Pet Disasters (7 page)

“You can call him what you want, but I’m calling him Dog,” Mason retorted.

Once you had a good system in place for naming pets, there was no point in changing it.

“He’ll get confused,” Brody said. “He won’t know what his true name is.”

“Lots of dogs get called by two names.” Mason felt himself sounding like a crosser version of Nora. “Like being called ‘Duke.’ But also ‘boy.’
Down, Duke! Down, boy!
I think ‘Duke’ is a dumb name, for people who think their dog is royalty or something. Duke,
Prince, King. When it’s really just Dog, Dog, Dog. Plus, ‘Duke’ sounds too much like ‘Dunk.’ ”

If that wasn’t a good point, Mason didn’t know what was.

Brody thought for a minute. “Okay, not Duke. We can wait and see. I want the right name to go with his personality.”

So far that meant that Dog’s name could be Drool. Or: Big Wet Tongue Now Trying to Lick Mason’s Face.

Mason shoved Dog away.

As soon as they got to Mason’s house, Dog bounded out of the car and followed Brody and Mason inside, as if he had lived with them forever.

“Where should we put his food and water bowls? Where should we put his bed?” Brody asked Mason’s parents. Mason’s parents had bought all the things Dog would need at the store inside the animal shelter.

“I’ll pay you back for everything,” Brody promised as Mason’s dad set Dog’s bowls on the floor in the kitchen, where Cat’s bowls had been. Dog’s bowls were bigger than Cat’s bowls. Everything about Dog was bigger.

“You don’t need to do that,” Mason’s dad said.
“We’re happy to take care of those costs. After all, he’s Mason’s dog, too.”

No, he isn’t
. Come to think of it, Cat hadn’t really been Mason’s cat, either. Brody was the one who had loved holding her. Even Hamster and Goldfish had really belonged more to Brody. Brody was the one who had made Hamster’s Halloween costume. Brody was the one who had sung the song and made the speech at Goldfish’s funeral.

“Look, Dog, here’s where your water is!” Brody told Dog, pointing to the bowl he had just filled. Dog lapped at it thirstily. A dog that slobbered that much probably needed to refill his water supply constantly.

“And here’s your food!” Brody poured some dry dog food into the matching bowl. Dog pounced on it. Mason couldn’t help noticing that Dog had very sharp teeth. In less than a minute, all the food was devoured.

“Can we take him for a walk?” Brody asked Mason. Then, as if remembering that Dog was supposed to be
his
pet, he corrected himself. “It’s time to take him for a walk! Here, boy, come get your leash!”

Dog ran up to Brody when he saw the leash in Brody’s hand. In his other home, wherever it had been,
someone must have walked him. Someone must have loved him, too, or Dog wouldn’t be so trusting and friendly.

Mason wondered why they had given Dog away. Someone like Mason knew right away that he wasn’t a pet person. But if the owner
had
been a pet person, why would a pet person have given up on Dog and taken him to the shelter? Maybe Dog’s owner had gotten too old to take care of him. Or maybe the owner had had to move to an apartment that didn’t allow pets. Mason did feel terrible thinking how sad Dog must have been on the day his owner took him to the shelter and said goodbye forever. But did that mean that now he, Mason, was stuck with Dog forever?

Mason followed Brody and Dog outdoors. It was past suppertime, but they were eating late today because it had taken so long to fill out Dog’s adoption papers and buy all his things. The evening was cool and breezy, with long shadows slanting across the lawns.

Dog walked remarkably well on his three legs. His gait was uneven, but he kept up a good pace, except when he found some reason to stop and sniff. There were lots of reasons to stop and sniff for a dog who had been living in a cage at a shelter. Every tree, every
stretch of dirt, every flower garden, was a reason for Dog to stick his nose down to the ground and inhale its scent.

Brody held the leash, glowing with pride, as if he had a hundred-watt lightbulb switched on inside him. Mason saw Brody looking at each car that drove by, to check if the people in it were noticing:
See that boy there, Brody Baxter? He’s walking a dog!

Every few feet, it seemed, Dog balanced awkwardly on his two left-side legs to lift his right back leg to pee. Mason got sort of used to the sight of it, even though the basic concept of peeing in public was definitely unappealing.

Then, two blocks from home, Dog squatted, not to pee but to poop.

“Now what do we do?” Mason asked Brody, in a strangled voice.

“We pick it up in this plastic bag.” Brody waved the plastic newspaper bag Mason’s dad had handed to them before they headed out. But Brody seemed less sure of himself than when he had been tying the bandanna on Hamster or moving Cat from lap to sofa cushion.

“We couldn’t just leave it here, could we?” Mason
asked. Didn’t people sometimes pay money for manure, to have it spread on their lawn like fertilizer? Maybe somebody would like to get some special dog-manure fertilizer for free.

But he already knew the answer to that question. Even Brody didn’t bother answering it.

“I’ve seen other people do it,” Brody said. “You put the bag on your hand first, to make it into a glove, sort of, and then you just pick it up, and then you pull the bag off your hand, turning it inside out, and you tie it shut.”

Brody slipped the bag onto his hand. Then he hesitated.

“See?” Mason said. He meant,
I told you it would be terrible having a dog
.

Brody reached his hand down toward the grass. Mason had to turn his head away. He felt himself gagging. Did people who had dogs really do this thing every single day?

“What do we do with the bag now?” Mason asked.

“We carry it home, and then we throw it away.”

Mason tried not to look at the plastic bag, filled with the hideous brown lumpy substance, dangling from Brody’s hand. At least it was time to head back
for supper. They wouldn’t have to carry the bag for miles and miles. Or, rather, Brody wouldn’t have to carry the bag for miles and miles. Mason had no intention of carrying it for so much as an inch.

Mason was definitely glad that Dog was Brody’s dog.

At dinner, Brody stayed to eat with Mason’s family. Dog had already had his supper, but he still stuck his enormous, greedy snout hopefully toward Mason’s plate. Apparently, Dog fancied some macaroni and cheese.

Mason gave a strangled cry.

“Here, Dog,” Brody said. “Leave Mason’s plate alone. You can have some of my Indonesian curried shrimp.” Brody was eating the same food that Mason’s parents were eating.

“No, Brody,” Mason’s dad said. “Dog is not going to be allowed to beg at the table. Dog is not going to be allowed to eat people food.”

Mason’s father spoke to Dog in a stern voice.

“Dog! Down! Sit!”

Mason enjoyed seeing Dog getting scolded.

“He’s not very well-behaved, is he?” Mason
commented, giving Dog his most withering look of disdain.

“He’ll learn,” Mason’s dad said.

Sure enough, Dog laid himself down under the table, his head by Brody’s feet and his huge, feathery tail by Mason’s feet. Every once in a while Dog wagged his tail, whacking Mason’s leg with a thump. Mason was surprised by the force with which a tail could be wagged.

“Stop it, Dog!” Mason reprimanded. He looked over at his father to see if he was going to give Dog another satisfying scolding.

But his dad defended Dog. “He’s just being friendly.”

Well, it was probably better being whacked by Dog’s long tail than licked by Dog’s big tongue.

After supper, Brody threw an old tennis ball for Dog in the backyard. Tennis lessons for Mason had been his parents’ bad idea the summer before. All those afternoons in the scorching July sun, and Mason had managed to return the ball a total of three times. Even his parents had concluded that maybe tennis wasn’t going to be his sport.

Unlike Mason, Dog turned out to be excellent at
returning a tennis ball. Dog picked up the tennis ball in his mouth, of course, so it got all covered with dog spit. Then Dog ran back to Brody and dropped the ball at his feet. Mason had to give Dog credit for his skill at retrieving. No matter how far Brody tossed the ball, Dog darted after it and snatched it up in record time.

One time, Dog offered the ball to Mason. Mason refused to take it. The ball was so wet now you could practically wring it out and get a cup of water from the wringing.

Brody’s parents and sisters came over and heard the story of Brody and Dog, told to them by Brody. Brody’s sisters were in middle school: Cammie was
thirteen and Cara was eleven. Mason thought they were all right, as far as best friends’ older sisters went. Their most annoying habit was bursting into gales of giggles at most things he said, even (or especially) things that Mason hadn’t meant to be funny.

“Oh, Dog,” Cammie cooed, covering his head with kisses. Ugh!

“Dog, let me pet you,” Cara coaxed, crowding in with kisses of her own.

Even Brody’s mom seemed utterly smitten with Dog, praising his bright eyes and gentle manner. Only Brody’s dad kept his distance from Dog, because of his allergies. Mason, too, stood stiffly off to the side.

“Don’t you like Dog, Mason?” Cammie asked.

“I guess he’s okay,” Mason said. “I wouldn’t go so far as to use the word ‘like.’ ”

Cammie and Cara exploded into giggles.

“You didn’t let me finish my story!” Brody said. “Dog would have been put to sleep—killed!—if I hadn’t adopted him!”

Cammie and Cara each gave Dog another huge hug.

“I think adopting Dog was the best thing I ever did, don’t you?” Brody asked them.

It was true that saving Dog had been Brody’s idea. But Mason couldn’t help thinking:
It also happened because I said yes
.

“Now you need to come home,” Brody’s mom told him. “It’s time for bath and bed. You have to get up early for art camp tomorrow.”

“Can I sleep over at Mason’s with Dog?” Brody begged. “Just for tonight? And tomorrow night?”

“For tonight,” his mother agreed. “Not tomorrow night. Tomorrow night we’re leaving on our camping trip, remember?”

Brody looked as if he’d rather forget.

Mason was glad Brody was staying for a sleepover. This way, Dog could sleep with Brody and wouldn’t be expecting to sleep with Mason. Brody could find out how much fun it was to sleep on a summer night buried under sixty pounds of hot, smelly dog.

“Hey, Dog, let’s go in,” Brody said. He held open the door for Dog, and Dog bounded inside, Brody following after.

Mason watched them go. If the dog was man’s best friend, did that mean that Dog was now Brody’s best friend? If so, what did that make Mason?

Mason and Brody didn’t have to make new bowls for Dog in art camp. Mrs. Gong gave them extra clay on Friday to add on to the bowls they had already made for Cat, showing them how to moisten the old clay so they could work with it more easily.

Nora helped them roll longer clay snakes to place on top of the other ones. She was an excellent clay-snake roller. Brody sometimes rolled his too quickly, and then they got too thin in the middle and broke and had to be patched back together again. Mason didn’t like getting clay smushed onto his fingers, so he didn’t press hard enough, and his snakes stayed too fat. Nora’s snakes were just right. She probably had figured out the scientific way to roll them.

“Why didn’t you do science camp?” Mason asked her as she placed another perfect snake on top of his bowl.

Nora shrugged. “I like to make things.”

“Why didn’t you do sports camp?” Brody asked Dunk, who was supposed to be smoothing out the clay on Wolf’s bowl but instead was gouging holes in it with his thumb.

Dunk reddened. “Sports camp is dumb,” he said. “I did it last year, and it was dumb.”

Nora was the one who guessed it first: “You got kicked out,” she said.

Dunk’s face grew even redder, so Mason knew Nora was right. “It was dumb,” Dunk repeated.

Mason laid his clay snake on top of Nora’s, but it was too short to go all the way around the bowl. Nora lifted it off and rolled it some more to get it exactly the right length.

“How come you’re both making dog bowls?” Dunk asked. “I thought you two just had a stupid fish and a stupid cat. Did one of you get a dog?”

“I did,” Brody said, just as Mason said, “I did.” Mason was getting a little tired of having Brody take credit for everything. If Dog had to live at Mason’s
house, at least Mason should get some bragging rights regarding him, especially with Dunk, who thought dogs were the only pet worth having.

“You
both
got dogs?”

“We got the same dog,” Brody said. “We got him yesterday, from the shelter.”

Mason hoped Brody wouldn’t blurt out that Dog was missing a leg, or tell the whole story about how Dog would have been killed if Brody hadn’t heroically and nobly acted to save him.

“How can you both have the same dog?” Dunk asked.

“He’s really my dog,” Brody explained. “He just lives at Mason’s house, because my dad is allergic. Right, Mason?”