Ghost Dog Secrets Page 6

  I set my alarm to go off half an hour earlier than usual, but I’m a zombie in the mornings. I staggered around, staring at my clothes as if unsure what I was supposed to do with them. I ended up having only ten minutes with Ra—barely long enough to take him outside. I put some kibble in his bowl and promised to be back as soon as I got home from school.

  “Don’t bark while I’m gone,” I warned him. “You have to be quiet so nobody discovers that you’re here.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A deadline for bringing their donations had spurred the other classes into action. That day as we emptied the bins and counted the contents, someone called the pile of blankets and towels “Donation Mountain,” and the name stuck.

  My class’s creative project group had made dog and cat place mats. They drew animal pictures on 8 x 14 paper, and then Mrs. Webster had laminated the drawings. They were perfect for putting under pet food and water bowls. The kids in that group decided to charge three dollars each, and if I’d had three dollars I would have bought one to put under Ra’s bowls.

  Many teachers purchased place mats as soon as they saw them. The group had set up a card table at the high school basketball game and had sold out of the place mats in less than twenty minutes. They had earned one hundred fifty dollars to give to the Humane Society! The class got so excited over being able to donate toward the rescued dogs’ veterinary care that we asked the group planning a bake sale if all of us could participate.

  The afternoon before the bake sale, Andrew and I walked Ra after school but instead of playing with him after his walk, we put him back in the fort while we went to Andrew’s house to bake cookies. We made a double batch of peanut butter cookies and a double batch of chocolate chip cookies. Then we stirred up some Rice Krispies Treats.

  Wendy the Whiner hung around, but we told her she could only watch.

  “I want to stir the dough,” Wendy whined. “I want to scoop it onto the cookie sheets.”

  We said it was a school requirement that nobody except kids in Mrs. Webster’s class could help bake for the bake sale.

  “You and I can bake cookies tomorrow,” Andrew’s mom said. “Today the boys are going to do it.”

  “That isn’t fair. Andrew always gets to do everything first. He gets to go bowling.”

  Andrew rolled his eyes. “I take you along, don’t I?” he said. “Rusty and I let you come with us every Saturday afternoon.”

  “But I don’t get to throw the ball.”

  “That’s because it’s too heavy for you,” Mrs. Pinella said. “And the special shoes that the bowling alley requires are too big for your feet. You’re lucky the boys let you go along to watch, so stop complaining.”

  While the cookies cooled, we went back to the fort. Ra got so excited to see us that he spun in circles. We took him outside and threw his tennis ball for him. Then we gave him a rawhide chew bone to keep him occupied while we went back to Andrew’s house to pack the cookies.

  Andrew and I had made twelve dozen cookies. “That should bring in a lot of money to help the dogs,” he said as we looked at the plates lined up on Andrew’s kitchen counter.

  “A copious cookie contribution,” I said.

  “Copious minus two,” Andrew said as he handed me a cookie and bit into another one himself.

  We had sturdy paper plates and put a dozen cookies on each, then covered them with plastic wrap.

  We beamed at each other, feeling good about our afternoon’s work. We even remembered to thank his mom for contributing all the ingredients and letting us use her kitchen.

  “I’ll drive you to school tomorrow,” Mrs. Pinella said. “We’ll pick you up, Rusty, so you can help carry the cookies.”

  The bake sale was a success. Parents and grandparents stopped to purchase goodies. Mom gave me five dollars that morning and told me I could choose something to put in the freezer to have for my lunches. I bought two dozen of the cookies that Andrew and I had baked.

  Mrs. Webster bought a cake, and most of the other teachers bought baked goods, too. By the time I got on the bus to go home that day, everything had been sold. Before we left for the Humane Society field trip the next morning, Mrs. Webster announced that the bake sale had raised one hundred eighty-six dollars. When we added the cash donations to the place mat and bake sale money, our class had a total of five hundred eighteen dollars to help the dogs!

  When we got to the Humane Society, we each carried in a box or bag filled with food, towels, or blankets. The parents who had come along carried in the rest of our donations. Mrs. Webster introduced Mr. Buckingham, the director of the Humane Society, and presented him with a check for five hundred eighteen dollars. We posed for a picture with Mr. Buckingham, and then he and two volunteers gave us a tour of the shelter.

  First we walked down a long hallway that had glass along one side. On the other side of the glass, cats of all sizes and colors awaited adoption, in individual cages. Each had a dish of food and water and a small box of cat litter. Some of the cats used their litter boxes as beds. A few cats had red-and-blue knit blankets, just the right size for a cat to curl up on.

  Several put their noses to the glass, as curious about us as we were about them. Others eyed us cautiously. Some slept through our visit. Each cat’s window had a number on it. Pieces of paper with corresponding numbers were pinned to the wall on the opposite side of the hallway. Those papers told how old the cat was, its name, and anything known about its background.

  I saw a particularly cute calico and wished the glass wasn’t there so I could pet it. The paper for that number said, “Buttons. Spayed calico female, approximately three years old. Good with dogs, other cats, and kids. Family is moving and can’t take her.”

  When Mr. Buckingham asked if there were any questions about the cats, I raised my hand. “Buttons seems like a great cat, but it says her family is moving and can’t take her,” I said. “Why wouldn’t they take her?”

  One of the volunteers muttered, “Good question,” as if she had wondered the same thing herself.

  “People have many reasons for leaving a cat with us,” Mr. Buckingham said. “Even when their reason doesn’t seem very good to me, I’d still rather they brought the animal here than to dump it somewhere. At least here Buttons is safe and has food and will have a chance to get a permanent home.”

  He had not actually answered my question, but I didn’t say anything else. It must be really hard to work in a place like this and stay patient with the reasons people give for not keeping their pets.

  Next we went to the dog area. It was a huge room containing several rows of kennels, each about six by eight feet big with a heavy wire gate across the front. A few dogs had blankets but most had only the bare concrete floor. I was happy that we’d brought so many blankets. Donation Mountain would help a lot of dogs.

  “Usually,” Mr. Buckingham said, “we have only one dog per kennel, but we’ve had to double up in order to accommodate all of the rescued dogs from the puppy mill.” Three or even four dogs shared many of the kennels.

  Most of the kids were oohing and aahing over the rescued puppies, but my eyes were drawn to a row of kennels that held big dogs. Several pit bulls watched me through the wire. Labradors, mixed breeds, and even a Great Dane pressed their noses against the wire gates as if saying, “Here I am! Choose me!”

  When I saw a German shepherd, I approached that kennel. The dog looked so much like Ra that it could have been his twin sister. I read the paperwork that was clipped to the front of the kennel. “Female German shepherd, age two. Stray. Shy, but responds to attention. Spayed.”

  “Hello, girl,” I said. “You’re a pretty dog.” She wagged her tail. I held my fist to the wire and she sniffed it. Andrew came and stood beside me.

  “She looks like Ra,” he said.

  I nodded. “I’m glad we took Ra when we did,” I said. “If the sheriff ’s department had rescued him, they would have brought him here, and there are already way too many dogs here.”
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  Andrew let the German shepherd sniff his hand, too. “She probably doesn’t have much chance of getting chosen with all those cute Westies and miniature schnauzers and dachshunds that are available from the puppy mill rescue,” Andrew said.

  “I wish we could take her,” I said. “She’d be good company for Ra. Instead of being alone all day while we’re in school, he’d have a friend.”

  “Maybe I could talk my parents into adopting her,” Andrew said. “Then I could walk her over to your house and if anyone saw us with Ra, they’d assume it was this dog.”

  “But if your parents adopt her, she couldn’t live with Ra, so she wouldn’t keep him from being lonely.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Gerald Langston came and stood next to us. I saw him read the paperwork on the German shepherd’s cage. Then he leaned down, looking carefully at the dog.

  “What are you looking for?” Andrew asked.

  “I’m checking to be sure it’s a girl dog, like the paper says.”

  “It is,” I said.

  “Why do you care ? ” asked Andrew, but Gerald walked away without answering.

  “I hope he doesn’t try to adopt her,” I said.

  Mrs. Webster told us it was time to return to the lobby, where Mr. Buckingham would answer any additional questions.

  Jordan asked, “How old do you have to be to volunteer here?”

  “Sixteen,” Mr. Buckingham said.

  Hayley said, “How come some of the cats have little blankets and others don’t?”

  “Volunteers knit the blankets,” he said. “When a cat gets adopted, its blanket goes along to the cat’s new home, to help it feel secure. We always need people to knit more cat blankets for us.”

  “Are there specific instructions?” Mrs. Webster asked.

  “I’ll get them for you,” one of the volunteers said, and she headed to an office.

  Somebody wanted to know why the shelter charged a fee to adopt an animal. “Why can’t you give them away, if it’s a good home?”

  “All of our animals are spayed or neutered before they leave,” Mr. Buckingham explained. “They are vaccinated, wormed, microchipped, and given flea treatment. All of that costs money. The amount we charge for an adoption does not cover the cost to us of rescuing an animal. We depend on private donations.”

  By the time we boarded the school bus for the return trip, my head overflowed with information about the needy animals.

  As we rode along I told Andrew, “I’m glad there are people who donate money to help homeless animals.”

  “So am I. When I’m old enough I’m going to volunteer here. It would be cool to be a dog walker or give tours of the shelter or sell stuff in their gift shop.”

  The Monday after the field trip, when Andrew came over after school, he knocked on my front door instead of letting himself in as he usually does. When I opened the door, he said, “I’m not staying. You need to wait until I’m back home before you go to the fort.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I was followed.”

  I looked over his shoulder, my eyes scanning the sidewalk.

  “Wendy is tailing me,” Andrew said. “I think she’s behind that big tree in Mr. Conway’s yard.”

  I glanced across the street at the tree. Sure enough, something yellow stuck out from behind it.

  “She’s been bugging me for days,” Andrew said, “asking what we do after school every day. She knows I come here because Grandma said something about it.” Andrew’s grandma stays at his house after school three days a week until one of his parents gets home from work. “I told her we’re doing homework so she’d think it was boring, but you know Wendy. Once she decides she wants to do something, there’s no stopping her.”

  “Sneaky, self-centered sister,” I said.

  “You got that right.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll go back home. I’m pretending I don’t know she’s following me. If she thinks she sneaked around and spied on me and nothing happened, maybe she’ll quit asking to come with me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Andrew nodded. Then he turned and started back toward his own house. I peeked out the window. When Andrew got to the corner, Wendy slipped out from behind the tree and followed him. I used to wish I had a brother or sister, but Wendy the Whiner has convinced me that it’s better to be an only child.

  I waited another five minutes. Then I hurried out to the fort to play with Ra.

  The next afternoon Andrew and I went back to Value Village and bought a flat brush with narrow wire bristles. When we brushed Ra with it, we got lots of loose fur. The first time I brushed him, he acted nervous, but he quickly calmed down and seemed to enjoy the grooming.

  We settled into a routine. As soon as we got to the fort in the afternoon, we took Ra out for a walk. Then one of us brushed him while the other one shook out his blanket and put fresh water in his bowl. After we fed him we took him out again and threw the ball for him, letting him run until his tongue hung out. I came back every night during Mom’s TV shows and walked Ra again, even on the days when it rained.

  Ra never once made a mess in the fort. I was certain he had not been housebroken—how could he be when he was always outdoors? But he always waited to relieve himself until Andrew or I took him outside. It was as if he felt so happy to have his own little home that he wanted to keep it clean. What a good dog! We kept an old shovel leaning against the fort and used it to bury Ra’s waste so the area where we walked him and played with him stayed clean, as well.

  Andrew realized two more times that his sister was following him. Both of those days, he made sure to lead Wendy in the wrong direction so there was no chance that she’d see me going toward the fort or, even worse, hear me playing with Ra in the woods. Each time, he called to explain why he couldn’t come.

  Then disaster struck. Andrew arrived as usual; we took the jug of water and the Baggie of kibble, and hurried to the fort. Inside, we greeted Ra and petted him.

  It was Andrew’s turn to walk Ra. He snapped the leash on, opened the door, and stood face-to-face with Wendy the Whiner.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I knew it!” Wendy cried. “I knew you were up to something.”

  My stomach felt as if I’d swallowed a stone.

  Andrew glared at his sister. “You are not going to tell anyone about this,” he said. “Not anyone!” His voice trembled with fury.

  “That’s what you think,” Wendy replied.

  “You little creep,” I said. “Get out of here!”

  “What do you want?” Andrew said.

  “I want to come in. I want to be in your club.”

  “No way,” I said.

  “Then I’m telling Mom and Dad that you have a dog here.”

  Usually, I’m a nonviolent person. I don’t like to watch fights in movies. I don’t even like to watch wrestling on TV. But right then I would cheerfully have pounded Andrew’s little sister with both fists except that I knew it would not solve the problem. It would only make things worse.

  “Baneful, barbaric brat,” I said.

  Wendy’s lower lip jutted out. “That’s not allowed,” she said. “Mom says threesomes have to be nice. They can’t call other people names.”

  “There are exceptions to every rule,” I said.

  “You can’t be in our club,” Andrew said, “because we don’t have a club. We’re only taking care of a dog who needs a home. If you tell on us, he’ll have to go to the animal shelter.”

  “That’s right,” I said, “and if he goes to the shelter he might not get adopted. There’s not a lot of demand for big dogs. He might get put down.”

  “If that happens,” Andrew said, “it would be all your fault.”

  I could tell Wendy was wavering.

  “I want to help take care of him,” she said.

  Andrew looked at me.

  “No,” I said. I couldn’t do it. It would t
ake all of the fun out of having Ra if we had to share him with Wendy.

  “Then I’m telling.”

  “Fine,” Andrew said. “Go ahead. Be a baby tattletale, like you always are. But don’t expect us to ever let you come anywhere with us again.”

  “That includes bowling on Saturday afternoons,” I said.

  Wendy burst into tears, turned around, and ran for home.

  “Will she really blab on us?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. She might.”

  We took Ra for a quick walk, then sat in the fort to discuss what we should do.

  “If she tells your parents,” I said, “they’ll call my mom. She wouldn’t take Ra to the shelter. She’d make me take Ra back where we got him.”

  “Maybe not,” Andrew said. “When our parents hear how Mean Man neglected him and hurt him, they might decide to let us keep him.”

  “Dream on. My mom has a thing about honesty, and that includes not taking something that doesn’t belong to you.”

  I ran the brush through Ra’s fur as we talked. Andrew shook out Ra’s blanket and put fresh water in his bowl.

  “I’m sorry about Wendy,” he said.

  “It isn’t your fault. You tried to keep her from following you.”

  “That kid will be a private detective when she grows up.”

  “Or an investigative reporter.”

  “Grandma’s at my house today,” Andrew said. “If Wendy tells Grandma about Ra, there’s a chance I can convince Grandma not to tell my parents.”

  “Unless Wendy tells your grandma and then tells your parents, too, when they get home.”

  “There is that possibility.”

  We looked glumly at each other. Finally Andrew stood up. Ra stood, too, wagging his tail eagerly.

  “We might as well play with him,” Andrew said. “It may be the last chance we get.”

  We threw the ball and Ra retrieved it. After about ten minutes, we gave him his dinner. Then we threw the ball some more. No matter how long we played, Ra was always ready for more. When it started to rain, we went back in the fort. Instead of sitting on our milk crates, we both sat on the floor beside Ra and petted him.