Bailey's Story (3 page)

“I will! I will!”

“And that you'll walk him and feed him—”

“Every day! I'll walk him and feed him and brush him and give him water—”

“And you'll have to clean up when he poops in the yard.”

Ethan didn't answer that one.

“I bought some puppy food at the store. Let's give him some dinner. You won't believe what happened. I had to run to the gas station and get a jug of water. The poor thing was nearly dead with heat exhaustion,” the woman said.

Ethan wasn't really listening. “Want some dinner? Huh? Dinner?” he asked, sticking his face close to mine.

Sounded pretty good to me.

Then something incredible happened. The boy picked me up and carried me right into the house! I'd never even imagined that might be possible. Did it mean that I wouldn't be living in a wire cage with a concrete floor? That I could stay where the people stayed?

I was going to like it here just fine.

Some of the floors were soft, and sunk into that softness was the same animal odor I'd smelled on the woman and the boy. Other floors were slick and hard. They made my feet skitter out from under me as I tried to follow the boy wherever he went.

When Ethan saw me struggling to walk, he picked me up. And the flow of love from him was so strong it gave me a hollow feeling in my tummy, almost like hunger. I leaned into him, lapping at his chin. I wanted him to know that I already felt the same way.

He put me down next to a bowl filled with something delicious. I pounced on it. It had been a long time since I'd last eaten, back in the yard with my brothers and sisters. Ethan refilled the bowl for me when I had emptied it, and he gave me water, too, and then he wrestled with me. He dangled a length of cloth by my nose, and when I snapped at it, he tugged. I tugged back and growled as fiercely as I could, which made the boy laugh so much he dropped the cloth. I shook it triumphantly. Mine! I'd won!

Then a vibration rumbled through the house, and I heard a loud slam. I knew that noise meant a car door had been shut.

“Your father's home,” said the woman, whose name was Mom.

Ethan stood up and faced the front door. Mom came and stood beside him. I gave the cloth a few more shakes, but it wasn't nearly as interesting without the boy attached to the other end.

The door opened. “Hi, Dad!” Ethan yelled.

A man stepped in and stood, looking back and forth from the boy to the woman. “Okay, what is it?” he asked.

I leaped forward to wrestle with the boy's shoelaces. The man's gaze dropped to me.

“Dad, Mom found this puppy…,” Ethan began.

“He was locked in a car, nearly dead from heatstroke,” Mom said.

“Can we keep him, Dad?”

I yanked hard on a shoelace. It fought back.

“Oh, I don't know,” the man said, shaking his head. “Do you know how much work a puppy is? You're only eight years old, Ethan. It's too much responsibility.”

I pulled even harder, and I felt the shoelace give. I tried to run away with it, but somehow it was still attached to the boy's foot, so that it yanked me back, tumbling me head over heels. Snarling, I dove once more onto the boy's feet, biting the lace again, giving it a furious shake.

“I'll take care of him, and I'll walk him and feed him and wash him,” Ethan was saying. “He's the best puppy in the world, Dad! He's already housebroken!”

The shoelace had given up and just flopped limply in my mouth. Since I'd shown the shoelace who was boss, I decided this would be a good time to take a little break. I squatted, leaving a brown blob on top of a wet stain on the carpet.

Suddenly, the people got very busy.

After they finished whatever it was they were doing with wet cloths and squares of soft paper and some kind of spray that smelled so sharp it made my eyes water, the boy picked me up again. He sat down on the floor with me on his lap, leaning against a chair.

Mom and Dad sat nearby.

“George?” Mom said.

“George?” Ethan said. “Here, George! Hi, George!”

“Skippy?” Dad said.

“Skippy!” Ethan said. “Are you Skippy? Here, Skippy!”

It got exhausting. I plopped down for a nap with my head on the boy's leg.

When I woke up, the people still hadn't gotten tired of this game. But at least Ethan took me out into the backyard to play. There was lots of good grass and tasty sticks and buried acorns and fallen leaves. And of course, the boy, who was the best plaything of all.

“Here, Bailey! Here, Bailey!” Ethan called, slapping his knees.

Of course I hurried to him; why wouldn't I want to be near the boy? He ran away, and I chased him around and around in a huge circle. “Bailey! Bailey!” the boy shouted. “He's Bailey!”

I'd be Bailey, sure. If that was what the boy wanted, I was happy to be Bailey forever.

*   *   *

I stayed very close to Ethan for the next few days, while I was getting used to all of the things about my new home. It certainly was different from life in the cage with my mother and littermates. For one thing, there was that strange animal I'd smelled on the boy's clothes, and on Mom's, and on the carpets that covered the floor.

“Bailey, I want you to meet Smokey the cat,” Ethan said not long after I'd gotten my new name.

He carried me back inside the house, and, holding me tightly against his chest, he turned so that I could see an animal not much bigger than I was, sitting in the middle of the floor. He was covered in brown and gray fur and had tiny ears that looked like they'd be fun to bite. His eyes grew wide and dark when he spotted me.

So this was a cat, was it?

I struggled to get down to play with this new friend, but Ethan held me tight.

“Smokey, this is Bailey,” he said.

Slowly, he bent over to place me on the floor. I ran to Smokey. This new home not only had a boy, it had something furry and my size to chase and wrestle with! Things just could not get better!

My tongue was out to give my new friend a greeting, but he pulled back his lips to show a set of teeth that were tiny but deadly sharp. Then he arched his back so that suddenly he looked a lot bigger. He let out a loud, sharp hiss. That didn't look friendly at all!

But at the same time, he was wagging his tail. I skidded to a stop, puzzled. Did this cat want to play or not?

That tail puffed up wide as every single hair on it stiffened, and Smokey stopped wagging it and let it rise slowly straight up in the air. I tried to inch in and give him a friendly sniff right under the tail, to show him I meant no harm. But he must not have gotten the message, because he jumped away and spat at me, lifting a paw with very sharp claws spread wide.

“Aw, Smokey, be a nice cat. Be a nice cat,” Ethan coaxed.

Smokey glared at Ethan. I gave his face a warm lick, still trying to be as friendly as I could, but all I got back was a bat on the nose from those sharp claws.

Okay, well, that was that. I was more than ready to play with Smokey whenever he wanted, but I had more important things to worry about than a snotty cat. I had a new family to get to know and a new home to explore.

The boy lived in a small room full of wonderful toys, very good for chewing. Mom and Dad shared a room that had no toys at all. One small white room had a big bowl of water I could drink from, if I climbed into it. There weren't any toys there, either, unless you counted the roll of thin paper mounted on a wall. Once I got my teeth in some of that, I could pull it off in one long train that wound around me and followed me through the halls. That was fun, at least the first few times.

But I liked other rooms better, especially the one that smelled like food. I couldn't get
at
the food, though, which was frustrating. It was all locked up behind doors that I didn't know how to open.

Each time I needed to squat and relieve myself, everybody in my new family went crazy, scooping me up and racing out the door with me, plopping me down in the grass and watching me carefully until I'd recovered from the shock and could go about my business. When I did, they'd praise me so much that I wondered if this was why they'd brought me home. It seemed like what they were most interested in.

The bizarre thing was, though, that if I did
the very same thing
on the carpets inside the house, nobody praised me at all! And if I squatted on some papers that they'd put down on the floor for me to rip up, I'd get a bit of praise—but not too much.

It was all very bewildering.

“No!” Mom or Ethan would shout when I wet the floor. “Good boy!” they'd sing when I peed in the grass. “Okay, that's good,” they'd say when I left a puddle on the papers. I could not understand what in the world was wrong with them.

Mom laughed at me when I wrestled with Ethan's socks, and she bent down to rub my ears when I fell asleep in a patch of sunlight. Dad didn't pay me much attention, although he did seem to like it when I got up early in the morning to watch him eat breakfast. Of course I kept a sharp eye out for any scraps of scrambled egg or crumbs of toast that might drift down to the floor.

But neither of them loved me like Ethan did. I felt adoration flow out of Ethan whenever he was near me.

And that made sense, after all. Ethan was my boy.

 

4

Sometimes Dad and Ethan would sit together at a table in the evenings, talking quietly while the smell of something strange and sharp and eye-watering filled the air. Dad would let me lie on his feet. That was nice, since Ethan's feet didn't reach the floor.

“Look, Bailey, we built an airplane,” the boy said after one of these sessions, thrusting a toy near my nose. I had to blink and back up a bit from the smell, so I didn't try to take it or chew it. Making noises that sounded like the car when it went fast—
“Vroom, vroom!”
—the boy raced around the house holding the toy. I helped by chasing him.

Later he put the toy up on a shelf with others that smelled the same, and that was the end of that, until he and Dad decided to build another one.

“This one is a rocket, Bailey,” Ethan told me, showing me a toy shaped like a stick. But what use was a sticklike thing that smelled too bad to chew? I turned my nose away. “We're going to land one on the moon one day, and then people will live there, too. Do you want to be a space dog?”

I heard the word “dog,” and it sounded as if there was a question, so I wagged.
Yes,
I thought.
I would be happy to clean the plates, if that's what you're asking.

Clean the Plates was a game where the boy put a sticky plate on the floor, and I licked it until it was shiny. It was one of my jobs, but only when Mom wasn't watching.

Mostly, though, my job was to stay near the boy. When it grew dark at night, he would carry me up to his room, since the stairs were too steep for my short legs. There was a box there with a soft pillow, and he'd put me into it.

I understood that I was supposed to stay there until Mom and Dad came in and said good night. Then the boy would call softly to me and I'd scramble, with his help, up onto the bed. We'd curl up together. If I woke up in the middle of the night and got bored, I could always chew on the boy.

During the day, Ethan and I often played in the backyard, where there was lots of room for the best wrestling and chasing games. And then one day, Ethan clipped a long rope onto my collar and introduced me to an entirely new place—“the neighborhood.”

Ethan ran down the sidewalk, with me right at his heels, and soon we were surrounded by a bunch of other girls and boys, some bigger than Ethan, some smaller, all of them with their hands out, eager to pet me.

I was happy to oblige. I leaned into their hands and lapped at their fingers and listened to their giggles.

“This is my dog, Bailey,” Ethan said proudly. He scooped me up, and I wiggled at the sound of my name. “Look, Chelsea,” he said, offering me to a girl his size. “He's a golden retriever. My mother rescued him. He was dying in a car from heat exhaust-station. When he gets old enough, I'm going to take him to my grandparents' farm.”

Chelsea cuddled me to her chest and gazed into my eyes. Her hair was long and even lighter than mine, and she smelled quite interesting, of sugar and milk and flowers and another dog. “You are sweet. You are so sweet, Bailey. I love you,” she sang to me.

I liked Chelsea. Whenever we were out in the neighborhood and she saw me, she would drop to her knees and let me tug on her long blond hair. I soon learned that the dog scent on her clothes came from Marshmallow, a long-haired brown-and-white dog, older than I was. When Chelsea let Marshmallow out of her yard, we would wrestle for hours, and sometimes Ethan would join us, playing, playing, playing.

“Bailey!” Ethan would laugh when I got hold of his shirt and tugged. “Here, Bailey,” he would call, and I'd come running to throw myself on top of him. “Bailey, Bailey, Bailey,” he would whisper in my ear at night.

I loved my name, because of how the boy said it. Whenever he used it, I came to him. That was how I learned my first trick—Come.

Ethan would call, “Bailey!” and as I trotted toward him, he'd add, “Come!” Then he'd feed me a treat. Excellent! Pretty soon I learned that I was supposed to head for anybody who said “Come,” even Mom or Dad.

There were other tricks, too. “Sit, Bailey, sit!” Ethan would say. He would climb on top of me, forcing my rear end down to the ground. Then he'd let me have a dog biscuit. That wasn't quite as much fun as Come, but since the boy liked it, I put up with it.

Dog Door was another game Ethan liked to play. We'd go out in the garage, a large, bare room that smelled of metal and dirty air and tasty garbage and a sharp scent that I had learned was called gasoline. In the garage, there was a door with a plastic flap in it that led out to the backyard. “Dog Door!” Ethan would call, and then he'd shove me through the flap and out onto the grass. When I'd stick my nose back through the flap, I'd get my biscuit.