The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes (5 page)

I
snuggle into the covers, pleased as can be with myself.

Daddy is far from pleased by what happened today, though. He grew more and more livid as the evening wore on. “Can't believe someone took Killer. It's awful to look out the kitchen window and to have him gone like that. Makes the backyard look empty somehow. I miss knowing he's there. Dadblameit all.”

Now, Daddy is hard to make mad. He makes a joke over nearly everything. But this has really gotten his goat. He even let a curse word fly, and Mama had to give him her “look” to settle him down. Daddy was so
upset he didn't even work on his flower painting, like he has gotten into the habit of doing after dinner.

The room is dark, and I close my eyes, but I'm not sleepy in the least. All at once that pleased feeling disappears and instead I keep on seeing Beauregard's sad, puzzled face. I feel a little sting in my chest. I hope he doesn't have to spend too much time in the shelter. I say a little prayer that after his three-day waiting period is over, he will find a home lickety-split. Then I imagine him sleeping on a plaid doggy bed in a yellow kitchen, and I feel better.

 

The next morning, out of habit, I head for the breezeway after breakfast.

Duh. No dog out there to feed this morning. Hip-hip hooray! I do a little jig to celebrate.

By the time I get to school, I'm busting to tell Grace and Luanne about how I solved the Beauregard problem. But Mrs. Delenor keeps us busy from the time we're seated until lunch.

Finally, as we sit down with our trays of fish sticks and tartar sauce, I whisper, “I did it.”

“Did what?” Grace asks.

“Got rid of Beauregard. He's on his way to a good home.” I explain my plan and how it went off without a hitch.

All at once Luanne's eyes grow wide and panicky. “Oh, Charlotte, no! You didn't!”

“What's wrong?” I dab my fish stick in a blob of tartar sauce and take a bite.

“Yesterday I was talking to my neighbor about collecting cans for the shelter. I asked her if she could save hers for me. And she told me if they can't find homes for the dogs at the shelter, they put them to sleep!”

“Put them to sleep?” I repeat, frowning.

“You know,
kill
them.”

I stop chewing on my fish stick. I feel like I want to throw up. My heart starts thump thump thumping. Just because I don't want Beauregard doesn't mean I want him dead. This is horrible!

“He'll probably find a home.” Grace touches my arm, trying to reassure me.

“But what if he doesn't?” I ask. “I mean, Saint
Bernards are big dogs. They drool. Maybe no one will want him.” My throat tightens, and my eyes get all watery.

“What are you going to do?” Luanne asks.

“I've got to go back to the shelter. I have to tell the truth and get him back.”

 

Grace, Luanne, and I walk down the sidewalk without hardly saying a word. Like we're on our way to a funeral. Or more likely to prevent one. Beauregard's. I can't believe the mess I've made of things.

Grace and Luanne are coming along for support. Grace told her mother, when she came to pick her up at school, that we had a group project to work on and asked if it was okay if we walked to the library together. The library is about two blocks away from school. And one block away from the library are Fenton Street and the shelter. So at least we will be in the general area. Her mother gave her permission, said she'd pick her up at the library in an hour and a half, and allowed Luanne and me to call our own mothers on her cell phone.

The sun is shining, and it has warmed up as the day has gone on—about sixty degrees and pleasant. But I feel all gloomy and rainy inside.

We get to the shelter, and there is the same woman at the front desk, Kathleen. She seems surprised to see me. “Well, hello again,” she says.

“Hello. I was ah…wondering…ah…I heard…” I stumble around for the right words.

“Do you put dogs to sleep?” Luanne blurts out.

“'Cause we're real worried about that big dog,” Grace adds.

I'm about to say, “'Cause he's mine,” but the lady cuts me off before I can get the words out.

“Oh, we don't do that here. We're a small shelter and nowhere near capacity anyway. Some shelters do that because there isn't room for all the dogs that come in, but we don't have that problem yet. With luck we never will.”

“What if Beau—if the dog I brought in doesn't find a home, though? How long will you keep him here?” I can't help thinking that living out the rest of his life in a cage at the shelter doesn't seem much
better than the life my family's given him. Everything seemed so simple when I first thought of bringing him here. Now I'm not so sure.

Kathleen waves her hand in the air. “Oh, a dog like that one you don't have to worry about. I've already contacted a breed rescue group, since I'm positive he's a purebred Saint Bernard.”

“What's a breed rescue group?” I ask.

“People who know and love and are experienced with certain breeds of dogs will come and get them from shelters,” Kathleen says. “Then they find foster homes for them until a good permanent home can be found. The dogs are placed all over the country, so the dog you brought in might actually end up pretty far away from here, but he'll be well cared for.”

Hearing those words made me feel I had done the right thing after all. Beauregard was in great hands. Everything was working out for the best.

“Well, then, I guess I won't worry about that dog I found,” I say.

Or, I think, with relief, about Mama and Daddy finding out what I have done!

M
ama hovers over a pot of chili on the stove, while Daddy stands beside her, holding Justin Lee and complaining like crazy about the dognappers.

“There are dog thief rings, I heard. Killer's probably already for sale across state lines. No way to get him back. Makes me so mad I could spit,” Daddy says.

I'm busy setting drinking cups around the table. And even though I'm happy for Beauregard and his future, I feel a little uneasy about the conversation. Guilty all of a sudden for keeping a secret from Mama and Daddy.

Justin Lee's face suddenly goes red, and he's straining.

“Uh-oh, I know what you're up to,” Daddy says. “Want me to change him?” he asks Mama.

“Please,” she replies.

Daddy disappears with his stinky son.

Mama dips a spoon into the chili, tasting it. She shakes some more pepper into the pot. “I don't think there were any dognappers,” she whispers without looking at me.

I drop a plastic cup, and it rattles around on the linoleum floor. “You don't?” I ask, panicking. Maybe, from the upstairs window, she saw me take Beauregard.

“I think he probably just broke free somehow. He's a big dog. Strong.”

“Oh.”

“There's a new animal shelter in town—not sure Daddy knows about it yet. Someone could have found Killer roaming loose and took him there. I know you don't like taking care of that dog, and I'm tired of buying dog food, so don't mention it to Daddy. It's
hard enough to work disposable diapers into the budget.” Mama glances into the breezeway at her unfinished flower painting, which looks mostly like Justin Lee got into the paints, and makes a face. “Not to mention Daddy's bargain hunting habit,” she says. She gives a half grin, like she realizes she just made a joke at Daddy's expense. And I realize I have had my first real conversation with her in a long time. Maybe she is starting to feel better.

“I won't say anything to Daddy,” I tell her.

One more day, I think, and those dog rescue people can come pick up Beauregard. Then he'll probably end up clear across the country, and I won't have to worry about this whole business anymore. And maybe things will go back to normal.

W
hen I get home from school, I find a note on the fridge door. Mama is on an emergency run to the store for more diapers and says she'll be back soon. I open the fridge door and grab a can of grape soda. I'm about to head up to my room when I hear a deep bark.

A familiar bark.

I rush to the breezeway door and look out. And there is Beauregard. He sees me through the screen and barks again, his tail wagging a mile a minute.

I can't believe it.

I place my can of soda on a cluttered shelf and run outside. Beauregard acts like he hasn't seen me
for years. He's so excited to see me he keeps jumping up and pulling at his chain. He wants me to pet him so badly he can hardly stand it. So I do. But I'm so much in shock I don't know what to think or feel.

I hear Mama's car pull in. I race around to the front of the house and find her unbuckling Justin Lee from his car seat.

“Killer's back,” I say, breathless.

“I know,” Mama says.

“How'd that happen?”

“Your daddy was still upset this morning about his supposedly being taken from our property. So he called the police to file a report. Then the police had to go call the animal shelter. Killer was there. Someone found him roaming around town and turned him in. So the police let Daddy know, and he went and picked him up during his lunch hour.”

I try to take this all in. But I'm still in disbelief. Mama asks me to carry in the diapers, and I follow her and Justin Lee into the house.

 

Daddy's still convinced Beauregard was stolen.

“Killer must have gotten away from those dog thieves. Probably bolted and pulled loose before they could get him into the getaway car,” he says during dinner.

I don't tell him any different, just nod my head in agreement.

“I didn't realize Greater Oaks got a new animal shelter. Did you?” Daddy asks Mama.

Mama just shrugs and says nothing. She sneaks a sideways glance at me, and her mouth twitches.

 

I told Grace and Luanne all about Beauregard's return at lunch, and now we're standing near the monkey bars, talking, during recess.

“You don't seem too upset about this,” Luanne says.

“Yeah, and you were so close to getting Beauregard a new home,” Grace adds.

I shrug. “You know what my daddy did last night? He went out and played with Beauregard
for a half hour straight. He fed him and watered him this morning before eating his own breakfast, too. I think he is so glad to have him back that he's going to take better care of him.”

I grin because in a weird way things may have just worked out after all for Beauregard and me.

N
ext morning I wait and wait for Daddy to feed Beauregard. But he seems deep in thought over something, squinting at his cup of black coffee, so I go out and do it. Just like old times.

And when I return from school, Beauregard's water bowl is empty. I come back sloshing water and give him his belly rub after he's done quenching his thirst. We do a couple of rounds of “Shake”; he seems so proud he can shake hands, like he knows he's being smart somehow.

“Well, we're back to the drawing board again,” I say. “Maybe you should be the one who comes up with the next plan since you're such a smarty-pants. Mine haven't been too successful.”

That night I'm clearing the table of dirty dishes, since it's my week for that chore, and I'm listening to Mama and Daddy as they sit and talk at the table. Agnes is on the phone with her boyfriend, Tom. They are back together now. I hear her singsong voice chirping in the background.

Last night Daddy was still yapping about those dognappers, even though Beauregard had been returned safe and sound. Tonight he seems worried about something else.

“This morning I was thinkin' about how Killer let a stranger into our yard. And he let whoever it was take him right out from under our noses.” Daddy pushes his chair back. “He didn't make a peep. He should have raised a ruckus. Should have barked his head off. I'm afraid he's not much of a watchdog.” He shakes his head. “Maybe I ought to sell him. He's a nice dog, but he's not earning his keep.”

Mama gets up and lifts Justin Lee out of his high chair. “That would be perfectly fine with me.”

“I could sell him easy for maybe three or four hundred dollars.”

“Call the paper and put an ad in,” Mama says.

“I just might do that.” Daddy nods.

I get busy, rinsing the dishes I have just cleared off the table. I look out the window above the sink at Beauregard. Hard to believe, but Daddy has come around to what I've wanted all along. Beauregard is going to get a new home, and I didn't even have to come up with a new scheme to make it happen.

I yawn. My emotions this week have been bobbing like a yo-yo, and it's making me feel all dizzy and worn-out.

 

I zonk right off to sleep, just about as soon as my head hits the pillow. But I wake up at three in the morning with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had a dream, one I don't have to struggle to try to remember. Why is it the good dreams always seem so fuzzy, and you have to reach back and fight to retrieve them, while the bad ones stick to you like superglue?

Daddy sold Beauregard in this dream. But there was no yellow kitchen. No plaid doggy bed. No painted
dog bowls printed with his name. Only a chain. And a life worse than what he has now, 'cause there was no one like me to feel sorry for him. Beauregard was skin and bones in my dream, a skeleton with Saint Bernard skin, and someone was screaming at him. Even though I wasn't actually present in the dream myself—it wasn't like I was standing next to him or anything—he was still somehow able to stare at me with the most haunting eyes.

What if this dream comes true? Suddenly I remember a television show I watched a long time ago at Luanne's house. It was about animal cops, and they investigated a dog that was abused. Her owner kicked her, and she had a broken rib. How am I going to make sure Beauregard gets sold to someone who will treat him right?