Mad Dog Read online

  “Better give me two females,” I tell her. We both know female dogs are easier to housebreak.

  She nods, then glances at her watch. “What about that Chihuahua you got here a while back? Wouldn’t that one make a good nursing home dog?”

  “I placed Taco last month.” I miss that dog, but the guy who took Taco was a perfect match. Retired, fussy, and a guy who kept his house warm enough for Taco.

  The terrier is still cowering in the back of her cage. “Let me see the terrier mix.”

  Wanda opens the cage, but she has to lift the dog out. She hands the trembling dog to me. As soon as I have her, the terrier buries her nose in the crook of my elbow. She’s scared, but she’s not scared of me. Probably the noise around here.

  I shouldn’t take her. She’s too shy. She won’t like the noise of a group home. Plus, she’s old enough to have bad habits.

  The dog pokes her snout deeper into the crook of my elbow.

  I know better than to fall for “cute.” This dog is all wrong for a noisy nursing home, where dozens of people could grab for her at the same time.

  I scratch her back, and her tail wags. “I’ll take her,” I say, regretting it as soon as the words are out.

  “Thought you would,” Wanda says.

  “And that ugly female over there.” It’s not the bulldog’s fault she’s so ugly.

  “This one?” Wanda asks, going right to the dog. No doubt which one I mean. “I’m guessing this dog’s going to a blind person, right?” She laughs and opens the cage.

  “Not a bad idea,” I admit.

  Wanda helps me leash the three dogs. It’s a good start. It won’t be easy training three at the same time. But they’re good-natured.

  Doors swoosh open, and footsteps sound up the hall. The blonde receptionist appears. She rushes toward us but stops before she reaches the cages.

  “Hank’s here!” she cries, like she’s announcing an early Christmas. “He’s right outside! Honking for you.”

  “Okay.” I turn to go, but I hear dog toenails scratching on a cage floor. I shouldn’t glance back at the dogs I’m leaving, but I can’t help it.

  It’s the Pomeranian making all the fuss. With his three legs, he scrambles to his feet and barks. Just once. But it feels like he’s talking to me. I’d almost forgotten about my headache. Now it creeps back, pounding with every yap of the Pomeranian.

  The bulldog and the beagle-Lab are pulling at their leashes, stretching me in opposite directions. The poor terrier tries to lie down between my shoes.

  And the Pomeranian keeps barking.

  “Hank’s waiting!” the receptionist shouts, like she’s afraid he’ll get away.

  I’ve already got more work than I can handle at Starlight Animal Rescue. Plus, I’ve got my own dog, Rex, to walk. Not to mention the fact that I need to train a dog for my mom.

  “Yeah. I’m coming.” I shuffle as far as the silver doors. Then I hear the Pom’s single bark again.

  I stop. The terrier crawls between my shoes. The Blab gets the leash in his teeth. The ugly-as-sin dog is tangled in the terrier’s leash.

  But I can’t leave that three-legged dog.

  I sigh, big and heavy. I don’t need this. Three dogs are already too many. A three-legged, scrawny, good-for-nothing dog wouldn’t be a lick of good in a nursing home.

  Wanda passes me and shoves open the silver door. I hear Hank’s horn honking outside.

  “Wait!” I shout. “I’m taking the tripod.”

  Three

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Hank yells out the truck window.

  I’m carrying the gimpy Pom and dragging the scared, rat-tailed terrier, while the beagle-Lab and ugly-as-sin bulldog tangle each other with their leashes. They trip over themselves racing for the burned grass to do their business.

  “I’ve been frying in the truck waiting for you,” Hank hollers. He scoots out, slamming his door behind him. “Four? How did you end up with four dogs, Wes?”

  I hate it when Hank gets on his big-brother act. So I don’t answer. He’s not the boss, no matter what he thinks.

  He strides up to me, his long legs covering the distance in a few steps. “How are you going to handle all these dogs?”

  It’s the question I’ve been asking myself. My head pounds harder every time I think about how much work I’m getting myself into. I can’t do this by myself. Somebody’s going to have to help me. And I don’t like asking anybody for help.

  The terrier jumps up on Hank. It’s the first brave move the dog’s made, and it takes both of us by surprise.

  Hank squats down and pets the terrier. “Hey, little guy.”

  “Girl,” I say, correcting Hank. I hand over the terrier’s leash, knowing Hank will take it.

  Truth is, Hank can bark, but he never bites. The guy wouldn’t last two days in the projects. He and I argue all the time, but Hank’s usually the one to give in. He can’t seem to stay mad at me longer than a few minutes. Man, are we different. And Hank doesn’t hold grudges, not as far as I can tell anyway. If he did, he’d have a truck full of grudges against me.

  The terrier keeps jumping on Hank, like she’s not a bit scared. Hank picks her up. “I don’t get it, Wes. You’ve never come home with this many dogs before. What were you thinking?”

  “You know, Hank,” I begin, “you’re right, as usual. Four dogs are just too many, man. Why don’t you go take that terrier back to the pound? Only you better hurry. They’re killing the leftover strays tomorrow.”

  Hank narrows his eyes at me. We both know he won’t go there. He strokes the terrier’s back, and she nestles her nose right under Hank’s arm. It’s a good trick, and it works.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Hank says.

  Hank doesn’t help me with the other dogs, so I have to wrestle the bulldog and the Blab into the only two kennels I brought along, while I keep the Pomeranian tucked under one arm. If this is any kind of preview of how things are going to go, I’m in big trouble. I have to get somebody to help me train these dogs.

  We don’t talk until we’re out of Nice and onto the gravel road. The Blab hasn’t stopped barking since the engine started. The bulldog is slobbering all over the kennel. Some of it dribbles through to the truck seat. I block the view so Hank can’t see.

  “I guess Gram Coolidge really worked a number on you, huh?” Hank says. “When does she want the dogs ready for the Manor residents?”

  “Next Friday. But I’m going to talk her into giving me more time.” The Pom tries to stand, and I have to catch him before he wiggles off the seat.

  “Can you even train dogs that fast?” Hank asks.

  “Depends,” I answer. “Won’t be easy. All by myself.” This is as close as I can get to asking for help without coming out and asking. Like I said, I hate asking anybody for anything. Part of me wants to pray Hank will get the hint and volunteer to help me out. But I guess I’m not big on asking God for things either.

  “You think the dogs are housebroken already?” Hank asks, not getting my hint.

  “Maybe,” I answer. “That little terrier on your lap—she’s probably trained.”

  “You think?” Hank asks, like he’s a proud parent. He keeps one hand on the wheel and one on the dog.

  “Still,” I try again, “it’s going to be tough to find time to walk all four of these new dogs, plus Rex. I’ll have to fatten a couple of them up. They’ve all got to learn some manners before I take them to Nice Manor. And don’t forget, soon as I move back to Chicago, you guys are going to have to take over anyway. It would be good if somebody besides me knew how to train dogs.”

  Hank doesn’t take the bait. He can’t be that thick.

  We’re to the dirt road a mile from the farm. I’m never going to have a better chance than right now to get Hank to help me. “Hank?” I clear my throat.

  He glances at me, then back to the road. “Yeah?”

  My head’s buzzing again. Hank isn’t making this easy. He probably knows e
xactly what I want, but he’s going to make me beg for it. “So, can you help?”

  “With the dogs?” Hank asks, like he didn’t know what I was getting at.

  “No, Hank. With the elephants. Yeah! The dogs. I need help, man. It’s too much for me to pull off by myself.”

  “You should have thought of that before, Wes,” Hank says, all big-brotherish. “I don’t have enough time to work the horses the way I should. I need to get the two new ones under saddle before school starts. I’m trying to help Dakota with Blackfire. I just don’t have time to work with the dogs, too.”

  Hank turns the truck up the drive. He hits a bump, and the kennels rattle.

  “Watch where you’re going, will you?” I snap.

  “I’m sorry, Wes,” Hank says. “About not being able to help with the—”

  “Forget it.” But I won’t. Just wait until he needs me to do something for him.

  I stare out the window as the barn and farmhouse come into view. Annie’s minivan isn’t there. Annie Coolidge is my foster mom, and she’s probably still at the hospital. She’s a surgeon in a cancer hospital, although you’d never guess it looking at her.

  Before Hank can pull the truck around the barn to park, I tell him to stop. “Just give me a minute to unload the dogs. You can spare a minute, can’t you, Hank? If you’d be so kind? I don’t want to put you out or anything.” I’ve got sarcasm down cold. It’s the one thing I can do better than Hank.

  Hank stops the truck, but he doesn’t make one move to help me unload the dogs.

  Fine. I put the Pom on the seat of the truck and back out of the cab. Keeping one eye on the tripod dog, I unload the two kennels, with the Blab and the bulldog inside. When I reach across the seat for the terrier, the dog buries its nose under Hank’s arm.

  “I can get him,” Hank says. “Her,” he corrects, before I can.

  “Don’t bother.” I grab for the terrier. My arm brushes the Pomeranian, and he slides off the seat.

  “Look what you made me do!” I shout.

  “Is he okay?” Hank asks, reaching for the Pom.

  I shove his hand away. “What do you care?”

  “Don’t be like that, Wes.”

  I pick up the Pom in one hand. With the other hand, I scoop the terrier out of Hank’s arms. Then I stumble out of the truck, a dog under each arm, the kennels at my feet. The Blab is barking nonstop. I kick the truck door shut. Hard.

  Behind me, more barking starts. This is familiar barking.

  “Rex!” I call. “Stop it.”

  He doesn’t stop it. Rex is my German shepherd. I rescued him the second week I came to this farm. Somebody had dumped the dog on the side of the road and left him for dead. I nursed him back to health. In a way, I guess Rex rescued me, too. Until he showed up, I missed my mom and Chicago so much that I hated everything else. It felt disloyal to like the Coolidges.

  Rex changed that. He taught me about dogs too. I’d always liked dogs, but I didn’t know they liked me until Rex came along. When I leave this place, Rex is coming with me.

  I want to pet my dog, but my arms are full. “Easy, Rex,” I tell him. “I just brought you some buddies. That’s all.”

  My foster dad comes jogging out of the house, waving. His real name is Chester, but I call him “Popeye.” If you saw him, you’d know why—short, stocky, bald. He’s a volunteer fireman, a farmer, and a stay-at-home dad.

  I don’t know what he’s going to say about me bringing back four dogs. He’s smiling, but he’s always smiling. He shouts something to me, but I can’t make it out because of Rex.

  “Can’t hear you!” I shout. “Rex won’t quit barking at the new dogs.”

  Popeye walks up and takes the Pom from my arms. “Rex isn’t barking at the new dogs, Wes. Don’t kid yourself. That dog is barking at you. What are you so mad about this time?”

  I frown at Popeye. The Pom is already trying to lick Popeye’s sunburned head.

  Rex is still barking. Popeye’s right. My dog is barking at me. He knows me better than any human ever has, better than I know myself. Popeye calls him my anger-meter, my mad alarm. Rex only barks when I’m angry. And he doesn’t stop until I cool off.

  I give up trying to make Rex stop barking. The way I feel right now, my dog is going to be barking forever.

  Four

  Popeye helps me carry the kennels to the screened-in porch. He and Hank added it on a couple of years ago, before I got here. The porch runs the length of the house, so it’s a great place for the foster dogs to sleep.

  “This is a cute little guy,” Popeye says when he sets down the bulldog’s kennel, “if he didn’t slobber so much.” He wipes his hands on his jeans.

  “Female,” I correct. “I just hope you’re not the only person in the world who thinks this dog is cute.” In broad daylight, the dog’s wrinkles have multiplied.

  When I set down the terrier, she clings to the porch’s wood floor like she’s afraid she might fall off.

  Popeye is still staring at the bulldog. “Female? Are you certain, Wes?” He shakes his head. “Wonder what my Annie will think about this one. Wonder what Mother will think of this one.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. But Mrs. Coolidge left it up to me to pick the dogs. Too bad if she doesn’t like my picks.

  The Blab looks more restless than usual, and the Pom is whimpering. I know I should walk all the dogs, but I need help. “Popeye, would you mind—?”

  Before I can ask, he blurts out, “Yikes! I better get going. We have a meeting at the firehouse. Looks like I’ll be late again.”

  He yanks his fireman’s jacket off the coatrack, even though it’s a thousand degrees outside. “Wes, if my Annie gets home before I do, tell her I miss her and can’t wait to see her. I’ll make dinner when I get home.”

  I nod. He and Annie have been married forever. But when they’re apart for, like, an hour, Popeye can’t stand it. Then when they’re together again, they both act like they’re long-lost lovers.

  “Wes?” Kat calls from the top of the stairs.

  Popeye stops at the door. “Everything okay, Kat?”

  “Fine,” she answers. “Aren’t you late for your firehouse meeting?”

  I catch Popeye glancing at the kitchen clock. But he turns a smile up toward Kat. “I’m okay. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. Only what’s with all the barking?” She takes the steps one at a time. Bright red hair springs all around her face, making her a pretty good double for Orphan Annie, minus the freckles. The hair’s not hers because she lost all of hers when she had the second round of chemo treatments.

  Two cats trail behind her. They’re never far from Kat, although they won’t let the rest of us near them. Fine with me.

  “Hey, Kat,” I call.

  “Hey, Wes,” she says back.

  When they dropped me off at Starlight Animal Rescue and I met Kat for the first time, I got her all wrong. Number one, I thought she was way younger than she is. She’s 11 now, but she could pass for eight or nine . . . until you talk to her. Two, I thought she was a “bio” Coolidge, like Hank, because she calls Annie and Popeye “Mom” and “Dad.” And three, I thought she was posing, faking it, because she seemed almost too good to be true. Wrong again. There’s nothing fake about her.

  “Wish I could have gone to the animal shelter with you,” Kat complains. She’s taking the stairs extra slow. Not a good sign.

  “Yeah, right. And make me haul off a dozen more cats to find homes for?” I tease.

  She reaches the landing and stares at the pound dogs. “Wes! Four? You brought home four dogs?” Unlike Hank, Kat sounds totally cool with this fact. “They’re adorable!” she exclaims. She goes straight for the three-legged Pomeranian, leans down, and lets him lick her face.

  “Wes has his hands full this time,” Popeye says. He glances at the kitchen clock again. “Gary is going to set me on fire if I’m any later to the fire station. I’ve got to go, Kat. Will you be okay until my Annie gets h
ome? Wes is here. Dakota and Hank are out in the barn.”

  “Go.” Kat stands up too fast. She reaches for the doorknob to steady herself. I take a step for her, but she waves me away.

  Popeye’s back is to her, so I don’t think he saw how dizzy she got.

  “You better hurry, Dad.” She opens the door she’s leaning on. “Wes and I will walk the dogs. Right, Wes?”

  I grin at her. She’s helped me with the dogs before.

  Popeye shakes his head. “No strenuous exercise until my Annie gives you the A-OK.”

  Annie isn’t just Kat’s foster mother. She’s Kat’s doctor. That’s how Kat ended up at Starlight. She was a cancer patient in the hospital where Dr. Annie works. Nobody, not even Kat, talks about Kat’s real mom and dad. But one day Dr. Annie brought Kat home with her, and I guess that was that. Hank says Kat’s been on the farm ever since. Popeye and Annie are adopting Kat for real. It’s almost final.

  Popeye asks me to help him carry some things to the truck, but I know he just wants to talk to me without Kat around. When we’re outside, he says, “Wes, don’t let her walk those dogs, okay? Her immunities are still down, and so’s her energy. I don’t want her overdoing it.”

  I nod. I could have used the help, but I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Kat.

  When Popeye’s gone, I head back inside. My brain’s spinning, trying to figure out how I’m going to walk five dogs by myself.

  “Let me help, Wes,” Kat begs, her blue eyes getting so wide they sink even deeper into her head. “It won’t hurt me to walk a dog. I can walk really slow.” She tries to prove it by doing a Frankenstein shuffle toward the Pom.

  I have to think fast. “Great.” I pick up the Pomeranian. “Only you know what, Kat? What I really need is somebody to hold this little guy while I walk the other dogs. Would you do that? Maybe hold the Pom while you sit on the couch and watch TV or something?”

  “Really?” Kat says. “I’d love that!” She glides over to the terrier and pets her. “What about this one, Wes? She looks so scared.” The little dog is still hugging the floor, head low and ears drooped. “You poor little scaredy-cat dog,” Kat coos. “How’d you like to sit on my lap too?” She reaches down to pick up the terrier and gets the dog up as far as her knees. Then she has to set it down again.