The Misadventures of the Magician's Dog (2 page)

“I'd really rather not.”

“But, Peter . . .”

“Ith addy omin ome or etey irthay?” Izzy asked through a mouthful of meat loaf.

“What?” said Peter.

“Swallow and ask again,” said Peter's mother. “Talking with your mouth full is bad manners, honey.”

“And besides, we can't understand a word you say,” added Celia.

Izzy swallowed, then repeated, “Is Daddy coming home for Petey's birthday?”

Peter's mother's fork froze halfway to her mouth, and the skin suddenly seemed to stretch too tightly across the bones of her face. Still, she kept her smile pasted on—the one she had been wearing ever since Peter's father had left two months earlier for an unexpected deployment, his third in the past seven years.

“Daddy won't be home for Peter's birthday, Izzy,” she said. “You remember. Daddy's fighting a war. He's
doing it for our country, and that's why he can't be here right now.”

“Maybe we could ask the war if he could come home for our birthdays,” Izzy said. “Maybe the war doesn't know Peter's is tomorrow.”

Celia's hands clenched the edge of the table. “Don't be dumb. You know Daddy won't be back for a long time. He told us when he left.”

“He didn't say anything about birthdays,” said Izzy.

“Well, duh. He didn't have to. He said he wouldn't be home for at least a year.”

“Celia,” Peter's mother said in a warning tone.

“What? She knows we can't see him.”

“I just want to see him for our birthdays,” said Izzy. “Birthdays are important.”

“Well, you can't,” said Celia. “Not even for birthdays.”

“Celia's being mean, Mommy,” Izzy said. “Will you make her stop? Please?”

“No,” said Celia. “Make
her
stop.”

Peter's mother pressed her fingers to her temples. “Enough, Celia. Your sister had a question, and she was trying to get it answered. She deserves our attention.”

Celia opened her mouth as though she was going to argue, but instead she began to cry, angry sobs that filled the kitchen. Then Izzy started to cry, too, although hers were silent tears that trickled down her cheeks and puddled under her chin. Peter's mother just sat there, saying nothing, as if she had run out of words.

I have to say something
, Peter thought. It wasn't a role he relished. Peter was the quiet one, the one who avoided
drama and conflict. He wasn't the one who spoke up in a crisis.
Say something
, he ordered himself as he watched the steam drift up from his green beans.

He opened his mouth, hoping words would just spill out.

“I know what I want for my birthday,” he said.

It wasn't exactly a showstopper. No one even turned.

“I want a dog.”

What had his mouth done? He hadn't meant to say the words and yet there they were, and he could do nothing to unspeak them.

His mother, Celia, and Izzy all gaped at him. Then Celia began to laugh. She laughed so hard that for a moment Peter was afraid she would choke and he would have to call 911.

“But, Peter!” she exclaimed, once she could speak. “You're scared to death of dogs!”

“I'm not scared of dogs,” Peter lied.

“Oh, yes, you are,” said Izzy, her tears forgotten. “Remember when we were out walking and that German shepherd wanted to play with us? You picked me up and carried me all the way home, even though I told you he was just being friendly.”

“That dog might have hurt you,” Peter said. “Did you see how big his teeth were? But I'm not scared of all dogs.”

“Uh-huh. Right,” said Celia.

“I'm not scared of dogs,” Peter repeated. “Otherwise, why would I want one for my birthday?” He turned to his mother.
Say no
, his gaze begged; his mother didn't like dogs, either, and surely she was about to explain that
a dog was too much responsibility and he was going to have to pick something else.

“Oh, Peter,” she said, “really? I don't know. A dog is a lot of work. . . .”

“Please?” begged Celia.

“Oh, please, please?” added Izzy.

Peter could see from his mother's expression that she was wavering. “It's really what you want for your birthday?” she asked.

From across the table, Celia's narrowed eyes challenged Peter to admit the truth.

“It's really what I want,” he said.

Peter's mother smiled, and this time it was a genuine grin that erased the tiny lines of tension that usually crept from the corners of her eyes. “All right, then. Let's do it. Tomorrow morning after breakfast, we'll go to the dog rescue center and bring home the dog you like the best.”

Izzy and Celia erupted at the news.

“What will we name him?” Celia demanded.

“What color will he be?” Izzy wondered.

Peter hoped their questions masked the fact that he himself had become very quiet.

That night in bed, Peter lay awake for hours, trying to figure out how he could avoid adopting a dog. He still didn't understand how those dreadful words had escaped from his mouth in the first place. Since they'd moved to Arizona last spring, he had often found himself saying the wrong things—to his mother, to Celia, to the kids at his new school, where his few attempts
to make friends had failed miserably. But asking for a dog! That was something entirely different, and entirely worse.

Toward dawn he decided he had no choice: he needed to tell his mother and sisters he had changed his mind and he didn't want a dog after all. Celia would make fun of him, and Izzy would be disappointed. But at least he wouldn't have to have a dog.

He had just settled into an uneasy sleep when he heard his door swing open.

“Petey?”

“Yeah, Izzy?”

“Can I get in with you?”

“Yeah.”

Izzy climbed in next to him. Her toes were tiny ice cubes against his knees.

“I wanted Daddy to come home today,” she said.

“I know. I wish he could be here, too.”

For a moment the room, shadowy in the early-morning light, was silent, and Peter wondered if Izzy had gone back to sleep.

“Why did he go back to the war?”

“I don't know. I guess because the air force told him to.”

“A lot of the kids at school have dads who are at war, but the dads on TV always live with their kids,” Izzy said.

“Families are different,” said Peter. “That's just what Dad's job is. Flying planes for the air force, I mean.”

Izzy's breathing slowed; Peter could tell she was settling down and that soon she really would be asleep.

“I'm glad you want a dog,” she said, her voice sounding far away. “I know I'm going to love him. And I think . . . I hope he's going to like me, too.”

“Go to sleep, Izzy,” Peter said.

How bad could it be, having a dog?
Peter asked his reflection in the window of the family's minivan the next morning. Most dogs did not bite their owners' fingers. Most dogs did not pee on their owners' possessions. Most dogs did not eat their owners' little sisters.

It could be bad
, his reflection said.
With the luck you've been having, it could be sister-eating bad
.

It was clear to Peter what he ought to do. He ought to tell his mother to go back home so that they could celebrate his birthday by having too much cake and ice cream, like any normal family. But how could he tell her when every time he turned his head to speak, he saw Izzy perched on the seat behind him, her eyes shining? She looked happier than she had since their father had left.

He drummed his fingers against his knee and tried not to think of what was about to happen.

And then, more quickly than seemed possible, the minivan was pulling into a parking lot he'd never noticed before. The sign above the dusty stucco building said
CANINE RESCUE CENTER
, with the faded
C, R
, and
C
all painted white with black spots.

Peter's mom put the car into park. Then she turned to Peter.
She's going to ask me if I want to go through with this
, Peter thought.
What am I going to say?

But she didn't ask. All she said was, “Let's go, honey.”

Peter went.

The first thing Peter noticed when he entered the Canine Rescue Center was the silence. He had expected dogs barking, but the only sound was the squeak of an overhead fan. In some ways, Peter found the lack of noise more eerie than he would have found barks and growls. Where were the dogs?

“Darn, darn, darn.”

As one, Peter, his mother, and his sisters turned. The voice had come from a desk piled high with papers—a desk that had no one sitting behind it.

“C'mon,” the voice wheedled now. “Just work. Please work. You know you want to.” A series of sharp bangs followed.

Celia and Izzy started to giggle. “Umm . . . pardon me?” Peter's mom said, in her polite voice. “Is someone there?”

A frazzled-looking young man with a ponytail popped up from beneath the desk. “Oh! I didn't see you come in. . . . Have you been waiting? I'm sorry. I take it you're here—of course you must be—for a dog?”

“I'm Grace Lubinsky,” Peter's mother said, “and this is my son, Peter. Today's his birthday, and he wants to adopt a dog as his present.”

“Wonderful!” the young man said. “We have so many extraordinary dogs here. I think you'll find . . . Well, it depends what you want. . . . But you'll find the perfect companion, I know.”

Peter couldn't help himself. “What were you banging on?”

The young man sighed, and the enthusiasm left his face. “Oh. That. Well, the equipment here is all really old. . . . It's donated, you see. And it's not working, the computer. I thought . . . Well, I had just about given up, so banging seemed like . . . maybe not a good option, but an option.”

“Would you, um, like me to look?”

“You know about computers? That would be . . . just excellent, truly excellent.”

Peter slipped behind the desk.
You're procrastinating
, his mind told him, but Peter didn't care. He liked computers, and he didn't like dogs. Facing him, the monitor was black and lifeless. Peter reached over and pressed the power button on the computer. Nothing. Then he checked the cord in the back, running his fingers down its length until he felt an unexpected rough spot.

“Here's your problem,” he said, feeling more cheerful than he had all day. “It's the power cord. It's been chewed on.”

“Rusty!” said the young man, snapping his fingers, as though this explained everything.

“Uh . . . ,” said Peter. “It's not actually rusty. It's been chewed on. I mean, with teeth.”

The young man laughed, then patted Peter's shoulder. “No, no—Rusty is a dog. I had him out here with me yesterday. That rascal—he'd chew through anything. I should've checked the cord; I just didn't think . . .”

One more disadvantage of dogs
, Peter thought. “You can get a new power cord at any electronics store,” he said. “They don't cost that much.”

“Thank you so much,” said the young man. “Really, thank you. I'm Timothy, by the way. I would have . . . Well, anything you need, please let me know.”

“Well, right now we need a dog,” Peter's mom reminded Timothy. She was smiling, clearly pleased that Peter had been able to help, but Izzy, waiting next to her, was wiggling with impatience, and Celia was restlessly shifting her weight from foot to foot.

“Oh, yes, right,” said Timothy. He hurried to a door in the opposite wall. “They're through here,” he said, pushing the door open. An explosion of barking immediately filled the office. He had been wrong, Peter thought; eerie silence was better than noise. “Let me know when you find one you like,” Timothy continued. “And if you don't want your cords chewed on . . . maybe not Rusty.”

Celia and Izzy didn't need a second invitation. They were off like shots. Peter, his heart thumping unpleasantly, lingered by his mother's side.

“Go on, honey,” she said. “I'm going to get the paperwork started.”

He had no choice. He walked through the door.

The long room he entered was filled with dogs. Everywhere Peter looked, he saw dark eyes, staring at him expectantly. The air smelled of urine and wet fur, and the open-topped steel cages offered little reassurance.

“This one is so cute! Peter, you have to see her!” exclaimed Celia.

Peter thought about Izzy's dreamy voice that morning as she drifted off to sleep, how happy she'd sounded talking about a dog. If there was one person in the world he wanted to be happy, it was Izzy—Izzy, who had always been small and quiet but had somehow gotten smaller and quieter in the eight weeks since their father had left. Peter and Celia at least remembered their father's other deployments, but Izzy had been only three when he'd come back the last time. When their father had met them at the airport that day, he'd ruffled Peter's hair, pressed Celia to his chest, then swung Izzy high into the air before clutching her against him. “Now I'm back for good,” he'd said, and Peter could have sworn he'd seen tears in his father's eyes—his father, who never cried. Remembering those tears somehow made Peter feel braver now, and he straightened his back and walked over to where Celia knelt in front of a cage. There was nothing to do but choose a dog fast and get out.