Sit, Stay, Love

by J. J. Howard

  For N, C, B, M, G, and of course W.

  You know who you are and what you do.

  (Willow can’t read this, but she knows anyway.)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1: The Closet Monster

  2: I fall for every dog I meet but this time it’s different

  3: Honestly, Cecilia

  4: Of or relating to turtles

  5: There’s no math in kickball

  6: None of this is fair

  7: Another dog monster

  8: Also, I smell like wet dog

  9: Back to our regularly scheduled fractions

  10: Thanks for the cactus?

  11: Not as bad as you think

  12: Do we have a deal?

  13: That word we again

  14: Training a potato?

  15: Maybe not, then

  16: Penultimate means “next to last”

  17: Unexpected invite

  18: Pumpkin time

  19: Nothing like Cinderella

  20: Team Murray

  21: Awkward Music Express

  22: Second thoughts about sabotage

  23: Potato’s message

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  People complain. Puppies never do.

  People can be sneaky mean. If a dog is mad he’ll just bark, or maybe even bite. But there’s no sneak.

  People: not furry. Also, it’s weird if they lick your hand.

  They love you no matter what. (That one’s all on the puppy side.)

  It’s really not all that hard to be invisible. I mean, first, don’t talk. I haven’t said anything at all in math class for the entire school year, for example. And that’s why Mrs. Lawrence hasn’t called on me one time.

  Second, if at all possible, be plain looking. Have mousy brown hair and boring brown eyes and pale skin. Be medium height and medium size, too, if you can.

  Third, hang out in a closet. But I’ll get back to that.

  It’s not that I actually recommend being invisible. All I’m saying is it’s pretty easy. At least for me.

  I take after my dad for sure—my mom is the anti-invisible type. Her hair is very shiny and non-mousy, her eyes non-boring. Although, technically, she is invisible to me and Dad these days, since she left home last year.

  But back to hanging out in a closet. It’s my favorite place to be. My best friend, Melody, who was a genius (well, I’m sure she still is a genius, but since her family moved to Boston last year, I always think of her in the past tense), told me that I like closets because I’m a chasmophile, which is a lover of small spaces, nooks, and crannies. Mel loved big and unusual words.

  My mother, who does not have any particular love of big words, just called me the Closet Monster. Mom always used the word monster to describe a person who was crazy about something: My dad used to be the Sports Monster, but later he became the Couch Monster. My mother was the Shopping Monster … mainly the Shoe Monster.

  But me, I’m the Closet Monster. I’m actually more of a dog monster, because I am truly crazy about dogs. But my mother doesn’t like anything that has hair or drools, so she always pretended that my love for animals was just a passing phase, which of course it wasn’t.

  But anyway, on the night of the fire, as usual, I was sitting in my closet.

  I was making one of my lists, this one about why I preferred puppies to people. In my room, I had lots more lists, the most recent one being a list of reasons that I deserved to have a dog. I planned to present that list to the Couch Monster soon.

  I’d been asking for a dog since about birth. And I have to say, I deserve one more than most people do. I volunteer almost every day after school at Orphan Paws, which is a dog shelter in my town. And if anybody has proved to be responsible enough to take care of a pet, it’s totally me.

  As I made the new list, I started thinking about how much more invisible I’d gotten since Mel had moved away. Once in a while it was sort of nice to be able to blend into the background. But most of the time it was just kind of lonely.

  I was so lost in my own thoughts that I didn’t smell the smoke at all. And with the closet door closed and my headphones on, I didn’t even hear the sirens.

  My father forgot about me being a closet monster, so the very last place that the firefighters looked was the place where I actually was. I guess they had to go through the whole house twice. It was getting pretty smoky by the time a fireman yanked open the door, started yelling at me, threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and hauled me down the stairs and out the front door.

  I sat coughing on the front lawn, with most of our neighbors staring at me. My invisibility shield was definitely off at that moment.

  “Where’s my dad?” I asked the fireman who’d deposited me on the grass.

  The man just glared at me and turned around and headed back toward our house. A few seconds later, a different fireman came out with his arm around my dad, supporting him. Dad’s face was really red, and he was coughing even harder than I was.

  I ran all the way up to him before realizing that I couldn’t remember the last time we’d hugged. My dad just wasn’t a hugging sort of guy. But right then he picked me up and squeezed me really tight.

  And then a few seconds later he put me back down and started yelling at me.

  “You almost gave me a heart attack! Where on earth were you hiding, Cecilia? Why didn’t you come down when you heard the sirens?”

  I stood there in shock. Between the stress of being hauled out of my nice, quiet hiding spot and thrown down onto the damp grass—and now being yelled at—I had to blink hard to keep from crying.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hands up as a sort of surrender. All I really wanted at that moment was for him not to be mad at me.

  Dad’s face softened. “I’m sorry, Cecilia. You just scared me to death. When I couldn’t find you …” His voice trailed off, and then he enfolded me in another hug.

  We stood watching the firefighters shoot great streams of water into our house for a while until one of them came over to talk to Dad. They walked a little away from me—far enough so that I couldn’t hear what they were saying. When Dad finally walked back, he told me we were going to have to go to my aunt Pamela’s house at least for the night.

  Staying at Aunt Pamela’s?

  I’m not trying to be overdramatic here or anything, but it might have been better to just leave me in the closet.

  “Ceciliaaaaaaaaaa!”

  As soon as I opened the back door at Orphan Paws, I heard Lori yelling my name.

  Lori’s the best. She runs the shelter on her own. And she inspires a lot of people to volunteer, but I suspect I just might be her favorite.

  I knew I’d probably get extra points from Lori for showing up the morning after my house almost burned down, but the truth was, I’d been glad for the chance to escape before Aunt Pamela decided that she’d like to organize my Saturday for me.

  Lori ambushed me in a hug right away. “Oh my goodness, everyone heard the sirens last night, and I just couldn’t believe it when I found out it was your house! Are you okay?” She pulled away and gave me a once-over. “Is your father all right? How bad’s the damage?”

  “We’re both fine. I don’t know about the last part. We’re staying at my aunt Pamela’s.” I frowned, thinking about how much I dreaded going back there in a few hours. “Dad said the firemen told him we’re not allowed to go back in yet.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. But I am glad you’re here. We’ve got a new little one who needs some TLC.”

  I heard a tiny whimper and turned around. Mitch, the vet tech from Dr. Mercer’s office who came by to help o
ut sometimes, was standing by the exam table. The whimper must have come from the brown blob that was sitting there, wrapped in a ratty pink blanket.

  I took a step closer. There was a dog in there somewhere, under the dirt. He was an adorable pug, with an extra-wrinkly black face and matted light brown fur. There was a lot of drool. I spotted a smear of blood on the table, and my heart sank.

  But then I made the biggest mistake ever. I looked that dog right in the eyes. And he looked back at me.

  I’ve read about hearts melting, and it always sounded silly, but that’s pretty much what it felt like. I took another step closer to the poor little guy, who hadn’t stopped staring at me. Or drooling.

  “Is he in bad shape?” I tore my eyes away from the little pup and looked up at Mitch.

  He nodded sadly, and I felt my melted heart sink even further. “This little guy’s been through the ringer. The county people found him behind a Dumpster over at the Super Saver. Looks like he was hit by a car. Whoever did it probably abandoned him there.”

  “People stink.” The phrase burst out of me, and everyone nodded. Everybody who worked with rescue animals felt this way at some point.

  “He’s got a pair of cracked ribs, some lacerations … mange, obviously. And he’s malnourished, severely dehydrated,” Mitch explained.

  “No collar or tags,” Lori added, shaking her head. “If he was ever somebody’s pet, they certainly didn’t take very good care of him.”

  The little guy’s eyes were still locked on mine. He was also still whimpering, just loud enough for me to hear. I took another step, and raised my hand to pet him.

  “Cecilia, be careful. He’s been growling when we …”

  But Lori didn’t finish, because I was already stroking his head, and he’d closed his eyes. The whimpering stopped. His fur was soft. He moved a little to scrunch closer to my hand, letting out a small noise of distress in the process.

  “Who’s a sweet little potato?” I cooed.

  “Potato?” Lori echoed.

  Mitch chuckled. “That’s exactly what he looks like!” he said. “Poor little guy.”

  “I need to get to Winchester to pick up those donations.” I looked up when I realized Lori was talking to me. “If I’m not there, Mrs. Frederick … well, you know how she is. And Mitch needs to get back to work. Could you look after him until I get back?”

  I was already nodding. “But what about his ribs and stuff?” I asked both Lori and Mitch. I was good at cleaning up cuts and bruises, but I definitely didn’t know how to fix serious medical problems.

  “There’s not much to be done for the ribs except to keep him still,” Mitch told me. “And he seems to be pretty content right now.” We all looked down. Potato’s eyes were still closed, and he was snuggled in closer to my arm.

  “Okay. His name’s Potato, by the way,” I announced.

  “Of course it is.” Lori smiled. “Thanks, Cecilia. We’ll be back.”

  “Okay, see ya,” I said, not looking up from the sweet little dog who was still nuzzled happily against me. I knew that since people rarely came in at this time of day, Lori trusted me to look after the shelter on my own.

  I let Potato doze for a long time—almost an hour—and I sang to him. I often sang to the shelter dogs as long as I was sure nobody else could hear.

  “Potato, Potato, you’re the cutest puppy I’ve ever met, with a face no one can soon forget, and I love the time with you I’ve spent …”

  I realized it was a really bad rhyme, but kept humming as I looked around the shelter, from the play area, which was littered with dog toys, to the exam table, where I currently stood with Potato. I could hear barks coming from the back of the shelter, which was where we kept most of the dogs. There were only two of them back there at this point—a cuddly chocolate Lab mix and a grumpy black puggle—and Lori had fed them before she left, so they were just playing around in their crates. It made me sad to think about dogs spending most of their time in such confined spaces, but Lori did a great job making them as cozy and comfortable as possible.

  Finally, I decided that I should clean up little Potato. So, very carefully, I peeled away the ratty pink blanket and carried him to the doggy bathtub near the window. I then gave Potato the longest, slowest bath in the history of dog baths. I went super slowly to try to avoid him having to move much, like Mitch had said. I rinsed, and rinsed, and rinsed. It seemed like his fur would probably run out of dirt soon, but then there would be more dirt.

  A lot of dogs won’t look a human directly in the eye, especially rescued dogs. But not Potato. He kept staring into my eyes the whole time. He was trusting me not to hurt him, I thought. Which was pretty incredible, considering everything he’d just been through.

  When the bath was over I gently patted him dry, grateful he had short fur rather than long hair. I went to work on his cuts, using cotton balls to clean them out with diluted peroxide, then dabbing on tiny blobs of antibacterial gel. His ear had been nicked somehow, and was ragged and torn. He cried a little when I patched it up, and I felt tears in my own eyes at causing him more pain.

  When I’d done everything I could think of, I sat down on the floor and gingerly rested Potato in my lap. I held him and stroked him and told him about my life.

  It would have been a short story, obviously, if I’d been talking to a human being. But I could tell a dog all the little things that nobody else wanted to hear. So I told him about eighth grade, from my worst class, which was algebra, to my best and favorite, which was history with Mr. Key, who always told stories and was nice to everyone. That was the only class where, on purpose, I sat in the middle of the room, rather than the back.

  “My dad used to be a teacher,” I told Potato, who only looked up at me when I stopped stroking his head. “He taught P.E. Can you believe that?”

  Potato gave a little grunt, which I interpreted as agreement with my feelings about gym class.

  “You get what I’m saying,” I told him, scratching gently behind his ears. “P.E. would be my worst class, but eighth graders don’t have to take it. Anyway, my dad stopped being a teacher because he’d been going to law school at night for about a hundred years, and he finally finished. So now he’s a lawyer, but not the kind that makes a lot of money. But I think he likes to help people out …”

  Potato kept listening patiently—happy that I continued to scratch his ears (and once in a while I kissed the soft fur on the top of his head). I felt like the little guy was particularly understanding when I talked about Melody moving away and how she was almost always too busy to Skype now since she’d joined the cheerleading team at her new school.

  I was scratching his stomach, and Potato grunted happily. I ran out of words but kept sitting in the quiet shelter.

  Another hour passed before Lori came bursting in the back door. She doesn’t just enter a room, she bursts in. I like Lori a lot. She’s in her thirties and always wears sparkly shoes and this bright red lipstick that would look ridiculous on me but totally works for her. Her parents started Orphan Paws, but she took over after they retired. From what Mitch has told me, Lori has added a lot of color and personality to the pet shelter since she took charge three years ago.

  She looked down at the little dog in my lap. “You got him all cleaned up?”

  I nodded. “Did the best I could. I wish I could take him home with me.”

  “I thought you weren’t allowed back inside the house yet?”

  “No, I mean, not my home. My aunt’s allergic. I was just wishing.”

  Potato raised his head to look at me. He looked concerned, I thought. Like a little old man. A little old Mr. Potato Head. I rubbed his velvety ears and his expression changed to one of bliss.

  “The other two quiet this whole time?” Lori asked.

  “Yeah, not too bad. They barked a little, but they were mostly well-behaved.”

  Lori walked over to me and smiled down at Potato. “He’s such a cute little guy. I guess I’ll see you here tomorr
ow to visit him?”

  I nodded. “For sure.” Lori bent to gently pick up Potato from my lap.

  It was hard to watch her put him into one of the crates where we keep the animals who are recovering, but I knew it had to be done. I wiped a stray tear out of the corner of my eye, then my eye kept watering because I think I got some dog hair in it.

  I picked out the softest blanket and wrapped Potato up like a little burrito, and he let out an adorable puppy sigh and settled in, closing his eyes.

  “Come on, kid,” Lori said. “I’ll give you a ride to your aunt’s.”

  “Thanks, Lori.”

  I washed my hands, dried them, and put my backpack on. I walked back over to Potato’s crate and, even though I’d just washed my hands, I couldn’t help but scratch his head through the bars. He gave a little happy grunt and I could almost swear he smiled.

  Lori called, “Ready, Cecilia?”

  I nodded and whispered, “Good-bye, little Tater.”

  Seeing Potato all snuggled up in his blanket, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope for him. And for the first time since the fire, I smiled for real.

  I have proved how responsible I am with dogs by volunteering at Orphan Paws for 8 whole months.

  I will ALWAYS walk & feed the dog. Dad will NEVER have to.

  Dogs bark and warn about intruders = free house security. (Also, they bark when the house is on fire and the owner is in the closet.)

  Since Melody left, I am alone. All the time.

  I am better with dogs than with people.

  “Honestly, Cecilia,” Aunt Pamela said, and then exhaled loudly.

  Honestly, Cecilia is how she always starts off talking to me. If I’d gone to live with her when I was really little I’d probably think it was my name by now.

  Aunt Pamela was driving me to school, so Dad could go talk to the firepeople again.

  I sat back in the seat and tried to remind myself that living with Aunt Pam wasn’t all bad. For one thing, she made the absolute best waffles. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a fancy breakfast on a school morning.