The Misadventures of the Magician's Dog (3 page)

“Her name is Beauty,” Celia said. “That's what it says on her cage, anyway. Isn't she just perfect?”

“Umm . . . Sure,” said Peter, looking at the glossy black dog, who was sniffing at Celia's hand. Just standing this close made Peter sweat—or maybe it was the lack of air-conditioning. “I guess.”

“Will you choose her?”

Just then Beauty glanced up at him and
woofed
. Peter jumped backward.

“Let me look around a bit more,” he said.

The next cage over held three orangeish-red puppies. They scrambled rambunctiously at the sight of Peter, climbing over and under each other in an attempt to reach him. No. The cage after that held a sleeping yellow dog. Peter appreciated the fact that the dog was sleeping, but he was also too large. The terrier in the next cage growled at Peter.

In the next cage, he found Izzy. She was sitting on the floor between a ratty towel and a half-chewed dog treat. A small brown dog was limp in her lap. The sign outside the cage said
TEDDY
.

“Isn't he cute?” she breathed.

“How did you get in there?” Peter asked, struggling to keep his voice calm. He didn't want to startle the dog.

Izzy frowned. “I couldn't open the door. I had to climb.”

“I think they lock the cages on purpose. So the dogs stay in and the people stay out.”

“Oh. Do you think I need to get out now?”

“I really think you should. You never know if a dog might bite.”

Izzy looked down at the dog sprawled over her, his eyes half closed and his breath rattling out in a soft snore. “He's nice. He won't bite me.” Still, Izzy gently placed Teddy on the ratty towel, then pulled herself up the side of the cage. Peter caught her as she came down.
He squeezed her harder than he should have, half in relief and half in frustration.

“Please don't go in any more cages,” he said.

“Will you adopt him?” Izzy asked. “I think he'd be a really good pet.”

Peter studied the dog his sister had been holding.
At least he's small
, he thought—not much bigger than a loaf of bread. And he looked gentle enough, lying there on the rag. He kind of resembled an oversized guinea pig.

“Maybe,” he said. “Let me think about it, okay? You want to walk with me and look at more dogs?”

“Sure,” said Izzy, but a moment later, Peter's mom entered the room, and Izzy darted off to show Teddy to her.

Peter forced himself to look at the rest of the dogs, but he couldn't help dismissing all of them.
I guess it's going to be Izzy's dog
, he thought.

Then he got to the last cage. It was set apart from the others at the end of the long room. While the other cages just had walls, this one had mesh over the top, too, and three separate locks on the door.
Must be a fierce one
, Peter thought,
to have so many locks
. He started to move away.

“I want that one,” a boy's voice said.

Peter looked around in confusion to see who had spoken.

“This dog,” the voice insisted. “This one is perfect.”

“Wonderful!” said his mother, hurrying over to Peter's side.

“Really?” said Celia.

“He's . . . I guess he's cute,” said Izzy.

“Who said that?” asked Peter.

“Who said what?” asked Peter's mom.

“Who said they wanted this dog?”

“Why, you did, honey. Do you not want that dog?”

And the voice spoke again, and Peter now recognized it as his own, and he could even feel his own mouth moving, only he knew—he knew!—that he wasn't the one doing the talking. “This is the dog,” his voice said. “This is the dog I want for my birthday.”

Peter's hands rose up to his mouth. But short of gagging himself, there was nothing he could do to stop the voice. Should he argue with it? he wondered. But his mother was already looking at him strangely; if he denied saying those words when he had clearly been the one speaking, she would think he was crazy. They would
all
think he was crazy.

Maybe he
was
crazy.

His mother left to get Timothy. His sisters stood next to him, staring down into the cage with all the locks. It occurred to Peter that he ought to look at the dog, too, and for the first time he let his eyes move past the cage to its occupant.

The dog inside was . . . well, calling him scruffy would be generous.

His fur was dirty white. His legs were short, but his body was long; he looked like a big dog with a short dog's legs. His ears stood straight up from his head like a jackrabbit's, his beard was going gray, and his long, pointed nose had what seemed to be a wart on one side. His tail, which ended in a rather magnificent plume, was his only redeeming feature. As Peter watched, he began to lick his bottom.

To make matters worse, Peter could tell that Celia was just barely holding in giggles. “Peter, are you sure about this?” she asked.

“No!” Peter wanted to shout, but his mouth was once more in control. “Yes,” it answered. “I think he's beautiful.”

Celia collapsed in laughter.

Enough already, mouth
, Peter thought in despair.

His mom returned, Timothy following her. Timothy's eyes widened in surprise when he saw which cage they were standing in front of.

“You want to adopt
this
dog?” he asked.

At least this time Peter expected what was coming. “Yes,” answered his mouth.

“Hmm . . . Well . . . This dog, huh?”

Peter's mom got to the point. “Timothy, why are there so many locks on the dog's cage? Is he dangerous?”

Timothy dropped to his knees and held out his hand to the dog, who promptly came over to sniff it. “Oh, no, he's not dangerous,” Timothy said, “not in the least. It wouldn't be right, you know, to offer a dangerous dog for adoption. This guy, he's actually as smart as they come, and a really nice fellow to boot. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes it seems like he understands every word I say. In fact . . .” Timothy paused, and, watching him, Peter got the distinct feeling that there was something in particular he wanted to tell them. But the words must have stuck in his throat, because after a minute he shook his head a little, and when he finally continued, Peter could tell he had switched topics. “Someone left him in a carrier outside our front door a few days back, and it turns
out he's a bit of an escape artist, that's all. Locks come undone around him. Cages fall apart. Five times he's gotten out already. Every time we find him in a different spot. In the hallway. In with another dog. Once we even found him in the bathroom.”

“Oh, dear,” said Peter's mother.

“I still want him,” said Peter's mouth.

Timothy looked at Peter's mom, then scratched his head. “Hmm. What about this? What if you fostered this dog—that's kind of like a temporary adoption, so it'll give you a chance to see what you think. Give it a week or so. If he's the right dog for you, then, well, that's wonderful. As I said, he's a nice, smart guy, so if he stays put, you'll have yourself a terrific pet. And if he's determined to escape . . . we've got a lot of great dogs here. You can always choose somebody who suits you better.”

“I think it's a reasonable idea. Peter, what do you think?”

Peter waited to see what his mouth would have to say. When it didn't answer, he nodded mutely. What else could he do? At least if he was fostering the dog, he could tell his mother at the end of a week that he didn't want to keep him.

That is, assuming his mouth worked at the end of the week.

Assuming they all survived the week.

That evening, Peter perched miserably on the far side of the bed, staring down at The Dog.

He called him that because his new dog didn't yet have a name. Celia had asked Timothy what the dog rescue people called him, and Timothy shrugged. “Pretty much all the dogs here have names. But nothing's stuck to him yet. Maybe you'll have better luck than we have.”

Celia had spent all afternoon suggesting possibilities. She thought maybe Jack, because the dog's ears stood up like a jackrabbit's, or Pinocchio, because he had such a long nose. Izzy proposed Darling, because he was such a sweet dog; you could just tell, couldn't you?

In fact, Peter couldn't. He didn't actually care what they named The Dog, since with any luck he would be gone soon enough. Peter would have named him Darling just to please Izzy, except that he couldn't bring himself to actually say “Darling” when he was looking at The Dog. “Maybe I'll call you Not Darling,” he said now from where he sat on the bed, and the attempt at humor made him feel just the tiniest bit better. It helped that it was hard to
imagine being eaten alive by somebody named Not Darling. “So tell me, Not Darling, how did you do that trick in the rescue center? The one where you made me say I wanted to take you home? Because either I'm going crazy, or someone played a trick on me. And I don't think I'm crazy, I really don't. I feel pretty much the way I've always felt, only maybe a little older, I guess, now that I'm twelve.”

He glanced at his clock—it was almost eight. He was twelve years and thirteen hours old. He didn't quite believe it, because today hadn't felt like a birthday. He had spent all evening both hoping for and dreading his father's call, but the phone never rang; instead his father emailed, the way he did most days. Peter had reread that email enough times that he had it memorized.

Dear Peter,

Happy birthday, son! Hope it's a special day. Wish I could have been there for a game of chess. Gotta run, but I'm thinking about you. Tell your mom and sisters I love them.

Love, Dad

Peter hadn't answered. He rarely replied to his father's emails, because he couldn't figure out what to say. Sometimes he just wrote,

Hi, Dad. I'm good. Hope you are, too.

That was at least enough so that he could say yes when his mother asked if he'd written back. Otherwise, she would tilt her head and purse her lips, a look of concern
on her face that was infinitely worse than a scolding. But he hated sending those short emails. It was kind of lie, wasn't it? To say you were good when you weren't? Peter often wondered whether his father hit Delete immediately after reading his emails, seeing no need to save words that said nothing. Peter always saved his dad's emails, even when they were only a sentence or two long. They sat there in Peter's in-box, and sometimes he would reread them all, one after another, two months' worth of short notes about the weather and the food, and the occasional description of a city his father had visited.

The Dog was still sitting there, staring at him and panting. Peter wished The Dog would go to sleep and leave him alone. He found those watchful eyes demanding—as if The Dog wanted him to do or say something. “You know, a tiny part of me was actually excited about adopting a dog,” Peter told The Dog now. “I mean, I really don't like dogs. I've never liked dogs. But I thought . . . some part of me thought maybe I could find a dog that was different. A dog that wasn't so . . . doggy. And maybe . . .” Peter stopped. The Dog was, after all, just a dog, and it didn't matter what Peter said to him. But if he kept talking, if he said aloud that he had hoped that at the rescue center he might end up finding an actual, well,
friend
, he thought the sadness that he kept pushed down in his chest might float up and engulf him, and then where would he be? “And instead I got you. Not Darling. The doggiest dog of all. And now we have to stay together for a whole week—unless, that is, I get lucky and you run away.”

“Well, gee,” said The Dog. He yawned, showing off a long pink tongue and a wicked set of incisors. “Way to make a guy feel welcome. Really.”

Peter froze.

“Aren't you going to say anything?” asked The Dog. His voice was gravelly, somewhere between a bark and a normal human voice, but his words were perfectly clear. “Aren't you going to tell me how much you wish I weren't here? I mean, I wasn't expecting steak and caviar or anything—not that I would mind a steak, if you have one—but I've been here less than eight hours, and you're already counting the minutes until I go.”

“Dogs don't talk,” said Peter. He touched his forehead to see if he had a fever, but his skin was cool. Desperate, he looked around his room, but the empty bookshelves and the half-unpacked boxes that his mother had been asking him to deal with for months didn't offer any answers.

“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” said The Dog. “But how exactly do you know dogs don't talk? I mean, here I am, talking to you, after all.”

“Everyone knows dogs don't talk!” Peter said. “It's just a fact.”

The Dog snorted. “Can I give you some advice? Don't let other people tell you what's possible or impossible.”