“Yes, I promise,” said Mom. “That’s why I’m going in. To be with him.”
I looked down at Louie’s liquid brown eyes. When he moved them, his “eyebrows” moved, too. He was paying attention to everything in the waiting room.
“Do you think he knows what’s going to happen?” I asked softly.
“No,” said Mom. “I’m sure he doesn’t.”
How can we do this to him? I asked myself. We are going to kill him. We were saying, “Okay, Louie, you must die now,” and not giving him any choice about it. We were going to send him into a room and let someone give him a shot so that he would never wake up. But then I remembered what he had looked like the night before, and how much he was hurting, and knew we were doing the right thing.
The receptionist called Mom’s name then, and she stood up. David Michael and I gave Louie last pats and kisses, and then Mom disappeared down the little hallway. When she came back a few minutes later, her arms were empty.
Karen said the funeral was her idea, but I think it was Watson’s. At any rate, later that day, right after lunch, Karen found David Michael and me sitting glumly in front of the TV set. We didn’t even know what we were watching.
“I think we should have a funeral for Louie,” Karen announced.
“A funeral?” I repeated.
“Yes. To remember him by.”
I glanced at David Michael, who seemed to have perked up.
“We could make a gravestone,” he said. “Even though we can’t really bury him.”
“And we can sing a song and say some nice things about him,” added Karen. “We’ll hold it at three o’clock. I’ll go tell everyone.”
Right away, we began making plans. All six of us kids gathered on the back porch.
“What kind of marker should we make for his grave?” I asked. “I don’t think we have any stone.”
“A wooden cross,” said Karen decisively. “There are some scraps of wood in the shed.”
“We can take care of that,” said Sam, speaking for himself and Charlie. I could tell they were just humoring us. They felt bad about Louie, but they felt too old to be planning pet funerals, and wanted to go off on their own.
“Put ‘Louie Thomas, R.I.P.’ on the cross,” instructed Karen.
“What’s ‘R.I.P.’?” asked David Michael.
“It means ‘rest in peace.’”
“Shouldn’t we write that out?” I asked. “Initials are tacky. It’s like writing ‘Xmas’ instead of ‘Christmas.’”
“No!” cried Karen, who’s been wanting to have her own way a lot lately. “Put ‘R.I.P.’ That’s how it always is in books and on TV.”
Karen and I had a big discussion about the matter. Sam finally came to the rescue by suggesting that he and Charlie write ‘Rest In Peace’ with huge initial letters so the R, the I, and the P would really show up. Then they left David Michael, Karen, Andrew, and me to plan the rest of the service.
“We should sing a hymn,” said David Michael.
But none of us knew any hymns by heart, except for Christmas carols.
“How about singing a song about a dog?” I suggested.
“I know one,” said Andrew, and he began to sing, “There was a farmer, had a dog, and Bingo was his name-o. B-I-N-G-O —”
“We can’t sing that at a funeral!” David Michael exclaimed.
“Old MacDonald?” said Andrew. “On his farm he could have a dog.”
“No.”
“Let’s just sing a sad song,” said Karen.
“No, a happy one,” I said. “Louie wouldn’t want us all to be sad.”
“But funerals are supposed to be sad,” she insisted.
We talked and talked. Finally we reached a few decisions. Instead of singing a song, we voted to play “Brother Louie” on the tape deck. Then we decided that we would each say one nice thing about Louie, instead of having someone give a boring eulogy. Saying nice things was Andrew’s idea. His nursery-school teacher had just read his class a book called The Tenth Good Thing About Barney, in which a family remembers their pet, Barney, after he dies. (I thought it was very lucky that Andrew had heard that story just before Louie died.)
At ten minutes to three, us six Thomas/Brewer kids called Mom and Watson, and our family walked out to the backyard and stood by a forsythia bush Louie had liked to sleep near. Sam was holding the cross he and Charlie had made, Charlie was holding a shovel, and David Michael was holding Louie’s leash and food dishes. We were going to bury them under the cross. That was, we’d decided, almost like burying Louie himself.
“Okay,” I said. “Charlie, why don’t you dig the grave? Then we can say the nice things about Louie.”
“No!” cried Karen. “Not everyone’s here.”
“Yes, we are,” I told her. “Eight people. We’re all here.”
Just then I heard someone say, “Are we late?”
I turned around. Filing into our yard were Shannon and Tiffany, Hannie and Linny, and Amanda and Max. They were followed by two of Shannon’s snobby friends. They gathered behind our family.
I looked at Karen in horror.
“I invited them,” she said simply.
I shook my head. I didn’t want Shannon at Louie’s funeral. She’d made fun of him. Besides, what would she think about a dog funeral? But there was nothing to do except go ahead with it.
Charlie, red with embarrassment at the sight of our guests, finished digging the grave. David Michael stepped forward and placed the leash and the dishes in it. Then Sam covered them up and pushed the cross into the earth.
“Now,” said David Michael, “we each say one nice thing. I’ll go last.”
Karen, of course, volunteered to go first, and said, “Louie had good manners.”
“He slept on my feet to keep them warm,” said Andrew.
I dared to turn around and peek at the rest of the audience. To my surprise, not a single person was laughing. And Shannon was wiping tears away.
“Louie was a good football player,” said Charlie.
“He had a sense of humor,” I said.
“He was good company,” said Sam.
“He was an adorable puppy,” said Mom.
“He was nice to Boo-Boo,” said Watson.
David Michael let out a sigh. “He was my best friend,” he said.
After a moment of silence, David Michael pushed a button on the tape deck, and “Brother Louie” came on. We all thought of our good old collie while “Louie, Louie, Louie” was sung.
When the song was over, I felt both happy and sad. A hand touched my arm. It was Shannon. “I’m really sorry about Louie,” she said seriously. “If anything happened to Astrid, I don’t know what I’d do.” Then she turned away, and Louie’s mourners began to leave.
It was on Monday, two days after Louie’s funeral, that I sat for the Snobs again. I didn’t really think the Delaneys were so bad anymore, but the name had stuck.
“Tell us again what happened to Louie,” said Max.
He and Amanda and I were playing Snail in the driveway, but the Snobs kept stopping to ask questions about Louie. They weren’t being rude; they were just curious. They’d probably never known anyone or anything that had died.
“Louie was sick,” I said for the fourth or fifth time. “He was really old and he didn’t feel well anymore. He hurt a lot…. Your turn, Amanda.”
Amanda hopped to the center of the snail shell, expertly avoiding Max’s and my squares. She selected a square for herself and drew an “A” in it. “How did Louie fall down the stairs?” she wanted to know.
“He couldn’t see them. He just walked right down.”
I stood at the edge of the shell and hopped around and around to the center. Amanda handed me the chalk.
“And David Michael banged his eye?” said Max.
“Yup,” I replied, choosing another square.
“Did he cry?”
“A little. His eye turned black and blue.”
“Pri
scilla has never been sick,” said Amanda. “I think it’s because she cost four hundred dollars.”
“Well, I doubt that,” I told her, “but I’m glad she’s so healthy.”
“If Priscilla dies,” said Max, “let’s give her a funeral.”
Amanda scrunched up her face in thought. “Okay,” she replied. “We could make a cross for her. And we could play music from The Aristocats.”
“And I,” said Max, “would say, ‘Priscilla had a beautiful tail.’”
“And I’d say, ‘Priscilla cost four hundred dollars,’” added Amanda.
I rolled my eyes.
Amanda was taking her turn again, when Shannon Kilbourne rounded a corner of the Delaneys’ house and walked over to us. She was cradling something in her arms.
“Hi,” I said uncertainly. I didn’t dislike Shannon anymore, I just never knew what to expect from her.
“Hi,” she replied cheerfully. “This is for you.” She held out the thing she’d brought over.
“Oh!” I squealed. I couldn’t believe it. The “thing” was a puppy! A very tiny puppy, probably only a few weeks old.
“What do you mean he’s for me?” I exclaimed. “Where’d you get him? Where’d he come from?”
“He’s a she,” replied Shannon, “and she’s one of Astrid’s.”
“One of Astrid’s? You mean one of Astrid of Grenville’s puppies? But I thought Astrid was a boy.”
Shannon grinned. “No!” she cried. “Astrid is a girl’s name. It’s Scandinavian or something. It means divine strength.”
I just couldn’t believe it. Why was Shannon giving me a puppy? None of this made sense.
“I don’t know why I assumed Astrid was a boy, but I did. How come you never told me she has puppies?” I asked.
“I don’t know. You never asked. The subject never came up. Anyway, we — I mean, Tiffany and Maria and my parents and I — want you to have this puppy. It’s purebred. We’re selling the others. But we really want your family to have this one. You know … because of Louie …” Shannon’s voice trailed off.
“Thank you,” I said softly. I looked down at the fat little puppy that was nestled in my arms. She was a ball of brown and white fluff. When I leaned over to nuzzle her, she licked my nose.
“I’m afraid you can’t have her yet,” said Shannon. “She’s only six weeks old. We want the puppies to stay with Astrid until they’re eight weeks. But then she’s all yours. If it’s okay with Mr. Br — with your parents.”
“Well, I’ll have to check with them, but I’m sure it’ll be all right. They loved having Louie around. The one I’m worried about is David Michael. I don’t know what he’ll think about getting a ‘replacement’ for Louie. Or at least, getting a replacement so soon.”
“Well, why don’t you find out?” asked Shannon. “Is he home? Tell him to come over here and meet the puppy.”
“I better phone my mom first,” I said.
“Shannie, Shannie!” cried Amanda, jumping up and down. “Can we please play with the puppy?”
“Please, please, puh-lease?” added Max.
It was the first time I’d heard the Snobs say please on their own. I wasn’t sure whether they were really being polite, or whether they just wanted to ensure that they’d be allowed to play with the puppy. Either way, it sounded nice.
“You can play with the puppy,” Shannon replied, “but we have to take her inside. There are lots of germs outside, and she hasn’t had her shots yet.”
“Oh,” said Amanda. “Well, is she going to wet or anything? We have to be careful. The fountain in the hallway cost two thousand dollars. And the rugs in the living room are genuine Oriental, and they cost —”
“Amanda,” I interrupted her, “don’t worry about it. We’ll keep the puppy in the kitchen, and we’ll put newspapers on the floor first.”
Shannon, the Snobs, the puppy, and I went into the Delaneys’ house through the back door (to avoid the two-thousand-dollar fountain). While I sat in a kitchen chair with the puppy in my lap, Shannon and the Snobs covered the floor with newspapers. Then I put the puppy down and let her frisk around. She pretended to act fearless and would stalk enemy chair legs and cupboard doors, but when Priscilla appeared, the puppy jumped a mile. Priscilla, startled, jumped a mile, too. She fled to the top of the refrigerator while the puppy fled to a corner.
Amanda and Max giggled hysterically.
“Here,” said Shannon. “Throw the rubber steak to her, Max.”
Shannon had produced a chewed-up rubber toy, and Max tossed it across the room. The puppy ran after it on fat legs, skidding on the paper.
“Well, what do you think of her?” Shannon asked me.
“I think she’s adorable,” I replied, “but I better get on the phone.”
I dialed my mother at her office. “Mom!” I exclaimed. “You’ll never guess what! Shannon Kilbourne — you know, from across the street? Well, her dog had puppies, little baby Bernese mountain dogs, and she brought one over to the Delaneys’, that’s where I’m baby-sitting, and said we can have her — it’s a she — because of Louie. But we can’t have her for two weeks.” I hadn’t given my mom a chance to say a word, because I’d suddenly realized how much I didn’t want her to say “no.” I’d realized what a thoroughly nice thing Shannon was doing, and that it could only mean she wanted to be friends. “Could we please have the puppy, Mom?” I asked, slowing down and trying to sound more grown-up. “I think it would be good for David Michael. And if he doesn’t like the idea, we’ll still have two weeks to convince him. In two —”
“Kristy,” my mother finally interrupted me, “we can have the dog.”
“We can?” I squeaked.
“Yes. Watson and I had already decided to get another dog as soon as we thought David Michael was ready. We were even thinking about buying one of the Kilbournes’ puppies, so I know this will be okay with Watson. I’ll call the Kilbournes tonight to thank them.”
“You knew Astrid was a girl, too?” was all I could exclaim. “You knew about the puppies?”
Of course, Mom had no idea why I said that, and she was in a rush to get back to work, so we ended the conversation. Boy, I thought when I’d hung up the phone, I must really be out of it. I decided this was my punishment for thinking that all my neighbors were snobs, and not bothering to get to know them.
“Mom said yes!” I announced to Shannon.
“Great,” she replied. “Now call your brother.”
I did, but I didn’t tell him why I was calling. I just asked him to come over to the Delaneys’.
While we waited for David Michael, Amanda and Max played with the puppy. “You know,” I said to Shannon as we watched the kids, “I’m really sorry about taking your baby-sitting jobs away from you. I baby-sat so much in my old neighborhood that it didn’t occur to me not to sit when I moved here. It’s just part of my life. I didn’t think about the people here who might already be sitters.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” replied Shannon. “There are more than enough jobs to go around. Tiffany and I are the only ones of our friends who really like to baby-sit, and we can’t possibly do it all ourselves. I don’t think I was mad at you as much as I was …” (Shannon blushed) “… jealous.”
“Jealous of me?”
“Yeah. Because your club is such a good idea.”
“But you and Tiffany kind of implied that our club is babyish.”
“Yeah, we did. But we didn’t mean it.”
The doorbell rang then and I let David Michael in. When he saw the puppy on the kitchen floor a whole range of expressions crossed his face. First he looked surprised, then pleased, then sad (thinking of Louie, I guess), and then wary.
“Whose is that?” he asked. He looked from Shannon to the Snobs.
“Actually, she’s ours,” I answered. “If you want her.” I told him about the Kilbournes’ offer.
“I don’t want her,” David Michael said rudely, and I felt like shaking him. “She isn’
t Louie.” But before I could do anything, David Michael knelt down on the floor, in spite of himself.
The puppy pranced over to him and stood with her front feet on my brother’s knees. David Michael smiled.
Shannon and I looked at each other and smiled, too.
The puppy stretched up, David Michael leaned over, and they touched noses.
“Ooh,” said David Michael, “she has a soft nozzle.”
“Muzzle,” I corrected him.
“If we keep her,” said my brother, “she won’t be Louie. Louie was special.”
“No,” I agreed. “Louie was one-of-a-kind. This puppy is a girl, and she’ll look different and act different. She’s not a new Louie.”
“Good,” said David Michael.
“So do you want her?” asked Shannon.
“Yes,” replied my brother.
“And what do you say?” I prompted him.
“I say, ‘Let’s name her Shannon.’”
So we did.
“Help! Kristy! Save me! The ghost of Ben Brewer is after me!”
Karen ran shrieking through the second-floor hallway and burst into my room in a panic. “Kristy! Kristy!”
“Ahem, Karen,” I replied.
Karen was only fooling around. She knew as well as I did that there probably wasn’t any ghost in our attic. And if there was (because we just weren’t sure) he certainly wasn’t going to chase little girls around in broad daylight.
It was a Saturday afternoon, two weeks to the day since Louie’s funeral. Karen and Andrew were spending another weekend with us, and Shannon the puppy was almost ours. The members of the Baby-sitters Club were gathered in my room. We’d just had a meeting the day before, of course, but every now and then we like to get together and not conduct business. Besides, my friends enjoy visiting the mansion.
Karen plopped down on the floor between Mary Anne and Dawn. “You know who old Ben Brewer is, don’t you?” she asked them.
“Your great-grandfather?” Mary Anne ventured. (Ghost stories make her nervous.)
“Right. Before he became a ghost, anyway. He was a — what’s the word, Kristy?”
“Herpitologist?” I suggested.
Kristy and the Snobs Page 8