Smells Like Dog (8 page)

“Homer!” Mr. Pudding called again. “Where are you?”

“Dad!” Homer cried.

Ajitabh glanced over at the farmhouse, then looked Homer right in the eyes. “I’ll come back for you,” he whispered. “Until then, be careful. Remember, your life could be in danger.” He let go of Homer’s shirt.

“Ouch,” Homer said as he tumbled onto the grass.
Dog stuck his nose into Homer’s scared face. Expecting Ajitabh to grab him again, Homer scrambled to his feet and ran. “Dad!”

“Homer?” Mrs. Pudding stepped onto the porch and held out her arms as Homer barreled into them. “Whatever’s the matter? What happened to your shirt? Where is your other boot?”

“There’s… there’s… there’s…”

“Is it a coyote?” Mr. Pudding started down the stairs.

“No.” Homer pointed frantically toward the cherry trees. “A man. A man in a cloud.”

“What?” Mr. Pudding stopped in his tracks. He and Mrs. Pudding looked toward the trees. But there was no cloud. And no man. Only a dog chewing on a boot.

“Homer,” Mrs. Pudding scolded. “You’re supposed to make sure your dog doesn’t eat anything bad. Go get that boot away from him.”

“But Mom, there was a man hanging from a cloud. He grabbed me.” Homer raised his arms to reveal the ripped shirt seams.

Mr. and Mrs. Pudding shared a worried look. Then Mrs. Pudding sat on the porch swing and pulled Homer next to her. Squeak peeked outside but she waved him back into the house. “Your teacher just telephoned,” she told Homer as she tucked one of his curls behind his ear. “You didn’t do your subtraction problems today
and you didn’t turn in your Milkydale history essay last week or your solar system diorama. Mrs. Peepgrass said that even though we’ve talked about this over and over, you still spend most of your time daydreaming. And today you made up a story about a cloud just to get attention.”

“I didn’t make it up. There
was
a cloud at school today and I just saw it right over there,” Homer insisted, pointing again. “And there
was
a man hanging upside down from the cloud. He said he was a friend of Uncle Drake’s and that they used to hunt for treasure together.”

“Hunt for treasure?” Mr. Pudding walked back onto the porch. He folded his arms, took a deep breath, then gave Homer a long, serious look. “Now look here, Homer, I’ve had just about enough of this. Treasure hunting destroyed my brother’s life and I’ll be hog-tied if I’m gonna let it destroy yours.”

“Now, dear…”

“No. Enough is enough.” Mr. Pudding tucked his thumbs into his overall straps. “There’s no use in having the boy believe that he can do something he can’t. He’s not one bit like my brother. He’s not cut out for mountain climbing, or deep-sea diving, or any of that crazy stuff my brother was always doing. Homer’s future is here, on this farm, and I’ll have no more talk of treasure hunting in this house. And no more books about
treasure hunting or magazines or maps or anything that has to do with treasure hunting.”

Mrs. Pudding and Homer’s mouths fell open but they sat in silence. Though Mr. Pudding hadn’t raised his voice, his tone left no room for argument.

“The only books he’ll be reading are the ones that Mrs. Peepgrass tells him to read. And don’t think he can sneak in some treasure reading at the library. Tomorrow morning I’m calling Mr. Silverstein and telling him that Homer’s not allowed to step foot in there unless it’s on official school business. And that’s my final word.” Then, having finished his declaration, Mr. Pudding stomped off toward the barn.

Homer slid to the far end of the porch swing, away from his mother’s hugs and kisses. No more books or magazines about treasure hunting.

No more maps.

He shivered as if he’d been dunked in an ice bath.

And so, on that very night, Mr. Pudding hauled all of Homer’s treasure hunting things into the attic. Homer ran his hand along his empty bookshelf. His first edition of
The Biography of Rumpold Smeller
, his worn copies of
Long Lost Ships
and
X Marks the Spot: An Encyclopedia of Buried Treasure
were gone. Thumbtack holes and faded rectangles were the only evidence that his beloved maps had once covered the now bare bedroom walls.

The room echoed with emptiness, for Homer, unlike other boys his age, did not collect rocks, or slingshots, or trophies. No kite hung from the curtain rod, no skateboard stood in the corner, no squirt gun sat on the windowsill, ready in case an unsuspecting sister walked by. Everything he cherished had something to do with treasure hunting—his rusty trowel, his collection of plastic mummies, his Holy Grail replica—and now they were gone. Only his bed, his clothes, and a desk covered in boring schoolbooks remained. Oh, and two items Homer had managed to hide—the Galileo Compass that hung beneath his shirt and the gold coin tucked in his pocket.

Mrs. Pudding cracked open the bedroom door. “I thought you might like some company.” She opened the door wider and Dog ambled in. He circled a few times, then stretched across a pile of dirty clothes. Mrs. Pudding laid a half-eaten boot on Homer’s desk. “You’ll have to wear your old sneakers until we can get to Walker’s Department Store.”

Homer turned away. He didn’t care about the stupid boot.

“I know you think this is unfair,” his mother said softly. “But try to understand, Homer. Your father just wants you to stop spending so much time with your maps and books and instead, spend more time with everyone here in Milkydale.”

“I don’t like Milkydale.” Homer folded his arms as tight as he could. “And no one in Milkydale likes me.”

“I like you, Homer. I love you. And Squeak loves you, and your whole family loves you. But we worry about you.” She turned his swivel chair around and looked into his blue eyes. “Milkydale is your home. You must try to be a part of it.”

“But Uncle Drake would want me to…”

“Drake was a good uncle but he had some wild ideas. He wasn’t quite right in the head. Do you understand?”

“Dad’s afraid that I’m not quite right in the head, isn’t he?”

“He’s just trying to protect you. When you’re all grown up you can make your own choices. And maybe you’ll follow in your uncle’s footsteps.” She smiled tenderly. “But for now you must pay attention in school and help on the farm. And stop making up stories. Now get into your pajamas and go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.” Then she left, closing the door behind her.

Homer didn’t feel like changing into his pajamas. He didn’t feel like paying attention in school or helping on the farm. There was only one thing he wanted to do, but there were no more coin books to search through.

Moonlight drifted through the bedroom window, casting a soft glow about the room. Dog got up from the laundry pile and scratched at the side of the bed. With
a heave, Homer lifted him onto the quilt. Then they lay side by side. Dog’s stretched-out body reached to Homer’s knees. He pressed his wet nose against Homer’s cheek. His warm breath smelled like rubber boot but Homer didn’t mind. Dog knew what it felt like to be misunderstood. People thought he was stupid because he ate strange things, but it had nothing to do with lack of intelligence. People thought Homer was weird because he dreamed about strange things. But it had nothing to do with being “not right in the head.”

Homer and Dog turned their sad faces toward the map-less ceiling. “They think I’m crazy,” Homer whispered, giving Dog a good scratch. “I know the cloud man was real and I think he wanted Uncle Drake’s coin. Tomorrow, Dad’s gonna call Mr. Silverstein at the library and then I won’t be able to do any research. How will I find out what
L.O.S.T.
stands for?”

With a groan, Dog got up and ambled to the end of the bed. Then he slid off and stood in front of Homer’s bedroom door. “Urrrr.”

“It’s too late to go out,” Homer said.

Dog scratched at the door. “Urrrr.”

“I said it’s too…” Homer sat up. “Hey, that’s a good idea. I could go right now.” Half-excited, half-terrified, he tiptoed to the window. There was plenty of moonlight to see by. If he kept to the side of the road, the overhanging
tree branches would hide him should anyone in a cloud fly by. Uncle Drake had said that nighttime was the very best time for a treasure hunter to move about.

“You’d better stay here,” he told Dog. “They don’t let dogs in the library.”

Dog cocked his head and watched as Homer put on a green corduroy jacket. Then Homer grabbed a flashlight from his desk drawer and his Swiss army knife, which his dad hadn’t confiscated because Mr. Pudding believed that every boy needs a Swiss army knife.

“Stay,” Homer said, opening the door.

“URRRR.”

“I’ll be right back. Stay.”

Dog threw back his head. “HOWOO—”

Homer clamped his hands around Dog’s muzzle. “Okay, okay, you can come.”

S
neaking out of an old farmhouse is not an easy feat, what with creaking floorboards and squeaking stairs lying in wait. Add Dog’s
click-clacking
toenails and it was some kind of a miracle that they managed to get out without waking the rest of the family.

Homer hesitated on the front porch. He’d never done anything like this before. His dad would explode if he found out. But something deeper than fear tugged at Homer—the need to be validated, to be understood. He’d prove to everyone that he had what it took to be a
treasure hunter.
Take away my maps, take away my books, but I’m going to find out why Uncle Drake sent me this coin!
With a deep breath he started down the driveway, Dog at his heels. “Keep a lookout for clouds,” he whispered to Dog.

A moonlit sky, freckled with stars, stretched over the rolling hills. Despite the moonlight, most people would have stumbled, for night’s shadows can camouflage holes and ditches. But Homer was an expert at walking while reading, so it really didn’t matter whether he walked to town by sun or moon. Once down the driveway he clung to the edge of the road, listening for trucks. Except for rustling leaves and branches, the night was silent.

Homer nearly jumped out of his skin when Carlotta Crescent peeked out from behind her mailbox. “Whatcha doing, Homer?”

“Nothing,” he replied.

“What’s that?”

“My new dog.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dog.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“I dunno.”
Darn
it. Carlotta would probably tell Gwendolyn about his sneaking out, and Gwendolyn would most assuredly tell their parents.

“I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing out here in
the middle of the night,” Carlotta said. Her long hair was pulled back in a yellow ribbon that matched her yellow bathrobe and slippers. “Don’t you want to know what I’m doing?” She held up a pair of binoculars.

Homer shrugged. “I guess so.” He wanted to tell her that she was holding a pair of Extra Strong Borington Binoculars, designed by Sir Richard Borington, a famous treasure hunter who had preferred to conduct most of his quests from the comfort of his elephant’s velvet saddle. But that was the sort of information that always got him labeled
weird
.

“I’m doing a report on screech owls and my mom and dad said I can sit out here and watch for them, but only this one time since it’s a school night.” She yawned. “I haven’t seen any. Whatcha writing your report on?”

Had Mrs. Peepgrass assigned a report? “I gotta go,” he said, continuing down Grinning Goat Road.

“I’m bored,” Carlotta called after him. “Can I come with you?”

Other than Gwendolyn, Carlotta was the only kid at school who actually talked to Homer. For a second, he thought about inviting her along. It would be less scary to have someone to walk with, but Ajitabh had said he’d be back and that might put Carlotta in danger. Besides, Homer didn’t want anyone to know about the coin. Not yet.

“Can I come with you?” she asked again.

“No.” Homer kept walking.

“Why can’t I come with you?”

“Just because. Sorry.”

“Oh. Okay. Bye, Homer. See ya tomorrow.”

Homer turned onto Peashoot Lane, hurried over the wooden bridge, then stopped at the edge of town. He’d never been there in the middle of the night and the stillness surprised him. No trucks chugging along, no old men complaining about the price of grain, no school kids screaming from the playground. Dark and shut up tight, Milkydale seemed like a ghost town.

Rather than cutting across the road, Homer kept close to the buildings, in case the cloud drifted by. The Milkydale Public Library stood next to the schoolhouse. The old wooden building had gotten a new coat of white paint last year and a new brass sign for the entrance. Moonlight tumbled off the library’s roof but each of the windows was pitch black. Homer hurried up its front steps. He tugged on the door handle. Even in a town like Milkydale, where no one ever stole anything except maybe a piece of nickel candy now and then, library doors were locked at night. He’d brought the Swiss army knife for lock-picking—something he’d never done but had read about. But fortunately, just around back, Homer spied a window that was cracked open. He
found a wheelbarrow in the library’s garden and rolled it beneath the window. Then he collected some garden bricks and stacked them inside the wheelbarrow, until, when standing on the top brick, his stomach reached the window’s sill. For a moment he wondered if he’d forgotten something. Flashlight, check. Swiss army knife, check. Compass and coin, check. Everything seemed in order. He slid the window open and climbed in.