Junkyard Dog (5 page)

“The vet'll do it, but it's costly. There's people who'll shove a pipe down a puppy's throat.”

I feel my own throat tighten. How could anyone be so cruel? “Did you ever do it?” I ask.

Vince turns to look at me. “Nope, not me. But I've seen it done. It's not pretty. But you get to be my age, Justin, and you learn to live with things. 'Specially if you need your paycheck the way me and my old lady do.”

The music is still on, but neither of us sings along. Vince doesn't say anything more until we're exiting the highway. “Listen, kid, er, Justin, you're gonna have to wait till Monday for your cash. Floyd's in charge of finances.”

Vince must see from my face that I'm disappointed. “Hey now,” he says, “don't worry about it.” Then he reaches into his front pocket and takes out a fifty-dollar bill. “How 'bout I give you half from my own money, and we straighten things out with Floyd on Monday?”

“That'd be great. I've got some shopping to do.”

“What are you into—computer games or cds or something like that?” he asks.

“Yeah, something like that,” I say.

Vince drops me off outside our building. Floyd usually makes me walk from the corner. Vince puts his hand on my forearm. I can tell he has something else to tell me.

“What is it?”

Vince bites his lower lip, the way he did when he was stitching King. Then he turns off the motor. “I'm afraid I've got some bad news,” he says. “That German shepherd at the convenience store is getting too old to work. Floyd says we're gonna have to get rid of him.”

“Get rid of him?” I don't mean to shout.

“Business is business,” Vince tells me. “What Floyd says goes. If a dog gets too old to work, he's no good to us anymore.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Like I said before, sometimes you gotta learn to live with things.”

chapter ten

My body goes cold when I don't see Smokey behind the counter. I have to do something, so I buy the Saturday paper. I left home in such a hurry, I forgot my empties.

“Where's the dog?” I ask the cashier. It says Edward on his shirt. I try to make it sound like I'm just asking.

Edward rings up the newspaper. “That'll be a buck fifty. Dog's out for a walk. Have a good day.” My body begins to relax. Smokey's not gone—at least not yet.

Outside, I peer up and down Monkland Avenue. At first, I don't see Smokey, but then I spot him. He's with Pete.

Smokey is sniffing a corner of a dumpster, but he looks up when I approach. His eyes are clear and bright. Vince must be wrong about Smokey.

But when Smokey walks, I notice one of his rear legs dragging. I read in Mrs. MacAlear's book that German shepherds are prone to a condition called hip dysplasia. Is that what's wrong with Smokey?

“How ya doin'?” I ask Pete.

“I'm good. Kind of excited actually.” This is the most Pete has said to me in all the time I've been coming to the convenience store.

“What're you excited about?” I ask.

“I thought you knew. This is Smokey's last week on the job. We're getting a new dog on Monday, another shepherd. No offense to you”—he looks at Smokey—“but we need a newer model.”

“What's gonna happen to Smokey?” I ask.

“Why're you asking me? You're the one in the guard-dog business.”

There's an extra crate in the van on Monday afternoon, and I know without asking that Smokey's inside.

All shift, I feel nauseous. Shoveling makes the feeling worse.

“What's with you today, kid?” Floyd asks. Floyd hasn't bothered to use my name since our visit to the SPCA .

“What are we gonna do with the shepherd in the crate?” I ask him.

Floyd punches my shoulder a little too hard. “You forget what I told you about asking questions?”

“I've got a cramp in my leg,” I tell Floyd. “Mind if I sit in the back of the van?”

“Suit yourself,” he says.

All the dogs have been delivered to their work sites. It's just me and Smokey in the back now. “Hi, Smokester,” I whisper, slipping my hand between the bars so I can stroke the top of his head.

Smokey rests his head on the bottom of the cage. He wants me to keep petting him. I wonder how long it's been since someone petted him. I wonder, too, how Smokey got debarked. Did a vet do it, or did someone else, maybe Floyd, do it? I blink to make the picture in my mind disappear, but it won't.

And where are we taking Smokey now? The SPCA ? It's not a bad place, but they've got more abandoned dogs than they can handle. They'll put Smokey up for adoption, but who knows if anyone will take him. Most people want puppies—not aging German shepherds who walk funny.

From what I can tell, we're not going to the SPCA . We're headed out of town—in the same direction we went to meet Terence. Will Terence take Smokey? I can't decide if that would be better or worse than leaving him at the SPCA .

If only I could adopt Smokey. But that would never work. Our building has a no-pets rule. Besides, Dad would never agree to it. It costs money to look after a dog, and even now that I'm working, Dad and I barely have enough to look after ourselves.

We're off the island, and there are fewer streetlamps. “Are you sure there's nothing else we can do?” Vince asks Floyd.

“You getting soft or what?” Floyd says to the front window.

Smokey's ears prick up as if he is eavesdropping too.

“Okay, then, you're the boss. You call the shots,” Vince says.

“Exactly,” says Floyd.

I keep my eyes on the road signs. We pass Île Perrot.

“What if Terence picks him up?”

Floyd laughs. “Wouldn't that be somethin'?”

As the van slows down, Smokey looks up at me. “Don't worry,” I tell him.

“Whatcha doin' back there? Chatting up the dog? Think you're the dog whisperer or what?” Floyd says.

“He knows the dog from the convenience store.” Vince sounds tired.

“That dog's too old to be any use to anyone. They'll euthanize him at the SPCA ,” Floyd says. “So we're gonna give him a chance to make it on his own.”

“Here?” I say. We're at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Floyd can't be serious. What is Smokey going to do out here?

“I thought I already talked to you about asking questions. You let the dog out. This is as good a place as any. And make it quick, will ya?”

I hear what Floyd is saying, but it's not making any sense. He taps the steering wheel. “C'mon,” he says, “let the dog out. Now!”

Letting Killer out of his cage that first time was nothing compared to this. My fingers tremble as I fumble with the latch. I'll never forget the look in Smokey's eyes. It says,
I trust you
.

If I do this, I'm no better than the people who abandon their pets on moving day. Do those dogs give their owners the same trusting look Smokey is giving me?

Another car flies by so quickly I can't tell what color it is. There's a small forest to the right, but if Smokey runs out onto the road, he'll be dead for sure. That's when I realize this is all part of Floyd's plan. It's less trouble than taking Smokey to the SPCA — and cheaper than having him euthanized by the vet. My head is spinning.

Honk!
Floyd is getting impatient. The honking startles me, but not Smokey. He's still looking at me.

Honk!

It's hard to think straight.

“Stay,” I tell Smokey. It's a command he's used to, but how long can I expect Smokey to stay in one place, especially out in the dark like this?

Floyd opens the driver's-side door. “Will ya get back in the van?” he shouts. Then he slams the door shut.

Once I'm back inside the van, I crouch next to Smokey's empty cage. It still smells like him.

I don't look out the back window. If I did, I wouldn't be able to see anything anyhow—on account of the tears.

chapter eleven

Vince pats my elbow when I get out of the van. I wonder if he can tell I've been crying. “You gotta be tough to make it in this world,” he says. I can see from his eyes he feels bad too. But he needs Floyd's money as much as I do. Maybe that's why he won't stand up to him.

“See ya tomorrow,” I manage to say.

As I trudge downstairs to our apartment, I think maybe I'm not tough enough to make it in this world.

I hear a creaking noise. Mrs. MacAlear pokes her head out from behind her door and gestures for me to come over. “Everything all right with you, dear?” she asks. I'm starting to wonder if she waits for me to get home every day after work.

I shake my head. “It's Smokey.”

“You shouldn't be smoking,” Mrs. MacAlear says, wagging her finger. “It's a terrible habit. Very hard to quit.”

If I weren't so broken up, I might laugh. “I don't smoke. It's Smokey.”

“Oh,” she says, “is that what you call the dog from the convenience store?”

“He's not at the store anymore,” I say. “He's in trouble.”

“Well then, young man,” Mrs. MacAlear says, “you're going to have to do something about that.” This time when she reaches toward me, I don't step away. She lays a wrinkly hand on the middle of my back. The way she touches me makes me straighten my shoulders.

“Don't you have to learn to live with things?” I ask.

Mrs. MacAlear leaves her hand on my back. I can tell she is thinking. When she speaks her voice sounds surprisingly young for an old lady. “Not when it comes to the things you can't live with.”

“What'll I tell my dad?”

“I'll deal with him.” Then she gives me a nudge toward the staircase. “You go deal with Smokey.”

Maybe I'm not used to good things happening. Because when I get onto the bus that goes off-island, and I see Amanda smiling at me from across the aisle, I can't believe it's her. I notice how her nose and cheeks are sprinkled with tiny freckles. She has one of those little suitcases on wheels with her.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks me.

“I didn't expect to see you here. What are you doing—running away from home?”

Amanda laughs. “Why would I do that? I'm going to sleep over at my nana's. Her house is right by the bus stop, so I'll be there before dark. My parents don't like me out in the dark alone.”

Out in the dark alone. I check my watch. I let Smokey out of the van thirty-four minutes ago.

“Where are you going?” Amanda asks.

“I've gotta take care of some work stuff,” I say.

The brakes squeal as the bus stops in front of a coffee shop. A guy with a gray ponytail gets on. “How much?” he asks the driver.

Hurry up, I think. Once the guy has fished the right change from his pocket, the driver puts on the emergency signal lights. They sound like a clock ticking. The driver stands up and stretches. I will him to get back into his seat and drive so I can get to Smokey. Instead the driver steps off the bus.

“I thought you worked on a van,” Amanda says. “The one that picks you up after school.”

“This is different. Something bad happened to one of our dogs…to Smokey.”

Amanda's green eyes widen. “What happened?”

I don't want to tell her. I'm upset enough already.

“C'mon, tell me,” she says.

I'm tapping my foot against the floor.

“And quit tapping—you're making me nervous,” she says.

The driver gets back on the bus. He's carrying a cup of coffee. Thank goodness the light is green.

“The boss thinks Smokey is getting too old to work…and so, so…” This part is hard to tell. “We left him by the side of the highway.” Saying the words out loud makes me feel even worse.

“You what?” Amanda asks.

“Don't shout.” I get the feeling the other passengers might be listening to our conversation.

“You left a dog by the side of the highway, and you expect me not to shout? How could you do something like that?”

I don't want Amanda to see me cry. I try taking a deep breath. “That's why I'm going back—to find Smokey.”

Amanda is quiet for a moment. She is either thinking, or she's getting ready to yell again. But then she takes her cell phone out of her backpack. “I'm calling Nana to tell her I'll be late,” she says. “I'm going with you, Justin.”

“I think this is the stop,” I tell Amanda when we pass the sign for Île Perrot.

“You
think
this is it?”she says. I'm afraid she's going to start shouting again.

“I was sitting in the back of the van. With the dog. I couldn't see too well.”

“Who let him out?”

I was hoping Amanda wouldn't ask that. I look down at my sneakers. “I did.”

When we get off the bus, we see red lights flashing on the road in front of us. Is it a police car? Are we too late? Has Smokey been hit?

Without planning to, I grab Amanda's hand and squeeze it.

Amanda peers into the darkness and squeezes my hand back. “There's a car pulled over. It's probably just a speeding ticket.”

I scan the road up ahead, then turn to look behind me. I don't see any sign of Smokey.

There is a small forest to our right. Is this where we left Smokey? There were definitely trees. It's hard to know for sure. Why didn't I pay more attention when Floyd stopped the van?

Something about the clearing behind me looks familiar. “That way,” I say, pointing toward it. “At least I think it's that way.”

The wheels on Amanda's suitcase clatter on the asphalt. “Smokey!” she calls into the night air.

“Calling for Smokey won't work,” I tell her. “Smokey's not really his name.”

Amanda parks her suitcase. “So what name should we call?”

“He doesn't have a name. Most people just call him Dog.”