It hadn’t been what Mason would call a restful night.
At art camp on Thursday, they were beginning work on clay pots or bowls made of clay “snakes” rolled out and then coiled together. Then the pots would be glazed and fired in a kiln.
“I’m going to make a bowl for Cat,” Brody said. “As a welcome-to-your-new-home present.”
“She already has a bowl,” Mason said. “Two bowls. One for food and one for water.”
“Well, now she’ll have three!”
Mason couldn’t think of anything better to make, so he decided to make a bowl for Cat, too. If she was going to have three bowls, she might as well have four. Maybe if they were all filled with food all the time, she wouldn’t wake him up at four a.m. to be fed.
Dunk was making a bowl for Wolf—a very large bowl. Wolf must be a very large dog. A very large biting dog.
“So you have a cat now,” Dunk said to Mason.
What of it? Mason wanted to say, but he just nodded and rolled out another clay snake.
“My dog can eat up your cat,” Dunk said.
To change the subject, Mason looked over at Nora’s bowl. “Who is your bowl for?” he asked. “Do you have a pet?”
“I have lots of pets, but they don’t eat out of bowls. So my bowl is to put paper clips in.”
“What do they eat out of?” Brody asked. “What kind of pets are they?”
Nora smiled. “Ants.”
“Ants?” Brody asked.
“I have an ant farm,” Nora explained. “It’s in a glass terrarium. A whole colony of ants. I do experiments with them, seeing how they react to heat and cold, or light and darkness, things like that.”
“Wow,” said Mason politely. He hoped that if Cat didn’t work out, his father wouldn’t come home with an ant farm for him next.
“My dog can eat up your ants, too,” Dunk told Nora.
“Have you ever heard of fire ants?” Nora asked Dunk pleasantly. “When they sting you, it feels like you’re on fire.”
Mason noticed that Nora hadn’t said that her ants were fire ants. She had just asked Dunk a simple question. But he scowled and turned away.
When Dunk left the table to go to the bathroom, Nora asked Mason and Brody, “Would you like to come over sometime and see my ant farm?”
Brody shot Mason an excited grin. Mason knew Brody was thinking, How could anybody not want to see an ant farm? Mason was thinking, How could anybody want to see an art farm?
Besides, Mason didn’t like to go to other people’s houses. He didn’t even like to go to Brody’s house, which had so much noise and commotion and clutter and confusion, compared to the peaceful, quiet home of the Dixons. Mason’s mother’s afghans and pillows were bright and colorful, but they didn’t get up and do anything, unlike Brody’s sisters, who were always trying out new dance steps or talking loudly on their cell phones to their friends.
He couldn’t imagine going to Nora’s house. He barely knew Nora. They would look at her ant farm, which would take about two minutes, and then what? Look at her books about hamsters?
“Maybe some other time,” Mason said. “There’s some stuff I have to do today. Brody, I just got Cat. I can’t just go off and leave her, can I?”
Brody looked ashamed for having forgotten how lonely Cat would be without them. Then his face brightened.
“You could come see Cat,” he told Nora.
Mason gave Brody a horrified stare. He couldn’t imagine Nora coming to his house any more than he could imagine himself going to Nora’s house. He couldn’t imagine his house with a girl in it.
Nora gave Mason a quizzical look; she seemed to read his reaction better than Brody did.
“I can’t come today,” she said.
Mason felt his chest expand with relief.
“But maybe sometime,” Nora said.
Maybe some other time far, far away.
The cat bowls wouldn’t be done for a few more days, because they had to harden before they could be glazed and fired.
“I can’t wait until Cat sees them!” Brody said as the boys walked home from camp together to Mason’s house.
It had rained the night before. Their few Hamster posters that hadn’t blown away were unreadable, the letters blurred and runny. Mason tried not to look at them.
“She’s going to be the happiest cat in the whole world!” Brody said.
As if eager about her present, Cat came running to the front door to meet them.
“Hi, Cat,” Mason said awkwardly. He still wasn’t sure how to make conversation with an animal. And, really, what was the point? Humans and animals didn’t even speak the same language.
Brody grabbed Cat up for a big hug and cuddled her against his chest, burying his face in her fur.
“Cat, we’re making you a present in art camp! You’ll never guess what it is!”
Then Brody sneezed.
And sneezed.
And sneezed again.
Mason’s mother came into the room. “Brody, I heard you sneezing. Are you allergic to cats?”
“No!” Brody said. “I just have a cold. Well, I had one when I was here yesterday, but then I went home and it went away, and now I guess it’s back again.…” His voice trailed off.
“Oh, Brody,” Mason’s mother said.
“Oh, Cat,” Brody said, hugging her more tightly.
“Mason,” his mother said. “We aren’t going to be able to keep Cat if Brody’s so allergic. Not when Brody’s over here every single day.”
She looked sadly at Mason, as if to see how hard he was taking the news.
But Brody was the one whose eyes were red and watery: from allergies and tears.
6
Brody went with Mason and his parents later that afternoon when they drove Cat back to the animal shelter; Mason’s dad came home early from work to give his help and support.
“Look at it this way. It’s good we found out sooner rather than later,” Mason’s mom said as Mason’s dad backed the car out of the driveway. “Before we got too attached.”
“I’m already too attached!” Brody moaned.
Inside her cardboard cat carrier, placed between the two boys on the backseat, Cat meowed piteously. Mason didn’t know if she was sad to be saying farewell to Brody, or sad because she didn’t like being in the cat carrier. Or both. He didn’t think it was because she was all that sorry to be saying goodbye to him, Mason.
Mason didn’t join in the conversation as Brody talked about Cat’s softness, her friendliness, her purr. In half an hour, Cat would be just a memory. Her litter box, corduroy cat bed, fine-toothed plastic brush, and cat tease toy were now crammed on the shelf in the garage on top of Hamster’s cage, next to Goldfish’s bowl. There had been room for them there on the shelf, after all.
And the cat bowls that Mason and Brody were making at art camp? The boys could follow Nora’s example and use them for paper clips.
At the shelter, Mason and Brody carried Cat’s cardboard carrier in to the front desk, Mason’s parents trailing behind.
“My son’s best friend is allergic,” Mason’s dad explained to the lady sitting there, an older woman wearing a T-shirt covered with painted paw prints. “Brody’s at our house several days a week while his parents are at work. So I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to keep her.”
“We understand,” the lady at the desk said. She didn’t sound cross or critical. Maybe people returned pets to the shelter all the time; maybe Mason wasn’t the only person in the world who wasn’t meant to have a pet. “Thank you for being willing to give one of our abandoned pets a good home.”
“Goodbye, Cat,” Brody whispered through the airholes in Cat’s cardboard box as he crouched down next to her on the floor. “I’m sorry I’m allergic. Really, I am.” He sounded even sadder than he had at Goldfish’s celebration-of-life ceremony, even sadder than he had when they were lettering the LOST! posters for Hamster.
The lady came around from behind her desk and stoop
ed down next to Brody to put her arm sympathetically around his shoulder. Mason wondered if she thought he was a terrible person for not whispering his own goodbyes to Cat. But wouldn’t tearful speeches only make things worse?
“Do you want to consider a dog?” the lady asked Mason’s parents, straightening up to face them. “Many people who are allergic to cats aren’t allergic to dogs.”
Mason’s parents glanced hopefully at him. He shook his head. Three strikes and you’re out. Three pets and you’ve proved to the world—and to your parents—that you’re not a pet person.
“Can we just look at the dogs?” Brody asked. “Since we’re here, and they’re lonely? So that they have some visitors?”
The lady smiled at Brody. Some kids didn’t like Brody, Mason had noticed, because Brody was too enthusiastic about everything. But grown-ups always did.
“Our dog room is right here through that door behind my desk. And if there’s a dog or two you’d like to have a private visit with, just let me know, and I’ll bring him or her to our Meeting and Greeting Place so you can make a closer acquaintance. All right?”
The others nodded. Mason didn’t. He had no intention of making a closer acquaintance with any dogs, ever.
Mason and his parents followed Brody into the dog room, a dreary space with a cement floor and a low ceiling, off the front lobby. Brody began exclaiming over the cuteness of one dog, the friendliness of another, as they walked past the long rows of large cages.
The cages were large compared to Hamster’s cage, but not large for an entire dog. It was sad to see the dogs there: some barking, some thrusting their faces right up against the bars, some just lying there, head upon paws, gazing at nothing.
Brody grew quieter and quieter.
The dogs grew noisier and noisier. Mason didn’t see how the animal-shelter lady could stand working there listening to those shrill yips and yaps all day. However irritating a meowing cat was at four a.m. (answer: very irritating), an incessantly barking dog would be infinitely worse. Mason clapped his hands over his ears, but he could still hear them. Bark, bark, bark! Woof, woof, woof! Bark, woof, bark! Didn’t the dogs ever get sick of the sound of themselves?
The four of them paraded slowly past the last row of cages in the dimly lit back corner of the room. Then one dog, barking as fiercely as all the rest, pushed a paw through the bars, as if reaching out to touch Brody’s shoulder. Mason couldn’t recognize most dog breeds, but he thought maybe this dog was a golden retriever. It was sort of golden-colored. He didn’t know if it could retrieve anything or not.
Brody stopped short. He took the dog’s paw with one hand and put his other hand up against the bars of the cage. The dog licked it, his huge pink tongue lapping Brody’s fingers.
For Brody’s sake, Mason hoped that the dog couldn’t bite from inside its cage. But maybe dogs didn’t lick you first, to see how you tasted, and then bite you. Maybe dogs did either one or the other: lick or bite. This dog was definitely a licker. Not that being licked was all that much better than being bitten, in Mason’s opinion. It was so … slobbery. Brody’s whole hand must be completely covered with wet, slimy, drippy dog drool.
The dog started to stand up on his hind legs, trembling with excitement, but then he dropped back down again. His tail thumped against the bottom of the cage as if it were about to fall off from wagging.
Then Mason saw that the dog had only three legs. He had the front leg whose paw Brody had been holding, but no other front leg.
Brody turned to Mason’s parents, his face alight with hope and desperation. “Can we get him? Oh, can we get him? Please? Please? Please?”
Mason’s parents looked at Mason, their faces also lit up with the expectation that Mason would be unable to resist Brody’s pleading. He knew what they were thinking: it was time for pet number four! Plus, his parents loved doing good in the world: drying clothes on a clothesline, picking up litter in the park, donating used clothes to the needy. And who could be needier than a dog with only three legs?
“I don’t want a dog,” Mason said, too loudly. He didn’t want a dog even more than he hadn’t wanted a goldfish, a hamster, or a cat.
He didn’t want to walk a dog.
He didn’t want dog breath in his face.
He didn’t want dog drool on his clothes.
He didn’t want to pick up dog poop in a plastic bag and carry it back home again.
“He won’t be your dog,” Brody begged. “He’ll be my dog, all completely mine, but he’ll have to live at your house. Because of my dad’s allergies.”
“What if you’re allergic to dogs, too, the way you were allergic to cats?” Mason asked him.
“I’m not sneezing,” Brody pointed out. “Look. My eyes are fine, and my nose isn’t running.”
Brody stood up tall and turned his head from one side to the other, as if to display his allergy-free eyes and nose.
It was true. Why couldn’t Brody have been allergic to dogs, rather than to cats? If Mason had to have a pet—and he still wasn’t sure why he had to have a pet—at least Cat didn’t have bad breath, didn’t drool, and didn’t go to the bathroom out in public for all the world to see.
“Mom,” Mason said, trying not to raise his voice. “Dad. Apparently you two haven’t noticed, but I’m not what you might call a pet person.”
“He’ll be my pet,” Brody interrupted. “I’m a pet person.”
“But, Mason,” his father began, “your mother and I just think it would be so good for you—”
“But I think it wouldn’t be good for me! I already had a pet. Three pets. What more do I have to say to make you understand? I. Am. Not. A. Pet. Person.”
The lady from the front desk came walking up behind them. She must have had a sixth sense for when a family was starting to weaken.
“Are you interested in Duke?” the lady asked. Apparently, Duke was the name of the dog with three legs.
“Maybe,” Mason’s father said, just as Mason said, “No.”
“Would you like me to bring Duke to the Meeting and Greeting Place? We don’t close for another hour, and you can take your time getting to know each other.”
To Mason’s surprise and relief, Brody shook his head. But then Brody said, “We’ve already meeted and greeted. And he already loves me and I love him.”
The lady gave Brody another fond smile before she turned back to Mason’s parents.
“I don’t mean to put any pressure on you,” the lady said. “We certainly don’t want anybody adopting one of our animals if they don’t feel ready to make the necessary commitment. But if you think you might want to give this fellow a home, you’ll need to take him with you fairly soon.”
“Why?” Brody asked.
The lady looked over at Brody and hesitated. But then she went on, “Well, he’s been here for several months. And because of our limited space in this facility, we have a policy that if animals aren’t adopted within a reasonable length of time because of some health concern or physical ailment, they have to be euthanized.”
Mason hoped that didn’t mean what he thought it meant.
“Put to sleep,” the lady said softly.
Brody gave a piercing wail. “Did you hear that?” Brody asked Mason. “If he’s not adopted, he’s going to be put to sleep. To sleep where he won’t wake up. Killed!”
Brody was crying. The dog with only one front paw reached his paw out through the bars of the cage again, as if to comfort him.
“I’ll do all the work,” Brody said through his sobs. “I’ll get a job and buy his food and walk him and play with him. You won’t have to do anything.”
Mason already knew that falser words had never been spoken.
“If you want him, we’ll take him,” Mason’s father said to Mason. He laid a hand on Mason’s shoulder. “It’s your decision, son.”
But Mason knew the decision had already been made.
He didn’t want a dog, but now he had a dog. Or Brody did.
; A dog named Dog that would live in Mason’s house and poop in Mason’s yard and probably want to lick Mason’s hand and sniff at the front of Mason’s pants and sleep on Mason’s bed, drooling and breathing on him all night long.
“You won’t be sorry!” Brody said. “I promise! You won’t be sorry!”
False, again. Because Mason was sorry already.
7
“Down, Dog!” Mason snapped as Dog crowded into the backseat of the car next to him and tried to stick his big snout in Mason’s face. Why didn’t they have nice cardboard carriers for dogs the way they had for cats? “Go away! Dog! Go away!”
“I don’t want to call him Dog,” Brody said, reaching over to give Dog an enormous, rapturous hug. Dog licked Brody’s hand and then turned back toward Mason and licked Mason’s hand. Mason wiped it off on his shorts, wishing he could wipe it off on Brody’s shirt instead, since Brody was the one who loved dog slobber so much.
“We can call him the name he had at the shelter,” Brody went on. “Duke. Do you like the name ‘Duke’? Or we can give him a new name of our own.”
“You can call him what you want, but I’m calling him Dog,” Mason retorted.
Once you had a good system in place for naming pets, there was no point in changing it.
“He’ll get confused,” Brody said. “He won’t know what his true name is.”
“Lots of dogs get called by two names.” Mason felt himself sounding like a crosser version of Nora. “Like being called ‘Duke.’ But also ‘boy.’ Down, Duke! Down, boy! I think ‘Duke’ is a dumb name, for people who think their dog is royalty or something. Duke, Prince, King. When it’s really just Dog, Dog, Dog. Plus, ‘Duke’ sounds too much like ‘Dunk.’ ”
If that wasn’t a good point, Mason didn’t know what was.
Brody thought for a minute. “Okay, not Duke. We can wait and see. I want the right name to go with his personality.”
Pet Disasters Page 4