Smart Dog (2 page)

"Who's that?" F-32 asked.

Amy thought for a moment, weighing King Solomon against Leonardo da Vinci, both of whom she'd learned about in school that year. But neither seemed exactly right. "Sherlock Holmes," she said. "He's a famous detective who could figure out anything."

"Like the computer, and the locks," F-32 said.

Amy nodded. "Exactly. Would you like me to call you Sherlock?"

"Sherlock sounds like a fine name," F-32 said. "What's your name?"

"Amy Prochenko."

"Pleased to meet you, Amy," Sherlock said. He held up his paw, and they shook.

"What do we do next?" Sherlock asked.

Amy was suddenly jerked back from the world of undercover cops and London detectives.
Next?

Uh-oh.

She didn't have a watch, but she could guess the time.

"Oh no," she said. "I'm on my way to school, and I'm already going to be late from talking so long."

Sherlock shuddered at the mention of school. "Do the people at your school experiment on animals?" he asked in a tone that said he was wondering if he'd made the right choice after all in asking her for help.

"Of course not!" Amy said. "We don't even
have
animals. Well, except Mrs. Battersby's room has an aquarium, but that's just so the second graders can learn about feeding fish and keeping the water clean and that sort of thing."

"No experiments?" Sherlock repeated.

"No experiments," Amy assured him.

Sherlock wagged his tail and began to circle around Amy. "Then I'd love to go to school," he told her. "School is fun. Do you go through mazes and have to remember which door the food is behind? I'm good at that. I'm not very good at spelling."

"Our school has more spelling than that other stuff," Amy said. She started to walk. Fast. "Besides, animals aren't allowed."

"The fish are," Sherlock objected. "Everybody's heard of schools of fish."

"That's not the same thing at all," Amy told him. "Anyway, the fish just sit in their bowl and swim around quietly all day."

"How do they learn, if they aren't allowed to ask questions?"

"They aren't there to learn," Amy said. "Only the children are."

"I should think the fish would get bored," Sherlock said, "and complain."

Amy shook her head. "Fish aren't smart enough to complain. You have no idea how much smarter you are than ordinary animals. They can't talk."

"I know that," Sherlock said, but Amy wasn't convinced. Especially when he added, muttering, "I bet the fish complain to each other."

She said, "And most animals can't understand very much, either. Except some dogs and cats know things like 'Sit,' and 'Food,' and maybe their own name. Or maybe not."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the mention of cats. But all he said was, "I can sit quiet as a fish."

"You still wouldn't be allowed," Amy told him. "You'll have to wait outside the building until school's out for the day." She had another thought. "And you'll have to make sure people don't see you. Since you don't have a collar, someone might call Animal Control to pick you up and lock you away, and that's the first place those research people would look for you."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"
Why,
what?" Sherlock's questions kept distracting her from worrying about being late.

"Why would they call Animal Control because I don't have a collar?"

"Because then you might be a stray dog, and they'd be afraid you'd bite people."

"Not biting was one of the first lessons I learned," Sherlock told her in the same tone Amy would have used to assure someone she had long ago stopped needing a diaper.

"But people worry," Amy said. "Especially around kids. People want to make sure dogs are friendly."

Sherlock positively grinned and wagged his tail.

"Very friendly," Amy admitted. "Stay hidden anyway. Here's the school." She stopped in front of the long, brick building. The doors were closed and everybody was already inside. "You can stay in these bushes." The yard that bordered the school was very overgrown, and Amy estimated two or three dogs could hide and not be noticed for a week.

If they behaved themselves.

"Behave," she warned. "I'll be back at 2:30 when school lets out."

"I'll behave," Sherlock said. He lay down quietly and rested his head on his paws, looking the picture of good behavior.

The school bell rang just as Amy ran up to the front door, making her officially late.

Sister Mary Grace was writing the names of Native American tribes on the blackboard when Amy rushed into the classroom. Sister Mary Grace made a point of looking at the wall clock. She shook her head, but said mildly, "Amy, we just this minute gave up on you. If you hurry, you can catch Kaitlyn on her way to the office and cross your name off the absence list, so you don't get marked late."

Luckily, it was a small school, with only one floor. Amy could see Kaitlyn at the end of the hall, about to turn the corner. Running wasn't allowed, but Amy was certain she'd be able to catch up because Kaitlyn was walking along slowly, making sure that she was noticed as she passed those classrooms that had their doors open. Kaitlyn was so popular even the sixth graders knew her.

The younger kids probably knew her, too, but they didn't count.

Moving along at a pace just short of running, Amy followed Kaitlyn around the corner. Kaitlyn had paused to admire her reflection in the glass of the trophy case. There was a lot to admire. Kaitlyn had perfect hair, perfect teeth, a big enough wardrobe that she rarely wore the same outfit twice, and a figure just as good as the girls who played soccer—except that she didn't play sports, which gave her the added advantage of no sweat.

"Kaitlyn," Amy called, not daring to shout, but raising her voice so that Mr. Dambra, whose room she was passing, scowled and closed his door.

Amy thought Kaitlyn must have heard, for she seemed to glance over her shoulder, but maybe she was just tossing her perfect hair, for she started walking again—much faster than before.

"Kaitlyn," Amy called a second time.

Was she deaf, or what? Kaitlyn disappeared into the office, two doors ahead of where Amy was.

When Amy walked into the office, she saw that all was not lost. Kaitlyn was waiting for Mrs. Jensen, the secretary, who was busy talking on the phone.

"Kaitlyn," Amy said a third time—

—just as Kaitlyn tossed the absence list on Mrs. Jensen's desk.

Then, finally, Kaitlyn turned around. "Oh," she said, her voice dripping with sweetness and innocence. "Amy." She smiled brightly. "Love your sweater."

The way she said it made Amy look down to make sure it didn't have a stain or catch and that it hadn't ridden up while she'd been chasing after Kaitlyn. Amy had worn the same sweater at least once a week since the weather had turned cool in October, and now here it was the week before Easter. If Kaitlyn had truly liked it, she'd had plenty of chances to say so before.

Now Kaitlyn said, "I've heard if you wait long enough, all the old styles come back." Her smile faltered, as though she was thinking that from now on she wouldn't believe all that she heard. "Oh well!" she added brightly, and breezed past Amy.

Watching Kaitlyn promenade down the hall, Amy thought Kaitlyn was the kind of person who proved your mother was wrong when you were worried about your hair or clothes or something foolish you'd done, and your mother said, "Oh, don't worry. Nobody noticed; nobody cares."

Amy forced herself to stop watching Kaitlyn.

Mrs. Jensen was still talking on the telephone, looking flustered; apparently whoever was on the other end was giving her a hard time.

Would it be rude to reach over and take the absence list? Amy was just trying to talk her fingers into moving, when Mrs. Jensen picked up the page and began fanning herself with it.

Amy was feeling hot and sticky herself.

After four or five minutes, Mrs. Jensen finally straightened out the problem, whatever it was, and hung up the phone.

"Now," she said, "Amy. What can I do for you?"

Finally. "I'm present," Amy said. "Sister Mary Grace has me on the absence report."

Mrs. Jensen glanced at the wall clock and crossed Amy's name off the absence list. And wrote it down on a sheet labeled
TARDY
. "Try to be on time," she recommended, as though Amy had never thought of that.

During silent reading, Amy became aware that there was very little silence or reading going on. There was, instead, a great deal of giggling and poking. Amy figured that Kaitlyn was probably doing what Kaitlyn did best: gleefully tormenting someone, much to the entertainment of the other fifth graders.
As long as it's someone else,
Amy thought. She felt guilty for the thought, but not guilty enough to get involved.

But then she noticed that—in addition to the giggling and poking—there was also a lot of pointing in the direction of the windows.

Amy, whose desk was three rows away from the windows, glanced up and saw nothing.

Then she saw Sherlock's grinning face appear in one of the windows.

Then she saw nothing.

Then she saw Sherlock's grinning face reappear.

Then she saw nothing.

Amy closed her eyes then opened them again—as though she could possibly have been mistaken in what she'd seen, as though anything else could be mistaken for a medium-sized brown, white, and black dog leaping up and down as though he were on a trampoline. For a smart dog, Amy thought as Sherlock jumped back into view, he was looking pretty silly.

He must have remembered her saying that people were nervous about stray dogs biting, because he was working very hard at looking friendly: head cocked to one side, tongue hanging out, ears flopping, all the while grinning foolishly. Obviously he knew that the children could see him, and obviously he loved being the center of attention. Amy was sure that was an expression of delight on his face when he saw that she'd noticed him.

She shook her head, but he didn't catch the hint to go away. She covered her face with her book to let him know she didn't want to see him. From the continuing laughter of the other children, he didn't catch on to that, either.

"Class," Sister Mary Grace said in her warning voice.

No,
no, no, no,
Amy wished.

She sat very straight and quiet, with her book held up in front of her to show Sister Mary Grace that she was concentrating on her work.

But it didn't work. One out of thirty must not have been enough. Sister Mary Grace put down her own book and headed for the windows.

Amy silently mouthed the words "Go away."

Apparently, smart as Sherlock was, he wasn't smart enough to read lips. Or at least not while he was bouncing up and down on the school lawn.

At least,
Amy thought,
Sister Mary Grace seems more puzzled than angry.
In fact—Amy started breathing again—Sister Mary Grace began to laugh. She liked to say that she had been a teacher for almost forty years, and there wasn't much she hadn't seen or heard before. Now she tapped on the glass and pretended to scold. "Dogs go to dog school; people go to people school. Those dogs who want to play with people will have to wait until recess after lunch, and that isn't for another forty-five minutes. Do you understand?"

Don't answer!
Amy frantically wished at Sherlock.

Sherlock must have remembered that dogs couldn't talk. He barked, once, and stopped jumping.

"Very good," Sister Mary Grace said. "You
are
a clever dog, aren't you?"

Sherlock gave another sharp bark.

"Now, no more barking," Sister Mary Grace said. "You just wait quietly until recess." She laughed again, and Sean Gorman, whose desk was in the first row, reported to the rest of the class, "He's lying down, just like he can understand exactly what Sister said."

Good,
Amy thought.
Let's hope he
obeys
Sister better than he obeys me.

He must at least have given the impression that he would, for Sister Mary Grace said, "Now if I could only get my class to behave so well."

She should have known better.

Instantly several of the children started barking, or sat panting, tongues hanging out while they pretended to beg.

"Just my luck," Sister Mary Grace said, shaking her head. "The good dog's outside, and the misbehaving dogs are inside."

Which sounded—even to Amy—like an invitation to act like a dog.

It was the end of silent reading for that day.

At lunch Amy gulped down her sandwich and ignored the people she usually ate with so that she could be first in line at recess. But Sherlock came trotting over as soon as the yelling, laughing children burst out of the doors onto the playground, and someone shouted, "Look! There's that dog!" And then Amy wasn't first anymore.

Several children surged past Amy, but it was Kaitlyn whose voice carried. "Here, doggy, doggy, doggy," Kaitlyn said, in the kind of singsong voice people sometimes use with babies.

But Sherlock walked right by her to stand in front of Amy, which made Amy blush with pride.

Kaitlyn tossed her hair, to show she didn't really care.

"Wait, wait!" Sister Mary Grace called, suddenly concerned now that the children were actually outside, with the dog in their midst. "Does anybody know who this animal belongs to?"

She'll call Animal Control for sure,
Amy thought. And from there, the college research people would pick him up. Wishing she was smart enough to think up better choices than do nothing or say "He's mine," she took a deep breath and answered, "He's mine."

"Great!" some of the kids said, taking that as permission that they could play with him. "What else does he do? Does he know tricks? Jump, boy, jump!"

Sister Mary Grace looked as though she were about to give a dogs/people appropriate-places lecture, so Amy said, "I know he doesn't belong at school. He must have followed me." She turned to Sherlock, who was sitting patiently, looking up at her. "Bad dog," she said. "Bad, bad dog."