Strider

by Beverly Cleary

  The dog was still there! He slurped water, gulped hot dogs, and looked at us as if we had saved his life. Maybe whatever he has been through is what people mean when they talk about a dog’s life.

  Barry and I tried to coax Strider to follow us. We didn’t touch, we just coaxed. We could tell he was thinking about what he should do, and finally he made a decision. He took a few steps toward us, and a few more, and then he was following us.

  Mr. President came along dragging his gunnysacks. “A gentle deed in a naughty world,” was all he said.

  “What are we going to do with him?” Barry asked on the way back to my place.

  “Keep him,” I said and remembered how Mom says, “Leigh, always do the right thing,” so I added, “just until we phone the SPCA to see if anybody has asked for him.”

  “Nobody who tells a dog to stay and then leaves him is going to phone the SPCA,” said Barry, but admitted I was right.

  The lady at the SPCA said no one had inquired about a dog of Strider’s description, but wouldn’t we like a companion for him? She took our telephone number, just in case, but didn’t seem hopeful, which pleased us.

  Strider, after sniffing around the shack, flopped down on our thrift-shop rug and slept as if he hadn’t slept for a week. Barry and I sat on the couch staring at him. Even if Mom would let me keep Strider until school starts, I knew there was no way I could have him for keeps when we are both away so much. Besides, there was our landlady, Mrs. Smerling, to think of. Mom says I mustn’t refer to her as an old bat, even if she is. When we moved in, it seems to me she said something about no pets. We felt lucky she didn’t say no boys.

  “If nobody claims him, who gets him?” Barry asked the question that had been eating at me.

  I really wanted that dog. Wanted him? I needed that dog.

  “Would your mom and dad let you keep a dog?” I asked hoping Barry would say no.

  Barry shrugged. “We’ve got everything else running around the house, and we’re out of dogs right now.”

  Strider twitched in his sleep. Sliding off the couch, I petted him gently. I didn’t care if that dog barked, bit, chewed up slippers, or chased cats, I loved him and somehow I had to keep him.

  “Hey!” said Barry so suddenly that Strider opened his eyes and lifted his head.

  “It’s all right, boy,” I said. He relaxed.

  “We could have joint custody,” said Barry. “You keep him nights, we both have him days, and when school starts, we can leave him at our house because we have a fenced yard. After school, he would belong to both of us.”

  “And we can split the cost of dog support!” I was getting excited. “But what about when you go down to Los Angeles to visit your real mom?”

  Barry made a face because he likes living with his dad and Mrs. Brinkerhoff more than he likes visiting his real mother. He said, “He’ll be all yours for a month, but you could still park him in our yard when you can’t be with him. My folks wouldn’t care.”

  Here comes Mom. This is one night I’m not going to pretend to be asleep.

  June 10

  When Mom opened the door, I held my breath while she looked at Strider, who raised his head and wagged his stub of tail.

  “Who have we here?” She looked tired, but she smiled a half-smile. “A Queensland heeler, I see. Part wild Australian dingo and part shepherd. I used to watch them working cattle when I was a little girl. Good ranch dogs.”

  The trouble, I could see, was we didn’t have a ranch or a herd of cattle. “His name is Strider,” I said. “Barry and I have joint custody of him.” Then I explained what had happened and what we planned to do.

  Mom smiled a whole smile, but I could see she was thinking. “Leigh,” she said seriously, “no apartment would let us keep a part-time dog, and heelers are strong, active dogs. Which shall it be? A better place to live if we can find one, or a part-time dog?”

  This was a hard question. I wanted half of Strider (since I couldn’t have all of Strider) more than anything in the world, but it wasn’t fair to have Mom sleep on a couch in the living room forever. On the other hand, so far no one with an apartment we can afford has been willing to rent to someone with a boy my age. When Mom applies, they say they will call back, but they never do. Apartment managers seem to expect all boys to write graffiti on the walls, push drugs, or start rock bands. Finally I said to Mom, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “Oh well, I’m used to it,” she said, “and I don’t want to wake you up when I come in late. You need a companion evenings while I’m at work. Yes, you may have joint custody if you boys can work it out and Mrs. Smerling doesn’t object.”

  “Mom!” I was horrified. “You don’t expect me to ask her, do you?”

  Mom said, “Let’s just wait and see what happens. And remember, Leigh, you must always keep your dog on a leash. A quick, strong dog like Strider could easily knock someone down.”

  I vowed his leash would never leave our hands when we were on the street.

  I have a really great mom. Now all I have to worry about is our landlady. Oh well, Mrs. Smerling has put up with having me around for a couple of years, so maybe she won’t object to a half-time dog.

  On the other hand, she might use Strider as an excuse for raising our rent—if she lets him stay.

  June 11

  Barry’s parents said the same thing about our having joint custody of Strider. “If you boys can work it out.” Why do grownups think kids can’t figure things out? I wonder if Dad would say the same thing. He hasn’t been around for a long time.

  Barry had a collar and leash left over from some old dog. We split the cost of Strider’s license and shots. (There went a lot of floor mopping.) The vet said he was about three years old and in good shape. We decided Barry would hold Strider’s leash whenever we came near my place so Mrs. Smerling would think he was Strider’s owner.

  I have learned one thing about our dog. We can never tell him to sit or stay. If we do, he practically goes to pieces. He gets down on his belly and crawls toward us, whimpering as if to say, “Please don’t make me obey those words.” Otherwise, he is a good, well-trained dog. I wonder how his former owner felt about giving him up. For some reason he must not have been able to keep him any longer and hoped someone would adopt him.

  June 16

  For a whole week now, Barry and I have had fun with high-energy Strider. We began by walking him. “Heel,” I ordered to see if he would obey. He did, but he nipped our heels to make us go faster. We began to jog. He nipped again, so we began to run. We ran along Ocean View Boulevard where the pinky-purple flowers that cover the ground are so bright they almost hurt our eyes. Below, little waves nibbled at the rocks. Strider gained on us until his leash was almost pulling my arm out of its socket.

  Finally we stopped to pant beside a faucet where people wash sand off their feet. “Maybe Strider’s pretending we’re a herd of cattle,” said Barry when he could talk again. Strider caught a drink of water by turning his head sideways under the faucet.

  Mr. President came driving his bread truck down the boulevard. He drew up beside us and called out, “So you saved the dog from the vile blows and buffets of the world, to say nothing of the animal control officer.”

  “We have joint custody!” I called back.

  “May fortune smile on your agreement!” Mr. President called out and then drove on.

  “I guess that’s a fancy way of saying ‘If you can work it out.’” Barry sounded cross.

  When we returned to our shack, Mrs. Smerling was sitting on her front steps drinking a beer out of an aluminum can. Barry, who quickly took Strider’s leash, was full of advice: “If you ask (pant) if you can keep a dog (pant), she’ll say no. (Pant pant.) It’s easy to say no. (Pant.) Act as if (pant) you’re sure a dog (pant) is okay with her (pant pant) in case she asks questions.”

  I said, “Hi, Mrs. Smerling (pant pant),” as we approached her. Strider lifted his leg to mark his territory. Barry took hold of Strider�
��s collar as if our dog were his, one hundred percent. This was the smart thing to do, but somehow it made me uncomfortable.

  Mrs. Smerling took a swig from the can before she said, “Hello there, Leigh. I see you have a couple of friends.”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Smerling,” I said as we walked past her.

  It is hard to tell when our landlady is being nice. At least she isn’t fussy about Strider lifting his leg on her shrubbery because she never prunes or waters it. However, on the first of the month, at 8 A.M. sharp, she comes down the path in her bathrobe with her thong sandals flapping and calls out, “Mrs. Botts! Mrs. Botts!” As soon as Mom opens the door, she says, “Your rent is due,” as if she suspects we can’t pay it. Mom dreads the first of the month because the old—oops!—Mrs. Smerling might raise our rent, which is already high.

  Inside, Barry and I flopped down on the couch. We were hot and sweaty, but we felt great. A running dog is a great dog to own. I mean half-own.

  Strider went to his water dish and slurped. Then he rolled over on his back, which meant he trusted us. We both scratched his belly. Being trusted by a dog, especially a dog that has good reason for not trusting humans, is a nice feeling.

  June 22

  Time goes fast these days. Barry and I begin each morning by running with Strider. On the mornings I mop for Katy, Barry holds Strider’s leash and waits for me. Katy says we have an interesting custody arrangement if we can make it work, and she gives us samples of whatever she is preparing for a party. Strider enjoys chicken livers wrapped in bacon.

  One day after our run, when I was reading and Barry was pretending to order expensive camping gear from catalogs, he ran across something called a “dog posture dish.” The catalog explained the importance of a dog’s skeletal alignment and showed a picture of a dog standing up eating from dishes set on a platform so the dog didn’t have to bend down.

  Barry and I thought this was funny. “Strider, old boy, how’s your skeletal alignment?” I asked. Strider, who has a straight, strong back, looked interested.

  “You know, that’s not a bad idea,” said Barry. “Let’s go up to my place and build him a posture dish out of Dad’s scrap lumber.” We fastened Strider’s leash to his collar and raced up the hill, where we sawed and hammered until we produced a workable stand for Strider’s dishes. I lugged it down the hill, and now Strider seems pleased to eat standing up with his spine aligned.

  Another day when I was reading and Barry was studying his catalogs, Strider, looking bored, wandered around the shack.

  “Too bad he can’t read, too,” Barry remarked.

  “Great idea,” I said. “Let’s teach him.”

  Barry was doubtful, but I reasoned that if Strider could read words he didn’t like to hear, he might not get so upset when we told him to sit or stay. I printed SIT on one piece of paper and STAY on another, and we went to work. We held up SIT and pushed down on Strider’s hindquarters to make him sit. It took a while, but he finally caught on. STAY was harder. Barry held up the card. I went into the kitchen. Strider followed because that is where I feed him. I led him back. We went through the whole thing again until finally, after a couple of days, Strider caught on or gave in, I’m not sure which. Now I carry two pieces of paper with the magic words in my hip pocket whenever I take Strider out. They might come in handy.

  Mom thinks teaching a dog to read is funny. Maybe it is, but Barry and I had a lot of fun doing it. Maybe someday I could run a school for teaching dogs to read. (Joke.) Too bad Boyd Henshaw didn’t think of this when he wrote Ways to Amuse a Dog, which used to be my favorite book.

  June 30

  Tomorrow Barry has to fly down to what he calls Los Smogland with two of his little sisters to visit their real mother and stepfather. He will be gone for a month, so I was invited over for a farewell dinner.

  Mr. Brinkerhoff, who works in heavy construction—highways and stuff like that—came home and said, “Glad to see you, Leigh. With so many women around, us men have to stick together.” That made me feel good. He also invited Strider into the house, which made me, but not the girls’ cats, feel even better. I showed the little sisters how Strider could read. They were impressed by his intelligence and printed ROLL OVER on a paper, but he ignored them. The oldest girl said he had a reading problem.

  The part of the Brinkerhoff house I like best is the spaghetti wall. To see if the spaghetti is cooked enough, the family take turns throwing a strand at a wall in the kitchen. If the spaghetti sticks, it is done; if it slides to the floor, it needs to cook longer. When enough spaghetti has stuck to the wall, they spray-paint over it and start again. The wall reminds me of modern art I have seen in books at the library.

  The Brinkerhoffs invited me to take a turn. My strand stuck! I know it is silly, but having my spaghetti stick to the wall made me feel good, as if I had accomplished something really important. Maybe that’s what my future should be—throwing spaghetti for one of those plants that freezes Italian dinners for supermarkets.

  We all sat down at the big round table to a meal of spaghetti and meatballs and a huge bowl of green salad full of avocado, cheese, and bits of salami. The littlest girl sat in a high chair and ate with her fingers and smeared tomato sauce all over her face and in her hair. Things like that don’t bother Mrs. Brinkerhoff. Sometimes I wish Mom were more like Mrs. Brinkerhoff. Not all the time, just once in a while.

  The girls told stupid riddles and screamed with laughter while Barry and I exchanged looks that said we were too grown-up for such childish jokes. Mr. Brinkerhoff gave Strider a meatball which he gulped down. I slipped him another. Mom doesn’t allow me to feed Strider at the table when she’s home.

  I was sorry when it was time to leave. “So long, Barry,” I said as I snapped Strider’s leash in place. We were outside, standing by the fence. “Have fun down there in Los Smogland.”

  “Yeah.” Barry sounded gloomy. “So long, and good luck in hiding Strider from Mrs. Smerling.” He stroked Strider’s ears as if he didn’t want to part with him.

  I thought, Strider is in my custody for a whole month. Not joint custody. My custody.

  July 8

  Strider has been mine for a whole week! I brush him, wrestle with him, and we run a lot to avoid Mrs. Smerling. I always wave to Mr. President when I see him, and think of the day Barry and I found an abandoned dog. We run a little farther each day. Now we go around the Point, where I can take Strider off his leash and where we can hear sea lions bark. Strider, who rarely barks, enjoys barking at sea lions.

  On foggy mornings we have to time our run around the Point to avoid the blast of the foghorn. Once it caught us and nearly blew us off the road. I could actually feel the sound waves. Strider took off at top speed. I thought he was gone for good, but I finally found him behind a rock. He must remember because he always speeds up as we pass the foghorn, even if the sun is shining.

  One day, when we were cooling down along the beach, I found a perfectly good golf ball. When I poked around the kelp that had washed up, I found another. After that I picked up a golf ball or two every day, washed them, packed them in egg cartons, and sold them at one of the pro shops. I thought I had a second source of income.

  Then Strider caught on and began to hunt for golf balls with me. He even jumped into a water hazard on the P.G. golf course to retrieve them. When he found one, he carried it in his mouth and dropped it at my feet. Then he looked up at me and waggled, not just his tail stub, but all over, he was so eager for praise. I hugged him, and he licked my face with his slippery tongue.

  Then something funny (to me) happened. We were running past a rich people’s golf course when Strider spotted a golf ball on the fairway. He shot off, grabbed the ball, and dropped it at my feet. Four golfers riding on two carts began to shout and wave their clubs at us. Then they began to pursue us on their carts. I threw the ball back onto the fairway and fled with Strider.

  When we were safe, I stopped and laughed because the whole thing was so much lik
e a comedy on TV. Strider always looks pleased when I laugh. Sometimes I think Strider, not Barry, is my best friend. I’ll be glad to see Barry again, but I’ll be sorry—oh well, I can’t have everything. Half a dog is better than none, as the saying goes.

  Strider has a new habit. Whenever we stop, he places his paw on my foot. It isn’t an accident because he always does it. I like to think he doesn’t want to leave me.

  July 9

  Today when I took Strider out, the fog was beginning to lift. The sun felt so good I sat on a bench at the Point to enjoy it. Strider lay with his nose on my foot. The morning was so peaceful I sat with my eyes closed, listening to the skree of gulls, waves whispering around rocks, bees humming on flowers, and crunching of joggers’ feet on the path. I am not sure what I thought about—Mom studying hard, Dad off in his rig someplace with a load of turnips, Barry cooped up in an apartment in Los Smogland? I really don’t know.

  When Strider woke up, we ran some more. I saw Mr. President picking up trash, but Strider never wants to stop at that part of the beach. We ran past the high school where I will go in September. The playing field looks like a good place to run, but a sign says, “Dogs not allowed on infield or track.”

  That’s the way our days have gone, with a few detours to the laundromat and the library. So far, Strider and I have avoided Mrs. Smerling.

  July 10

  I spoke too soon. Today when Strider and I came running home, Mrs. Smerling, wearing an old bathrobe, stepped out of her back door with a broom in her hand. Funny, she doesn’t sweep the steps that often. Was she spying? We had to stop. Mrs. Smerling watched Strider mark his territory, which he has done so often he probably thinks he owns the place.