Ghost Dog Secrets Read online

  I hoped whoever was responsible for the puppies would be careful about who got to adopt them.

  “They may not be available for adoption right away,” Mrs. Webster said. “Sometimes in cases like this, the animals are considered evidence in the cruelty case, and they can’t be adopted until the trial is held.”

  This statement brought more outrage from the students.

  The room buzzed with suggestions. We had many ideas about how we could help but we all agreed on one thing: we wanted to do something to help those puppy mill dogs.

  “I’ll contact the shelter where they were taken,” Mrs. Webster said, “and find out what they need.”

  When we came back after lunch she said, “I’ve spoken to the Humane Society, where the puppies are being housed. They need blankets, dog food, laundry detergent, towels, and money. Five of the dogs are in need of urgent veterinary care, including two that need surgery. One dog’s teeth are so rotten that he cannot keep his tongue in his mouth. He needs dental care immediately. The people who run the shelter are determined to help these dogs, but they are mostly volunteers and they don’t yet have funds to pay for all of it.”

  “Let’s have a bake sale,” said Hayley.

  “And a car wash,” said Andrew.

  “If we do a car wash, maybe we could do a dog wash, too,” Emily said.

  “We could collect old towels and blankets,” I said.

  Mrs. Webster wrote all of the ideas on the board. When the list had grown to fifteen, she had each of us write down the three that we would most like to do. While we were at recess, she tallied the results.

  “Collecting dog food, towels, and blankets was your first choice,” she said. “Second choice is a bake sale, and third is to do something creative, such as make bookmarks about animals, and sell them.”

  She divided us into three groups. Each was supposed to make the plans for how to carry out our assigned idea. I was in the group that would collect blankets, towels, and dog food. Andrew was in that group, too.

  For most class projects, Mrs. Webster split up friends, putting pals in different groups, but this time she let us be together. I think she wanted as much enthusiasm and cooperation as possible for this project because she wanted us to succeed in helping the dogs. She volunteers for an animal rescue group and sometimes showed us photos of her own rescued dogs, Shakespeare and Hemingway.

  I lingered after class until everyone else had left. Then I asked Mrs. Webster, “How did the sheriff know about the puppy mill?”

  “A concerned citizen made a complaint,” she said.

  “So if you know about a dog that’s not being cared for, you should call the sheriff?”

  “It’s difficult to prove a case of animal cruelty,” Mrs. Webster said. “It helps if you have documentation such as photos or video, or witnesses who will testify, but certainly you should always try to help the animal. If you personally know of a dog that’s being mistreated, you should tell your mom or some other trusted adult. They can help you decide if you need to call the authorities.”

  “Okay,” I said, but I was not ready to tell Mom or anyone else about the dog.

  “Is it the dog in your poem?” Mrs. Webster asked.

  I nodded.

  “It’s a wonderful poem, Rusty,” she said. She didn’t ask anything else about the dog who had inspired it, but as I walked toward the door she added, “You are always welcome to talk to me about a problem.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but I kept going.

  When I got home, I took two of Mom’s old aluminum pie tins and a bottle of water. I cut up some leftover pot roast and cooked carrots and put the food in a plastic bag. As I worked I thought about the puppy mill puppies and about the chained dog, innocent animals who were suffering because of uncaring humans.

  When we worked on our writing in language arts, Mrs. Webster always said it’s better to be specific than general. That advice seemed to apply to my current situation, not just to my writing. The puppy mill dogs were a general problem; the dog that was chained to the tree was specific. All the dogs led unhappy, uncomfortable lives. They all needed help. I’d work with my group to collect supplies for the dogs at the shelter, but probably lots of other people would come forward to help those dogs, since their sad plight had been broadcast on TV.

  Nobody else was helping the dog that was chained out in the rain. Only me. I would help that one specific dog.

  I got my camera and put it in my backpack with the food, water, and pie tins. Mrs. Webster had said photos would prove that the animal was being mistreated, so I planned to take a picture every day, showing the dog chained up with no food, no water, and no place to get out of the rain.

  My camera has a feature that will put the date at the bottom of the photo. One picture might not prove anything, but if I had proof that this happened day after day, it ought to carry some weight. When I got to the dog’s yard, I found him in the same place he’d been the day before. Had he been there all night? Probably. People who would leave a dog chained up with no food and no shelter would not be likely to take the dog inside at night. I wondered if he’d had anything to eat since the hot dog I had given him.

  I got the camera out of my backpack and held it up, staying back far enough to clearly show the barren surroundings and the chain. I didn’t want a close-up shot because I wanted it to be clear that he had no shelter.

  If I had a dog, I’d let him sleep on my bed with me, and I’d brush him and play with him every day. I can’t have a dog, or any pet, because Mom says we can’t afford it and nobody’s home all day to take care of it.

  Things might have been different if my dad were still here. I know he liked dogs because I’ve seen old pictures of him when he was a teenager, hugging his mutt, Banjo. Dad was killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq when I was eight years old. I keep a picture of him in his army uniform next to my bed. I miss him a lot.

  I know Mom misses him, too. Losing him has made her cautious about everything we do, especially if it costs money or involves taking on any extra responsibility. I’m not a bad boy, but I guess I’m all she can handle.

  As I pushed the button on the camera, I felt a gentle nudge on the back of my leg. It felt exactly as if a dog had poked me softly with his snout, but when I looked there was no dog. No animal of any kind. A faint shiver ran along the back of my neck. It hadn’t bothered me yesterday when I felt something brush my leg. I assumed it had been an odd gust of wind or a twitchy muscle. But this time, it was definitely not the wind. Something—someone?—had poked me. I felt cold, as if the temperature had suddenly dropped about twenty degrees.

  I put the camera away and gave the dog his food and water. The dog acted the same as he had the first day; he backed away from me and watched me warily. I put the meat and carrots in one pie tin and poured water in the other, then left them both where the dog could reach them. He slinked toward the food, making sure I stayed out of range. When he finished eating, he drank some of the water.

  Instead of watching him eat, I kept glancing around, checking for any movement. The yard was empty. Whatever had poked me was not there.

  When the dog finished eating and drinking, I went forward to pick up the pie tins. I wanted to leave the water for him, but I didn’t want the dog’s owner to know that I was helping the dog, so I had to take both pie tins home with me.

  “Good dog,” I said. “I’ll bring food to you every day.” He backed away so I couldn’t reach him, just like before. I had to watch where I stepped, as nobody bothered to scoop in this yard. Some of the dog piles had been there so long they had fuzzy gray mold on top.

  The house on the property was set far back from the street and surrounded by a high, thick hedge. The driveway that led to the house curved as it passed the hedge, so the house didn’t show from the street. I could glimpse only one corner of a small structure with peeling brown paint. At least I didn’t have to worry that anyone inside the house would notice me.

  Although the house was small,
the dirt yard was large—much bigger than my front yard. Except for the shrubs around the house and the tree to which the dog was chained, there were no plants. The houses in this area all had big lots but none were landscaped or cared for. The house across the street had what looked like a sheet tacked up over the window to keep people from seeing inside. An old clothes washer rusted in that front yard. It seemed as if the people who lived on this street had decided that home and yard maintenance were all too much trouble, and they weren’t going to bother anymore.

  The good result of this lack of interest was that there were no neighbors out in their yards, watching me.

  I mounted my bike. I turned for one last look at the dog before I rode away—and nearly crashed the bike. I braked, put my feet on the sidewalk, and stared. The dog stood where he always did, in the middle of the dirt yard, but beside him, staring back at me, was another dog. Not a real dog—a see-through dog, a dog made of cloud wisps, an all-white dog that seemed to float just above the ground.

  A dog’s ghost. It had to be. I shivered. Did I believe in ghosts? I had never given it any thought, one way or the other. I liked to read ghost stories, but I knew they were fiction—fanciful tales that authors made up. Still, I could think of no other explanation for what I was seeing. Is this what had brushed against my leg yesterday and nudged me today? Was the ghost trying to tell me something?

  I laid my bike down and walked slowly toward the two dogs. Both dogs stood still, watching me approach. The ghost was—had been?—a female collie, with shaggy fur, a long snout, and pointy ears. When I was about five feet away, the real dog backed up. The instant he moved, the ghost dog disappeared. She simply vanished! One second she was hovering in the air beside the real dog, and the next second she was gone. There was no poof sound. No dramatic flash of light. She was there, and then she wasn’t.

  I waited a few minutes to see if the ghost dog would reappear. When she didn’t, I got on my bike and rode home, puzzling over what I had witnessed.

  I washed the pie tins and put them in my bedroom, ready for tomorrow. Then I turned on the computer and Googled “ghost dog” to see what would come up. Most of the entries referred to a samurai action film.

  I sat on my bed and debated what to do next. After a few minutes I went downstairs, opened the telephone directory, and found a nonemergency number for the sheriff ’s department.

  “I want to report a dog that isn’t being cared for,” I said.

  “One moment, please. I’ll connect you with our animal control officer.”

  A few seconds later, a voice said, “This is Heidi Kellogg.”

  “I want to report a dog that’s being neglected,” I said.

  “Do you have proof of neglect?”

  “He’s chained to a tree all the time, with no food or water.”

  “How long has the dog been there?”

  “I don’t know. I noticed him yesterday, and he’s still there today.”

  “Before I can do anything, I need proof of ongoing neglect or of actual abuse,” Heidi said.

  “I took a picture of him today.”

  “That’s a start. The best proof would be to have surveillance video showing that the dog is not given food or water for thirty-six hours,” she said.

  “I don’t have a video camera. I was going to take a picture every day.”

  “Do that,” she said. “In a week, if you still think the dog needs help, call me back.”

  “A week! We can’t wait that long to help him. He needs help now!”

  “Have you been there at night? Are you sure the owner doesn’t feed and water the dog then?”

  “I haven’t been there at night,” I admitted, “but there’s no bowl of water or empty dish and the dog’s really skinny.”

  “I tell you what. Give me the address where the dog is, and I’ll look to see if there have been other complaints about animal abuse there.”

  “I don’t know the exact address,” I said, “but I can tell you where the house is.”

  “I need the house number and street.”

  Of course she did. What was I thinking?

  “Keep an eye on the dog for a week and if you still think it’s being mistreated, take pictures for proof, if you can, and then call back with the specific address.”

  I hung up feeling stupid. What a moron move that was, not writing down the address before I called the sheriff. How had I thought they were going to find the dog without an address?

  I sat by the phone for a minute composing threesomes to describe my error: Major mammoth mistake.

  Big basic blunder.

  Next I began to describe myself:Stupid sappy scatterbrain.

  Clueless colossal clod.

  Finally I decided that berating myself for an honest mistake didn’t help solve the problem. The only way to help the dog was to document his situation and then report it.

  I put a piece of paper and a pencil in my backpack, to be sure I had them tomorrow. I would get the address, and I would write down the date and time of each of my visits, along with the weather. I’d create a journal of times when I’d found the dog alone with no food or shelter. When I had enough dates and photos and comments, it would be proof of neglect.

  Meanwhile, I had promised the dog I’d bring him food every day, so I needed to figure out how to do that. I couldn’t take leftovers all the time because Mom would notice and ask questions. I couldn’t afford to buy a hot dog for him every day, either.

  I counted the money that I had left from my birthday—more than ten dollars—then walked to the grocery store to buy a bag of dog food. I read the labels and tried to choose one that was nutritious and not full of ingredients I’d never heard of before. What is chicken by-product meal? I didn’t want to feed my dog junk that I wouldn’t want to eat myself.

  My dog. A prickle of excitement made my scalp tingle.

  I knew he wasn’t really my dog, of course, but he was starting to seem as if he belonged to me. Even though he was still afraid of me, I believed he would learn to trust me and then to love me. I loved him already.

  Back at home, I took a small plastic bag from the kitchen drawer and filled it with dog food. I could carry the bag in my backpack, along with the pie tins and the water. I hid the large sack of dog food in my closet, draping an old pair of jeans over it. I knew Mom would not approve of my feeding the dog. I figured if she didn’t know about it, she couldn’t tell me not to do it and, therefore, I was not disobeying any rules.

  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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I put on a pair of sneakers and my bathrobe, opened the bedroom door, and followed the ghost down the stairs. She went straight to the front door, then stood there watching me.

  “I can’t go out with you,” I whispered. “It’s past midnight. I’m supposed to be in bed.”

  The dog waited.

  I unlocked the door and opened it. The ghost dog trotted outside and partway down the sidewalk. Then she looked back, waiting for me.

  Curiosity welled up inside me. What did the collie want to show me ? I followed the dog’s ghost for half a block. I shouldn’t do
this, I thought. For one thing, it’s dangerous to go wandering about alone in the middle of the night. Also, Mom would ground me for a month if she found out and then how would I take food to my real dog?

  My concern about getting caught and not being able to feed the chained dog won out over my curiosity about what the collie’s ghost wanted me to see. I went back home.

  I had relocked the front door and started up the stairs when Mom appeared in the hallway above me. “Is anything wrong?” she asked.

  “I was hungry,” I said.

  “I woke up and didn’t know why,” Mom said. “I must have heard you in the kitchen.”

  “Sorry,” I said as I climbed the stairs. “I tried to be quiet.”

  “Next time turn on a light,” Mom said. “You could trip on something, walking around in the dark.”

  After checking my bedroom window, which was closed, I went back to bed, but it took me a long time to fall asleep. I kept expecting the collie’s ghost to reappear. Eventually I fell into a restless sleep, jerking awake when my alarm went off.

  At school, Mrs. Webster let us work on our puppy mill projects all morning. My group decorated three large round bins that she had brought in. We would use them to collect blankets, towels, and dog food. After much discussion, we decided to put one bin inside the main entrance to the school and one bin outside the doors to the gym, where parents came to watch basketball games, gymnastics meets, and other student events.

  “Let’s put the third bin at Safeway,” Marci suggested. “Everybody buys groceries, so lots of people would see it, and they could buy dog food right there.”

  We agreed that this was a good plan. Mrs. Webster said we needed to write a letter to the store manager, requesting permission and explaining where the collected food would go.

  “Why can’t we just ask him? ” I wondered. “If he says yes, we can put the bin in the store right then.”