Store, a couple of restaurants, and so on. Ever since I started middle school Mom let me bike out there. She said I wasn’t old enough when I was only in fifth grade. She said it wasn’t safe. I argued it wasn’t safe anywhere and that a meteorite could land on me in the backyard. It could happen. Maybe.