Pet Disasters (8 page)

Mason didn’t answer. He busied himself working on his dog bowl. It wasn’t Dunk’s business whose dog Dog was.

“I bet my dog can beat up your dog,” Dunk said.

Mason didn’t answer that, either. It wasn’t a bet he felt like taking. It was a bet he’d probably lose.

Finally, it was snack time, and Dunk wandered off to another table to bother somebody else.

“Do you want to come over today and meet Dog?”
Brody asked Nora. “Mason, can Nora come over today to meet Dog?”

Mason had to think fast. He couldn’t just say no without giving any further explanation. That would be too strange.

“I have to ask my mom,” he said.

It was a perfectly reasonable thing to say, in Mason’s opinion. Of course, if he did ask his mom, she would say yes, and be thrilled to say yes.
Oh, Mason, we can have a little party!

But he could also forget to ask her. Though Brody, being Brody, would remember.

“So maybe next week?” Nora asked.

“Next week!” Brody answered happily.

The block before Mason’s house, Brody started running. So Mason ran, too. He generally disliked running—all that show of eagerness—but he didn’t want Brody to get home ahead of him.

Dog came running to the door to meet them. He wasn’t just wagging his tail; he was wagging his whole self. Brody threw his arms around Dog. Mason didn’t hug Dog, but he patted him awkwardly. What was he supposed to do, stand there and hurt Dog’s feelings?

It was too hot for going outside; it was even hot enough that Mason’s mother had turned on the air-conditioning. So they all watched TV together for a while, Dog dozing at their feet as they sat on the family-room couch. Mason tried to imagine Nora there, watching TV with them.

Dog looked like a completely contented animal. Brody looked like a completely contented boy. For the moment, Mason felt almost contented himself. So far, it hadn’t been too terrible having Dog as a pet, except for the part when he had watched Brody collect Dog’s dog poop. It had been sort of fun watching Dog run after the tennis ball. Mason wished there were some way he could try throwing the ball for Dog without getting spit all over his hands. Maybe somebody should invent a spitproof dog ball and make a million dollars.

Brody reached down and patted Dog’s silky golden fur. Dog didn’t purr the way Cat had, but even in his sleep, his tail gave one feeble thump. Mason reached down and gave Dog a little pat, too.

The trouble with being friends with Brody was that however content you were, Brody was more content. However happy you were—not that
Mason was usually all that happy—Brody was even happier.

Sometimes it could get on your nerves.

“I have an idea,” Mason said.

Brody wasn’t the only one who had ideas. Mason could have ideas, too.

“Let’s turn on the sprinkler in the backyard and see if Dog likes it.”

Brody leaped to his feet. Instantly awake, Dog jumped up, too, and raced outside after them. The sprinkler was already set up on the one patch of lawn that didn’t get covered by the automatic sprinkler system. Mason turned it on—it was
his
sprinkler—and then he set an example for Dog by running through it. Brody followed, and then Dog got the idea.

Half an hour later, they were all completely soaked. Probably they should have changed into swimsuits first. Freezing, Mason threw himself down on a dry stretch of grass in the sun.

Brody kept on running through the sprinkler spray. Dog kept running after him.

“Dog!” Mason called, just to see what Dog would do. “Hey, Dog!”

Dog hesitated. He looked over at Mason, then he looked over at Brody.

“Here, Dog!” Purely as an experiment, Mason patted the grass next to him.

Dog came bounding over to join him. Dog shook himself dry—making Mason even wetter—and then lay down right next to Mason. Unfortunately, Mason had forgotten how much he didn’t like the smell of wet dog, not that he had ever smelled it before. He found himself wondering what wet skunk would smell like, and if it could smell any worse.

A minute later, Brody plopped himself down on the grass, too. The three of them lay in a row, one boy on each side of Dog, and Dog in the middle.

“I have another idea,” Brody said after a few minutes had gone by and Mason was finally starting to feel thawed again. “Do you think if we asked your mom, she’d drive us to the grocery store and we could get a bone for Dog? I heard they give out free bones in the meat department.”

Mason had to admit this was an excellent idea.

“We can ask her,” he said. They found her upstairs working on her computer in her home office, surrounded by piles of knitting magazines, baskets of yarn, and heaps of knitted afghans, sweaters, hats, mittens, and anything else that could possibly be knitted.

“Mason! Brody! How did you boys get so wet?” But she didn’t sound angry. Mason knew she was always relieved when he got involved in any outdoor activity.

She agreed to take them to the store, once they had changed into dry clothes. Brody borrowed shorts and a T-shirt from Mason. The shorts hung past Brody’s knees, and the T-shirt looked almost like a dress, but Brody didn’t seem to mind.

Dog came along for the ride, climbing over Brody to stick his head out the open window.

At the grocery store, the boys waited outside the entrance with Dog while Mason’s mother went inside to the meat department.

Brody patted Dog.

Mason patted Dog, too.

Dog licked Brody’s hand.

Dog licked Mason’s hand, too.

Mason wiped it off on his shorts, but more as a matter of principle. After less than a full day with Dog, he was already getting used to dog slobber. He had heard it said that a person could get used to anything. But he knew he’d never get used to carrying dog poop around the neighborhood in a plastic newspaper bag dangling from his hand. Maybe the same person who invented a spitproof dog ball should
invent a dog toilet. Probably what really needed to be invented was a new breed of dog that would know how to use it.

But then, what would happen to all the dogs who were here on Earth already, the old-fashioned, poop-on-the-lawn kind of dogs? What if Mason and Brody hadn’t adopted Dog, and Dog had been put to sleep?

Mason’s mom came out of the store carrying a plastic grocery bag. “Got them! Got two, one for each of you.”

Dog jumped up from his resting place on the pavement, thrusting his nose toward the bag, already smelling the treats inside. Mason shoved him away. Even when the bones were safely in the trunk of the car, Dog still seemed excited. His tail, like a huge feathery plume, kept whacking itself against Mason’s face.

Back home, Brody said, “I want to give him my bone first, okay? Then you can give him yours tomorrow. When I’m off on that camping trip.”

What could Mason say? Brody was the one who had thought of getting a bone for Dog, not that getting a bone for a dog was the most original idea in the history of the world.

Dog went wild with joy as the bone was unwrapped, jumping up against Brody, practically knocking him down in his eagerness. Then Dog dragged the bone off into a corner of the kitchen and devoted himself to gnawing it, ignoring both boys equally.

“I love having a dog!” Brody said. “Dog is the best thing that ever happened to me in my whole entire life!”

Mason knew that was saying a lot, because Brody thought everything that happened in his life was wonderful.

Mason didn’t think everything that happened in his own life was wonderful. A lot of things that happened in his life were terrible. But so far, having Dog hadn’t been terrible.

So far, having Dog was pretty nice.

Finally it was time for Brody to go home to help his mother and sisters finish packing for their family trip. They were driving to a campground about an hour away to camp for two nights, returning home on Sunday evening.

“Goodbye, Dog!” Brody flung himself on Dog in a farewell hug. “Take good care of him for me, Mason.”

Mason didn’t need Brody to tell him to do that. He might not have wanted a dog, or a cat, or a hamster, or a goldfish, but he had always done his best to take care of them the way he was supposed to, give or take some overfeeding here and there.

Mason went over to Brody’s house with Brody to get instructions for how to take care of Albert
the goldfish while Brody’s family was away. He followed Brody up to his room.

Brody’s room was, to put it mildly, messy. His bed wasn’t made. How could somebody not make his bed? Mason shuddered at the thought of getting into a bed that looked like Brody’s: the covers tossed back, the sheet tangled up in a wrinkled ball, the pillow on the floor. Every blank space on every wall was lined with restaurant place mats that Brody had colored, because once Brody colored something with his laborious care, he loved it and would never get rid of it. Every surface of every bureau and bookcase was covered with Brody’s collection of turtles. Not real turtles, thank goodness, but turtles made of pottery, glass, wood, straw. And each turtle had a name.

Mason’s room had nothing on the walls. Now that Goldfish’s bowl and Hamster’s cage were gone, Mason’s room had nothing on top of the bureau and bookcase, and just one monkey-shaped handknit pillow on his bed. There was nothing on the floor except for the rug. Mason didn’t mind the rug. It kept his feet from being cold in the winter before he put on his brown socks.

Amidst all the turtles in Brody’s room sat Albert’s bowl, with Albert’s can of fish food beside it.

“
One
pinch of food every
morning
,” Brody said. “So one pinch on Saturday morning, and one pinch on Sunday.”

He showed Mason how many flakes of goldfish food were in a pinch. Mason tried not to blame Brody for being so careful with his instructions.

“Then talk to him for a while, so he doesn’t get lonely. Try talking to him now so he can get used to the sound of your voice.”

“Hi, Albert,” Mason said. He tried to think of something else to say. “I’m the kid who used to have Goldfish. Before Goldfish—well, you know. You were there at the funeral.”

“Albert, Mason is going to be taking care of you while I’m camping,” Brody explained, saying every word slowly and clearly as if Albert would understand him better if he spoke that way.

Albert swam over toward the side of the bowl where the boys were standing. Maybe he really was listening.

Suddenly Brody’s face crumpled. “Oh, Albert, I don’t want to go away and leave you!”

Mason knew Albert wasn’t the only one Brody didn’t want to leave.

“Maybe …” Brody’s face brightened. “Maybe I don’t have to go away! Maybe I can stay with you and Dog at your house!”

Brody tore downstairs to ask his mother. Mason noticed that Brody hadn’t bothered to ask him, Mason, first.

“Can I stay at Mason’s house?” Brody begged as his mother sat on the back porch surrounded by camping gear. “Can I, can I, can I?”

“
May
I,” she corrected automatically. Then she seemed to realize for the first time what Brody was asking. “No, Brody. This is a
family
trip. We’re
all
going.”