“You stay over there!” I woofed. “Got it?”
And then he stood up. Holy paws! He was even bigger than I thought!
“I’M ABOUT TO BE EATEN ALIVE!” I hollered, flinging myself at the kennel door.
“Hey,” the giant said softly. “I’m Bear.”
“I’M ABOUT TO BE EATEN ALIVE BY A BEAR!” I yelled.
“Actually, I’m an Old English sheepdog,” he said.
Apparently no one was rushing to my rescue, so I sat down and gave him my Stern Face. “You are excessively big,” I informed him. “And hairy.”
“I know,” he said. “Although you’re pretty furry, too.”
“My fur is essential to my adorableness,” I explained. “Yours is extremely suspicious.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “It is a problem,” he said. “My last people were allergic to it. That’s why I’m here. Waiting for a home. But nobody wants big dogs.” He lowered his vast black nose toward me and sniffed. “You smell nice. Like outside and sunshine. What’s your name?”
“Foxtrot,” I said. “It’s a dance. Because the Old Lady thought I was going to be ever so very elegant and poised, ha-ha, rrrruff.”
Bear lay down. “Tell me everything about yourself, Foxtrot.” His floppy gray ears twitched forward. Even though I couldn’t see his eyes, and even though I’d never seen one before, I was pretty sure this was a Listening Face.
That is when I decided that Bear was my One and Only Truest Best Friend in the World and we would never be parted NEVER NEVER NEVER not even for a MILLION LIVER TREATS so JUST TRY IT, people. FIERCE FACE.
Nine days later, the Family of Doom showed up.
Oh, they didn’t look like a Family of Doom. They looked like an ordinary mom-dad-brother-sister, but I should have sniffed them out all the same.
“Look!” squealed the little one with pigtails. “Aw! They’re all cute and snuggled together!”
I was sitting between Bear’s front paws at the time, because all that fur made them marvelous pillows, plus he was warm and his breath smelled like meat YUM. But I was in the middle of a story and had no intention of being interrupted.
“So THEN,” I said, “THEN the black cat was like, I bet you can’t pull that white cloth off that table, and I was all, yes I can! Of course I can! And she was like, purrrrrrreally, let me see, and I was like, just watch me! And I grabbed it in my teeth! And I RRRRed it and RRRRRFFed and SCRRRRRFFed it and tugged and tugged with all my might!”
“Uh-oh,” said Bear.
“Uh-oh is right,” I said. “The white cloth flew off the table! Because I am very strong! But so did the lamp. And the picture frames. And a basket of very smelly dead flowers. There was crashing! And smashing! And mess! In all directions! And when I got out from under the cloth, the black cat was looking ever so smug and the Old Lady had appeared wearing the Maddest Face You’ve Ever Seen. And then I had to stay in the yard for hours and not one person cared no matter how much I howled.”
“Poor Foxtrot,” Bear said sympathetically.
“Indeed,” I said. “Poor ME. So that was day six. On the seventh day —”
But then the kennel door squeaked open and the two little people came in with the tall shelter man.
The littler one crouched down and said, “Hi, puppy!” and held out her hand. “I’m Willamina, and this is my brother, Wyatt.” The bigger one blinked at me through his glasses.
I’ve never met a hand I didn’t want to sniff, so I popped out of Bear’s paws and went over to investigate.
“Smells like lollipops,” I reported to Bear. I licked Willamina’s thumb. “And crayons. And glitter glue. And pancakes.”
“I had pancakes once,” Bear said mournfully. “My family kept putting food on the counter and then getting mad when I ate it.” He sighed. “It was very confusing.”
“That over there is Bear,” I informed Willamina, who had something like a Listening Face on but you can’t really expect too much from humans. “He is my One and Only Truest Best Friend in the World.”
Wyatt crouched down and held out his hand, too.
“What does he smell like?” Bear asked.
“Books,” I said. “And pears. Also pancakes. And a piano. The Old Lady had a piano, which, it turned out, was Not For Climbing On Get Off You Ridiculous Dog! Now there’s a story I haven’t —”
“I love her!” Willamina cried.
And before I knew it — before I could tell Bear about my adventures with the piano, before I could tell him he could have my pancakes if I ever had any and I wouldn’t get mad, before I could even say good-bye — suddenly I was up in the air and sailing off down the hallway in the tall man’s arms.
“BEAR!” I yowled. “BEAR! THEY ARE ABSCONDING WITH ME! IT’S A POMERANIAN-NAPPING! DO SOMETHING!”
“Foxtrot!” he called sadly. “I’ll miss you!”
“THIS SHALL NOT STAND!” I hollered. “BEAR! I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU! I’LL DIG A TUNNEL! I’LL LEARN TO FLY! I’LL ESCAPE AND SET YOU FREE AND WE’LL RUN AWAY, BEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAARRRRR —”
And then the door swung closed and it was official: I belonged to the Family of Doom.
WELL. You better believe I had something to say about that.
“Take me back!” I ordered the mom, who was driving the car. “My best friend is back there! I haven’t even told him about the first time I saw snow or the squirrel conspiracy or throwing up in the Old Lady’s car!”
“Noisy little thing, isn’t she?” said the dad in what I would definitely call a Concerned Voice.
“Don’t worry, puppy,” Willamina said, patting the top of the crate. “You’ll like our house.”
“I WILL NOT BE BRIBED!” I yapped.
And then we got to their house and I had to admit that for a bribe, it was a pretty good effort, because the yard was something like a MILLION times bigger than the Old Lady’s garden with all the Stop Digging Up My Dahlias You Pernicious Fur-ball flowers, plus it was all grass and space for running and smells of squirrels and three whole trees and tennis balls hiding in the bushes and —
“No! You cannot replace my One and Only Truest Best Friend with a backyard, no matter how splendid!” I barked. And I sat down on their back porch and complained and barked and yowled until Wyatt took me inside to the food and water bowls. I deigned to hush up long enough to eat some kibble, but only to lull them into a false sense of security, was my plan.
While they all made dinner, I investigated the whole house. Every few minutes I bolted back to the kitchen barking, “I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!” at the top of my lungs. This was fantastically effective in that they jumped every single time, which was hilarious, and also once the mom dropped a whole bowl of shredded cheese and I got to help clean it up lickety-split YUM.
After the fifth time, I lurked in the next room to spy on them.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” said the dad, rubbing his forehead.
“Give her a few days to settle down,” said the mom.
“I SHALL NEVER GIVE IN!” I yowled, sprinting off to check the exits one more time.
After dinner — during which only HALF of ONE meatball was smuggled under the table — Willamina took me up to her room.
“This bed is for you,” she said, pointing to a dark green snuggly dog bed, which was just the perfect color for my fur.
“Hrrmph,” I said, sniffing it. Willamina’s own bed was covered in glitter stickers and a green comforter with white stars. I jumped up on her pillow and gave her a very reasonable speech about tearing apart best friends and how no one had ever listened to me like Bear and it wasn’t fair and all of that.
“Foxtrot!” Willamina cried. “Calm down!”
“Maybe she’s nervous about being in a new place,” Wyatt suggested from the doorway.
“NERVOUS!” I yapped. “I’m never nervous! I am fierce! I am intrepid! I will bark like this until you take me back to Bear!”
But later that night I discovered it is hard to be intrepid and
fierce in the dark in a strange dog bed in a strange house with no big shaggy paws to curl around you and no listening ears to tell about your dreams. I put my paws over my nose and wondered where the tragic whimpering noises were coming from.
“Poor Foxtrot,” Willamina whispered from above me. “Don’t be sad. We’re really nice, I promise.”
Oh. The noises were coming from me.
The door creaked open and Wyatt snuck inside. “It’s okay, little dog,” he whispered, crouching to pat my head.
Willamina’s hands lifted me into her bed. She stroked my ears and scratched my tummy.
“She sounds lonely,” Wyatt said. He sat on the floor and gave me his hand to gnaw on.
“I think she misses that sweet big shaggy dog,” Willamina said.
My heart skipped a beat. I licked her nose as vigorously as I could. She understood me! As well as a human could anyway. It was an absolute miracle.
“I’ll ask if we can go visit him tomorrow,” Wyatt whispered.
Maybe it is possible to have three One and Only Truest Best Friends in the World, I thought. I wrapped my paws around Wyatt’s hand and fell asleep in Willamina’s arms.
“She’s always much calmer when she’s with Bear,” said the tall shelter man, watching us.
“Oh, really?” said the dad, but to be fair, we were in the Throes of Our Great Joyous Reunion, so naturally there was leaping and cavorting and yipping and spinning and bouncing, and also what Bear was doing, which was standing still looking at me with the biggest grin on his shaggy lovable face, oh I could SNUG HIM FOREVER.
“Some dogs just click with each other,” said the mom, leaning on the fence around the shelter yard.
“I knew she missed him,” Willamina said. She picked up one of the balls and threw it, and Bear obligingly bounded after it.
“I’m sure she’ll settle down after being with you for a few days,” said the shelter man. “Or, of course, you could always take Bear home with you, too.” He smiled as if this was a joke, AS IF IT WASN’T LITERALLY THE GREATEST IDEA OF ALL TIME.
“Absolutely not,” said the dad, but it was too late. I’d seen the mom and Willamina and Wyatt all light up. If they’d had tails, they’d have been wagging hopefully. I wagged my own little tail as fast as I could and barked, “I’ll be good! I promise! Well, I’ll try! Bear will help me! He’s good at being good! Much better than I am!”
After that there was a lot of human talking but guess who won? The Forces of Good and Friendship and Loyalty, that’s who!
“I’m pretty sure this is not a good idea,” said the dad as we all piled into the car. All of us! ALL OF US!
“I’m pretty sure it’s wonderful,” said the mom, burying her hands in Bear’s fur and smooching the top of his head.
“Me too!” chorused Wyatt and Willamina.
“Me too me too me too!” I yipped, jumping up to lick all their faces. “Bear, wait till you see their backyard! Bear, their kibble tastes like bacon! Bear, maybe you’ll get to sleep on Wyatt’s bed! Because there isn’t any room on Willamina’s bed because that’s where I’ll be sleeping is what I’ve decided. BEAR, GUESS WHAT?!”
Bear squashed his shagginess into the backseat and beamed at me. “What?”
“It turns out,” I said, “that humans can have Listening Faces, too.” I licked Willamina’s hand and off we went home, me and my three Truest Best Friends in the World.
Tui T. Sutherland is the author of several books for young readers, including the dragon series Wings of Fire, the Menagerie trilogy, the Pet Trouble series about mischievous dogs, and three books in the bestselling Seekers series (as part of the Erin Hunter team). In 2009, she was a two-day champion on Jeopardy! She lives in Massachusetts with her wonderful husband, two adorable sons, and one very patient dog, who has the most excellent Listening Face. To learn more about Tui’s books, visit her online at www.tuibooks.com.
I never even wanted a dog.
Some people get gooey-eyed over those pictures of puppies sitting in wheelbarrows or peeking out from behind flowerpots. My sister, Hannah, did. I, Heather, did not.
Yes, we’re twins. But we’re not anywhere near identical. She’s smaller, with straight dark hair. My hair is blond and curly. I’m a good writer; she’s good at math. And as much as she loves animals, I love going fast, whether I’m on skis, a bike, or even just my own two feet. I hold the 500-yard-dash record for our entire school, and even though my bike is old and clunky, I’m already in training for my dream: to be the first woman to win the Tour de France. All in all, the only things Hannah and I have in common are a shared room, a habit of chewing our fingernails, and a way of sensing how the other one is feeling at any given time.
The shared-room part is tricky. I like things neat and tidy. Hannah likes — well, she likes dogs. “Can’t you get rid of some of these toys?” I ask whenever I trip over a stuffed dog on my way out for a run. (It makes Hannah furious when I call them toys. To her, they all have names and personalities.)
Naturally, Hannah has always begged for a dog of her own. But shortly before our eleventh birthday, she cranked up the volume. One night she brought out a magazine article about some abandoned puppies and began to cry as she pleaded with us to help her save them.
I can’t stand it when Hannah cries. Why? Because, being twins, I feel her pain — literally. And I do not like to cry. I’ll do anything to make her stop before I start bawling, too. I would have caved, and we would have had five or six puppies sleeping in our room that night. But Mom and Dad are tougher than I am. Mom just gave her stock answer on the dog question: “We’re not ready.”
“What kind of dog do you really want?” I asked Hannah later that night. “If you could have any dog in the world.”
“The right dog,” she said. “The right dog for me.”
“A dog’s a dog, isn’t it?” I asked. “They all slobber and eat weird things off the sidewalk, and sniff each other’s —”
“And love you, and curl up next to you, and listen to your secrets, and make you laugh,” said Hannah. “Yeah, a dog’s a dog. But they’re all different, too. And when you meet the right one for you, you just know it.” Hannah sniffled, and I was afraid she was about to start crying again. “That’s why I keep bugging Mom and Dad. When the right dog comes along, I’m not going to miss out. I want to be ready.”
I didn’t think our parents would ever give in. But they surprised me.
“Here’s what we’ve decided,” said Dad at dinner one night about two weeks before our birthday. “Having a dog is a privilege that you will have to earn.”
Hannah put down her fork and sat up very straight. “Tell me more.”
“Dog points,” said Mom. “You’ll need to earn two hundred and fifty.”
Hannah looked at me, as if I could explain. I shrugged.
“A friend of mine at work invented the idea,” Mom said. “She wanted her kids to prove that they were responsible enough to take care of a pet.”
“Wait, what about me?” I was beginning to feel invisible. “I don’t even want a stupid dog.”
Mom and Dad looked at each other. They hadn’t figured out this part of the plan. “You can earn — you can earn bike points,” said Mom. “Toward that one in the window at Terry’s Cyclery. You said that was your dream bicycle. Remember?”
Oh, yes. I remembered. That bike was like a silver rocket, about to take off. It was shining, elegant, sleek. On that bike, I could fly like the wind. My fingers tingled. I could already feel the handlebars.
Dad raised his eyebrows. “Martha, I’m not sure a bike and a dog are in the budget —”
“Hmm,” said Mom. “How about this? If Hannah earns two hundred and fifty points first, she gets a dog. If Heather gets there first, she gets the bike.”
Dad nodded. “Sounds good. And to make it even more exciting, you’ll have to earn the points before your birthday, or the whole thing is off.”
They smiled at each other, very pleased with themselves. H
annah and me? Not so much. I’ll say one thing: They were brilliant to make it a contest. Hannah may be a sap when it comes to animals, but don’t underestimate her. She can be as competitive as I can. “Forget the bike,” she hissed.
“Forget the dog,” I hissed back. I turned to my parents. “I’m in. So how do we get points?”
Dad pushed his plate aside and pulled out an oversized pad of paper. “Meet your new friend, The Chart.” He held it up. “As you’ll see, points are awarded as objectives are met. There is no limit to how many points you may earn in a day or week.” He grabbed a black marker and quickly added a row titled “Bike Points, Heather.”
Hannah squinted at the column of chores. “Clear dinner table. Two points.”
“Two points,” I yelped. “That’s a lot of clearing.”
“Ah, but take a closer look.” Mom angled the chart toward me.
“Clear table without being asked,” I read. “Four points.” I rolled my eyes. “Okay, I get it.”
I tried to resist The Chart, I really did. Hannah and I both knew the whole thing was probably just a clever ruse to get us to do a bunch of chores. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that bike.
After school the next day, Hannah ate her snack quickly, then put her jacket back on. “I’m ready,” she announced.
Mom picked up a red marker and added two checks to Hannah’s row.
“What’re those for?” I asked.
Hannah gave me a smug look. “Mom’s driving me to the shelter. It’s Wednesday, remember? I get points for volunteering, plus points for being ready to go without Mom nagging me.”
Hannah’s a regular volunteer at the Pawley Rescue Center. I started to protest that it wasn’t fair for her to get points for something she does anyway, but then I remembered the column on the chart for “Help Consuela.”
Consuela is our next-door neighbor. She has multiple sclerosis and needs help sometimes, with cleaning or errands. I like helping Consuela. She’s smart and funny and she used to be a world-class bicycle racer. I couldn’t wait to tell her about the bike.
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