Junkyard Dog (6 page)

“That's the most pathetic thing I ever heard. Imagine not having a name.” Amanda starts dragging her suitcase along the side of the road again. “Dog!” she shouts. “Dog!”

chapter twelve

“So how come you call him Smokey?”

We're walking single file. I've offered to cart Amanda's suitcase, and she's behind me.

“I dunno. He seems like a Smokey. His muzzle is the color of smoke.”

“What are we going to do with Smokey once we find him?” she asks.

“If we find him.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you're very negative?”

A truck flies by. A cloud of dust rises from the asphalt. “Did anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't walk so close to the traffic?”

Amanda edges closer to where the pavement ends. There's a narrow rubble path between the highway and the forest. Is Smokey out there somewhere?

“Dog! Dog!” Amanda and I call out together.

“Dog! Dog!” Our words echo back at us.

Where could Smokey be?

“I bet Smokey'll bark if he hears us,” Amanda says.

I like that she calls him Smokey. “He can't bark,” I say quietly. I hope she won't start shouting again. Amanda is a very emotional person.

“He can't bark?” At least she sounds calm.

“A lot of guard dogs get debarked. That way they can sneak up on a burglar—and they don't disturb the neighbors.” I don't have the heart to tell her how some dogs get debarked.

Amanda harrumphs. “It's not natural for a dog not to bark. Imagine a cat that couldn't purr. Or a bird that doesn't sing.”

We trudge along in silence. I'm listening for any sound that might tell us Smokey is out there, but all I hear are cars whizzing by. I hope Smokey knows to stay away from the highway. I can't imagine what must be going through his dog brain. The convenience store is open twenty-four hours a day, so Smokey's not accustomed to being alone. If it were me, I'd panic. What do dogs do when they panic? Run out into traffic?

“What's with your hair anyhow?” Amanda asks.

No one ever asks about my hair.

Maybe it's because I can't see Amanda's face that answering her question doesn't seem like a big deal. “I've got this thing called alopecia. The nurse thinks it's stress-related. But it's getting better.”

“I'm glad.” Amanda pauses for a second. I hope she's not going to keep asking about my hair. “I'm sorry you get stressed.”

I see something dark up ahead. “D'you think that could be him? Dog!” I call. “Is that you?”

Amanda runs ahead of me. “Dog!”

The shape turns out to be a gnarled old tree trunk. I kick it as we pass it.

“He could be anywhere,” I mutter. “I bet he panicked when we took off.” I don't like to remember Smokey's eyes.

We hear a car slow down behind us. The car pulls over when it reaches us. A middle-aged woman sticks her head out the passenger window. “What are you two thinking? Do you know how dangerous it is on the highway in the dark like this?”

Her eyes land on Amanda's suitcase. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“We're looking for a dog,” Amanda tells her. “Have you seen a German shepherd?”

The man driving leans over so we can see him too. “Funny, I thought I noticed something in the woods back there. About an eighth of a mile back, maybe less. Could've been a dog, now that I think about it.”

“You didn't say anything to me,” the woman tells him.

“It happened too quickly. Besides you were yakking. As usual,” he adds.

I tug on Amanda's sleeve. “Let's go. An eighth of a mile isn't far.”

“Are you sure you're going to be all right?” the man asks.

“Stay as far away from the road as you can. And if the dog runs onto the highway, don't follow him,” the woman says.

It's faster to carry Amanda's suitcase. The two of us sprint down the side of the road. The rubble slows us down, but at least we have a sense we're headed in the right direction.

I pause and raise a finger in the air. Did I just hear something?

“Dog! Dog!” Amanda shouts. Her red hair flaps around her face.

Now she hears it too. A whimper. It's hoarse-sounding, but it's a whimper all right.

“Dog! Smokey!”

Up ahead is a boulder, covered in dark velvety moss. When the boulder moves, I know it's Smokey, crouched in the dark. I hear him pant as he makes his way between the trees. When he's close enough, he licks my hand. He won't take his eyes off mine.

“See,” I tell him, “I came back for you. Smokey, I want you to meet Amanda.”

I can't be sure it's not a coincidence, but his tail wags when he hears the name Smokey.

chapter thirteen

“My parents say to tell you they'll take care of Smokey's food,” Amanda says when she meets me outside the apartment with a case full of cans. “This stuff is good for senior dogs.” We stash the case behind the building.

“Thank your parents for me, okay?”

“They're happy to help. I tried talking them into adopting Smokey. My mom would do it, but Dad says three dogs is too much for one house. And that Mom and I would have to choose between him and Smokey, which I guess means no.”

I know Smokey can't live in the furnace room forever. But for now, it's the only plan I've got. I never knew a dog could sleep so much. Every time I peek inside, Smokey is curled up like a giant furry
S
. Smokey can't bark, but he sure can snore. He hardly moves from the pile of old blankets by the furnace. And he loves that canned food Amanda brought over. He started wolfing it down before I even finished emptying the can.

I wait until after Dad is asleep to visit Smokey. I've been walking him late at night so no one from the building will see us. I'm really careful about the noise. So far not even Mrs. MacAlear knows he's there. She loves dogs, but something tells me she's a stickler for rules.

“Hey, Smokey,” I wave a tug toy in front of me. The girl at the pet store in the mall said it's the most popular toy for a dog his size.

Smokey thumps his tail against the floor when I come closer, but he does not even look at the toy. I wave it some more. Still no reaction. I stick the toy right in front of his muzzle, but he doesn't grab for it the way the girl in the pet store said he would.

I try rubbing the toy against Smokey's muzzle, then pulling it away quickly. There, that should work. But instead of tugging on the rope the way he's supposed to, Smokey lets the toy fall to the ground. He looks up at me like he can't figure out what he's supposed to do.

I crouch down and wave the toy in front of Smokey again. I toss it so it lands at his feet. Still nothing.

That's when I realize what's going on. Smokey doesn't know how to play. He never learned how. He was too busy being a guard dog. No wonder he's so tired now.

I plop down on the ground in front of him and pet him under his chin the way he likes. “Let me show you how this works.” I put the toy near his mouth, and this time Smokey takes it. This time, I don't pull hard on the toy. Smokey pulls back, but just a bit. Now we're getting somewhere. When I pull another time, Smokey's ears prick up for a second, but he forgets to pull back. I let it give, then I tug harder. Smokey pulls back—now he's watching the toy.

“Thatta boy,” I tell him as I stroke his coat.

I nearly forgot to air out the furnace room. Yesterday, when I was doing dishes, Dad said I smelled like dog. Dad will have a fit if he learns Smokey is living down the hall. In a way, Smokey's not being able to bark has turned out to be a good thing. But I have to do something about the smell. Leaving the window open should help.

When I get up to open the window, Smokey is examining the toy. He still looks like he's not quite sure what it's doing on his blanket.

It's only when I've pried open the window that I notice something I didn't see before—a box of dog treats on the water heater.

Someone else knows Smokey is here. The door is closed, but I look around the furnace room just the same. There's no one here but me and Smokey.

“Wanna go for your walk?”

Smokey gets up from his bed. His hips seem extra stiff today.

The tv is on in Mrs. MacAlear's apartment. She's probably been looking in on Smokey, giving him treats.

I rush Smokey out of the building, relaxing only when we're halfway down the block. I've been walking him down the alleyways in our neighborhood, where the dog people hang out.

After Smokey has done his business and is settled back in the furnace room, I knock on Mrs. MacAlear's door.

The news is on, so I have to knock several times. I can feel her peering at me through the peephole in her door.

“It's just me, Mrs. MacAlear.”

She is wearing a turquoise velvet housecoat and black Chinese slippers. “Is everything all right, Justin?” she asks as she opens the door.

“I…er…just wanted to say thanks.”

Mrs. MacAlear looks puzzled. “For the book? You've already thanked me. There's no need to thank me again. I've been meaning to ask you, Justin, how did things go with the dog the other night?”

If Mrs. MacAlear didn't leave the dog treats, then who did?

chapter fourteen

“What the heck's going on?” Vince asks when Floyd turns into the car lot.

I'm still half asleep in the backseat. One of the other technicians has the flu, so I'm doing a morning shift.

“Beats me,” Floyd says to the front window.

Two police cruisers block the entrance to the lot. The area around the dog condo is cordoned off with yellow tape.

“Where are the dogs?” I ask. Every other morning I've worked, King and Killer have been patrolling behind the wire fence when we arrive. But there's no sign of them.

A man with slicked-back hair is waving his arms in our direction. It's Mr. Thérrien, the manager of the dealership. Until now, I've only seen him through the windows of the showroom. He signals that he wants to talk to Floyd. Now.

Floyd lowers his window. “G'morning, sir. It looks like there's been trouble,” he says in an even voice. “And I don't see my dogs.”

“Don't talk to me about your dogs!” Mr. Thérrien snaps. “They're useless! Absolutely useless! Do you have any idea what happened here last night?” His skin is so tanned it looks orange.

“No idea, sir.”

“Three cars were stolen! Three! Driven right out of the lot! One was a red convertible—our deluxe model!”

I remember how much Floyd liked that convertible. But when I look at his face, he's not giving anything away.

“And those dogs of yours didn't do a thing to stop it!” Mr. Thérrien is so angry spittle has formed at the corners of his mouth.

Vince leans over from the passenger seat. “Where are my dogs?”

“Your dogs are out back. In a cage!” The manager spits out the words.

“In a cage?” Vince says. “Whose cage?”

The manager's eyes look like they're about to pop out of their sockets. “I guess the robbers brought their own cage. And those stupid dogs of yours walked right into it. To think about the thousands I've been paying you crooks!”

Floyd turns off the motor and steps out of the car. Vince gets out too. Nobody tells me what to do, so I watch from the backseat.

“I don't appreciate you calling us crooks,” Floyd tells the manager. “Killer and King are two of our top dogs.”

Vince scratches his head.

Several police officers join the manager, Vince and Floyd. One of the police officers is on a cell phone, describing the stolen cars. “A red Miata,” he says. “Tan leather interior.”

Another officer jots down information in a notebook. “Let's have a look at the dogs,” I hear her say. “See if we can figure out what happened here.”

There's no way I'm going to miss out on this. When they head for the dog condo, I jump out of the van. “Who're you?” the woman police officer asks when she spots me tagging behind them.

“He's just a kid who helps out on the van,” Floyd says. When the officer turns around, Floyd catches my eye. Too quickly for anyone but me to notice, he makes a zipper motion over his lips. I nod to show him I understand.

King and Killer are in a double dog cage. I can tell from the way they are shifting around they don't want to be there. Is it my imagination, or do the dogs look embarrassed—the way kids look when they're waiting outside the principal's office?

“Useless animals!” the manager says again, though he keeps his distance from the cage.

Vince unlatches the cage. Floyd pokes at the dogs and checks their eyes. “Dogs look fine,” he says. “They haven't been drugged.”

Vince notices a towel. It's faded green with tattered ends. The dogs have been lying on it. When Vince fishes it out of the cage, both dogs start to growl. What is it about that towel?

“Cut it out, will ya?” Vince tells the dogs. He lifts the towel to his face, sniffing it just like a dog would.

“I think I get it,” he says. “I'll bet you anything a bitch in heat slept on this towel. No wonder these two boys got distracted.”

The woman police officer chews on the end of her pen. “Are you saying the thieves used the towel to deactivate the dogs?”

Vince puts his hands on his hips. “That's exactly what I'm saying, ma'am.”

Floyd whistles. “Sounds like some pretty smart crooks.” This time, he makes a point of not looking at me.

chapter fifteen

I don't know what to do except quit. The money's great, but I can't keep working, knowing how Floyd treats dogs and suspecting he was involved with the theft at the used-car lot. I can still hear him saying how good he'd look behind the wheel of that red convertible. Why else would he get an unspayed dog? There are too many coincidences, and thinking about them makes me feel sick.