Smells Like Dog (6 page)

Homer checked to make sure his coin was still in his pocket. Then he stuck his nose into his coin book and resumed his search. By the time he reached his driveway, he had come to the last page, but the coin’s identity remained unsolved. Uncle Drake would have told him not to be discouraged. “There are no unsolvable mysteries, only mysterious solutions.” Homer decided that tomorrow he’d go to the library and look through the coin books. Maybe Mr. Silverstein, Milkydale’s librarian, could special order some from The City. He tucked the book under his arm and reached into the mailbox.

When the Pudding children arrived home from school they immediately began their afternoon chores. Farms cannot work efficiently unless all family members do chores. If you are a city dweller, your chores are probably
very different from country chores. Perhaps you have to sweep your elevator, or pick garbage off your sidewalk, or get your doorman a nice cup of coffee. If your family is rich, you might not even know what the word
chore
means. Lucky you.

Homer’s first chore was to collect the mail. On that day, the mail included a catalog for farm machinery, the latest issue of
Goat World
, and some letters. The front cover of
Goat World
had a picture of two border collies.
MEET THE AWARD-WINNING COLLIES OF THE CRESCENT GOAT FARM
. Uh-oh. Mr. Pudding wouldn’t like that.

“He’s sick!” Squeak ran down the driveway, his boots kicking up bits of gravel. “He’s sick. Real sick!” He grabbed Homer’s hand, pulling with all his might.

“Who’s sick?” Homer asked.

“Dog. He’s real sick.”

“Dog?”

Squeak turned his little dirt-smudged face up at Homer. “The new one. I named him Dog.”

“Uncle Drake’s dog is sick?”

“No, Homer.
Your
dog is sick. Come on.”

D
r. Huckle’s white truck was parked next to Mr. Pudding’s red truck. Dr. Huckle was Milkydale’s only veterinarian. She specialized in the treatment of goat ailments. Since every family in Milkydale owned goats, her old truck sputtered up and down the long farm driveways most every day.

“Over there,” Squeak said, pulling Homer’s hand.

Dr. Huckle knelt beside a white picket fence. The new dog lay on his side, panting. The farm dogs had gathered around, as had Mr. and Mrs. Pudding and Gwendolyn.
The goats stuck their heads between the fence boards for a better view. Dr. Huckle picked up one of Dog’s long ears and peered into it with a skinny flashlight. “Are you sure he drank paint?” she asked.

Mr. Pudding stuck his hands into his overall pockets. “Saw it with my own eyes. I was getting ready to whitewash the fence and I went into the barn to get my paintbrush. When I came back, that dog had its face right in the bucket, lapping away.”

A splat of white paint had dried on Dog’s nose. His tongue, streaked white, hung out the corner of his mouth. He moaned as his belly rumbled. Homer remembered the time at the Milkydale County Fair when he’d eaten five corn dogs. Late that night, his stomach had puffed out like a basketball and had rumbled like a thundercloud.

Poor Dog.

Homer fiddled with the mail, wondering what to do. It was
his
dog, after all. He knelt and patted Dog’s head. “Will he be okay?” he asked.

“That depends.” Dr. Huckle poked her flashlight into Dog’s mouth. “Has he eaten anything else that he’s not supposed to eat?”

“He ate some sticks and a beetle,” Homer said.

“Sticks and a beetle?” Mr. Pudding rubbed the back of his neck. “What kind of dog eats sticks and beetles?”

“And cherry blossoms,” Homer added.

“That’s very odd.” Dr. Huckle removed a stethoscope from her black bag. “Very odd.”

“I’m sure he’ll be right fine,” Mrs. Pudding said, kissing the top of Homer’s head. “Not to worry. He’s just confused, being in a new place and all.”

Dr. Huckle pressed the stethoscope against Dog’s chest.

“Is he gonna die?” Squeak asked.

“He isn’t going to die,” Mrs. Pudding said, taking Squeak’s hand. Then she leaned close to the doctor. “He isn’t? Is he?”

“What dog in its right mind would drink whitewash?” Mr. Pudding asked. “I don’t think that dog’s got a right mind.”

“Whitewash looks like milk,” Mrs. Pudding said. “Maybe he thought it was milk.”

Mr. Pudding shook his head. “That dog’s got something wrong with its brain if it thinks paint is milk. I couldn’t get it to help herd the goats. It slept most of the day.”

“Basset hounds aren’t bred to herd,” Dr. Huckle replied. “But they can smell a rabbit ten miles away. Rabbit hunters love bassets.”

“We don’t hunt rabbit,” Mr. Pudding said.

“Urrrr.” Dog’s back legs went stiff and he closed his eyes.

“Did he die?” Squeak cried, clutching Mrs. Pudding’s arm.

“No. He’s still alive,” Dr. Huckle said. “I’d better take his temperature.”

Homer grimaced.
Poor Dog
.

But as Dr. Huckle reached for her bag, Squeak, trying to help, accidentally knocked it over. A little glass bottle rolled out and broke against a rock. A pungent odor rose into the air. Max, Gus, and Lulu tucked their tails between their legs and ran off. The Pudding family stepped away, as did the goats. “That stinks,” Gwendolyn said.

“It’s aromatic spirits of ammonia,” Dr. Huckle said, fanning the air with her hand. “Nothing to worry about.” But then she rubbed her chin in puzzlement. “Hmmm. That’s interesting. Your new dog’s not reacting.”

While the Pudding family members were pinching their noses, Dog just lay there.

“I wonder.” Dr. Huckle took a cotton ball from her bag, dabbed it in the spilled liquid, then held it to Dog’s nose. He didn’t wince or move. He just kept panting. “Amazing,” Dr. Huckle said. “Why, I do believe that this basset hound can’t smell.”

“Can’t smell?” Mr. and Mrs. Pudding said.

Dr. Huckle nodded. “That explains why he’s been eating strange things. He’s got no sense of smell to tell him what he’s supposed to eat.”

Mr. Pudding folded his arms. “I told you there was something wrong with that dog. I knew it the moment I saw it. Leave it to my brother to find a useless dog.”

“Maybe he’s not useless,” Homer said hopefully.

“This is quite a tragedy,” the doctor said. “The sense of smell is the most important sense for a dog. They greet one another through smell, they mark their territories with their individual scents. They choose mates, hunt, herd, and track all based on a keen sense of smell. This poor guy is shut off from the ordinary day-to-day things that dogs do. He’s at a terrible disadvantage.” She collected her instruments and closed her black bag. “I don’t think there’s any kind of treatment. He’s going to require a lot of looking after. You can’t leave him alone. He’ll need to be closely watched.”

Mr. Pudding snorted. “What? We don’t have time to watch a dog.”

“Well then, I suggest you find a new home for him, maybe with a nice retired person who has nothing to do. Without supervision, that dog’s certain to eat something poisonous and the next time it might kill him.”

“I’m not watching him,” Gwendolyn said. “I’m way too busy.”

“I’ll watch him,” Squeak said.

Mrs. Pudding gave her youngest son a hug. “That’s
very helpful of you, Squeak, but it’s Homer’s dog. Homer will watch him.”

“Homer?” Gwendolyn said. “How’s he gonna watch a dog? He doesn’t pay attention to anything but his maps.”

“I didn’t know how to take care of a baby until I had one,” Mrs. Pudding said. “But I figured it out and I’m sure Homer can learn how to take care of this dog.” She tousled Homer’s curly locks. “Why don’t you come inside, Dr. Huckle, and I’ll make us a nice pitcher of lemonade. I’ve got some molasses cookies just out of the oven.”

“Make sure your dog drinks plenty of water,” Dr. Huckle told Homer. “He should be feeling better by morning.”

“You’d best get a bucket, Homer, and clean up that broken glass before one of the goats steps in it,” Mr. Pudding said.

The ammonia’s sharp stench drifted away as Homer cleared the glass. While everyone else enjoyed molasses cookies in the Pudding kitchen, Homer sat next to Dog. They stared into each other’s eyes—one pair bright blue, the other pair brown and watery. Homer had been so focused on the gold coin, he hadn’t thought much about the dog. Had Uncle Drake known that he
couldn’t smell? Maybe Dog wouldn’t be much use on an expedition, but he’d proven useful as a delivery boy. An immediate fondness filled Homer as he realized that this dog, with its long ears and loose skin, with its big head and short legs, was different from all other dogs.

And as it has happened throughout history, and as it will continue to happen, two outsiders found one another.

“I’ll watch over you,” Homer said.

“Urrrr.”

I
n an attempt to cheer up her husband, who was still reeling from the news of his only brother’s untimely passing, Mrs. Pudding made chicken and dumplings for supper, which was the Pudding family’s favorite meal. Mr. Pudding sat at the head of the table, a pile of mail at his elbow. His gaze darted to his brother’s loafers, which sat in a corner. Homer, at the other end of the table, tried not to look at the shoes.

“How did things go at school today?” Mrs. Pudding
asked as she set bowls on the table. “Did everyone enjoy your frog presentation?”

Gwendolyn sat extra slumped. “
Someone
ruined my presentation by acting weird.” She narrowed her eyes at Homer. He shifted nervously. Maybe his sister would be nice for once and not tell on him.

“Gwendolyn Maybel Pudding, it’s not polite to call another person weird,” Mrs. Pudding said.

“What would you call a person who saw a cloud with eyeballs? ’Cause I know what I’d call that person.” Gwendolyn tapped her spoon against the table, waiting for a response. Homer held his breath. Squeak giggled.

“I’d call that person not right in the head,” Mr. Pudding said.

Gwendolyn sat up straight and jabbed her spoon in Homer’s direction. “Well guess what? That person was Homer, and he announced it to the entire class right when I was about to give my presentation. I almost died.”

Mrs. Pudding gasped. Mr. Pudding looked down the table and scowled. “Homer? You told the entire class that you saw a cloud with eyeballs? What’s the matter with you?”

What’s the matter with you?
Homer had been asked that question many times in his life, but he’d never come up with an answer.
What’s the matter with you?
is easy to
answer if your nose is bleeding or your foot has suddenly fallen off. “There’s nothing the matter with me,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin Gwendolyn’s presentation.”

“Of course there’s nothing the matter with you,” Mrs. Pudding said.

“I want to see a cloud with eyeballs,” Squeak said, tucking his napkin into his shirt.

“Well you can’t because there’s no such thing,” Mr. Pudding said. “Cloud with eyeballs.” He poured himself a glass of goat milk. “I don’t know where I went wrong.”

FRRRRT!

Mr. Pudding nearly tipped over the milk pitcher. “What in the name of goat cheese was that?” He lifted the edge of the tablecloth and glared at the source of the sound.

Dog, who lay at Homer’s feet, was having a terrible time with his digestive system. The whitewash had begun to work its way through his intestines, along with all the other things he had eaten that day, which included a slug, half of Squeak’s grilled cheese sandwich, and some goat poop.

“Put that dog outside,” Mr. Pudding grumbled.

“We can’t put him outside, dear.” Mrs. Pudding walked around the table, ladling chicken and dumplings
into everyone’s bowl. “If we put him outside he might eat something he’s not supposed to eat.”

“He might die,” Squeak said.

Mr. Pudding took a bite of supper.

FRRRRT!

“How’s a man supposed to enjoy his meal with a dog like that under the table?”

“Dear, you’re spraying bits of carrot all over your son.”

Mr. Pudding stabbed a dumpling. “Dr. Huckle charged me thirty dollars just to tell me that the dog can’t smell.” He shook his head. “I don’t think keeping that dog is a good idea. How’s it gonna fit in around here?”

Homer reached down and patted Dog’s head. “But I’ll watch him, I promise.”

Squeak slid under the table. “Don’t make him go away,” he cried.

Mrs. Pudding looked long and hard at her husband. No words were necessary with a look like that. Mr. and Mrs. Pudding might not have thought that Homer was up to the task of watching the new dog, but as long as Squeak put up a fuss, then the dog would stay.

Mr. Pudding sighed, ate the dumpling, then shuffled through the day’s mail. “What have we here?” He held up a silver envelope.

Gwendolyn dropped her spoon and squealed. “That’s
from the Museum of Natural History!” She threw herself across the table and yanked the envelope from her father’s hand. Homer grabbed Squeak’s milk glass to keep it from falling over as the table lurched. Squeak climbed back onto the bench.