Ghost Dog Secrets Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PURR – FECT CAT BLANKETS

  Acknowledgements

  OTHER BOOKS BY PEG KEHRET

  A MYSTERIOUS GHOST

  That night, I woke suddenly. I lay still, listening, wondering what had awakened me. The numbers on the digital clock beside my bed said 12:16.

  Just past midnight.

  It felt cold in my room. Even under the blankets, I was chilly. I wondered if Mom had opened a window and forgotten to close it. When she changes the sheets on my bed, she usually opens a window, even in winter, to “air out the room.”

  Intending to walk across the room to check the window, I groggily swung my feet over the side of the bed. It was like sticking my legs into a tank of ice water.

  Instantly wide awake, I looked beside my bed. The dog ghost stared back at me. The cold air that swirled around my feet came from her.

  The dog ghost did not appear menacing. She didn’t bare her teeth or act as if she wanted to bite me. Instead, she trotted to my bedroom door, which was closed. She turned back, as if to say, Let’s go.

  OTHER BOOKS BY PEG KEHRET

  Abduction

  Cages

  Don’t Tell Anyone

  Earthquake Terror

  The Ghost’s Grave

  I’m Not Who You Think I Am

  Nightmare Mountain

  Runaway Twin

  Searching for Candlestick Park

  Stolen Children

  Terror at the Zoo

  THE PETE THE CAT SERIES

  Spy Cat

  The Stranger Next Door

  Trapped

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by Dutton Children’s Books,

  a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2010

  Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2011

  Copyright © Peg Kehret, 2010

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DUTTON CHILDREN’S BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Kehret, Peg.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Sixth-grader Rusty, determined to help an injured dog that is chained outdoors in frigid weather,

  calls animal control then takes matters into his own hands, aided by his best friend and a ghost collie that leads

  Rusty to an even deeper secret. Includes instructions for knitting cat blankets.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-56461-5

  [1. Dogs—Fiction. 2. Animal welfare—Fiction. 3. Animal rescue—Fiction. 4. Ghosts—Fiction.

  5. Stealing—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.K2518Ggm 2010

  [Fic]—dc22 2009053256

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume

  any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product

  of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Eric Konen

  Thanks for muscle-man chores, game marathons,

  granny/grandson dates, and fun overnight visits.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I first saw the dog chained to a tree on a frigid October morning. Icy rain pelted him, and his tail drooped between his hind legs as he watched the cars pass his yard. He had no shelter.

  “Mom!” I said. “Look at that poor dog! He doesn’t even have a doghouse.”

  She glanced at the dog. “Not everyone takes care of their animals, Rusty,” she said, and quickly returned her attention to the slick road. Since she was already annoyed with me for missing the school bus, I didn’t say anything more, but the image of the dog stayed with me. While my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Webster, tried to interest the class in the industrial revolution, I looked at the sleet blowing sideways against the window and thought how cold that dog must be.

  My attention returned to the classroom when I heard the word quiz. Mrs. Webster’s favorite trick was to spring an unannounced quiz on the class. When we complained, she always said, “If I told you that you were going to be tested, most of you would study the night before, but the point of education is that you should study whether you think you’ll be tested or not. You need to do your homework every night and keep up with the reading assignments. A surprise quiz lets me know who is doing that, and it’s a good wake-up call for those who are not.”

  For me, a quiz usually equaled an alarm clock, especially if the test was in math.

  That day, though, I was lucky. The quiz said, “Write two paragraphs about the book you’re reading for free reading.” Each student was supposed to read for thirty minutes every evening. Since we could read anything we wanted (as long as it was age appropriate—Gerald Langston had once claimed he spent the entire thirty minutes reading Goodnight Moon) it was my favorite homework and the only assignment I did consistently. I quickly jotted down two paragraphs about my current book.

  I finished, looked up, and caught Gerald peering at my paper. When he saw me look at him, Gerald turned around and began to write on his own paper. I dropped my pencil on the floor as an excuse to bend closer to see Gerald’s paper. Just as I thought, he had written about the same book that I was reading. Ha! Fat chance that Gerald had read anything. Gerald ignored me as he scribbled away.

  It’s easy to write a report on a book you have not read. All you have to do is talk about the fast-paced plot or the intriguing characters or the author’s use of similes. As long as you’ve put the title in the first sentence, the rest of it sounds true, and I was pretty sure Gerald would get away with his deception.

  All the kids knew that Gerald cheated, but he never got caught and nobody wanted to be the one who squealed on him. In Heath School, being a tattletale was more of a disgrace than being a cheater. I retrieved my pencil, then turned my paper over so that Gerald couldn’t copy anything more.

  While I waited
for Mrs. Webster to tell us to pass our papers forward, I made a mental list of the reasons why I don’t like Gerald:1. He cheats.

  2. He makes fun of Matthew because Matthew’s dad is in prison, saying stuff like, “Seen the jailbird lately?” It seems to me it would be hard enough to have your dad get sent to prison for armed robbery without being reminded of it every day.

  3. In fourth grade our teacher had a classroom guinea pig, and Gerald used to poke the guinea pig with the point of his pencil. Shannon Whitehouse finally told the teacher about that and nobody called her a tattletale. I wished I’d been the one to stand up for the guinea pig.

  4. Gerald thinks it’s funny to trip people. He sticks his leg into the aisle at the last second as someone walks past. Twice I’ve stumbled and had to catch myself, and once I landed on my hands and knees. I’m not the only one he trips, but because we are seated alphabetically and Larson (me, Rusty Larson) comes right after Langston, I sit directly behind Gerald and have to pass his desk to get anywhere in the room.

  I was working on number five when Mrs. Webster said we could put our papers on her desk on our way to lunch. I followed Gerald and put my paper on top of his. I hoped Mrs. Webster wouldn’t think that I had copied from him. I didn’t worry too much about that, since I had written about the specific things I had liked in the book. Unless Gerald had actually read the book, which I doubted, his paper would be only generalizations.

  During lunch I complained about Gerald to my best friend, Andrew. In first grade, Andrew and I had formed a “club” called the Knights of the Royal Underpants. One of the club activities was to make up alliterative three-word phrases that we called threesomes.We didn’t hold club meetings anymore, but we still created threesomes and sometimes called each other by our club names. I was Mighty Muscles Man. Andrew was Exalted Exciting Expert.

  “Gerald’s hopeless,” Andrew said. “Ignore him.”

  The afternoon dragged and I found myself thinking about the dog again.

  When we had to write a poem for our language arts unit, I wrote:CHAINED MISERY

  Icy rain pounds brown-black fur

  Water drips from pointed ears

  As I ride past, dog’s image blurs

  Through wet window, and my tears.

  Fur is singular and blurs is plural, so they don’t really rhyme, but time was up before I could fix that. Although Mrs. Webster says a first draft is not a finished poem, we are never given enough time to revise anything.

  We ended the class day with a discussion about litter. One of Mrs. Webster’s goals in life is to turn all of her students into involved citizens who help solve the problems of the world. At the beginning of the year, we had a guest speaker from Habitat for Humanity who talked about building houses for people who can’t afford them, and last week we had a speaker from the Department of Ecology who told us what kind of evidence to look for if we think someone has a methamphetamine lab on their property. He said even if we don’t think there’s a meth lab in our neighborhood, we should all be knowledgeable about how to tell. Our next guest speaker was going to talk about recycling.

  Kids sometimes mention a community problem in class, hoping Mrs. Webster will get distracted and talk about it instead of having us do our work.

  That day, Hayley said, “The playground area at Kennedy Park is a mess. Somebody ought to do something about it.”

  “You are somebody,” Mrs. Webster said. “Each of us is somebody.”

  We all looked at her.

  “When we say, ‘Somebody ought to do something,’ ” she continued, “we’re wishing someone else would solve a problem, but perhaps we are the ones who should take action.”

  “My parents would never let me go to the park and pick up the trash,” Hayley said. “Some of it is really nasty stuff, like pee in bottles.”

  “Ewww,” said Jordan. “Gross!”

  “What else could you do to solve the problem, besides cleaning up the park yourself ?” Mrs. Webster asked.

  Ideas flew. “Call the parks department and complain.” “Write a letter to the editor of the local paper.” “Ask a service organization, maybe the Boy Scouts, to have a cleanup day.” “Go do it ourselves but wear disposable gloves and take those gripper things that let you pick stuff up without touching it.”

  “All excellent suggestions,” said Mrs. Webster. “Remember that you are the someone in the phrase ‘Someone ought to do something about that.’ Each of you. Me too. We are all the someone who needs to take action.” She walked to the board where today’s homework assignment was written. When she erased it, a few kids cheered; the rest of us waited to see what would happen next.

  “I’ve changed your homework assignment,” she said. “Instead of math, I want each of you to think of a problem that you personally can help to solve.”

  I made up my mind right then that I was going to help that dog. As soon as I got home from school, I’d ride my bike back to where I’d seen him. I didn’t know what I planned to do when I got there. If the dog was gone, I wouldn’t have to do anything except think of a different problem for my homework. But if he was still tied to the tree, I knew I was the someone who had to help him. I just hadn’t figured out yet how I would do it.

  The dismissal bell finally rang, and I bolted out the door. The school bus took a less direct route from school to my house than the one Mom had driven that morning, so it didn’t pass the yard where I’d seen the dog. I couldn’t quit thinking about him, though. After I ate some toast with peanut butter and drank a glass of apple juice, I rode my bike to where the dog had been. He was still there, chained to the same tree, asleep on the cold muddy ground.

  He looked up when I stopped my bike.

  “Hi, dog,” I said. “I’m your friend, Rusty.”

  He stood, looking wary. He was a German shepherd, with a long, bushy tail. He was full grown but he looked young. A year old, maybe. Or two? Since I had never had a pet myself, my knowledge of dogs was limited to the dogs my friends had and to what I’d read or seen on TV.

  A row of ribs pushed against his fur on each side. I looked around the yard and saw no bowls for food or water. I should have brought food for him. An owner mean enough to leave the dog chained to a tree all day in the rain probably didn’t feed him properly.

  As I looked at him, something brushed against my leg. I glanced down but saw nothing. I looked behind me. Nothing there, either.

  “I’ll be back,” I told him, and I pedaled away. There was a convenience store two blocks down the street. I bought a hot dog and took it back to the dog.

  I got off my bike and walked slowly toward the dog. He backed away as I approached him. He didn’t growl or act threatening, but he clearly did not want me to come closer. When I was near enough to be within reach of his chain, I broke the hot dog into quarters. Using the wrapping paper as a plate, I laid the pieces of hot dog and bun on the ground where he could reach them. Then I returned to my bicycle.

  The dog kept a watchful eye on me as he gobbled the food. When he had finished, which took about one second, I went toward him, and again he backed away.

  “Good dog,” I said. “You’re a fine dog.” He didn’t wag his tail or respond in any way. I knew I needed to earn his trust before I tried to pet him.

  “I’ll come to see you again tomorrow,” I told him. “I’ll bring more food.” Then I picked up the hot-dog wrapper and rode back home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next day, Mrs. Webster asked, “Did you think of a problem that you personally might be able to help solve?”

  Several hands shot up.

  “I’m going to ask my youth group at church to collect canned goods for the food bank,” said Kylie.

  Tyler said, “My neighbor is old and uses a cane. I’m going to rake the leaves in her yard.”

  Lexi said, “My mom said I can go with her when she volunteers at the library. I’m going to help shelve the returned books.”

  Mrs. Webster beamed at all of us. “Gerald? ” she
said. “Did you think of a problem you could help solve?”

  Gerald said, “I was thinking I could murder my stupid sister.”

  Mrs. Webster’s smile disappeared. “That might solve one problem,” she said, “but what bigger problems would it create ?”

  Gerald shrugged.

  Marci said, “I saw a news report last night about a puppy mill that got raided. It was horrible! The sheriff ’s deputies took more than a hundred dogs out of one house, and they were all filthy and covered with fleas and some were sick. I’d like to help them, but I don’t know how.”

  “What’s a puppy mill?” asked Tyler.

  Mrs. Webster said, “A puppy mill is a business run by unscrupulous people whose dogs are bred to have litter after litter, as fast as they can, and who then sell the puppies, usually to pet stores. The dog parents are treated as machinery in a factory, not as living beings. Many spend their whole lives in cages.”

  “I saw that report, too,” said Lexi. “Three of the dogs had a stump in place of one of their legs.”

  “Often the dogs are inbred,” Mrs. Webster said, “which causes birth defects.”

  “Many of them were sick,” Marci said, “but they had received no veterinary care.”

  “Puppy mills are a disgrace,” Mrs. Webster said, “and I hope the people who ran this one get prosecuted for animal cruelty.”

  I had never seen Mrs. Webster so angry. Usually she was calm and tried to make sure we thought about all sides of an issue, but this time it was clear that the puppy mill infuriated her.

  Everyone began talking at once. The class was outraged about the puppy mill and quickly agreed that we wanted to help these dogs. “We can make it a class project,” Marci said. “We can raise money for them or help to find them good homes.”

  “I’ll take one,” said Gerald. “I could train it to keep my sister out of my room.”