The Genie of Sutton Place (7 page)

“If you say so, Dooley.” As long as I didn't have to feel guilty about the evaporation of Maurice, I wasn't going to worry about it.

Besides, we'd reached Houston Street. And there was the dog pound, in all its ugliness. A terrible place, like a concentration camp, with horrible concrete buildings all around an open yard. I knew that one of those buildings had the gas chamber in it, or the room where they drained the air away and the dogs suffocated to death.

But at least the yard was open, and that's where the dogs were, behind this thick meshed fence. “There he is!” I shouted even before I got out of the car.

That Sam. There he was, only minutes away from extinction, just lying off in one corner, away from the other dogs, having himself a snooze. “Sam!” I called. “Sam!” He heard me and came padding over, with his tail plopping side to side, moderately glad to see me, I guess, because he was grinning. “Thank goodness we're in time!” He knew I wouldn't let him down.

“Woof,” said Sam, in that special husky woof that he woofs only to me.

I was just about to ask Dooley to magic a hole in the fence, so Sam could get out, when a man appeared from one of the buildings in the back. I have never liked the idea of dogcatchers in general, but this was the first one I'd ever met—and he was
really
bad news! As big as Frankenstein's monster, and you could tell from that gleam in his eye that he really enjoyed his work.

“Whaddaya want here?” he barked at us. Except dogs sometimes sound nice when they bark. Men don't. “Get away from that fence! You're makin' the animals nervous.”

“I want my dog,” I said. “This is him. This is Sam.”

“Got a license? Got a permit?”

“Sam
has
a license—”

“Got
authorization?
I picked this animal up this mornin'—with specific instructions. Now get outta here!” He dragged Sam off to a bunch of dogs that were cowering against one wall. They must have been the condemned group for that day.

Behind me Dooley softly asked, “Master, shall I make that man vanish?—and I mean
vanish!
Not like Maurice.”

“No, no. It's not his fault he's a creep,” I said. “At least, don't evaporate him yet.” The man had gone into the building. “Gee, I don't know what to do. Even if you get Sam out, I can't bring him home again.”

“Well, master,” said Dooley, “'tis my opinion that we should do
something.
I fear that the creep has evil designs on Sam.” His forehead puckered up a minute. And then, just as if it weren't a revolutionary solution, he came up with the answer. “Would Aunt Lucy object to Sam if he were not a dog?”

I didn't get him at first. “What else
could
he be?”

“Oh—an insect, a fish—a man.”

“Could you make him a
man
—?”

“With a flicker of these fingertips.”

“But Dooley—” talk about having your mind blown—“a
man!
”

“I know, little master. But in the sight of these eyes—which are immortal—the difference between an ant and a man is less than human pride might wish.”

A man!… “Would it hurt?” I asked.

“There
is
pain in being human, but the transformation would cause him none.”

“He might not like me any more—”

“I think he will love you, master—though men are less faithful than dogs.”

“But how long would he stay a man?”

“As long as my spell held him.” Just like that! So matter-of-factly. “Lo, master, the creep comes again.”

The dogcatcher had come out of that building and was heading for a dismal little blockhouse off in one corner of the yard. The condemned group knew what was coming, too. They were barking hysterically and running around in circles, in fear.

“Do it, Dooley!” I said. The man's back was turned as he unlocked the door. “Oh, do it—please!”

The Genie lifted his right hand, and from the depths of his chest, he sort of sang, “Oh, simple, soulless beast named Sam—I call thee to the dubious estate—
of man
!”

7

Sam

“Put clothes on him!” I was so shocked I didn't even have time to be amazed.

Because there he was. Naked as a jaybird! Standing amid all those barking dogs, with a look on his face as if he had just dropped down from another planet. Which I suppose, in a way, he had. And it's lucky we live in a time of hair, because he was the whiskeriest man I ever saw.

Dooley made another pass with his right hand, and just-like-that Sam had shoes, brown slacks, a white shirt, and a mottled brown sport jacket on. I haven't described Sam the dog to you in detail, but he was mostly patchy brown and white, and Sam the man really did rather look like him. Of course you'd have to have known them both to see the resemblance.

The dogs were barking even louder now, because they, too, were shocked at what had happened to Sam, and the dogcatcher turned around from unlocking the gas chamber. “Hey!” he shouted. “Who are you?”

Sam yelped a little in his old voice and then got out the words, “I—I'm—I'm a
man?
”

“And whaddaya think you're doin' in here?”

Sam looked at me with this bug-eyed, pleading expression. “Help him, Dooley,” I whispered.

The Genie pointed his forefinger at Sam's throat. And automatically out came Sam's voice: “I'm an inspector from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”

“Yeah?—well, we got inspected last month. An' we're clean,” said the creep. “Now get outta here! You're makin' the animals nervous.”

“I would have been pretty nervous myself,” said Sam furiously. “If you know you've got only two minutes to—”

“Get
outta
here!” The guy took Sam by the elbow and pushed him toward a gate in the fence, which he unbolted from inside. “An'
stay
out!”

And there we were—face to face …

“Sam—?” I still didn't really believe.

“Timmy—?” Neither did he.

Then all at once we did! And we were laughing, and Sam lifted me up and swung me back and forth. That was something I'd often done to Sam, when I got big enough to lift him, but this was the first time he'd done it to me and it was a funny experience.

He was still pretty doggy. A lot of his laughter sounded like barking. “Dooley,” I said, when Sam put me down, “you've got to fix that voice.”

Dooley touched his longest finger to Sam's throat and said, “You canine voice—now hark! Use human accents. And don't bark!” Sam cleared his throat, and after that his voice was better.

“Is everything else okay, Sam?” I asked.

He stretched out a leg. “It feels sort of strange to stand on only two feet. The balance—”

“I know. It takes little kids a long time. Dooley, do you think you could—”

“Legs,” said Dooley, “straighten up! And carry Sam with pride. Forget the quadruped inside.” I guess that's what you would call instant evolution.

But I was still jittery, staying there by the dog pound. “Come on.” I tugged Sam's sleeve. “Let's go.”

Sam held back, looking into the yard. “I'm kind of sorry for all those guys. I mean—dogs.” His own face looked pretty hangdog and sad. “I got to know a couple of them.”

All I had to do was glance at Dooley. It didn't even need a spoken spell. The bolt slid back, and the gate swung open, as nice as pie.

A little terrier saw the escape route first. He couldn't believe his eyes and just gawked a minute. Then he shouted something in dog talk, and in one second there was the wildest, noisiest, furriest stream pouring through that gate that you could ever hope to see.

“Hey wait!” the dogcatcher shouted. “Stop!”

Nobody did, of course. I never found out what happened to all those dogs pouring up and down Houston Street, but I hope they made their way to safety.

*   *   *

In the car—we were all in the front seat, I never did like the idea of a chauffeur plunked up there all by himself—my nose began to twitch. “Gee, Sam, I didn't keep you very clean. You smell half like Aunt Lucy's perfume and half like a dirty kennel. I suppose that's the dog pound.”

“Oh, now, Tim,” said Sam, “you're not going to give me another bath, are you? We had one just yesterday.”

“Why, Sam—” I was rather disappointed—“I thought you enjoyed them.” That was the first time I learned there was more to Sam than Sam.

“Well, I don't,” he said. “I put up with them only because I knew you liked them so much.”

“But it's different for men.” I thought I could coax him into it. “And I'd like a bath, too. Wouldn't you, Dooley?”

“Yes, master!” said Dooley enthusiastically. “I used to visit the Wizard's Chamber of Steaming Delights frequently.”

“I think a local Turkish bath will do enough for now,” I said.

We found one in midtown and went in. That was really a happy two hours! I'd never been to a steam bath before, with all the white tiles shining. At first I didn't like the steam room—and neither did Sam—but Dooley enjoyed it so much, slapping himself around and dashing from a hot shower into a freezing cold one, that Sam and I caught the fun of it, too.

“How do you like it, Sam?” I asked.

“It's great!” Of course he knew better by now, but he threw back his head and barked for the heck of it.

That brought the bath attendant in. “You got a dog in here?” he asked suspiciously.

“No, sir!” said Sam, very earnest now. “There's nobody here but us humans.”

That set the three of us off on a binge of laughing.

They had a swimming pool, too. To begin with, Sam could only do the dog paddle, but in half an hour Dooley and I had him managing the Australian crawl.

Then came cleanup time. Dooley got a razor and scissors from the attendant and gave Sam a shave and a haircut. He still looked pretty scraggly. I asked Dooley why he just didn't do it all by magic, and he said there was no point in doing by magic what you could do by hand. Which makes sense. The only magic he did right then was to snap his fingers and find in one hand a little vial—“containing a very sweet scent,” he said, “distilled from the Wizard's spice garden,” which he proceeded to slap all over Sam's face. Among other things, Dooley proved to be an excellent barber.

I got to comb Sam's hair. I always liked to brush him—when he was a dog, I mean—and he must have known, because he bent over obediently, and we tried the part on both sides. We all preferred the left. “There!” I said. “Now I call that a handsome man.” And he was, too. He still had something of a stomach, but not too much, in my opinion. “It's time to go home.”

Sam whimpered dismally.

“Sam, stop that!” I said. “Dooley fixed your voice.”

“I know,” he groaned, man-style now, “but I'm scared.”

“The whole point of making you a man was so I could still own you. That is—keep you.” I felt queasy about owning Sam the man. “I mean—so we could be together. Isn't that right?”

“Yes, Tim.”

“What we'll do is, we'll tell Aunt Lucy that you're an old friend of Lorenzo's. Because that's true enough to say, isn't it?”

“Oh, yes!” said Sam. “Ever since that first day when he found me in the garbage can on Bleecker Street.”

“Well, we don't need to tell her
that!
There's no point in being too honest. We'll say that Dooley and I just ran into you while we were driving around this morning.”

“Do you think she'll like me, Timmy?” Sam was worried. “You know—as a man?”

“I don't know, Sam,” I said. “But I hope you make a better impression than you did as a dog.”

During the drive back to Sutton Place we all were quiet. The Cadillac was full of Sam's anxiety.

And in the elevator, I remembered something else. “Sam, you have to have a last name. What one do you want?”

He thought a moment—desperately, you could see by his face. Then he said, “Oh—Bassinger, I guess.”

That struck me as funny—and also pretty original. “Why Bassinger, Sam?”

“You never knew it, Timmy,” said Sam, “but my father was a basset hound, and my mother was a springer spaniel.”

8

The Fearful Lunch

Aunt Lucy was in the living room. “Oh, Timmy—I've been so worried”—as usual. She was worried last night, she was worried this morning—she did a lot of worrying in those days. “I didn't know where—” Then she saw Sam behind me.

For a minute I thought the impossible: that she recognized him. Her forehead and eyes pinched into a question. But then they smoothed out clear again.

Sam, of course, was just standing there with that basset expression of pure dumb hopeless love.

Things had to be joggled on. I rushed into the silence that was holding us all apart. “Aunt Lucy, this is Mr. Bassinger. He's an old friend of Lorenzo's and mine; we met him this morning driving around, and since he's an old friend of Lorenzo's and mine, I thought I'd—I thought I'd—” About here I ran out of steam.

But Aunt Lucy came to my rescue. “You thought you'd bring him up to say hello.” She smiled.

“That's
right!
” I said.

“I'm so glad you did. How do you do, Mr. Bassinger?” She held out her hand.

I breathed an inward sigh of relief that I'd taught Sam how to shake hands. But he did it like a dog. Just held his hand out limply and waited for Aunt Lucy to take it, shake it, and then let it go again. It's funny how something like a limp handshake can be so appealing in a dog, but kind of icky in a man.

“Well—” Aunt Lucy began to jitter, because Sam still hadn't said a word—“I
am
glad to meet a friend of Timmy's.”