Wild Thing (8 page)

“Well, rats! No offense.” Pat nodded at the white mice cages. “To tell the ugly truth, Winnie, I’m barely getting by here. Can’t afford to pay myself. Pet-Mart is running me out of business.”

Spidells again.
It wasn’t fair. Why should
they
run the whole town—
and
own Wild Thing?

People like the Spidells and the owner of that poor dog outside shouldn’t be allowed near animals!

The second I thought of him, there he was by Pat’s computer—the same African-American guy I’d biked into the day before. Grinning, dressed in a Nike running suit and a Cleveland Indians baseball cap worn backward, he didn’t look much like a dog abuser.

“Mrs. Haven—Pat,” I said, “that kid’s messing with your computer. His dog—”

She stood on her toes to see over the cages. “Eddy?”

He glanced over, then walked toward us. “Hey! How are you?” he called to me, like he was happy to see me.

“Eddy Barker,” Pat said, “I’d like you to meet Winnie Willis.”

“Whinny?” He chuckled. “Like a horse makes?”

If I’d been a horse, I’d have bitten him. “Yeah. Winnie,” I said. “You think that’s funny? How’s your dog,
Mr. Barker?
”

“Just Barker,” he corrected, unruffled.

Barker?
I recognized the name but couldn’t remember where I’d heard it.

“You two know each other?” Pat asked.

“No,” I said too quickly.

“She’s Lizzy’s sister,” Catman explained.

Maybe I should wear a T-shirt that says “Yes— I really am Lizzy’s sister.”

“Your sister is the best babysitter my brothers ever had!” Barker exclaimed.

That
Barker?

“Even Johnny loves Lizzy!” Barker went on. “And he’s scared of everybody—like Macho. That’s the dog you saw.”

“That puppy living up to his name yet, Barker?” Pat asked. She turned to me. “Barker’s trained a dog for each of his five brothers—dogs everyone else gave up on. When I found that scared li’l black-and-tan, I knew Barker was the dog’s only hope.”

I squirmed. “The dog was abused
before
he—?” I wanted to melt into the floor. How could I have gotten it so wrong? “I’m sorry, Barker,” I said finally.

“’Bout what?” Barker’s smile was so real, with nothing fake about it, that I wondered how I could have thought what I had.

“I—I thought
you
were the one who hurt the dog,” I admitted.

Barker raised his eyebrows and burst into laughter that was so catching we all laughed with him. Then he checked his watch. “Whoa! I better get back to the dog e-mails.”

“Dog e-mails?” I asked. “You
are
a dog genius! They even write you?”

Catman grinned with a low noise that sounded like a purr. But Pat Haven burst into an all-out laugh that made the gerbils scamper.

“Barker set up a pet help line for locals to write in,” Pat explained. “He handles the dog questions. Catman takes the cat inquiries. I try to cover everything else.”

“Ring! Ring!”

I glanced at Pat, but she made no move to answer the phone.

“Ring! Ring! Ring!”

“Shouldn’t somebody answer that?” I asked.

“Would you, Winnie?” Pat asked, her eyes twinkling.

I shrugged, then headed toward the ringing sound. No phone in sight, so I leaned over the counter to check behind it.

“
Squawk!”
Up flew the same red bird I’d seen in the barn.
“Ring! Hello! Who’s there?”
he said, as he soared past me to Victoria Hawkins, the beautiful girl who looked like a Native American princess.

Victoria had just entered the store. She walked up the aisle frowning. “Peter Lory!” she called, and the bird flew to her shoulder.

“I get it,” I said, pushing myself off the counter. “Like that old, scary actor, Peter Lorre. Right? Chattering lory—Peter Lorre?”

Victoria didn’t crack a smile. “I need assistance. I am in rather a hurry. Where might I find high-grade cracked sunflower seeds?”

The way she asked made me feel like her personal slave. “Try a sunflower,” I said and walked away.

Seeing Victoria made me picture the unfriendly Stable-Mart. The urge to be with Wild Thing tugged at me like gravity—always there whether I realized it or not. With no second job, I felt further away from buying her than ever. I wished Catman hadn’t gotten my hopes up.

“Nice to meet you,” I called back at Pat as I turned to hurry out of the pet store.

“Wait!” Barker called from the computer corner. “Can you help with these horse questions?”

Catching a glimpse of Victoria and her bird, I felt like breaking out of there.

“Show her the two e-mails from yesterday,” Catman said.

“Just a minute . . .” Barker typed pretty fast.

I read the e-mail exchange he was finishing up:

My dog hates me! I even get down on her level and stare into her eyes. But she just growls! Help!

—Max

Barker had written:

Max,

Your dog doesn’t hate you! She’s scared! In dog talk, staring means, “Oh yeah! Wanna fight about it?” And don’t get down on the ground with her. It scares her to see you change size and shape. Just love her. She’ll love you back!

—Barker

“Your turn,” Barker said to Winnie, getting up from the wooden desk chair and motioning me to sit down.

I sat, nervous, with Pat Haven, Catman, and Barker looking on. Victoria was peering into the canary cage, but I had a feeling she was listening.

I read the e-mail:

My pony eats so fast she chokes on her food! The vet says she’s healthy. What should I do?

—Megan

I typed:

Megan,

Try putting a large block of salt in the feed trough. That should slow her down. She’ll have to keep nudging the block out of the way to get to the grain. And hang out with your horse at mealtime—and all the time!

—Winnie

“
Awesome!” Pat cried, resting her hand on my shoulder.

I answered the next one about tips on buying a good horse. Then I clicked to the last horse e-mail:

I love my horse, but he’s started balking on me. I hate to bring out the whip. Is there a cure?

—Hawk

I wrote:

Hawk,

Burn that whip! For starters, ride your horse somewhere fun. I’ll bet you ride in circles—an arena, right? Take his mind off balking! If you’re both having fun, he’ll forget all about balking.

—Winnie

Catman turned to Pat Haven. “So?”

“Great answers if you ask me,” Barker threw in.

Pat twirled one of her curls. “I can’t pay much—minimum wage for the time it takes to answer. But if you’d take over the horse e-mails, Winnie, you’d do me proud.”

“You mean it?” I asked, letting hope slip back in.

“I’m dog-tired of trying to come up with the answers myself!” Pat exclaimed. She glanced to the dog pen. “No offense.”

It wouldn’t add up to much with just a couple of e-mails a day. But it brought me that much closer to Wild Thing.

Late that night Wild Thing lifted her head as I spread my green saddle blanket in her pasture. Moonlight fingered through the trees in streaks of silvery white.

“I love you, Wild Thing,” I whispered. “I wish you could believe me.”

While the mare munched clover, I sang, “Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy.” But before I knew it, I’d switched to “Amazing Grace,” “How Great Thou Art,” and “Jesus Loves Me.”

When I got to “Jesus loves me—this I know . . . ,” Wild Thing snorted.

“This I know?” I said. “This I used to know, Wild Thing. I’m just not sure. Not now.”

I looked up at the stars, trying to remember what it had been like to feel God’s love. “How can you love me after what I did?”

Pictures burst through my mind’s blockade and flooded in—Mom and me arguing; Dad pointing to the snow swirling against the window; me pulling out the tears, knowing I could make Mom drive me to look at the new horse.

I got up so suddenly Wild Thing shied away.

Shaking my head to get rid of the pictures, I ran all the way home.

For the next five days I divided my time between Stable-Mart and Pat’s Pets. Morning and night Wild Thing and I kept our secret meetings.

More horse e-mails poured in. Someone named “Hawk” sent three or four a day, asking about everything from bits and bridles to cracked hooves and riding bareback.

Hawk asked about me, too. I didn’t give out my last name or where I live, even though Pat only gave the e-mail address to customers. But I did tell Hawk things I didn’t usually talk about. It seemed easier “talking” about myself when I didn’t have to see the other person. I wrote about Stable-Mart and my plan to earn enough money to get Wild Thing away from there.