Ghost Dog Secrets Page 9

  “Russell Edward Larson! ” I knew I was in hot water when Mom used my full name. “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

  “I was asleep when you got home.”

  Mom gave me her fishy look, the one that means she does not believe my story for one minute.

  “You could have told me this morning.”

  “We were both in a hurry this morning.”

  “That’s no excuse, and you know it.”

  I figured I might as well tell her the rest. “He left a message on the answering machine today,” I said.

  She walked to the kitchen desk where the answering machine sits and punched the play button. While the dentist’s receptionist gave her reminder, Mom hit erase. Then Mean Man’s voice filled the kitchen: “You have my watchdog and I want him back.”

  Mom closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She replayed the message and wrote it down.

  I waited.

  She did not erase his message. She took a piece of paper out of her wallet and dialed the number she’d written on it. I could tell she was listening to a voice-mail recording before she left her message. “This is Pat Larson. I talked to you earlier about the neglected dog on Woodson Street and the dog that my son took from that address. Rusty just told me that the dog’s owner came to our house last night, demanding that we give his dog back. He also left a message on my answering machine today. Please call me when you get this message.” Mom gave our phone number, then hung up.

  “What’s going to happen?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It will depend on what the animal control officer says. Her name is Heidi Kellogg, and she was angry at finding the Lab puppy with no water or shelter. I think she’ll pursue this.”

  “Heidi Kellogg? I talked to her when I first started feeding Ra. I called to report that Ra was neglected and Ms. Kellogg told me I needed proof. She said to call back when I had documented the situation.”

  “So you did try to go through proper channels,” Mom said. “You didn’t just jump in and take the dog.”

  I’d forgotten to tell her about that phone call, probably because I was embarrassed that I’d made it without having an address.

  “I started to do what she told me,” I said. “I have a week’s worth of pictures and journal entries, but when I saw Ra the day after he’d been inside, and I could tell he’d been hurt, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to get him to a safe place.”

  Mom nodded. “You should have told me the situation,” she said. “I would have helped you deal with it properly.”

  I looked at my shoes. “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  Mom gave my shoulder a pat. “What’s done is done, and the important thing now is to keep everyone safe.”

  I held my breath, fearing that she meant we’d be safe if we gave Ra back to Mean Man.

  Thwack ! Mom pounded her fist on the table.

  I jumped.

  “That man is not going to bully us into giving Ra back to him,” she said.

  “Go, Mom!” I said. “You rock!”

  “We’ll work with the authorities to see that Mr. Myers is brought to justice.”

  “I hope Mr. Myers goes to jail,” I said.

  “You’ll need to be cautious,” Mom said. “Don’t walk Ra down the street by yourself. If Andrew isn’t with you, wait until I get home.”

  The phone rang and I could tell it was Heidi Kellogg. Mom told her the details of Mr. Myers’s visit and phone message. She added, “My son has photos, taken a day apart, of Ra chained to the tree. He kept a journal, too.” She held the phone toward me. “Ms. Kellogg wants to speak with you.”

  “Tell me about your pictures,” Ms. Kellogg said.

  I told her how I snapped a photo as soon as I arrived every day. “On Saturday night, I took a picture of the empty chain and of two cars that were parked in Mean Man’s—I mean, Mr. Myers’s—driveway. That was when Ra was inside the house,” I said.

  “Are they digital?” she asked. “Can you e-mail them to me?”

  When I said I could, she gave me her e-mail address and asked me to send them right away. I gave the phone back to Mom. Then I went upstairs, got out my camera, and logged onto the computer. I downloaded ten photos. I hadn’t looked at any of them before because every time I took one, I was in a hurry. Six of the pictures were almost identical, except for the date. They showed Ra lying in the dirt, chained to the tree. The photo of the two cars in the driveway and the one of the empty chain were too dark, but if I looked closely, I could tell that one car was the clunker with the dull patchwork finish.

  I stared hard at the two photos of the collie’s ghost. In the one taken in my bedroom the collie was faint, but I could see her in front of my bedroom door. I also saw the door, right through her. The other collie photo, taken outdoors when she was standing beside Ra, was clearer. It showed two dogs side by side except that when I looked at Ra in the picture, I saw only Ra. When I looked at the collie’s ghost, I saw the dog but I also saw the yard behind her.

  I e-mailed all the pictures except the ghost photos to Heidi Kellogg. I also sent my journal as an attachment so she could read everything I’d written each day.

  She responded almost immediately. “This will be helpful,” she said. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure Ra never goes back to where he was.”

  I looked at the ghost pictures again, feeling a tingle on the back of my neck. In the library books I’d skimmed, I had learned that when people take a picture of a ghost, it usually appears in the photo as an orb of light. One book had several pictures of bright round balls that looked as if they were lighted soap bubbles floating in the air.

  The collie in my photos definitely wasn’t an orb. She was a full-size dog with ears, tail, and fur. Maybe it’s different with animal ghosts, I thought. Or maybe the difference is with me.

  If the images I saw on my computer were transferred to prints, anyone who saw the prints should be able to see the collie’s ghost. Maybe Andrew would be able to see her!

  I highlighted the ghost photos, and hit print.

  The printer was out of ink.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I called Andrew and reported the conversation with Heidi Kellogg. “She’s nice,” I told him, “and she really cares about Ra. She’s compassionate, careful, and competent.”

  I thought it was a fine threesome, considering I made it up right on the spot, but Andrew didn’t acknowledge my effort. I had the feeling that he wished he could have talked to Heidi Kellogg, too.

  I didn’t say anything about the ghost pictures. I didn’t want to get his hopes up, in case he couldn’t see the image of the ghost dog.

  The next day while Andrew and I were walking Ra after school, Andrew said, “You’ll never guess what Wendy the Whiner is doing.” Without waiting for me to guess, he said, “She’s knitting cat blankets for the Humane Society. She saw those instructions that Mrs. Webster sent home with us and asked what they were. I told her how some of the cats had these cute little blankets that volunteers had knit. Wendy got all excited and asked Grandma to teach her to knit, and now she’s knitting blankets for the cats. She’s already finished the first one. She used up some scrap yarn that Mom had, so it’s all different colors. It’s cool.”

  “That’s a good project for her,” I said.

  “She’s really enthusiastic about helping the homeless cats, and you know how she is—when she makes up her mind to do something, there’s no stopping her.”

  I knew.

  “Grandma brought her some more yarn today,” Andrew said. “Wendy says she’s going to knit enough blankets so that every single cat at the Humane Society has one, and when those cats get adopted, she’ll knit more blankets for the next cats who come to the shelter. She’s even going to buy more yarn with her allowance money.”

  It occurred to me that the same character trait that made Wendy such a pest might also make her a good volunteer for the cat blanket project.

  Mom came home earl
y because we had an appointment to take Ra to the veterinarian. Heidi Kellogg wanted him checked for any internal injuries or other signs of abuse. Mom said he had to be vaccinated, too. Heidi had recommended a vet.

  The vet, Dr. Donna Taylor, made notes while Mom told her how we happened to have Ra in our care. Dr. Taylor weighed Ra and gave him a thorough exam. She listened to Ra’s heart, checked his teeth, and felt his legs and stomach. “He is about two years old and ten pounds underweight,” Dr. Taylor said. “He has a tender spot on his right haunch; I’d like to take X-rays.”

  Mom gave the okay, and Ra was taken to another room. Mom and I waited in the small exam room. “You realize this is going to cost a fortune,” Mom said. It was not a question.

  “I know.” I couldn’t offer to help pay because I had spent all of my money on Ra’s blanket, leash, bowls, and flea treatment. I began to see why Mom had always insisted we couldn’t afford to have a dog.

  The vet’s assistant brought Ra back. “He was a good boy,” she told us. She gave Ra a treat. “Dr. Taylor will be in as soon as she’s looked at the X-rays.”

  Ra wagged his tail when Dr. Taylor returned. He got another treat.

  “Ra’s right rear leg was broken at some point and it healed without being properly set.”

  I knelt beside Ra and put my arms around him.

  “It doesn’t appear to bother him now,” Dr. Taylor continued, “but he might develop a limp as he gets older. The sore spot on his haunch is a deep bruise, probably the result of a blow with a hard object. A broomstick, perhaps, or maybe even a baseball bat.”

  Mom cringed.

  “Oh, poor Ra,” I said.

  “This dog has clearly been mistreated,” Dr. Taylor said, “and if you need me to testify about this, I’ll be glad to do so.”

  “Thank you,” Mom said. “You may be hearing from the city’s animal control officer. Her name is Heidi Kellogg. She referred us to you.”

  Dr. Taylor nodded. “I know Heidi,” she said. “I’ve helped her with other cases and we both cooperate with the Humane Society to place animals in foster homes. I recommend that you apply as a foster parent. I can give you the paperwork, if you like. That way, Heidi could work to give custody of Ra to the Humane Society and, as soon as that happens, Ra could be officially placed with you for foster care.”

  I crossed my fingers.

  “I’d like to do that,” Mom said. “Thank you.”

  “Except for these injuries and being too thin,” Dr. Taylor continued, “Ra is a fine, healthy animal. Let’s give him his vaccinations and then all he needs is good food and some TLC.”

  “That’s my job,” I said.

  Dr. Taylor gave Ra his shots, and her assistant brought Mom the foster home application. We took Ra out to the front desk. A man with a cat in a carrier went in to see Dr. Taylor.

  I held Ra’s leash while Mom got out her credit card.

  The young woman at the desk handed Mom some papers. “Here’s his rabies certificate,” she said, “and a printout of what we did today.”

  “How much do I owe you?” Mom asked.

  “There’s no charge for today’s exam.”

  “But it was more than an exam,” Mom said. “Dr. Taylor took X-rays and gave Ra his shots.”

  “I know,” the woman said. “She never charges people who rescue animals. She says it’s a way to thank those who do the right thing.”

  Mom’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she said as she put her credit card back in her purse. “Please tell her we’re very grateful.”

  As we went out to the car, I was kind of choked up myself. Instead of a humongous bill to pay, we didn’t owe anything.

  Ra got in the backseat and stuck his head forward between Mom and me.

  “Most people are good, Rusty,” Mom said. “Remember that, and don’t let the bad ones like Mr. Myers get you down.”

  “Ra behaved well, didn’t he, Mom? He let Dr. Taylor examine him and he didn’t even yip when he got his shots.” I reached over to pet him, and he slurped my cheek. “You were a good dog at the vet’s,” I told him. “Good, good boy.”

  Our happy mood lasted until we got home. As we pulled into the driveway, Mom pushed the button to open the garage door, and then suddenly hit the brake. “Rusty! ” she said. “Our front door is wide open!”

  We both stared at the door. “I know I locked it,” Mom said. “I remember turning the dead bolt.”

  She started to drive into the garage.

  “Mom?” I said. My voice came out in a funny squeak. “The garage window is broken. There’s glass all over the floor.”

  We stopped with the car half in and half out of the garage and sat there while Mom called 911 on her cell phone. “Someone broke into my house,” she said, and then gave the address. “No, we have not gone inside yet.”

  When she finished the call, she said, “The police are on their way. They said not to go in because it’s possible that whoever did it is still inside.”

  I thought they’d have to be pretty stupid to stay around when they heard the garage door open but then they’d have to be stupid to be breaking into somebody’s house in the first place.

  We only had to wait ten minutes for the police but it seemed to take forever. When they arrived, two officers went into the house and then a few minutes later they came back and said we could go inside.

  “Keep Ra on his leash,” Mom said.

  I didn’t know what to expect. I’d seen TV coverage of burglarized homes, and they usually looked as if a tornado had ripped through the interiors, leaving drawers overturned and cupboards emptied.

  Our house didn’t look any different than it had when we’d left except for the broken window and the open door.

  “Is anything missing? ” one of the officers asked. “Usually, thieves take electronics first.”

  “We don’t have much in electronics,” Mom said. “Only the TV and the computer that’s in Rusty’s room.” She pointed at the TV, then looked at me. “Go up and see if the computer’s still there.” It was.

  “Small TV and old computer,” noted the officer who had followed me upstairs. “Probably not what our friend was looking for. What about jewelry?”

  Mom looked in the drawer where she keeps her jewelry box. “I have mostly costume jewelry,” she said, “except for a pearl necklace that belonged to my grandmother.” She opened the box. “The pearls are here,” she said. “Everything else is, too.”

  We trooped back downstairs.

  “Do you keep any cash in the house?” asked the officer.

  “I hide fifty dollars emergency money in a coffee can in the refrigerator,” Mom said. She looked; the money was still there.

  We walked slowly through the rooms.

  “In addition to the broken window,” the officer said, “there’s damage to the door frame.” He pointed to the door between the garage and the house. “It looks as if whoever it was had a pry bar or some other tool to help get the door open. Then they left by the front door.”

  I shuddered, thinking about someone smashing our window, climbing through, and then prying our door open while we were gone.

  “I don’t think anything was stolen,” Mom said.

  “Whoever it was must have been looking for something specific,” the officer said. “Either he found it and took it, but you haven’t yet noticed that it’s gone, or else he didn’t find what he was looking for so he left.”

  “Maybe it was Mr. Myers,” I said. “Maybe he was looking for Ra.”

  “Who’s Mr. Myers?” the officer asked.

  Mom went through the whole story of Ra.

  “I’ll follow up on that angle,” the officer said.

  After the police left, Mom called and left a message for Heidi Kellogg, telling her about Ra’s checkup with Dr. Taylor and about the break-in at our house.

  We swept up the glass in the garage and nailed an old tarp over the window. It wouldn’t keep a person out, but it would help keep out the cold ai
r.

  “I’ll call a glass repair place tomorrow,” Mom said.

  The door that had been jimmied didn’t close properly, so we couldn’t lock it, and that worried both of us.

  “We’re going to have to buy a new door anyway,” I said, “so it doesn’t matter if we put a few holes in it. Let’s nail it shut.”

  I found three short pieces of board left from when we put bookshelves in my room. I nailed one side of each board to the door frame and the other side to the door itself.

  “There!” I said. “It will take a bulldozer to get that door open.” We had to use the front or back door and walk around half the house to get to the garage, but it was worth it to feel secure.

  After we ate dinner, Mom filled out the application form to be a foster parent for the Humane Society. It was three pages long and asked questions such as Do you plan to move soon? and Where will the foster pet be kept at night? and How many hours will the foster pet be alone during the day?

  Mom read each question out loud, and we discussed how to answer it.

  When we finished, she signed and dated it. “I’ll drop this off on my way to work in the morning,” she said.

  We were getting ready to take Ra out for his last walk when there was a knock on the door. Both of us gasped. Mom picked up her cell phone before she went quietly to the peephole and looked out. I knew she was prepared to call 911 if she saw Mr. Myers on our doorstep.

  I gripped the edge of the table and watched. Mom still had her eye to the peephole. “Who is it?” she called.

  “It’s Heidi Kellogg.”

  I let out my breath and stood up.

  Mom unlocked and opened the door. “Come on in. I’m Pat Larson, and this is Rusty.”

  “I got your message and I was in the neighborhood, so I decided to come in person instead of calling.”

  “Are you still working?” Mom asked. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow.”

  “Unfortunately,” Heidi said, “cruelty investigation is an around-the-clock job.”

  She agreed that Mr. Myers might be the one who had broken in. “On Monday, I spoke with the neighbor of Mr. Myers who had filed a cruelty complaint against him last year about the neglected collie. She agreed to let me hide a video camera on her property. It’s been taking surveillance video of the black Lab ever since. I picked up the camera a couple of hours ago; we now have proof that nobody gave the dog food or water for thirty-six hours, so I can charge the owner with negligence. I’ve already taken the puppy; he’s at the Humane Society now and he’ll go to a foster home tomorrow, as soon as he’s been checked by a vet.”