Lucky Dog

by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel

  That’s what I’m going to tell them, I decide, now that they’re outside and walking toward me.

  “We’re sorry,” Dad says, sitting on the other swing. “You’re right, bud. We shouldn’t ever fight in front of you.”

  “We’ll do better,” Mom says, tears in her eyes. She leans against the slide, her hands behind her back.

  I want to forgive them, but I’m too mad. Also? I don’t believe them.

  “Hey, we have a surprise for you,” Dad says.

  “An early birthday present,” Mom adds.

  I cross my arms over my chest, hugging the chains of the swing, too. “I told you I don’t want to celebrate with you.”

  “Well, your birthday is tomorrow,” Mom points out. “And you can do whatever you want then. But right now, please come with us.”

  “Where?” I ask in a huff.

  “You’ll see,” says Dad.

  I roll my eyes as I stand up.

  We take Dad’s car. I’m in the backseat and my parents are up front. The three of us haven’t been in the car together in ages and it feels weird.

  Not bad, though. No one fights because no one is talking.

  We end up at a place called the Pawley Rescue Center.

  When we get out of the car, I hear dogs barking but I don’t get my hopes up. Inside, this tall, skinny, old guy greets us like he knows we’re coming. “You must be Jack,” he says to me, smiling. “The dog kennels are back here.”

  I look to my parents, thinking this must be a mistake. He must be waiting for some other kid named Jack.

  Except Dad says, “Let’s go.”

  He puts his arm around me and leads me toward the barking dogs.

  Mom is on my other side and both my parents are smiling at each other, over my head.

  This must be a trick. Maybe they signed me up to volunteer at the shelter, walk dogs that other, luckier kids will get to take home. That would be worse than the puzzle.

  Except maybe not. The dogs are so cute, each in their own little enclosure.

  They’re in two rows, facing each other. So when I walk down the aisle there are dogs on either side of me, and they bark like crazy.

  I see an older-looking Dalmatian with big pink gums. I see a brown Chihuahua with pointy ears. I see a fat little black pug, curled up on a ratty blue bed. A giant rottweiler charges the cage and barks viciously. I hurry to the next dog, a golden retriever that looks kind of like Trevor’s dog, except this one keeps pacing back and forth in her cage, anxious. I see a bunch of mutts in all different shapes and sizes, and then I see her: my dog.

  She’s a rich shade of brown, the color of dark honey. She’s got a pale pink tongue, and floppy ears I yearn to stroke because they look so soft. Her long tail curls up a bit and it wags as she stares at me.

  “Um, can I see this one?” I ask, suddenly shy.

  The guy who led us here nods. “Of course. Great choice, Jack. She just came in last week. She’s about six months old, we think. And definitely very friendly.”

  “She’s beautiful,” my mom agrees.

  The guy opens the kennel door and the dog hurries to me, sniffing my shoes and then my knees, making her way up to my face. Her breath is warm. She licks my neck and then she jumps on me. Her two front paws land on my shoulders, as if she’s giving me a hug, as if we are dancing. I stroke her ears and they’re even softer than I’d imagined.

  “We’ll have to teach her not to do that,” says my dad. He puts his arm around my mom. They both watch me, smiling and smiling and smiling.

  I look at them nervously. Is this really happening? I am afraid to believe.

  “I’m getting a dog?” I ask.

  “Yes,” says Mom. “What are you going to name her?”

  I look at my new dog and say the first thing that pops into my head. “Bird Dog.”

  Mom and Dad both laugh.

  Soon we’re home with Bird Dog and her new bowls and leash and food and all of the other supplies we bought at the shelter. I feel like I’m dreaming when Dad says, “Let’s take a walk around the block.”

  Mom nods like this is the best idea she’s ever heard.

  I lead Bird Dog out of the car. She sniffs every single spot of the driveway, and then pulls the leash to the sidewalk to sniff there, too.

  I can’t believe she’s going to live here with me, at the house, all the time, me and Bird Dog in the Bird’s Nest.

  “Let’s go,” says Mom.

  And we walk. I’m up ahead of my parents but when I peek back they’re chatting with each other and there’s no anger in their voices.

  I know it’s not always going to be like this. There’ll be more fights. But at the moment, it seems like maybe they could actually be friends.

  “So can we celebrate your birthday with you tomorrow?” asks Dad. “Maybe at home?”

  “We can order a pizza,” says Mom.

  I think for a moment and smile and nod.

  We make it all the way around the block and inside, where we show Bird Dog around the house. We have dinner together, all three of us, with Bird Dog at our feet. No one fights. Mom and Dad both tuck me into bed before Mom leaves.

  I go to sleep with Bird Dog at the foot of my bed. And when I wake up, she’s still there.

  Today I am eleven, and I already know this is going to be the best birthday I’ve ever had in my entire life.

  Leslie Margolis has written a bunch of books about kids and dogs, most famously Boys Are Dogs in the Annabelle Unleashed series, and Girl’s Best Friend in the Maggie Brooklyn Mystery series. She lives in the Hollywood Hills, where she and her family enjoy hiking with Aunt Blanche, their rescue mutt.

  Barkly was the first to hear it. He always is. He pricked up his ears, trotted to the door, and stuck his snout between the bars. Then he started to bark.

  That’s all it took. Before you could say “Kibble and Bits,” all the other dogs were pressed up against their kennel doors barking like crazy. All except me.

  I backed up as far as I could and wedged myself into the corner. Then I plopped down with my nose to the ground and my paws over my ears. Just in time.

  The outside door opened, and three little redheaded boys came barreling through. That’s when the woofing and wagging really got going, as everyone tried to get their attention. Everyone but me.

  The noise was deafening:

  WOOF! WOOF! ARF! ARF! BOW-WOW! A-ROOOOOOO!

  You didn’t have to be a dog (which, if you haven’t already figured out, I am) to understand what they were saying:

  “PICK ME! PICK ME! PICK ME! PICK MEEEEEEE!”

  The kids flew off in all different directions, but no one flew my way. That was fine with me. Being picked was the very last thing I wanted. I’m perfectly happy right here at the Pawley Rescue Center.

  Everyone agrees that this is a pretty cool place, but all anyone around here ever talks about is getting adopted and moving into their “forever home.” I don’t get it. As far as I’m concerned, this is my forever home and the staff and volunteers are my forever family. I love it here.

  I don’t remember anything about my life before I came to the Center — and from what I’ve heard, that’s probably just as well. Let’s just say I wasn’t in very good shape when someone dumped me on the doorstep. But Mr. Joe, who runs the place, took me in and named me Buddy, and that’s who I’ve been ever since.

  And speaking of Mr. Joe — there he was, chasing after the kids. And right behind him was a lady who must have been the kids’ mother. She had the same red hair and freckles.

  The lady put two fingers to her lips and let out a piercing whistle. All the dogs stopped barking, and the boys stopped running. There was a moment of silence. Then the boys all started pointing and talking at once. And they all said the same thing:

  “I want this one!”

  There was just one problem. Each kid was pointing to a different dog.

  The littlest boy was standing outside the biggest dog’s kennel. “Isn’t this one
cute?” he said. “Her hair is so fluffy.”

  Mr. Joe chuckled. “That’s Farfel,” he said. “Farfel is a Bernese mountain dog, and she certainly is cute. But believe it or not, she’s still just a puppy. When she’s fully grown, she’ll weigh more than a hundred pounds.”

  “No way,” the mom said. “I don’t want any dog that weighs more than I do!”

  “Hey, look at this one,” the oldest boy said, running over to Dot’s kennel. “She looks just like the pups in 101 Dalmatians.”

  “Dot’s a beauty, all right,” Mr. Joe agreed. “But she’s very shy. I think she’d be happier with a smaller family.”

  “Well, this one sure isn’t shy,” the middle boy said, reaching out to pet a little black-and-white dog I didn’t even know. He’d only been here for a few days.

  The new dog was so excited, I thought he was going to have a fit. He slurped the kid’s hand, raced around the kennel, slurped him again, and did a backflip. No kidding — a real backflip. He stopped for a moment, panting, and then went through the whole routine again.

  “That’s Mojo,” said Mr. Joe. “He’s a Jack Russell. He’s full of energy and needs lots of room to run around. Do you have a big yard?”

  “Nope,” said the mom. “And I already have three boys who are full of energy and like to run around. I was hoping for something a little less rambunctious. How about that one?” she said, pointing to me.

  “Great choice,” Mr. Joe said enthusiastically. “Buddy is a Boston terrier, and you won’t find a sweeter, gentler dog than him in this whole shelter.”

  “What do you think, boys?” the mom asked, but the kids had already moved on to Bitsy. They were all smiling and reaching out to pet her, and Bitsy was doing her best to help them. She had practically squeezed her whole head through the bars. I was afraid she’d get stuck that way.

  The mom turned away from me — Whew! What a relief! — and joined the boys. “What a cute little mutt,” she said. Oops! I could hardly believe my ears. No one ever says “mutt” around here. They say “mixed breed.”

  That describes a lot of the dogs here. But Bitsy’s more mixed than most. She seems to have a bit of everything in her. She’s fluffy like Farfel, spotted like Dot, and energetic like Mojo — well, not quite that energetic. In other words, she was perfect for this bunch.

  I sighed as Mr. Joe led the redheads back to his office to begin the adoption process. I was happy for Bitsy. I knew she’d have a great life with that family. But I was sad to see her go. She was one of my best friends. Better her than me, though. I hope nobody ever adopts me.

  Especially the picky couple Nora Clark brought by that afternoon. Nora is one of the full-time workers here. She’s one of the nicest and definitely the funniest.

  The couple had come to adopt a poodle puppy, but we were all out of those. The closest thing was Curly. The best you could say about him was that he was poodle-ish. He had the right kind of fur, but that was about it. His face and body shape were more like a bulldog. And you didn’t have to be any Sherlock Bones to figure out that Curly was at least six years old — in dog years, that is. If he was a person, he’d be forty-two!

  “I’m sorry,” the man said. “I’m sure Curly is fine. But my wife has her heart set on a poodle.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nora said. “It may take a while, but we’ll find you your perfect pet. In the meantime, here’s a little riddle to cheer you up.”

  Nora always has a good joke to tell and today was no exception. As they walked away from Curly’s kennel, she asked the couple, “What do you get when you cross a cocker spaniel, a poodle, and a rooster?”

  The couple thought for a moment and then they both shook their heads.

  “A cockerpoodledoo!” Nora said. Only she was laughing so hard that it came out “cockerpoodledoo-hoo-hoo!” Nora always laughs at her own jokes.

  The next day started off like any other day, with a delicious breakfast and a yummy liver treat. It was nice outside so we got to run around the backyard until the shelter opened for business.

  I was back in my kennel taking a little snooze when Barkly started up again. The big door opened and Mr. Joe came in with what looked like two people — a man and a woman. As they walked down the aisle, though, I could see a third person. It was a young girl. She looked about nine, but it was hard to tell because she was all scrunched up, hiding behind her mother. She looked scared to death.

  As they came down the aisle, I heard the mother tell Mr. Joe: “We’re looking for a dog for our daughter. Tillie is very shy and we think a nice dog will be a great companion for her.”

  “A nice, gentle dog,” the father added.

  “But I don’t want a dog,” the little girl piped up. “I told you. I want a mouse.”

  “A nice, gentle, small dog,” the mother told Mr. Joe.

  “I think I know the perfect one,” Mr. Joe said, stopping in front of my kennel. “Tillie,” he said. “This is Buddy. He’s a sweetheart, not too big, and he’s quiet as a mouse! He hardly ever barks.”

  The little girl peeked out at me from behind her mother’s skirt.

  I peeked back.

  Tillie had big brown eyes that looked enormous behind her thick glasses, snaggly little teeth that were partly hidden by shiny braces, and she couldn’t have weighed more than a sack of kibble. In other words, she was absolutely adorable. At least I thought so.

  Maybe because even without glasses, a Boston terrier’s big browns are hard to ignore. “Pop-eyed” and “bulging” are just two of the ways I’ve heard them described. As for my teeth, they’re an orthodontist’s dream.

  Anyway, I don’t know if it was her looks or her personality, but something about that little girl got to me. I took a few steps toward the front of my kennel. She looked as if she was going to take a few steps back. But then a strange thing happened. Tillie came out from behind her mother’s skirt and cocked her head.

  I took a few more steps toward her. She took a few toward me. Soon we were so close I could smell her.

  She smelled delicious.

  Tillie slowly let go of her mother’s hand. And now it was hanging just outside my door — right in tongue range. And before I knew what I was doing, I’d licked it. Yum!

  She tasted delicious.

  I gave her another slurp. For a minute, I was afraid she was going to cry. Her mother leaned down to comfort her. But then another strange thing happened. Tillie giggled and reached out to pet me.

  And that’s all it took. My fate was sealed. I never wanted another home, but now it looked like one wanted me.

  But they don’t just give away dogs like liver treats here. Mr. Joe and the staff do everything they can to make sure we’re going to a good family.

  Well, they must have decided this was a good family because a few days later I found myself in the backseat of a strange car heading into the unknown. As I watched the Center disappear through the rear window, all I could think was: I never should have licked that little hand.

  The owner of that little hand was clearly having second thoughts of her own. Tillie sat huddled over by the door, as far away from me as possible, with her arms crossed and both hands safely tucked under her armpits.

  After a while we pulled up in front of a little yellow house with bright green grass and a picket fence all around it. It wasn’t the Pawley Rescue Center, but I had to admit it wasn’t bad. There was lots of room to run around and plenty of dirt to dig in.

  Tillie’s mom turned around and smiled at me. “Well,” she said. “Here we are. Welcome home, Buddy!”

  My new family did all they could to make me feel welcome. They bought me a brand-new dog dish with my name on it, all the chew toys a terrier could ask for, and a fuzzy round bed that was just my size.

  But home? Nope. To me that still meant the Pawley Rescue Center. After two weeks, I was still homesick for my cozy kennel and all my pals from the shelter. Not that I wasn’t making friends here. I’d already met Gus, the bloodhound next door, and Woof fro
m across the street.

  And then, of course, there was Tillie… .

  Things had changed a lot by now and, believe it or not, Tillie was my new best friend. She kept my bowl filled with kibble and tasty liver treats. She took me for long walks and tossed a steady stream of sticks, balls, and Frisbees for me to fetch. But it was her snaggly little smile that made my tail wag. In other words, I seemed to be falling in love.

  Too bad the feeling wasn’t mutual.

  Oh, Tillie had grown to like me, all right. She just didn’t seem to trust me. Everything was fine as long as I was on the other end of a leash or running away from her, chasing whatever it was she was throwing. But as soon as I got too close, she backed away. I could tell she was still a little bit scared of me. But I didn’t take that personally. Tillie was afraid of lots of things. Bats, even though she’d never even seen one. Burglars. (She hadn’t seen any of those either.) Snakes. Bees. Spinach. Loud noises. The dark. And sad to say, dogs — even me.

  Remember that fuzzy round dog bed I mentioned? Well, on my first night in the yellow house, Tillie’s mom placed that bed on the floor right next to Tillie’s bed. Tillie immediately moved it a few feet away, and that’s where it stayed for the next few weeks.

  Every night before she went to sleep, Tillie would stop by my bed, pat my head, and wish me sweet dreams. I think she felt braver when I was lying down. Then she’d curl up in her own bed and we’d both go to sleep — alone. I wished I could sleep next to her bed — or better yet in it — but I didn’t want to push things.

  And then one night everything changed. We’d both fallen asleep to the sound of a gentle rain. Suddenly a great clap of thunder woke us up. Tillie quickly pulled her blanket over her head and began to cry. I put my paws over my ears and hoped it would stop soon — for both our sakes. I’m not too crazy about thunder either. But the storm went on, and so did Tillie’s crying. I kept waiting for her mom to come into the room, but I guess she couldn’t hear Tillie’s sobs over the storm. I could, though, and they were heartbreaking.

  When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I padded over to her bed. She still had the covers over her head, but one hand was sticking out. I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I stood up on my hind legs and licked it. Tillie caught her breath and her sobs slowed a bit. Then she patted my head, and I gave her another lick.