by Lois Duncan
“I’m not going to do that,” Andi said. “I feel differently about Aunt Alice now that she’s our legal advisor.”
Actually, her change in attitude went deeper than that, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. Sometimes in the afternoons when she wasn’t working on the paper she walked down the street to Aunt Alice’s house to visit with her for twenty minutes or so. Twenty minutes was pretty much all she could handle, because Aunt Alice wasn’t the same when she blathered away in her usual manner as when she spoke as “a professional.” But now that Andi knew that another Aunt Alice was buried somewhere inside there, a fascinating core of — she wasn’t sure what to call it, but something exciting and tough and strange, concealed underneath the wrinkles and soft sagging arms and dimpled cheeks — she wanted to be there when it reemerged. It was like having had a tiny glimpse of a magical image that dissolved into nothing, and sometimes you wondered if you’d ever really seen it.
But it hadn’t dissolved. She was sure it was in there somewhere. And that certainty was what made her say to Bruce, “I’m actually looking forward to staying with Aunt Alice.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
As they waited eagerly for the envelopes to start arriving, Tim’s e-mail in-box was overflowing. One message was particularly interesting because it involved the recipe for Bully’s favorite meat loaf.
A veterinarian in Ohio wrote, “If this meat loaf for dogs includes people-food, it might be dangerous for dogs who are allergic to such ingredients.”
A man who owned a company that prided itself on manufacturing “the purest canned dog food in the world” suggested that they substitute his product for any un-doggly ingredients in Mrs. Bernstein’s recipe.
“Concoctions that contain cereal products, onions, and tomato paste might upset a dog’s digestive track,” he wrote.
“I’ve been wondering about that,” Bruce said to Andi when he read that e-mail. “Back when you were tossing bread crusts to Bebe and Friday, I told you I didn’t think that was a good idea. I’ve read that dogs shouldn’t be given people-food. We sure don’t want to do anything to make dogs sick.”
“That dog food guy offered to pay us to revise the recipe,” Tim said. “Why don’t we take out some of the people-food ingredients and replace them with his dog food?”
“That won’t be a problem,” Andi said. “I’ll just make a few substitutions in the e-mail attachment. We won’t have to change the Web site. We’ll just send the recipe to people who ask for it, and we’ll call it ‘Bully’s Extra-Healthy Meat Loaf with No Bad Things in It.’”
The first of the envelopes started arriving on Monday. Debbie waited for the letter carrier out by the mailbox with a coaster wagon so she could haul the envelopes into the house and hide them in the back of her closet. That night Andi came over, and they spent the evening in Debbie’s bedroom, rolling the coins into paper sleeves to take to the bank. That took so long that Andi was forced to call home and ask permission to sleep over.
The mail load during the next two days was even heavier, and Bruce and Tim had to help with the coin rolling.
“If this is what it’s like to work at a bank, it’s no wonder Mr. Murdock’s always in such a bad mood,” Bruce grumbled.
Then the deluge began to lessen and, by the weekend, had subsided quite a bit. Even so, a couple dozen envelopes arrived on Saturday when Debbie’s parents were home from work. They were understandably curious about the fact that their daughter was receiving more mail than they were, but when Debbie opened the envelopes at the breakfast table and they saw two quarters tumble out, they were more amused than perturbed.
“So your little business is a success!” Debbie’s father said with a smile. “Congratulations, honey! It’s nice that you and your friends are earning spending money in such a creative way.”
Debbie nodded. That day’s income equaled about twelve dollars. But her parents had no idea about the other envelopes that had been pouring in all week or about the many businesspeople who were purchasing space for ads for collars, leashes, sunglasses, earmuffs, mouthwash, and hand-knit sweaters for dogs.
By now there was more than enough in Bruce’s bank account to cover the cost of Red Rover, and on Sunday afternoon he walked down the block to the Gordons’ house to deliver his final payment.
Mr. Gordon regarded him with astonishment.
“Where did all this come from?” he asked, staring, dumbfounded, at the large pile of bills that Bruce had placed in his hand.
“Like I told you, I work for a newspaper,” Bruce reminded him. “My sister and I and two of our friends are publishing it. Remember when I delivered a copy for Connor?”
“I do recall that, but I didn’t realize —” Mr. Gordon seemed unable to find the words to complete his sentence. He kept staring at the money in amazement. “This is truly phenomenal. I’ll go get Red Rover’s papers for you. Those are important, as Red has an excellent pedigree. In the morning I’ll have my secretary type up a bill of sale. I have to admit that I didn’t really think you could do this. As I said, I’m extremely impressed. You’re quite an entrepreneur!”
As soon as Mr. Gordon left the room, Jerry slid in through the half-open door to the patio. He apparently had been standing there listening to the entire conversation, and he looked like he’d just finished eating something that tasted bad.
“You can’t have earned that much money selling newspapers,” he said. “Connor and I haven’t made that much with our subscriptions, and we’ve sold a lot of them.”
“But, of course, you’re donating half of what you make to charity,” Bruce said. “By the way, what charity is it?”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Jerry snapped. “I read Connor’s copy of that paper, and it’s junk. No one would want to pay to read your sister’s dumb poems or that stupid gossip column. How are you making all that money? You must be doing something shady, and I’m going to find out what it is.”
“Be my guest,” Bruce said. “All we’ve done is publish a newspaper. Ever since we posted it on the Internet, we’ve been getting richer every day. People all over the country want to run ads. Now that I’ve paid for Red Rover, our bank account still has a balance of two hundred and seventy-six dollars. We’re saving up now to buy cars.”
Jerry opened his mouth to respond, but before he could do so, Mr. Gordon returned to the room with Red Rover’s papers in his hand. He handed them over to Bruce with an expression of respect.
“I’m glad that you and Jerry have been chatting,” he said. “You boys live right here on the same block, and it’s a shame you’re not better acquainted. Jerry, did you know that Bruce and his sister are publishing a newspaper? Maybe you’d like to apply for a job as a reporter.”
“Bruce and I were just talking about his paper,” Jerry said, gracing his father with one of his sweet smiles. “They have a pretty big staff already, but who knows? There may come a time when I can give them something they’re looking for. If so, I’ll be sure to let them know.”
Bruce left the house with the feeling that something had slipped past him — that Jerry was referring to something that might be important — but he wasn’t going to let himself worry about it. With Red’s papers clutched in his hand, he broke into a run, charging through the gate into their backyard, where Red Rover was sitting dejectedly by his doghouse. As soon as he saw his master, he began to wag his tail, and his big brown eyes grew hopeful as he glanced toward the gate.
“You’re not going to be cooped up here much longer,” Bruce told him, throwing his arms around Red’s neck and rubbing his cheek affectionately against the dog’s silky head. “Tomorrow I get a bill of sale, and you’re officially mine. Then we can go for runs all over the neighborhood.”
When he broke the news to his parents, they regarded him with the same astonishment as Mr. Gordon.
“So, now do I get to take Red running?” Bruce asked his father.
“Oh, son, I don’t know,” Mr. Walker said,
looking uncomfortable. “This situation really troubles me. That dog is so large and hard to control —”
“But, Dad, you promised!” Bruce cried. “You told me that when Red was legally mine I’d be able to take him running. Mom, you were there when he said it. You remember that, don’t you?”
“You did tell him that,” Mrs. Walker said to her husband. But she, too, looked distressed, as if she wished the promise hadn’t been made.
“I acknowledge that promise,” said Mr. Walker. “I meant it when I made it. But I never expected Bruce to buy the dog so quickly. I thought, by the time he managed to save up that much money, he’d have gone through a growth spurt. Red is a lot of dog for a boy his size to handle, especially if he decides to dash into the street again.”
“He won’t do that unless Jerry rams him,” Bruce said. “And Jerry’s not going to do that — not with his cousin, Connor, keeping a watch on him.”
“Well, I’d like to be here to keep a watch on things, too,” said Mr. Walker. “There’s a problem I didn’t anticipate when I made that promise. Your mother and I are going to be gone for three weeks. We’re going to Europe to celebrate our fifteenth anniversary. We’ve been postponing telling you and Andi, because we knew that you wouldn’t be happy about staying with Aunt Alice.”
“We won’t mind that at all,” Bruce said. “I know you’ll love Europe. Andi and I will be happy to stay with Aunt Alice.”
If his parents had appeared startled when he’d told them he’d paid for Red Rover, that was nothing compared to the surprise on their faces now.
“Do you really mean that?” his mother asked incredulously. “I’ve been so concerned! I’ve always dreamed of visiting Europe, and when your father surprised me with the tickets, I was so excited and happy I almost fainted. But I hated the thought of you children back here, miserable, and I’m worried about being out of reach in an emergency.”
“There won’t be an emergency,” Bruce assured her. “And, if there is, Aunt Alice will know how to handle it. After all, she used to be a detective.”
“That was a long time ago,” his father said. “Aunt Alice is old now, and elderly people don’t cope well with stressful situations. Your mother and I feel confident that Alice can deal with the ups and downs of everyday life, but we don’t want her faced with a calamity. I want you to get a book about how to train dogs and teach Red to obey your commands. And I’m asking you to postpone taking him out of the yard until we’re back from our trip. Then, if something goes wrong, we’ll be here to help deal with it. Does that sound like a reasonable compromise?”
Bruce had to struggle to keep from showing his disappointment. He felt sure he could manage Red Rover without any difficulty, but he didn’t want to ruin his parents’ vacation by having them worry about him the whole time they were gone.
“Okay,” he said. “I promise to wait till you get back.”
The following evening he walked down to the Gordons’ to collect the bill of sale. Mr. Gordon had it ready and complimented him again on his business initiative.
“It’s wonderful to see young people so motivated,” he said.
When Bruce left to go home, he found Connor in the Gordons’ driveway, preparing to wax his car.
“Hi, dude, what’s up?” Connor asked in his friendly manner. “Word has it you’ve got yourself a dog.”
“Sure do!” Bruce said. “Now I’m going to start saving for a car. But I’ll never be able to afford a set of wheels like yours. Someday, when you’re not busy, would you take me for a ride?”
“I’d be glad to,” Connor said, “but there isn’t much time when I’m not busy, what with so much volunteer work and the job selling magazines.”
“But I thought …” Bruce let the sentence trail off. Every time he talked to the Gordons he got more and more confused. It was as if their family never communicated and no one had any idea what the others were doing.
“What’s with this Dogs’ Home Journal?” he now asked Connor. “I can’t seem to find it on the Internet.”
“It’s so new, the search engines haven’t picked it up yet,” Connor said. “And I have you to thank for finding it. I hadn’t realized how popular dogs were in Elmwood. I figured you wouldn’t mind if we added it to our subscription list. Business is business, and people who read a dog newspaper will read a dog magazine. Now that you’re selling off the Internet, we’re not in competition. No hard feelings, right, pal?”
He smiled his wonderful smile, and Bruce smiled back at him.
“No hard feelings,” he said. “Like you say, it’s all business.”
Despite his resemblance to Jerry, it was impossible not to like Connor.
CHAPTER NINE
Now that Mr. and Mrs. Walker’s trip was no longer a secret, it was suddenly all they could talk about. Bruce and Andi couldn’t have imagined that a trip abroad took so much preparation. Their parents had to get passports, purchase new luggage, and buy voltage converters so they could take their hair dryer and electric razor. And there were endless discussions about what clothes they should pack, since parts of Europe were cold and others were hot.
“I just wish they’d leave and get it over with,” Andi said irritably after what seemed like hours trapped at the family dinner table where their father had spread out maps and explained their travel routes and their mother had read aloud from an assortment of brochures.
Andi was so worn out by the demands of editing two newspapers that she had little energy to focus on anything else. Although the print edition of The Bow-Wow News was a weekly, they had decided to publish the Internet edition once every two weeks. To Andi’s surprise, that required more work than the weekly. The second page of the online edition had to be sent individually to people who mailed them quarters, and typing all those e-mail addresses took forever.
There was also the challenge of having to select which lead article to feature on the Web site and exactly where to break it off so readers would be willing to pay to read the rest of it.
“Our second edition has to be about Barkley,” Tim insisted. “Next to the issue about Bully, that one’s our most popular.”
“That picture doesn’t look as clear as it did in the paper,” Andi said, studying the image on the computer screen. “If Mr. Murdock says that’s a stone, people might believe him.”
“It is not a stone!” Bruce was outraged by the suggestion. “I know what it is! I was there when it happened!”
“But you weren’t close enough,” Andi said, continuing her critical examination of the photograph. “It actually could be a stone. Or maybe a dead bird.”
“You can’t have it both ways,” Tim told her. “If we use a picture that was taken from a far enough distance away so it shows both the dog and Mr. Murdock, the lump on the sidewalk won’t show up in any detail. If we zero in on that, Bruce will have to crop out Mr. Murdock.”
“I think I can fix that,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “I can enlarge just that one little section of the picture. It won’t be any harder than enlarging Bully’s meat loaf.”
“That would solve the problem,” Andi said. “And I’ll write a poem about it. I’ve already got the first verse:
The sidewalk glistened, clean and white,
Till Barkley ambled by.
His owner shouted, ‘Hurry up!’
And hit him in the eye.”
“You can’t say that!” Bruce told her. “Mr. Murdock didn’t hit Barkley in the eye!”
“On the thigh!” Andi hastily revised the verse. “That would rhyme. I’ll change it. ‘And hit him on the thigh!’”
“He didn’t hit him anywhere,” Bruce said in exasperation. “All he did was yank his leash.”
“That’s almost as bad,” Andi said. “He could have broken his neck. And ‘leash’ is hard to find a rhyme for. Debbie, how are you coming with the gossip column?”
“It’s Bebe’s turn to go to the Doggie Park,” Debbie said, patting her mother’s hair extensions into place. “A
nd, instead of taking a notebook, I’m going to take a tape recorder. I don’t want to miss a word when Fifi’s owner tells Foxy’s owner about her date with Dr. Bryant.”
That week’s gossip column was a long one. Not only did Dr. Bryant buy Fifi’s owner dinner, he kissed her good night and gave her a handout about tick removal. In addition, Curly Roskin had eaten a pinecone, Frisky Mason had bitten the mail carrier, and Trixie Larkin had barked in the night and saved the family from a mouse that had gotten into the clothes hamper.
“I wouldn’t feel safe if we didn’t have Trixie,” said Mrs. Larkin.
For the online edition, Andi decided to break off the article about Barkley at the point where it said, “Then the poor little dog lifted his trembling head and pleadingly gazed at his master as if to ask — FOR THE REST OF THIS HORRIFYING STORY, SEND FIFTY CENTS AND YOUR E-MAIL ADDRESS TO THE BOW-WOW NEWS.”
“What’s ‘the rest of the story’?” Bruce demanded. “Nothing more happened except Mr. Murdock yelled at me and I ran. When people send us money, what are you going to say Barkley was asking?”
“‘Dear Master, why don’t you help Concerned Citizens for Clean Neighborhoods keep the sidewalks clean?’ ” Andi said. “I know that’s not worth fifty cents, but I’ll send them my poem to make it longer. I did find a rhyme for ‘leash.’ It’s ‘quiche’ — that awful cheese pie with broccoli that Aunt Alice makes.
His owner jerked
The sturdy leash
And yelled, ‘Go home
And eat your quiche!’”
“You can’t say Barkley ate quiche for breakfast,” Bruce told her. “Not without a statement from the Murdocks. You’re going to have to come up with a different poem.”
The evening before Mr. and Mrs. Walker were due to leave, Aunt Alice invited the family over for dinner to discuss the details of the children’s visit. Mr. Walker wanted to be sure that his aunt knew that Bruce was not to take Red Rover out of the yard, and Mrs. Walker wanted them all in agreement that the children would spend their evenings at home with Aunt Alice with no jaunts down the block to check on their dogs.