Goldie

For the original Sammy, my best reading friend

Charles woke up with a bad feeling in his stomach. Why? For a minute, he couldn’t figure it out. Then he rolled over and looked at his clock. It was 3:46
A.M.
, and Charles could hear the loud “deedle-deedle-dee” of his dad’s pager going off. Mr. Peterson was a volunteer fireman. When his pager went off, there was a fire somewhere in town.

Charles listened to his dad’s footsteps going downstairs. Then he heard the slam of a truck door and an engine starting up. He lay there for a while, worrying a little. He decided to stay awake until his dad came home.

But he must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up again, the sun was shining and his
clock said it was 7:16. Charles rubbed his eyes and climbed out of bed. Then he raced down to the kitchen and looked out the window.

Dad’s red pickup was not in the driveway.

Mom was making French toast while the Bean — Charles’s little brother — crawled around on the floor by her feet. The smell of cinnamon made Charles’s mouth water. “Is Dad —” Charles began.

“Dad’s fine,” Mom said. “He called a little while ago. There was a big fire, but everyone is okay.”

Charles let out a big breath. It was cool to have a fireman dad, but scary sometimes, too.

“He’ll be home soon,” Mom told Charles.

“Where was the fire?” asked Lizzie, scuffing her slippers as she shuffled into the kitchen. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. Lizzie was Charles’s older sister. It always took her a long time to wake up.

“Out at a farm in Middletown,” Mom said.

At this, Lizzie’s eyes popped open. “Were any animals hurt?” she asked.

Mom shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She flipped a slice of French toast. “Set the table, okay?” Mom asked.

That
proved
that everything was okay. What could be more normal than doing chores?

Since there was no reason to worry, Charles decided to ask his favorite question, the one he asked every single morning.

“So
why
can’t we have a dog?” he asked.

His mother sighed. “Again?” She pulled the orange juice out of the fridge and filled four glasses and the Bean’s purple sippy cup. “Do we have to talk about this every day?”

“Only until we get a dog,” Lizzie said, with a sleepy smile.

“First you said we couldn’t have a dog because our apartment was too small,” Charles reminded his mom. “Then we moved to this big old house,
and now there is plenty of room.” He followed Lizzie around the table, putting a fork onto every napkin she laid down. “But instead of adopting a dog, we adopted the Bean.”

Charles looked down at the Bean. Sometimes Charles could hardly remember the Bean’s real name. It was Adam. But they had called him the Bean ever since he came to live with them when he was a tiny squirmy baby. “Just a little bean,” Mr. Peterson had said, and the name had stuck.

The Bean grinned up at Charles and made a little woofing noise. “Even though he
thinks
he’s a dog, he’s
not
,” Charles pointed out. “He’s just a kid who likes to crawl around on the floor, beg for food, and sleep on a fleece dog bed.”

“And carry his stuffed toys in his mouth,” Lizzie added.

“It’s a phase,” their mom said, the way she always did. “He’ll get over it by the time he’s —”

“Seventeen,” Charles finished, the way their
dad always did. It was their dad’s favorite joke. Their mom didn’t think it was so funny.

“Anyway,” Charles continued, “back then you said a baby and a dog were too much at once. You said we had to wait until the Bean was older. Well, now he is. He’s two and a half! He’s not a baby anymore.”

“No, he’s not,” agreed his mother, a little sadly. She loved babies. And kittens. Just not puppies. Mr. Peterson always joked about his wife being a cat person, not a dog person. Mrs. Peterson always said she didn’t see anything wrong with that. She had grown up with cats and she was used to cats. But the other family members were not interested in cats. The rest of the family loved dogs.

“So, why can’t we get a puppy?” Charles and Lizzie asked together.

“Jinx,” Charles said to Lizzie. “Owe me a favor. You clear the table after we eat.”

Lizzie stuck out her tongue. Charles grinned. He
always
said “jinx” first.

“We
will
have a puppy,” their mother said. “Someday. When the time is right, and the puppy is right.”

“But when will that be?” Charles asked. “When
I’m
seventeen?” Sometimes he felt as if he’d waited
forever
for a dog. It wasn’t fair. Everybody
else
had dogs. And nobody wanted one more than Charles and Lizzie and the Bean. Nobody would take better care of a dog, or teach it as many great tricks, or love it as much as they would.

“We’ll know,” Mom said. “When the time is right, we’ll know.” She had that tone in her voice, the tone that meant it was time to change the subject.

But Lizzie didn’t seem to notice. “If we had a dog, we’d all feel better,” she said. “Did you know that dog owners are happier, healthier, and more relaxed than people who don’t have dogs? Plus, having a dog teaches kids responsibility. And a dog can help to protect the house and save people from fires.”

Mom held up both hands. “Enough!” she cried. “I’ve heard all your facts before, Lizzie, and I know they’re all true. I also know that puppies are a lot of work and cause a lot of mess and trouble.” She turned back to the skillet on the stove.

Charles knew what she was thinking. Dogs shed fur all over the place. They chew things. They knock over garbage cans. They bark. There were lots of reasons for not getting a dog. Mom didn’t even have to spell it out anymore.

This time, even Lizzie seemed to understand that the subject was closed. She slid into her seat and picked up the newspaper. “Cool, Mom,” she said. “Your story about the school board meeting is on the front page.”

“I bet Mr. Baker will ask me to write about this fire, wherever it was,” Mom said. Mr. Baker was the editor of the
Littleton News,
and Mrs. Peterson’s boss. She wiped her hands on a towel. “I’ll give him a call as soon as your dad gets home.” She looked at the clock. “I’m surprised Dad’s not
here already. I guess we’d better start breakfast without him, or you two will be late for school.”

“I hope he gets here before we have to go,” said Charles.

Mom piled two plates with French toast and brought them to the table. Then she cut up another piece and put the Bean’s plate on the floor next to Charles’s feet. Charles had noticed that she had given up on trying to make the Bean sit in his high chair. “Maple syrup?” she asked, passing the bottle to Charles.

Charles poured a big glug of syrup onto his toast. Then he remembered his new joke. Charles told a joke almost every morning. “Hey! Knock, knock,” he said.

“Watch the syrup,” said Mom.

“You’re supposed to say, ‘Who’s there?’” he reminded her. Then he looked down at his plate. “Oops.” The syrup had practically drowned his French toast.

Mom sighed and held out her hand for the bottle. “Who’s there?” she asked.

“The interrupting cow,” Charles said.

“The interr —” Mom began. But before she could finish, Charles jumped in.

“Moo.” He cracked up. “Get it?” he asked. “The interrupting cow?”

Charles had only taken one bite of his breakfast when he heard his dad’s pickup pull into the driveway. A minute later, Dad trudged into the kitchen. His shoulders were slumped, his face was smudged with soot, and his hair was all flattened from being under his helmet.

“Dad!” cried Lizzie, jumping up to hug him.

“Hey, punkin,” he said tiredly.

Charles noticed a big bulge underneath his dad’s jacket. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

Then he noticed that the bulge was moving.

Charles came closer. The bulge was squiggling and squirming all over the place.

Dad smiled and pulled the zipper of his coat down a few inches.

“Meet Goldie,” he said. Charles saw two chocolate-brown eyes, a pair of floppy ears, a twitching black nose, and a furry, golden face all streaked with soot.

“A puppy!” Charles yelled.

“What?” Mom stared at Dad.

He didn’t look back at her. “Yup,” he said to Charles. “It’s a puppy. A golden retriever. She’s only about ten weeks old. I don’t think she’s hurt, but she’s a pretty scared little girl.”

The puppy peeked out at this new place. She wanted to explore and run and sniff and taste. But first — was it safe? She had to know.

Carefully, Charles moved closer. Very slowly, he put his hand up near the puppy’s nose so she could sniff him. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“Doggy!” yelled the Bean.

The puppy flinched at the loud noise. “It’s okay,” Charles told her softly. “You’re safe.”

“Paul —” Mom began. Charles could tell by his
mom’s voice that his dad had not told her about the puppy.

“I know, Betsy,” Dad said, holding up his hand. “I should have asked first. But she’s such a little thing, and she’s been through so much.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. The puppy peered from his jacket with big, frightened eyes.

Lizzie was staring at the little dog. “She is the cutest thing I ever saw,” she said finally. “We’re keeping her, right?”

The grown-ups looked at each other.

“Look,” said Dad. “This little pup is going to need a home. The people who owned the house and barn that just burned down aren’t going to be able to keep Goldie. They asked me to take her — just until we can find her a good home.”

“A foster puppy!” Lizzie said. Before they had adopted the Bean, the Petersons had taken care of a couple of foster children, kids who had needed a safe, temporary home.

“We’ll take care of her,” Charles said.
“We’ll feed her and walk her and brush her and teach her manners and show her tricks and clean up when she makes mistakes and —”

“Charles,” Mom said.

“We’ll make sure she’s happy and safe forever and ever,” Charles finished.

“Charles,” Mom said again. “Hold on there, bucko.” She folded her arms against her chest and leaned against the refrigerator.

Charles couldn’t stand it. “Please?” he begged. “Please?”

“Your father and I will need to talk this over,” Mom said. “It’s a big decision.”

Just then, the back door swung open and Sammy strolled in. “Knock, knock,” he said.

“Who’s there?” Charles asked automatically.

“Kayak,” said Sammy as he picked up a plate and helped himself to the last piece of French toast in the skillet. Charles’s best friend came next door for a second breakfast at the Petersons’ nearly every morning.

“Kayak who?” Charles asked.

“Kayak you a question?” Sammy said. Both boys cracked up.

Mom rolled her eyes. “Have some breakfast, Sammy,” she said.

“Thanks!” Sammy said cheerfully. He pulled out the chair next to Charles’s, sat down, and reached for the syrup. Then he glanced at Mr. Peterson and almost dropped the syrup bottle. “Whoa!” he said. “A puppy!”

“Her name is Goldie,” Charles reported. “We might get to keep her.”

“I bet Rufus looked just like that when he was a puppy,” Sammy said. “‘Course, that was before I was born, so I don’t remember.” Sammy’s dog was a golden retriever, too. Rufus had been around as long as Charles could remember. He was a big, strong dog with a beautiful reddish-gold coat and a sweet face.

“Golden retrievers are one of the most popular breeds in America,” Lizzie said. “They’re also one
of the most intelligent, loyal, and athletic.” She was quoting from her “Dog Breeds of the World” poster. Lizzie knew every fact about every dog, from Airedales to Yorkies.

“Rufus isn’t so athletic anymore,” Sammy said. “He just lies there looking sad most of the time. He used to like to run and play ball. Now he’s boring.”

“Dogs slow down when they get older,” Charles’s dad said.

“Rufus isn’t
that
old.” Sammy poured some more syrup on his plate.

“Maybe he’s bored,” Lizzie said. “Have you tried getting him some new toys?”

Sammy nodded. “I saved my allowance for two whole weeks so I could buy him this cool flying saucer. He barely even looked at it.”

“Maybe he’s tired,” Lizzie suggested. “Maybe he needs some doggy vitamins.”

Sammy shook his head. “We tried that. I even tried putting coffee in his water bowl. Nothing perks him up. Right, Charles?”

“What?” Charles wasn’t listening. He was just looking at Goldie. And she was looking back at him. He reached out again and gently scratched her between her soft little ears.

The puppy liked that.

She decided that this new place was a good place. A safe place.

It was time to explore.