Chewy and Chica (3 page)

When Lizzie looked down, she saw a small puddle spreading out on the floor, right where Chica stood. The black-and-white puppy squinted back at Lizzie with a mischievous expression. She almost looked pleased with herself.

See what I did? I’m a good girl, right? That’s what you said when I did it before
.

Uh-oh
. Lizzie gulped. This could be trouble. But she wasn’t about to let Charles think she was worried. “No biggie,” she told everyone. “Just a mistake!” She ran to the kitchen for some
paper towels and quickly cleaned up the mess. Then she took Chica outside to show her the
right
place to go — but of course Chica didn’t have to go anymore. She just stood shivering on the grass until Lizzie picked her up and told her it was okay.

Half an hour later, Lizzie began to set the table for dinner. She almost didn’t mind, now that she knew she would soon win the bet and have a whole month’s vacation from the chore. Chica scampered around her feet as she walked back and forth from the kitchen with forks and knives, napkins and glasses. Then Lizzie saw Chica sniff and squat, right underneath the table. Fortunately, she was on the wooden floor, not on the beautiful old Oriental rug Mom had recently inherited from her great-aunt. “No, Chica.” Lizzie scooped up the tiny puppy, ran her out the back door, and set her on the grass. Chica stood and squinted up at Lizzie with her head cocked to one side and her ears perfectly perked.

It’s nice out here, but why the big rush? Anyway, now I know how to get you to take me outside to play. All I have to do is squat down. Cool!

Lizzie groaned. House-training a puppy could be a real challenge. She had found that out when the Petersons fostered their first puppy, Goldie. But Goldie had been a quick learner. How long would it take Chica?

Back inside, as Lizzie cleaned up Chica’s latest puddle, she reviewed the rules for house-training in her mind. The first and most important rule: never yell at a dog or a puppy unless you caught her in the act. A puppy didn’t understand what she had done wrong, even if you showed her the puddle or (Lizzie shuddered at the thought) rubbed her nose in it.

The second rule: when the puppy did the
right
thing, when she did her business outside, make a big deal out of it. Give her lots and lots of praise
and petting. Eventually, once the puppy got the idea, you could start to put a word to the action. As the puppy was peeing, you could say, “Hurry up!” or “Do your business!” After a while, the puppy would learn to go on command.

It all seemed pretty straightforward, but Lizzie knew that house-training wasn’t always easy. For one thing, before she could praise her puppy for going in the right place — outside — she would have to
see
Chica do it again. Lizzie had begun to think that might take a while.

“Not again.” Mom came into the dining room just as Lizzie wiped up the last of the mess.

“It’s not her fault,” Lizzie said quickly. She did not want Mom to have any second thoughts about fostering these puppies. Even if training Chica turned out to be a bigger challenge than Lizzie had bargained for, she was determined to succeed at it. Besides, she already loved the tiny puppy. How could you not love that
impish big-eyed face? “She’s from a puppy mill, remember? She probably spent her first few months in a cage. She didn’t have a chance to learn manners.”

“Chewy did
his
business outside,” Charles reported happily. He had just walked into the room, cradling the brown-and-white puppy in his arms. “Didn’t you, you good boy?” He looked down at Chewy and made a kissy noise.

Lizzie knew that Charles was trying to get to her, so she smiled. “Good for him,” she said. “Now all you have to work on is that chewing habit.” She pointed to Chewy, who was busy chomping on Charles’s shirt cuff.

Charles cleared his throat. “No problem,” he said. “He’s a smartie. He’ll learn.”

“All I ask is that you both keep a very close eye on your puppies,” said Mom. “Let’s keep the messes and destruction to a minimum.” She looked down at the floor. “I suppose we should
roll up Aunt Nell’s rug for the time being and put it away.”

“Totally unnecessary,” Lizzie told her. “I’m on the case. I promise to watch Chica every minute.”

Dad had set up a puppy crate in the kitchen, and Charles and Lizzie settled their puppies in before dinner. Chewy and Chica looked happy and cozy, cuddled together in a pile on the red flannel sheet the Petersons used for all their foster puppies.

“At least Chica won’t pee in there,” Lizzie said. That was one of the great things about using a puppy crate for training: dogs did not like to pee where they slept, so they would hold it while they were in the crate. (Of course, Lizzie knew it was not fair to leave a puppy in a crate for more than a couple of hours at a time, unless it was at night, when the puppy was sleeping.) After dinner, she would take Chica right outside, let her do her business, and praise her.

Dinner was lasagna left over from the night before, with salad and bread. Buddy sat right next to the Bean’s chair, watching carefully for any scraps that might fall. Charles rushed through his dinner, in a hurry to get back to his puppy. Lizzie was on her second helping when she noticed that Mom had barely touched her first. Mom had not been talking much, either.

Now Mom sighed. “I just can’t stop thinking about that puppy mill,” she said. “What a terrible place for dogs.”

“Puppy mill?” Dad asked. “I’ve heard about puppy mills. Is there one around here?”

Lizzie, Charles, and Mom took turns explaining where Chewy and Chica had come from.

“So this Mr. Beauregard character bought the puppies out of a truck,” Dad said, “and Ms. Dobbins thinks the truck came from a puppy mill?”

“Exactly,” said Mom. “And what I’m wondering
now is, did Mr. Beauregard get a license plate number for that truck?” Lizzie noticed that Mom had that certain look in her eyes — the look she got when she thought about a newspaper article she planned to write. “I’m going to call him tonight. If I can track down that truck and find the puppy mill it came from, maybe I can write an article that will help shut the place down — and maybe even change the laws about puppy mills in this state.”

“Change the laws?” Dad reached for some more salad. “You’re a terrific reporter, but the
Littleton News
is just a small-town paper. That sounds pretty ambitious.”

“Oh, it does, does it?” asked Mom. “Okay, then, how about if
we
make a bet, too? I’ll bet I can write an article that makes a difference.”

“You’re on.” Dad stuck out his hand, and they shook on it. “And personally, I’ll be hoping you can win. Those puppy mills sound like terrible places.”

Lizzie agreed one hundred percent with Dad. “What’s the bet for?” she asked.

Mom and Dad looked at each other and laughed. “Junk drawer,” they said together. They made the same bet every time: whoever lost had to clean out the kitchen drawer that always filled up with loose change, stamps, keys to who knew what, paper clips, rubber bands, and other assorted stuff.

Lizzie laughed. Then, thinking of the kitchen reminded her of the puppy. “I’d better check on Chica.” She jumped up from the table. It was probably time to take her puppy outside for a pee.

But when Lizzie reached in to take Chica out of the crate, she had a feeling that she was too late. Chica shivered slightly and squinted up at Lizzie with that impish look.

Yay! It’s you! Are we headed outside again?

Lizzie patted the red flannel sheet. It was dry where Chewy lay sleeping, but sure enough, underneath Chica it was soaked. Lizzie groaned. A puppy who peed inside her crate. This was not good news. It was not good news at all.

After dinner, Charles cleared the table. As he carried the dirty dishes to the kitchen, he let himself think about how great it would be to get out of that chore for a whole month. Actually, he didn’t even mind the job much — but he was dying to win the bet, just to show Lizzie that she wasn’t the only one who understood dogs and knew how to train them.

Could he possibly be the first one to find a great home for his puppy? He had boasted that he could, but inside he was not sure. Nobody would want to adopt a puppy who was always chewing things and chomping on body parts.

How
did
you teach a puppy not to chew? Charles realized he had to find out fast,
before Chewy did some major damage. After he took Chewy outside for a pee, Charles brought his puppy upstairs to his room, where he could do some thinking.

Chewy seemed to like Charles’s room. That is, he liked to
chew
it. He dashed around, sniffing and chomping every thing in sight. In about five minutes, Chewy had left tiny bite marks on the leg of Charles’s desk, shredded the corner of Charles’s bedspread, mangled the shoelaces on Charles’s best shoes, sampled the taste of Charles’s backpack straps, and nibbled on Charles’s rag rug.

Charles stopped him every time, before he could do too much damage. And every time, Charles took away the thing Chewy was biting on and handed him a puppy-sized chew toy. Charles knew to do that much. You had to teach the puppy that there were some things it was
okay
to chew. But it was exhausting to have to watch Chewy’s every move.

“I guess you’ll sleep in a crate tonight,” he told Chewy, scooping him up for the tenth time. Charles sat cross-legged on the bed with Chewy and let the puppy chomp on the cuffs of his jeans while he thought about what to do.

Sometimes, when he was trying to figure out a problem, Charles liked to sit on his bed and toss his favorite old baseball from hand to hand. There was something about the feel of the ball’s worn leather and the nice plunking sound it made as it dropped into each hand. Before he knew it, ideas would start to pop into his brain. That was how he had come up with his best science fair idea yet, the one about demonstrating that ants like sweet things better than sour things. The project had involved a Tootsie Roll Pop and a pickle, and it had been the hit of that year’s fair.

Charles tossed his baseball back and forth.

Sure enough, the technique worked once again.

After only about five tosses, Charles knew just what to do. Lizzie had a whole shelf of books about dog training in her room. Because of the bet, she might not lend him one if he asked. But Lizzie was downstairs, sticking close to the back door with Chica in case her puppy had to pee again. All Charles had to do was sneak in there and borrow one of the books so he could learn about how to teach puppies not to bite and chew.

It was the perfect solution. “C’mon, Chewy,” he said. He picked up the puppy, marveling all over again at how light he was. When Buddy was a few weeks old, you could pick him up that easily. Not anymore. But Chewy would always be tiny, no matter how grown up he was. “How can I keep you from chewing things in Lizzie’s room?” Charles asked his puppy. Chewy cocked his head and blinked his big brown eyes.

Chewing? Me?

Ha. The puppy looked so innocent, but Charles knew better. He had another brainstorm. He grabbed his backpack and helped Chewy into it. Then he zipped it up just enough that Chewy could see out but couldn’t
climb
out. Chewy’s adorable bug-eyed face stuck out the top. Charles kissed his puppy’s nose. “That ought to do it.” Charles put on the backpack and tiptoed into the hall, listening to make sure Lizzie really was downstairs. When he heard her laugh, probably at something Chica was doing, he knew the coast was clear.

Anybody who walked into Lizzie’s room would know that she loved dogs. It wasn’t just the shelf full of books about dogs, or the “Dog Breeds of the World” poster over her bed, or the many, many pictures of cute puppies stuck up on her
bulletin board. There was also the display of miniature dog models she had started to collect, every breed from Saint Bernard to Pekingese. And the stuffed dogs on her bed. And the dog magazines on her nightstand. Lizzie’s room was All Dogs, All the Time.

Charles put his backpack down on the floor and made sure that Chewy could still see out. Then he knelt by the bookcase and scanned the titles:
Best Dog Tricks Ever. How to Be Your Dog’s Best Friend. The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Owning a Dog
.

None of the books seemed quite right. Charles did not want to teach Chewy tricks — at least, not until after he had taught him to stop chewing. As for being his puppy’s best friend, that was easy. Who needed a book for that? And even though Charles was not sure how to teach Chewy not to chew, he would not call himself a complete idiot.

Then he spotted the perfect book:
Top 10 Puppy Problems and How to Solve Them
, by Mickey Milligan. He knew that name. Wasn’t that the dog trainer with long blond hair, the one who was always on TV and in magazines? Charles pulled out the book and flipped through it to look for Chewy’s problem. “Ah, here it is. Chewing and biting.” He snapped the book shut. “This is it, Chewy.” He smiled over at his backpack — but Chewy’s head wasn’t sticking out anymore. “Chewy?” Charles went over and opened the backpack. The puppy must have squirmed his way out. “Chewy!” Charles looked wildly around the room, hoping against hope that Chewy had not destroyed some precious belonging of Lizzie’s.

He did not see the brown-and-white puppy anywhere.

Charles grabbed the book and ran back down the hall to his room. “Chewy!” he cried. The good
news was that Chewy was right there in Charles’s room. The tiny pup blinked up at Charles with those big brown eyes. The bad news? Chewy lay on Charles’s bed, gnawing his favorite baseball to shreds.

Lizzie noticed the missing book the second she walked into her room. At first she was mad. For one thing, Charles wasn’t supposed to be in her room without permission. For another, he should not have taken her book without asking. But then she decided to let it go. She practically knew that Mickey Milligan book by heart already, anyway. In fact, she remembered with a sinking sensation, didn’t he say that some small dogs could be almost impossible to house-train? Oh, well. What did Mickey Milligan know?