The Pet War

by Allan Woodrow

  Malcolm rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  I took the money I had earned that day out of my pocket and put it on my bed. Thanks to Malcolm I had earned thirty dollars on the nose — minus six dollars for Malcolm, plus four dollars in tips. Malcolm said I didn’t have to share the tips, which was good because doing all the math was hard enough without trying to figure out his share of that, too.

  “Thank you,” he said, stuffing the money in his pocket.

  I removed a shoe box — filled with my secret money stash — from the back of my closet. I shook it. Loose change jumped and clinked together. “I won’t lose this war,” I vowed. I wadded up my new bills and threw them in. Malcolm peeked inside.

  “That’s all the money you have?” he said.

  “This is a lot,” I insisted, but Malcolm didn’t seem impressed. “Don’t blame me. You’re my accountant. You’re supposed to make me rich.”

  Malcolm grabbed some of my bills and began straightening them, and then piling them into a neat stack. “You should open a bank account. Then you could earn interest and make even more money.”

  Anything that made me more money sounded good to me. “How much more? Can I double or triple what I have in two weeks?”

  “Let’s figure you’ll earn one percent annually … compounded monthly … you might make about seven cents.”

  I grabbed the bills from Malcolm’s hand, scrunched them into balls, and threw them back in the box. Straightening my bills had made my stash look even wimpier. “Seven cents? No thanks. And I like my current money-keeping system, thank you.”

  “Scrunching up wads of money and keeping them in a shoe box is not much of a system,” scoffed Malcolm.

  “Maybe not, but it’s my system, thank you. And money is worth the same no matter what shape it’s in.” As long as it’s not ripped in half. Still, I didn’t want to think about how much more I still had to earn. “Honestly — do you think we’ll make it to five hundred dollars?” I bit my lip.

  Malcolm hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know. It’ll be close. It’s not impossible.”

  “Not impossible?” I punched my pillow. “That’s not good enough. You should see how superior Lexi acts around me. I have to win!” I slammed my fist on my bed, but I missed and partially hit the bed frame. It really hurt. I stuck my knuckle in my mouth. My tongue helped it feel better. “We need to do something,” I said after my finger stopped throbbing. My mind bubbled with possibilities. “We always have the snakes-in-bed thing.”

  “Forget the snakes.” Malcolm leaned back on my bed. “Starting a business takes time.”

  “I don’t have time!” I reminded him. “I need to up my game! Make my dog empire grow with leaps and bounds.” My brain was churning. “I could break the world record for the most jelly beans eaten in one day, and then when I’m on TV I could tell everyone about my dog business.” I love jelly beans, mostly. I mean, I don’t love every flavor, like black licorice. No one likes black licorice, but you have to eat those, too, if you’re going to break a jelly-bean-eating record. Which is why breaking that record is so impressive.

  Malcolm just shook his head and said I needed to give it some thought. After he left, I paced in my room, thinking. I paced for so long that when I went to bed my legs felt like they were still tromping back and forth across the floor.

  I sat up, opened my shoe box, and wadded my bills into tighter wads. It made me feel a little better.

  I dreamed I was trapped in a cage at the pet store, surrounded by other dogs. Thumper was there. So was Marta. I was tired and hungry, and my feet hurt. But when the pet store people came into the room, they weren’t people at all. They were enormous pink cats standing on two legs, like people in cat suits. I yelled for them to let me out because I wasn’t a dog but a kid, but the cats ignored me because they were having a giant cat party. They batted around huge balls of yarn and played pin-the-tail-on-the-sardine. There was a disco ball, too. It wasn’t quite a nightmare, but it was close enough that when I woke up, I was shaking.

  But it gave me a great idea. I called Malcolm immediately. I think I woke him up.

  “What? You woke me up,” he complained. His voice croaked.

  I told him all about my dream. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s six o’clock in the morning,” he mumbled.

  “Actually, it’s 5:58.” I hadn’t thought to look at the time before I called. “Sorry! But what if I threw a party?” Silence. “Hello? Malcolm? Hello?”

  After a moment, Malcolm spoke again. “What? I fell asleep. Did you say a party? A party for what? A surprise party?” he mumbled.

  Malcolm’s mom threw a surprise party for his dad last year. Everyone hid. When his dad came home we all jumped out and screamed. Malcolm’s father stepped backward, twisted his ankle, and knocked his head on a lamp. He spent the night in the hospital. Mom said Malcolm’s mom would never throw a surprise party again for the rest of her natural born life.

  “No, not a surprise party,” I said. Malcolm exhaled. I think he was relieved. “Like an open house. So people can meet me and see how great I am with dogs, and I’ll get all sorts of business.”

  “What does that have to do with your dream about cats playing with yarn?” asked Malcolm.

  “Forget about the yarn part. The cats were having a party, with games and food. I could do the same thing.”

  After a short pause, Malcolm said, “But are you sure you could throw one? I mean, what would the dogs do?”

  “They’re dogs. How hard can it be? Besides, I’m going to throw the dog party to end all dog parties! We’ll have dog treats and dog games. Dogs can make friends. Owners can mingle and talk about how wonderful my dog walking services are. I can even charge money.”

  “You can’t charge money for a party.”

  “Sure I can. Last year I went to a block party. It was free, but they asked for donations. Mom gave a few dollars. People always toss money into jars or they feel guilty.” I thought about my runaway dogs and other problems. I was quite an expert at feeling guilt. Plus, guilt is a great way to earn money. “I’ll put out a giant jar with a donations sign. I’ll drum up business and make a killing all in the same day. And I guarantee, people are going to be talking about Otto’s Dog Party for years!”

  Malcolm laughed. “I have to admit. The idea isn’t terrible.”

  “I know, right? We’ll throw the party this afternoon. You buy the dog treats and toys. You call our customers. You put up some signs. Let’s go!” I pumped my fist. We were on!

  “And what will you be doing?” asked Malcolm coolly.

  “Resting. I’m the one that has to smile and play with the dogs. That’s very strenuous work. And it’s six o’clock in the morning. I really should go back to sleep.”

  “You woke me up,” Malcolm said. “And how is smiling and playing such strenuous work?”

  “I would tell you, but it would be too exhausting.” I lay back on my bed and let out an audible yawn.

  “I have a better idea. You buy the treats. You call the customers. You put up the signs. I can’t help. I’m going clothes shopping today with my mom.”

  I scoffed. “What’s more important? Your wearing clothes, or my throwing a dog party?” He needed to adjust his priorities.

  “The most important thing is me not getting into trouble, and I’ll get in trouble if I tell Mom I’m not going shopping with her. I need to get a suit for my aunt Jewel’s wedding.”

  “Isn’t she the one that’s been married six times?”

  “Seven.”

  “You’d think you could skip a few.” Malcolm’s aunt Jewel kept getting married over and over again. If you ask me, she did it for the wedding presents. It seems like half the stuff we have at home Mom got as wedding presents, and she was married only once. After getting married seven times, Aunt Jewel must be a millionaire.

  If I got married, I’d get way over five hundred dollars. Of course, that meant actually talking to a girl other than m
y sister. So I scratched that plan quickly.

  It’s a lot of work throwing a party, and I had all sorts of things I needed to do. I called my customers and invited them. I think I woke a bunch of them up even though I waited until after six thirty before I called. A few grumbled and one hung up. But I told everyone to invite their friends with dogs, and suggested they tell their friends with dogs to call their friends with dogs. Maybe, eventually, everyone in the world with dogs would show up.

  Although I didn’t think we could fit all those people in my front yard.

  I promised treats, games, and the chance for their dogs to make new friends. Everyone would have the best time ever, hire me to walk their dogs, and I’d become a dog walking zillionaire.

  Mom had bought some new printer toner. At first she was mad I used it all up last time, but then I showed her my notebook and told her I would pay her back as soon as the challenge was over. I told her I would even pay her back for her notepad, pencils, and more. I think she was impressed by how responsible I was being.

  So I made some fliers and printed them. They were amazing.

  IT’S DOG MEET DOG!

  YOU AND YOUR CANINE ARE INVITED TO A DOG PARTY!

  DOG TREATS! GAMES! GUARANTEED FUN!

  PARTY STARTS AT 2:00 P.M.

  SPONSORED BY THE YOU OUGHTA CALL OTTO DOG WALKING SERVICE.

  DONATIONS ARE WELCOME, PREFERABLY $5 BUT REALLY, IT’S UP TO YOU. BUT DON’T BE CHEAP.

  I printed two dozen fliers and put them up all over the block. Then I walked to the pet store for supplies. It opened at ten o’clock, so I had to wait until the doors opened. But as soon as they slid apart, I ran into the store. I figured I had a few extra minutes, so I could play with Thumper. But he was napping and I didn’t want to wake him. Dogs, like people, must sleep in on Sundays.

  There was one more empty cage, though: Thumper’s sister, Marta, was gone. Probably adopted. If you jump around and bark, you get noticed, but if you’re quiet, you get left behind. Lexi raised her hand in class and volunteered for things, so teachers loved her, while quiet Otto napping in the back of the class got overlooked. I guess that’s not always bad, especially when you don’t know the answers. But it was the point of the thing that mattered.

  “Be yourself,” I whispered to Thumper, although he couldn’t hear me through the pane of glass, and because he was asleep. “And be glad you don’t have to put up with your annoying sister anymore.”

  I ended up buying two bags of dog food and some dog toys for the party: a rubber duck, two fake bones, a Frisbee, and a little screaming monkey named Mr. Chatterbox. I hoped it was enough! I loved everything I got, except for maybe that screaming monkey. Frankly, Mr. Chatterbox sort of freaked me out. You squeezed his stomach and he went eeep! really, really loud. When I first pressed him, I must have jumped two feet in the air. I didn’t really understand how a dog was supposed to play with a screaming monkey, but those dog-toy people must know what they’re doing because they have college degrees in dog-toy making.

  Besides, this wasn’t a party for me. It was a party for dogs. I hoped they’d think Mr. Chatterbox was a riot.

  Walking ten pounds of dog food home from downtown is not easy. I should have brought the red wagon. I stopped to rest a million times and almost gave up. It took nearly an hour to get home. But you can’t say you’ll have dog food and not serve dog food. That would be like having a surprise party and not yelling surprise. Except that would be a great way to avoid a concussion.

  Once I was back at the house, I still had a lot to do if this was going to be the best dog party ever. I had to bring up our folding tables from the basement. We didn’t have dog bowls, so I filled some of our nice soup bowls with water and some with dog treats.

  Mom was at work, but she wouldn’t have cared. Maybe.

  I also made popcorn, since you can’t have a party without popcorn. I scattered the toys around the front lawn, although I wished I had bought more. Five dog toys for an entire party didn’t seem like enough, especially if I got a few hundred dogs. I figured every dog in the neighborhood would come. Who doesn’t love a party?

  I made small business cards with my name and phone number, printed them, and then cut them out with scissors. But most important, I put a giant bowl on a table and a sign that read, DONATIONS WELCOME $5 RECOMMENDED. I threw in a few dollars so the bowl didn’t look so empty and to encourage guests. People never want to be the first ones to throw money into a bowl.

  My giant donations container used to hold fish, but they all died a few years ago. Fishbowls get dirty. Eventually, streaks of green algae lined the sides of my bowl, and you could barely see the fish inside. Dad had to empty out the water, so he put all the fish in a bucket. But he didn’t clean the bucket first and it had kitchen cleaner in it from the last time Mom mopped, and the fish died in like ten seconds. Lexi bawled for a week, even though they were just fish and she never even looked at them, ever. Fish don’t do a whole lot.

  I paced nervously in front of the yard. Where were all the dogs? It was already 2:01 and no one was at my party yet. This was a disaster.

  “What are you doing?” asked Lexi, sticking her head out the door.

  “Throwing a dog party. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re pacing on our lawn. I don’t see dogs.”

  “They’re coming,” I said. “Any moment now.”

  Lexi scanned the street. “Still don’t see anyone.” She scanned the street again. “Still no one.”

  “They’ll be here. It takes money to make money.”

  “It takes brain cells to have a brain.”

  “Then too bad you don’t have any!”

  She shook her head, chuckled, and went inside. Just in time, too. She wasn’t going to ruin this party like she ruins everything else. A few minutes later the first guest trotted up — a small, bald guy wearing thick glasses, with a large black Doberman.

  “Welcome to the dog party!” I exclaimed with my biggest smile. “You’re the first ones, but we’re expecting two hundred dogs!”

  “Two hundred?” the man blubbered. He had some sort of tic and his eyes kept blinking, but not at the same time. It was sort of freaky. “Maybe we should go. Dodger doesn’t like big crowds.” He snuck a nervous peek at the Doberman.

  “Well, maybe not two hundred,” I assured him. “Your dog will be fine.” I couldn’t lose my only guest. I pointed to the former fishbowl. “It’s free, but donations are welcome.” Dodger’s owner took out a dollar bill. “Five dollars is better,” I suggested. The guy frowned but coughed up the dough. “I also walk dogs, you know!” I handed him one of my business cards. “I’m not only great with dogs, but I’m ultra-responsible,” I said.

  The man looked at my card and nodded. “We could use a dog walker,” he said.

  Bingo! Meanwhile, another party guest jogged up the sidewalk, a leash in her hands. She had a golden retriever that looked a lot like Alfalfa. I rushed over.

  “Welcome to the dog party. Five dollars, please.”

  “I thought it was free?” she asked.

  “Donations are encouraged,” I said, and pointed to the jar. She paid up. I was going to earn a bundle from this party.

  I made a list in my head of other things I could collect donations for:

  The Help, I’m Stuck Living with Lexi Fund

  The Help Me Find the Circus So I Can Sell Lexi Charity

  The Help Me Buy Snakes to Put into Lexi’s Bed Foundation

  The options were endless. Too bad I didn’t have more fishbowls. If I did, I bet I could have earned five hundred dollars by dinnertime.

  I handed the jogger my card. “And I’m the best dog walker in town. Just ask anyone! Well, not anyone,” I added softly.

  “Let’s get a treat, Precious,” said the woman to her golden retriever, leading her to one of the food bowls. But the Doberman decided he wanted that bowl at the same time. He growled and bared his teeth as Precious got close.

  “Dodger! No!” sa
id the short, bald guy, tugging on Dodger’s leash. The guy’s eyes blinked randomly.

  “Back, Precious, back!” said the woman jogger to her golden retriever. Precious was tough, though. She was only half the size of Dodger, but she stood her ground. Still, things didn’t look good.

  “No problem,” I assured them. “I’m a professional dog walker, after all.” This was just the sort of thing that would impress future clients. I bent down and patted the Doberman’s back. “It’s okay, boy.” Dodger snapped at me, and then at Precious. “You’re supposed to have fun at a party!” Dodger snapped at me again. I took a few steps back. There are some things even professional dog walkers can’t fix.

  But I couldn’t stay to watch, because more dogs and their owners approached. This was going great, except for the potential dogfight about to break out.

  “Five dollars, please!” I pointed to the jar. The owners looked puzzled. “It’s a donation,” I explained. “But everyone’s giving.”

  Meanwhile, Dodger and Precious still barked at each other, but more angrily than before. Two of the new dogs barked, and another dog began to cower. A woman with a poodle walked up the sidewalk, but she saw all the growling and turned around. I bent down and whispered calming words to a barking boxer that had just come up the path, but it was like the dogs weren’t even listening. Which I guess shouldn’t have surprised me. Then more dogs came up the sidewalk. “Donation jar!” I shouted.

  I’m not sure when Buttercup showed up, but I couldn’t miss her yapping. Yap, jump. Yap, jump. Her squealing riled up a German shepherd that I hadn’t noticed, which began barking back. I must have had a dozen dogs at the party. Ten of them growled, one yapped, and one cowered behind its owner’s legs.

  “We have dog toys,” I shouted, hoping some of the dogs might get distracted and settle down.

  Then a brown-and-black dachshund — I think its name was Oscar but I’m not sure about that — found Mr. Chatterbox. I heard the screaming monkey before I saw it. The loud eeep! came from behind where Dodger and Precious snapped, their owners still struggling to hold them back. As soon as the monkey made a noise, however, the two dogs stopped. They stared at the monkey, their eyes fixated on the toy.