Little Dog, Lost Read online

  In memory of Ruby,

  beloved service dog for Martha Bird

  and the model—

  especially through the ears—

  for Buddy

  —M. D. B.

  For my two Valentines

  —J. A. B.

  Acknowledgments

  My appreciation to Rubin Pfeffer of East/West Literary Agency, who found my lost little dog a home and then watched over her with such loving care.

  And to Kiley Frank of Atheneum, who helped me find the story I most wanted to write.

  And to Ariel Colletti of Atheneum, who finished the journey with Buddy and me.

  And, of course, to Dawn, my ruby Cavalier, who lay under my desk patiently, day after day, waiting for this latest competitor for my attention to come to life . . . or at least for me to leave the competitor behind and go for a walk.

  —M. D. B.

  Little dog,

  lost.

  Little black dog with brown paws

  and a brown mask

  and a sweet ruffle of brown fur on her bum

  just beneath her black whip of a tail.

  Satiny coat.

  Ears like airplane wings

  that drop

  just at the tips.

  She used to be called Buddy

  until no one called her anything at all.

  “Hey, you!” maybe.

  Or “Shoo!”

  Names to run from.

  Buddy wasn’t always lost.

  Once she owned a boy.

  It was the boy who named her.

  (“I know she’s a girl,” he’d say,

  “but she’s my buddy anyway.”)

  Her boy threw a ball

  again

  and again

  and again

  until Buddy flopped

  onto her belly

  in the tickling grass

  and dropped

  the ball

  between her paws,

  her tongue as limp

  as

  a

  dishrag

  Come and get it, her grin always said,

  and then I’ll chase some more.

  The boy used to take Buddy’s pointy face

  between his hands

  and kiss her on the lips,

  just like that.

  When Buddy was quick,

  she could get in a lick

  at the exact moment

  of the kiss.

  The boy would say, “Arghhh!”

  and wipe his mouth

  with the back of his hand.

  Then he’d kiss Buddy

  on the lips

  again.

  In short,

  Buddy and her boy

  were perfectly matched

  and perfectly happy

  together.

  But nothing,

  not even the sweetest love,

  can be certain

  of lasting

  forever.

  Not every boy

  has the good fortune

  of growing up

  with a dog to love.

  Another boy—

  his name was Mark—

  in another town—

  the town was named Erthly—

  had no dog

  at all.

  Mark had wanted a dog

  for as long as he could remember.

  He had asked for a dog.

  He had begged for a dog.

  He had pleaded and prayed and whined for a dog.

  Once he’d even tried barking for a dog.

  All to no avail.

  His mother always said, “No.”

  “Puppies piddle,”

  she said.

  “Puppies chew.”

  “I’m sorry, Mark,”

  she said every time he asked,

  “no dog!”

  Though she never looked very sorry.

  Mark’s mother gave him much

  of what he asked for:

  She gave him the catcher’s mitt

  he’d admired in the window

  of the hardware store

  when it wasn’t even Christmas

  or his birthday.

  She gave him an almost-new bike.

  And just about every time

  they made the long drive

  into the city

  she gave him money to buy

  a triple-decker ice cream cone

  with chocolate on the bottom

  and chocolate on the top

  and peppermint crunch

  in the middle.

  She even gave him things

  he’d never asked for:

  food on the table,

  clothes to wear,

  a nice little house

  with a big green backyard

  (perfect for a dog).

  But no dog.

  Maybe it was his mother’s “No!”—

  the flatness of it,

  the certainty—

  that made Mark want a dog

  so much.

  Maybe it was that,

  before Mark was even born,

  his father had gone out

  to buy a loaf of pumpernickel bread

  and had kept on going.

  That’s the way Mark’s mother put it.

  “He went out to buy a loaf of pumpernickel bread.”

  Mark knew it was a joke—

  sort of—

  but still,

  he had never liked pumpernickel.

  It wasn’t that he missed his father.

  How can you miss somebody you’ve never met?

  But sometimes

  his nice little house

  and his big green backyard

  and his life

  seemed kind of lonely

  somehow.

  So Mark had decided

  long ago

  that a boy without a dad

  or a brother

  or a sister

  or even a cousin

  living close enough to count

  needed

  a

  dog.

  He spent hours and hours

  reading about dogs.

  If he ever got one of his own,

  he knew

  exactly

  how to care for it.

  You had to give a dog

  food,

  fresh water,

  exercise,

  some good work to do—

  like chasing a ball for a boy—

  and lots and lots of love.

  Mark knew how to do all that.

  No problem.

  He’d even practiced.

  Again and again,

  in his imagination,

  he’d fed his dog,

  he’d talked to his dog,

  he’d scratched his imaginary dog

  until he’d found the spot

  that made an imaginary hind leg

  thump

  with pleasure.

  And every night

  he patted the place

  next to where he lay in bed

  and said,

  “Here you go.

  Come on up now.”

  And the dog who lived

  in his mind

  always jumped

  right

  up.

  But when he asked his mother again,

  she still said,

  “No!”

  Most of Mark’s friends

  in the town of Erthly

  had dogs.

  Mark didn’t mind that they had dogs

  and that he didn’t.

  Well,

  maybe he did mind,

  a little,

  but he didn’t w
ant their dogs

  to go away.

  He just wanted a dog

  of his own.

  Alex had a pure white German shepherd

  named Blizzard.

  Ryan had Cinder,

  a schnoodle.

  (A schnoodle,

  in case you don’t know,

  is a cross between a schnauzer

  and a poodle.)

  Cinder was short

  and square

  and,

  to be perfectly honest,

  rather chubby,

  just like Ryan.

  Samantha had a dachshund.

  His name was Hotdog.

  Trent didn’t have a dog.

  He had a large orange-marmalade cat

  named Fido.

  Fido walked on a leash

  like any proper dog,

  and he was friends

  with every dog in town too.

  But that was because every dog in town

  knew how to behave

  around Fido:

  tail down,

  head down,

  ears down,

  eyes down.

  When they approached Fido that way,

  properly respectful,

  he touched noses with them,

  politely,

  and then let them be.

  However,

  if a new dog came prancing by,

  head and tail high,

  not knowing his proper place in Erthly,

  Fido hit the end of his leash

  like a runaway freight train,

  pulling himself free.

  What followed

  could have come right out of a rodeo.

  Fido,

  tail puffed and pointing to the sky,

  rode the dog’s back

  the way a cowboy rides a bull.

  The difference

  between Fido

  and the cowboy

  was that Fido had more spurs.

  If the new dog had merely

  been exploring,

  he’d never be seen in Erthly again.

  If he’d come to Erthly to stay,

  he would have learned his lesson.

  The next time he met Fido,

  he’d tuck his tail,

  lower his head,

  drop his ears,

  cast his eyes down,

  and pretend to be very interested

  in a good smell

  far,

  far

  from Fido.

  Lia didn’t have a dog either,

  but she walked her aunt’s dogs,

  two golden retrievers named Polly and Daisy.

  She walked them every day

  for fifty cents.

  Practically every one of Mark’s friends

  had a dog.

  And they all

  shared their dogs

  with Mark.

  But it wasn’t the same,

  sharing a dog,

  when the leash

  was attached

  to someone else.

  One bright summer morning

  Mark woke,

  thinking about dogs.

  That wasn’t unusual.

  He often lay in bed,

  listening to his mother

  clink about in the kitchen

  and thinking about the dog he wanted:

  big or small,

  rough-coated or soft,

  black or brown or white or red or brindled.

  This time,

  though,

  he found himself thinking

  instead

  about his friends’ dogs.

  He found himself thinking

  how much fun it would be

  to have a place in Erthly

  where dogs and kids

  could run free,

  a place

  where he could run free with the dogs!

  “What we need in this town,”

  he said,

  right out loud to the light fixture

  hanging above his bed,

  “is a dog park.”

  He could see it all!

  He and his friends

  would step through the gate

  of the dog park,

  unsnap the leashes,

  and watch the snarl of dogs

  untangle and bound away,

  scattering rabbits and squirrels

  like leaves

  before a rowdy breeze.

  Mark’s scalp,

  beneath his bristle of brown hair,

  tingled,

  just thinking about it.

  He would ask his mother.

  Not for a dog this time.

  He knew the answer to that.

  He would ask for a dog park

  instead.

  His mother,

  you see,

  was the mayor of Erthly,

  and if anyone could get them

  a dog park,

  she was the one.

  Back to Buddy.

  She’d had a family once.

  But then you know

  about her boy.

  She had a mom and a dad, too.

  Grandparents.

  Aunts and uncles.

  Cousins.

  She even had a dog cousin,

  a raggedy terrier named Rikki.

  Buddy and Rikki used to play chase

  around Rikki’s backyard

  whenever Buddy visited.

  They’d tussle and tumble,

  growl and grin,

  grab each other by the scruff of the neck.

  (Do you know what “scruff” means?

  I’ll tell you,

  just in case you don’t.

  “Scruff” is another word for “nape.”

  Oops!

  You don’t know “nape,” either?

  How silly of me.

  It means the back of the neck.

  Yes, I know.

  I could have said so.

  But “scruff” is such a satisfying word,

  don’t you think?)

  Scruff or nape or back of the neck,

  however you name it,

  Buddy was a very happy dog.

  But all that was before.

  Before Dad said, “We’re moving.”

  Before Dad said, “We’re moving far away.”

  Before he said, “We’re moving

  to an apartment in a big city.”

  Then he looked down at Buddy’s airplane ears

  that drooped just at the tips

  and said,

  “An apartment in a big city is no place for a dog.

  We’ll have to find a new home

  for Buddy.”

  The boy cried.

  Mom blew her nose.

  Even Dad took a deep breath

  and turned to look out the window.

  But when he turned back

  again,

  he had nothing more to say.

  Everything the family owned

  disappeared into boxes,

  except Buddy’s bowl,

  her bed,

  her bone,

  her ball,

  the orange-marmalade stuffed cat she liked to toss

  into the air

  and

  catch

  again.

  The orange-marmalade stuffed cat

  she always rested her chin on at night

  when she slept.

  Everything disappeared into the moving van

  or into the car.

  Even Buddy piled into the car

  with her bowl,

  her bed,

  her bone,

  her ball,

  and her stuffed cat.

  Buddy was excited.

  She loved car rides.

  Maybe she was going to visit her cousin,

  Rikki,

  the ragged terrier.

  And they did

  indeed

  drive to another town,

 
but not to the one where Rikki lived.

  They drove to a town called Erthly,

  though no one bothered

  to tell Buddy

  the town’s name.

  When the car stopped

  in front of a strange house,

  the boy got out

  with Buddy on her red leash.

  Mom got out too,

  carrying Buddy’s bowl

  and bed

  and bone

  and ball.

  Buddy carried her own

  orange-marmalade stuffed cat.

  A woman

  with salt-and-pepper hair

  opened the door of the strange house.

  She looked down at Buddy,

  at her airplane ears

  and the sweet ruffle of brown fur

  on her bum.

  “I’ll take good care of her,”

  she said.

  And then she added,

  “What did you say her name was again?”

  “Buddy,”

  the boy and his mom said together.

  “Buddy,”

  the woman repeated,

  like someone memorizing a difficult poem.

  Then the boy gave Buddy

  a scratch

  behind her left ear

  where she always had an itch.

  And he gave her

  a kiss

  on the lips.

  Buddy got in

  one

  last

  lick.

  And the boy and his mother

  walked slowly

  back to the car.

  The woman waved good-bye

  and shut her door.

  She looked down at the little black dog

  with a brown mask.

  She looked at Buddy’s bowl

  and bed

  and bone

  and ball.

  She looked at the orange-marmalade stuffed cat.

  “Oh, my,” she said.

  “I know nothing about dogs.

  How will we manage,

  you and I?”

  “A dog park?”

  Mark’s mother

  turned from the eggs she was frying.

  A crease dug deep

  into the pale space

  between her eyebrows.

  “Erthly is a small town,

  Mark,”

  she said.

  “The budget has no room

  for dog parks.

  We’d have to buy land.

  We’d have to build a fence.

  Someone would have to take care of it.

  It would take too much money.

  Don’t you see?”

  Mark didn’t see.

  He didn’t want to see.

  He refused to see

  anything.

  He slumped in his chair.

  “The park we have

  needs new playground equipment,”

  his mother went on.

  “Those rusty old swings are a disgrace.

  And there are potholes

  all up and down Walnut Street.

  Besides,”

  she added,

  “the sheriff needs a raise.”

  Mark sighed.

  The sheriff was Trent’s dad.

  It would be fine

  if Trent’s dad