by Jon Scieszka
“Heyyy, Sammy!” They were crossing the street, coming over to me.
They kneeled down in front of Peep.
“Awww,” Jenna said. “Awwww, awwww, awww, isn’t that the cutest little fluffball you ever saw?”
“Awww,” Jadeyn said, “Awwww, awwww, awww, can I pet her?”
“Well, sure,” I said. “Sure you can.”
Then followed about a million “awwwwws” as they petted and giggled and kissed Peep.
Peep looked up at me as if to say, See? Some people think I’m cute.
“Can I walk her a little?” Jenna asked. “Can I hold the leash?”
“Well, sure.”
And so we walked on, me and Jenna and Jadeyn and Peep. I am telling you, they loved that Peep.
And then Peep stopped and did her business.
I mean the big business.
And we three stood there trying not to watch.
And then I realized I had to pick up the business.
In front of the girls.
“Well!” Jenna said, handing the leash back to me. “We’ve gotta go!”
“Oh, yeah, bye-bye,” Jadeyn said.
Once they were out of sight, I scooped the poop.
Disgusting. I don’t know how people do this every day, walking their dogs up and down the street, watching them do their business right in front of everyone and then scooping up that business in a little plastic bag and then tying that little bag without touching the business and then walking on home, swinging that little bag that is obviously full of business, right there in front of the whole world.
Disgusting.
I decided to tell Mrs. Clicka that I was not able to take the job.
After Peep had sniffed every tree and hydrant and twig and leaf in a one-block area, we made it back to Mrs. Clicka’s house.
She greeted us at the front door. “Oh! My little Peep baby. How was your walky? Was Sammy boy nice to you?” Mrs. Clicka unhooked the leash from Peep’s collar and scooped her up in her arms and rubbed her face against Peep’s. “Was he nice to you, mm, Peep baby, mm?”
“Mrs. Clicka,” I said. “I don’t think—”
Mrs. Clicka held Peep out to me, face-first. “Give-em Sammy boy a kiss for being such a big help.”
She pushed Peep’s face into mine. I saw a brief flicker of the needle-teeth and had a terrifying moment when I knew she was going to take a chunk out of my cheek.
“Kiss-em, Peep baby, kiss-em Sammy boy—”
And then there it was.
Dog slobber.
On my face.
A lot of dog slobber.
On my face.
“Ooh, looky there, Peep likes you! She wuvs you! You are definitely hired!”
“But—”
“Come tomorrow at three o’clock. The key will be under that rock—see?”
“But—”
“And I’ll pay you at the end of the week.”
On the way home, I thought, Well, okay, I will do this for one week, and then she will pay me, and I won’t have to do it anymore.
That night I dreamed of dog slobber and dog poop and plastic bags flying through the air.
The next afternoon, trustworthy me managed to find the key to Mrs. Clicka’s house, beneath the very obvious rock she had hidden it under. I say “very obvious” because on the top of the rock she’d drawn, in Magic Marker, a picture of a key. I mean really.
The key did not work. I tried this way. That way. Right side up. Upside down. I could hear Peep inside, her nails clicking on the tile floor as she ran in circles barking, “Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arfy, arf. Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arfy, arf.”
Then I thought about my father. He often had trouble fixing things. His motto was “If All Else Fails, Kick It.”
So I kicked the door. Tried the key. Turned the handle.
The door opened. Seriously.
And there was Peep, who took one look at me and backed up rapidly, her little legs racing, her paws slipping on the floor.
“Arf, arf arf, arf.”
So much for the slobbery dog kisses of yesterday.
When I reached for the leash hanging on a hook near the door, Peep stopped arfing and cocked her head at me, this way and that. “Eep, eep, eep.” I figured this meant she was excited; she wanted to go outside. Good.
We managed to walk the whole way around the block, with Peep sniffing at every little and large thing and peeing a dozen times and doing one big business—all without running into evil Valentino or his vile friends. No Jenna or Jadeyn either, though, which was a disappointment.
As we stopped in front of one last bush for Peep to inspect, someone called out. It was another girl in my class, Natasha, on a bicycle, coming down the street.
“Love that dog!” she said, coming to a stop beside me. I think those might have been the first three words she’d ever said to me. Natasha got off her bike and kneeled beside Peep, who rolled over onto her back, exposing her pale, pink stomach for Natasha to rub.
“Aw,” Natasha said. “What a sweetness.” Peep melted into blissful mush.
“This dog? ‘Sweetness’?”
“Sweetness puddle love,” Natasha cooed.
As I watched Natasha ride off, Peep peed on my shoe and bit off another piece of my shoelace.
And then I heard it.
From across the street.
The voice of the dreaded Valentino.
“Hey, Sammy boy, out walking your rat again? Why don’tcha put a little pink bow on it, Sammy boy?”
One of Valentino’s vile friends chimed in. “Why don’tcha take it down to the garbage dump and let it find some dinner?”
Peep did not like that. “Arf, arf, arf, arf! Arf, arf, arf, arf!”
“Ooh,” Valentino said, “you scare me, little rat dog, ooh!”
“Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf!”
Naturally, Peep took this opportunity to do another big business right there on the sidewalk.
“Ha, ha, ha!” Valentino and his vile friends laughed. “Ha, ha, ha!”
I stood there, staring at the little pile of big business, with Peep’s leash in one hand and an already-used bag of business in the other.
“Pick it up, stick boy! Pick it up!”
The vile friends chanted, “Pick it up! Pick it up!”
I ignored the pile and pulled the arfing Peep up the drive and into Mrs. Clicka’s house.
From a window I watched Valentino and his vile friends go on down the street.
I got another bag and went out and scooped the business.
Disgusting.
I did not want a dog, not if I had to do scoop duty every day. No thanks.
I filled Peep’s water bowl and watched her slurp. She looked up at me. “Eep, eep, eep.” Was she smiling at me? She rolled onto her back, paws in the air. “Eep, eep, eep.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. I rubbed her belly. She closed her eyes. I think she smiled.
The next day: got the key from under the key rock, put it into the lock, kicked the door, opened it, went in, and got Peep and the leash.
“Eep, eep, eep.” Peep was hopping happy.
Off we went, in search of trees and bushes and sticks.
And then we heard it.
From across the street.
The voice of the dreaded Valentino.
“Heyyyy, Sammy boy—”
But at the same time, coming from the other way, were Jadeyn and Jenna and Natasha, strolling along hand-in-hand-in-hand that way girls do.
“Heyyy, Sammy!” they called. “Sammy!”
Valentino and his vile friends stopped.
Jadeyn and Jenna and Natasha surrounded Peep, embracing her with hugs and “aws.”
“Aw, sweetness dog, aw, aw, aw.”
“Sweetest, cutest dog ever.”
“Aw, aw, aw—”
And then I heard it.
From across the street.
The dreaded footsteps of Valentino.
Coming toward us.
Doomed.
Natasha said, “Aw, Sammy, you’re so lucky.”
“Me?”
Valentino and the vile friends were behind me.
“Oh, Sammy, if I had this cute little dog,” Jadeyn said, “I’d never ever want to leave her ever, ever, ever.”
Peep had been on her back, enjoying the belly rubs, but when she saw Valentino, she rolled back over and stood there, legs rigid, neck stretched out, eyes big and round. She bared her needle-teeth.
“Rrrrrrr,” she growled. “Rrrrrr.”
I picked her up. I put her face up next to Valentino’s.
Valentino blinked: once, twice, three times. His vile friends stood there like flagpoles.
And then Peep did it.
She licked his face. Dog slobber on the face of the vile Valentino.
He raised his hand.
He put it on top of Peep’s head.
And he patted that head. And he said, “Aw.”
Peep: My hero.
HOW I BECAME STINK DALEY
BY DEBORAH HOPKINSON
New York City
1858
My name is Danny Daley, but no one calls me “Danny” anymore. These days, I’m known as “Stink.” Before you laugh, let me tell you how I got that nickname, because it’s not what you might think.
It began one Wednesday morning in March, not long after I turned eleven. That was the day I met Daffodil—and got my first whiff of the dairy stables.
I’d woken early on account of the thoughts swirling in my head about what I had to do that day, and also because my baby sister, Mary (better known as “Bitsy”), just wouldn’t stop crying. She gasped and heaved until her little face turned red as a beet. (And in case you’re wondering, I did not get my nickname because I’ve changed a lot of diapers. Yuck!)
“She kept your poor father awake most of the night,” said Ma as she tried to feed a squirming Bitsy from one of those new modern baby bottles, with a hose for sucking out the milk.
“Oh, little miss Bitsy. You’ve got to be quiet, for Da’s sake.” I grabbed one of her tiny feet and tickled it. That used to make her gurgle and break into a toothless grin. Now Bitsy just pulled away from the bottle, rubbed her head against Ma’s chest, and whimpered.
Bitsy had been a happy baby, but it seemed to me she cried a lot more lately. Or maybe it was just that, though she was only four months old, Bitsy somehow sensed that something bad had just happened to our family—and that all our lives were about to change.
On Monday, just two days earlier, my father had tumbled off a one-story building while on the job. It could have been a lot worse; as a bricklayer, he often worked on upper floors.
“No hospital,” Da murmured as two men carried him up the narrow stairs to our third-floor tenement apartment. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. Da reached out and clutched Ma’s hand. “Promise me, Nora.”
“Don’t fret, Brendan. You’ll not be leaving my sight,” Ma assured him. Hospitals were feared in our neighborhood. Everyone on Prince Street had heard of someone who’d been taken off to one and never come home.
But Ma had insisted on sending for the doctor, who told us Da had a concussion, a strained back, and a broken right ankle. He’d need to stay home, maybe for weeks. The doctor didn’t seem to care about Da not being able to work when he handed Ma his bill.
And neither would our landlord.
My older sister, Kathleen, stormed into action. She tore the last page out of my sketchbook and sat at the table scribbling numbers. When I was first learning to talk, I called her “Sis.” The nickname stuck. (Though if you ask me, after Da’s accident, “Bossy” suited her better.)
Later, when Sis showed Ma what she had done, our mother dabbed at her eyes. She didn’t like to cry in front of us. She sighed. “There’s no other way, is there?”
Sis shook her head.
“What?” I asked, looking from one serious face to the other. I reached out and grabbed the paper. Sis had added up the doctor’s bill, along with the amounts we needed each week to pay the rent and to buy food and milk for the baby.
“Since Da’s a bricklayer, he can earn a lot: a dollar and seventy-five cents a day. That’s ten dollars and fifty cents a week,” Sis told me. “The piecework sewing Ma does from home won’t bring in enough.”
That’s when I understood. Women and children weren’t paid much. It would take all three of us to earn what my father did.
“I’d hoped you could both stay in school until you were fifteen,” Ma said. “Maybe you can go back someday. . . .” Her voice trailed off. But we didn’t know how long it would take Da to recover, or if he’d ever get his old job back.
“It’s fine, Ma,” Sis said, putting her hand on Ma’s. “I’m fourteen, after all. Tomorrow I’ll find work as a seamstress. I should be able to earn five dollars a week, maybe six. I don’t mind sewing in a shop.”
That wasn’t true, I knew. Sis would much rather be in school figuring arithmetic problems than counting stitches. She’d always talked about being a teacher. But if my sister was willing to give up her dreams to help the family, I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath.
“I don’t mind getting a job either,” I said. “Maybe I can find work as an artist.”
“An artist?” Sis rolled her eyes. She thought drawing was a waste of time. “You’re a dreamer, Danny. No one pays artists.”
“Yes, they do,” I protested. “Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper hires illustrators who go around the city and even sketch news events as they happen, and . . .”
I stopped. Of course, Sis was right. I might be a whiz with a pencil, but no one would hire me now—or maybe ever.
But what can I do to earn money? I wondered.
“Maybe I can milk cows,” I said. “Grandpa taught me when I was little. He always said I had a knack for it. There are dairies here, aren’t there?”
“I’m sure there are,” Ma said, brightening. “Tomorrow morning I’ll ask Mr. Timm, who delivers our milk.”
“I won’t let you down, Ma,” I promised.
Later, when the room was dark, I pretended not to hear Sis crying on her thin mattress in the other corner. The next day, I went back to school—but only to say good-bye.
I’d made a promise and meant to keep it. But the moment I set foot in the stables on Wednesday morning, I wanted to race right out again.
“Have Danny go to Mr. Johnson’s dairy. It’s near his distillery on West Sixteenth Street and Ninth Avenue. He should ask for Mr. Glander,” Mr. Timm had told my mother.
I didn’t have to worry about finding it. The distillery smelled bad enough, with its large chimneys spewing out plumes of black smoke. But all I had to do was to keep following my nose for another block. The smell of manure led me right to a large, muddy yard dotted with a few dilapidated sheds and several long narrow barns.
The stables weren’t anything like the green pastures I’d imagined. Could this dairy be the home of the Pure Country Milk brand we fed Bitsy?
The doors of the largest barn stood open. When I stepped inside, I almost gagged from the stench. The air was thick and full of dust. Huge flies buzzed around my head. A filthy mix of mud and dung covered the wooden floorboards.
I put my hand over my nose and took a few more steps. Cows were packed into narrow stalls in two long rows. From the rear of each stall, manure seeped out in vile, black streams. There was a trough running along the front, so each cow could eat.
This is awful, I thought. I can’t work here.
Just then, I heard a rustle at the open back of the nearest stall. A young calf stuck her head out from around her mother and stared at me with huge, curious eyes.
“Well, hello, little one,” I said softly, walking toward her. She looked out of place, like a small flower poking its head up in the cracks of a sidewalk. My hand closed around the stub of a pencil in my pocket. It would be fun to try to capture her comical express
ion.
“Get away from that stall. What do you want here, boy?” A tall, bulky man appeared in the doorway and came striding toward me.
“I—I’m here to see Mr. Glander,” I said, trying not to breathe in too deeply. The smell seemed to cling to my skin. The alley behind our tenement reeked, but it was nothing like this.
“I’m Glander. Who are you?”
I’d never been brave and bold like Sis, who would have stood tall and met the man’s gaze without a second thought. But I tried.
“My name is Danny Daley. Mr. Timm delivers our milk,” I began. “He said you lost your stableboy and might need another.”
“Humph. You don’t look strong enough to heft a shovel.”
“I learned to milk cows when I was little, on my grandfather’s farm back in Ireland,” I said. “I can muck out stalls, too. I’m a hard worker.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Glander narrowed his eyes and sized me up. He had thin, sandy hair and a long face, which put me in mind of Goldy, an old yellow horse Grandpa once had.
“All right. We’ll try you out,” he said. “You’ll do the mucking out in the barns and shovel manure into the carts that haul it off. No milking. The milkmaids—we call ’em milkmaids, but they’re all men—are the only ones allowed to feed and milk the cows.
“And stay out of the milk sheds. That’s where we prepare the milk for delivery. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.” I could already feel muck seeping through a hole on the bottom of my shoe.
“Be here at seven sharp tomorrow morning. I’ll pay you fifty cents for a ten-hour day, six days a week.”
My heart sank, but my sister had told me to expect this. “You have to ask for at least sixty cents a day, Danny. Otherwise, we won’t have enough.”
“I’m worth sixty-five cents a day, sir,” I declared, surprising myself by my boldness.
Sis had made me practice. “Make sure you speak up, Danny. Look the man in the eye when you say your piece. It can’t hurt to ask for more than what they first offer.”
But now, seeing the stormy expression on Goldy Glander’s face, I wasn’t so sure about that. “Cocky Irish lad, are you?” he asked. “Most boys would feel lucky to get fifty cents.”