Say Good-bye (6 page)

Oops.
Guess I left my door open when I came in that last time.

Guess Sneakers wandered a bit when I didn’t put him in his crate.

“You shouldn’t have let him run loose during the night,” Maggie says.

“But he was whining,” I say, defending myself. “I couldn’t sleep—”

“He needs to stay in his crate at night—no matter how much he whines,” Maggie replies. “Don’t you know anything?”

I hear Gran coming down the hall. “Girls, girls, what’s going on?” she asks.

“Zoe let Sneakers chew up my mouth guard,” Maggie says.

“I didn’t
let
him,” I protest, then add, “and maybe if you didn’t leave your junk all over the floor, Sneakers wouldn’t have chewed it up.” I knew that would make her mad. Maggie’s not the neatest person in the world.

“She left Sneakers out of his crate!” Maggie says.

Gran takes the twisted lump of plastic from Maggie’s hand. I expect her to give Maggie a lecture about cleaning up her room.

Instead she says, “Girls, Sneakers could have choked on this.” She doesn’t yell, but I feel horrible anyway. How many times have I seen her deal with pets that’ve swallowed harmful objects?

I take my misery out on Sneakers. “See how much trouble you get me into?” I shout.

Sneakers looks up at me—and pees on the floor.

I can’t believe it. After all the trips outside? “What do I have to do?” I explode. “Camp out all night?”

Sneakers yips and runs down the stairs.

“Good one,” Maggie says.

Gran sighs. “Zoe,” she explains calmly, “part of the reason Sneakers just relieved himself is that he’s feeling stressed by all the yelling. And he’s feeling a little intimidated by your anger.”

“I’m sorry, Gran, really,” I say. “But it’s just so frustrating.”

“Imagine how frustrated Sneakers feels,” Maggie cracks.

I open my mouth to yell at my cousin, but Gran holds up a warning finger. “Why don’t we start the morning over, girls, hmm?”

“But what about my mouth guard?” Maggie objects.

“Check in the kitchen, second drawer next to the fridge,” Gran says calmly. “I bought an extra one.”

“Gran! You’re the best!” Maggie dashes off down the hall.

Gran grins. “She has a habit of misplacing them.”

“I’m really sorry, Gran,” I say. “About everything.”

“I know, Zoe,” Gran replies gently. “Training a young puppy is not the easiest thing in the world. But Sneakers will catch on. You’ve just got to stick with it and be consistent in your training, okay?”

I nod.

“And put him in his crate when you can’t keep an eye on him. That’s what it’s for.”

I nod again.

Gran starts to say something else, but then she
glances at her watch. “Oh, I’m late! I need to go over to the clinic. Jane’s coming in early to talk about.”

Immediately all my anger disappears—replaced by fear. But Gran is gone before I can ask her anything.

I dress quickly and head down to the kitchen. While Maggie grabs another artificially colored breakfast, I tiptoe into the clinic. I
have
to know if Yum-Yum is all right.

Gran and Jane are in the Dolittle Room. I hear their voices—Jane’s is high and worried, but Gran’s is deep and reassuring. Yes! That must mean Yum-Yum is all right. Gran must be telling Jane that he’s going to be okay!

But Gran’s next words aren’t reassuring. I hear her say something horrible. “I’m sorry, Jane, but the biopsy I took confirms that the tumor in Yum-Yum’s mouth is malignant melanoma.”

Jane gasps.

Oh, no! That means cancer!

“No!” I cry, bursting into the room.

Gran looks up, surprised. Jane has her face in her hands, crying softly.

I grab the box of tissues on the counter and offer it to Jane. I don’t know what else to do.
She smiles at me a little and takes one to dab her eyes. I take one for myself, too.

“I can’t believe it,” Jane says tearfully. She turns to Gran with a stricken look on her face. “Is it something I did wrong, J.J.?”

“Jane! You know it’s not.” Gran squeezes her friend’s hand. “You’ve always taken wonderful care of Yum-Yum. He’s lucky to have you. One of the reasons we see more cancer in dogs these days is that we’re taking better care of them, so they live longer. All dogs are at greater risk of developing cancer when they’re more than ten or eleven years old.”

“I just feel so guilty,” Jane says. “Yum-Yum’s my best friend, J.J. I’m with him every day. I should have noticed something was wrong. I should have known he was sick.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Gran insists. “Dogs hide it. The symptoms are often vague until the disease has progressed.”

“I want to do chemotherapy,” Jane says suddenly, her eyes flaring with hope. “I mean, they do that on dogs these days, right?”

“Yes, it’s much more common than it used to be,” Gran says.

“I’ve seen it work wonders with the kids at the hospital,” Jane insists.

Gran nods.

“But… I’ve heard it costs a lot, too.” Jane twists her tissue, studying the floor.

“Jane, you know how I feel about Yum-Yum,” Gran says. “He’s a real champ—one of my favorite patients. And it really hurts to be the one to have to tell you all this. But you know I’ve always been straight with you. And I think it’s easier for us to deal with this if we know the truth.”

Jane forces a smile through her tears. “Tell me, J.J.,” she says softly. “I want to know.”

“I suspect that the cancer has already spread,” Gran says. Her voice is an amazing mixture of sympathy and professionalism. “And if that’s true, it’s too late for surgery. Removing the tumor in Yum-Yum’s mouth wouldn’t get rid of all the cancer. But chemotherapy might give you a little more time.”

For a long time, Jane doesn’t say anything. Her hands have stopped twisting and lie motionless in her lap. Gran waits patiently, giving her friend the time to let things sink in. I sit there, too, unable to move.

Suddenly Jane sits up in her chair and stares straight at Gran with a look of fire in her eyes. “I don’t care how much it costs, J.J. Not if it will save Yum-Yum.”

Gran slips an arm around Jane’s shoulders. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. But her eyes are filled with sympathy, and I see her jaw clench as she works out in her mind which words to use. I can tell this is hard for her—harder than usual, because Jane is such a close friend.

When she speaks, her voice is gentle, but firm. “Jane. You have to understand. Nothing will save Yum-Yum.”

I swallow hard.

“I’m sorry,” Gran continues, “but I don’t want to offer you false hope. Even if the chemotherapy treatments are successful—and they don’t work for all dogs—they won’t cure Yum-Yum. They’ll only prolong his life a little longer. At the most, they’ll give him another ten months to a year.”

“I don’t care, J.J.!” Jane says tearfully. “He’s… he’s my family. He’s all I’ve got.”

The tears well up in my eyes again.

Gran pats Jane on the arm.

Jane takes a deep breath, then asks, “Will the treatments hurt him?”

I think of that character on my mom’s soap opera, the one who got cancer. The chemo treatments made her throw up a lot.

“Well, for some reason, dogs seem to tolerate chemotherapy better than people do,” Gran says. “But there are always risks with this kind of treatment. And there can be side effects.”

I think of Yum-Yum’s silky coat. And the bald kids at the hospital. “Will he lose his hair?” I ask.

Gran smiles. “Actually, most dogs don’t lose much hair at all. There may be some hair loss, but not like with people.”

“Tell me, J.J.,” Jane asks. “What are the alternatives?”

Gran takes a deep breath. “With no treatment, Yum-Yum doesn’t have much time left. It’s difficult to be exact. But at most, I’d say… one, maybe two months.”

Jane gasps. “That’s all?”

Gran nods. “It happens pretty fast, I’m afraid. I could give him medicine to make him more comfortable.” She pauses a moment, and what she says next chills me to the bone. “And, of course, putting him to sleep is another alternative.”

“No,” Jane whispers.

“It’s not easy, but it can be a very kind thing to do for a pet who’s seriously ill,” Gran says.

Jane vigorously shakes her head. “But I couldn’t, J.J. I just couldn’t put him down.”

“It’s not an easy thing to do,” Gran says again.

Jane sits up then and blows her nose. A determined look comes over her face. “Thanks for being straight with me, J.J. I know you have Yum-Yum’s best interest at heart. But I’ve made up my mind. I love Yum-Yum too much. I can’t just sit around and do nothing while he…” She can’t finish the sentence. “You understand, don’t you, J.J.? I… I have to try.”

“Sure,” Gran says with a reassuring smile. “A lot of people feel the same way you do.”

“So, what do we do now?” Jane asks. I can see a little of her old spunkiness returning. “Can you do whatever we have to do here, at the clinic?”

Gran shakes her head. “I want to send you and Yum-Yum to the university—to the veterinary hospital there. I know it’s a bit of a drive, but they have cancer specialists there. He’ll get the most up-to-date treatment available.” Gran gets up. “Here. I’ve got some information for you to read…”

I slip out of the office and scoot down the hall to where Yum-Yum has been sleeping in a cage.

He wags his tail when he sees me. “Hello, Yum-Yum,” I say cheerfully, and he barks back. Poor darling! He has no idea what’s going on or what lies ahead. I can’t believe this is happening to him! He’s one of the best dogs in the whole world. And he doesn’t just make Jane’s life happier. He makes those kids at the hospital laugh and forget their troubles. He really makes a difference in their world. And now this has to happen to him. What crummy luck! It’s so unfair!

And suddenly I understand the look I saw in Emma Morgan’s eyes.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •

S
herlock, sit!” Maggie commands.

The basset hound’s rear end hits the ground.

Maggie turns toward me, a smug smile on her freckled face, a challenge in her gray eyes.

Something inside of me ignites. It’s Saturday morning, and we’re out in the yard. Maggie’s been told by Gran to give me some extra help with my dog training.

But she’d better watch out, because I’m mad at the world. Mad that a wonderful dog like Yum-Yum has to get sick.

I’m determined now to train Sneakers. And I know I need help. But I think my red-haired
cousin is using this opportunity to show off instead.

Okay, so she grew up with animals and I didn’t. So she’s been able to watch Gran work in the clinic all these years. So she’s ahead of me when it comes to understanding animals.

But there’s one thing Maggie doesn’t realize about me that she’s about to learn: I’m very competitive. At the private school I went to in Manhattan, I got straight A’s and was known as “the girl to beat.” Mom raised me to shine, and I worked hard never to disappoint her.

So if Maggie wants to play that game with me, all I can say to her is,
Hope you’re not a sore loser.

“Okay. We can do that.” I turn to Sneakers. “Okay, sweetie pie,” I coax. “Let’s show ‘em. Sit, now. Come on. Do it!”

Sneakers just stands there, wagging his tail, looking up at me like he’s totally confused.

I can feel Maggie staring at me, and my face grows hot. Frustrated, I speak to Sneakers more sternly. “Sit! Sit!” I say.

Sneakers chases a squirrel up into a tree.

Maggie snickers. I ignore her. I stride over to the tree to retrieve my pooch.

“Sherlock,” Maggie continues like a command
sergeant in the U.S. Marines. “Lie down.” She makes a motion with her hand.

Sherlock’s short legs slide out in front of him till he’s lying on the ground.

I get Sneakers’ attention and say, “Lie down!” Sneakers sits.

I shove my hair behind my ear and get down on my knees. “Come on, Sneak. Please?” I whisper. “You’re making me look bad here.” More loudly, I say, “Lie down!” I tug at his front paws, trying to make him lie flat.

Sneakers yips and tries to pull away.

Maggie clucks her tongue. Then she gives Sherlock another order. “Stay.” She holds her hand out like a traffic cop telling cars to stop.

Then she walks away.

I can’t believe it—Sherlock stays exactly where he is. Like his bottom’s glued to the ground!

Then, very quietly, Maggie says, “Come!”

Sherlock bounds across the grass, his long ears flopping.

“Good dog!” Maggie cries, giving Sherlock a hug. “You’re the best dog in the world!”

If I were a dog, I’d be growling at them. But I won’t give up. I face my puppy sternly. “Stay,” I say as I begin to back away.

Sneakers gets up.

“No, sit!”

Sneakers heads toward me.

“No, no!” I shout.

Sneakers runs off across the yard.

“Come back here!” I cry as I chase after him.

Sneakers circles around the yard and hides under the deck.

Panting, I blow the stray strands of hair out of my eyes and frown at Maggie. “It’s not fair!”

“What?!” she exclaims.

“It’s not fair,” I say. “Sherlock’s old. You’ve had years to train him.”

“Oh, brother,” Maggie says.

“And how do I know you didn’t have somebody else teach him all these tricks in the first place?” I realize I’m kind of shouting, but I’m angry. Maggie has had Sherlock forever, and Sneakers is just a puppy.

“The only problem with Sneakers is lack of a good teacher,” Maggie says. “You send him mixed signals. He doesn’t know what to do.” She mimics me in a high, silly voice. “Come. No! Don’t! Do! Stay. Stop!”

“Stop that!” I shout, even though I have to force myself not to laugh. “I don’t sound like that.”

Maggie’s laughing now. “Yeah, you do.”

“No, I don’t!” I insist hotly. “And besides, Sneakers is just a mutt. Maybe it’s harder for him to learn.”

Maggie scowls. “Maybe that’s the problem,” she says. “Maybe to you, he’s ‘just a mutt.’ Maybe he’s not fancy and expensive enough for you to really care about!”

“That’s not true!” I shout.

“Girls! Girls!” Gran comes striding out of the clinic.