Pet Disasters (11 page)

When the tub was halfway full, Nora called out the window to Brody: “You can bring him in now.”

Brody got Dog up the stairs, but as soon as Dog realized that he was going to be dragged into a very small room with loudly running water, he turned and tried to make a mad dash in the other direction. It was all Brody could do to hang on to his leash.

“Come on, Dog, it’s time for your bath,” Mason said, trying to mimic the cheerful tone his mother used whenever she tried to get Mason to do something he didn’t want to do.

It didn’t work any better on Dog than it usually did on Mason.

“You’re going to have to drag him into the bathroom and lift him into the water,” Nora informed the boys.

Mason simply didn’t think he could do it, not with Dog smelling the way Dog smelled. He wanted to do
it, at some level, but he couldn’t make his body obey his brain.

“Okay, I’ll do it.” Nora sounded impatient.

Mason stood back, holding his nose, as somehow Nora and Brody yanked Dog through the bathroom door. Brody and Nora worked on wrestling Dog into the bathtub, water erupting from the tub like a storm surge after a hurricane. The bathroom was too small for all four of them, so Mason, who wasn’t being of any help, anyway, had to wait in the hall. Nora shut the door firmly to prevent Dog from escaping.

Standing alone outside the closed bathroom door, Mason could hear Brody’s giggles. Nora started laughing, too. Dog gave a series of high-pitched barks. Maybe they were a version of dog laughter.

“Brody, get a towel!” he heard Nora shout.

“Dog, we’re wetter than you are!” he heard Brody shout.

They were all having fun, apparently, giving Dog his first hilarious bath in his new home.

Everybody except for Mason.

But then Dog, newly clean, emerged from the bathroom, looking smaller than he had before, his fur still soaked and hanging down around his face in funny wet little strings. Mason couldn’t tell if Dog looked bewildered, embarrassed, forlorn, or all three.

“Oh, Dog!”

Mason hugged Dog, not minding that Dog was rubbing against him, basically using his shirt as a towel.

“Oh, Dog!”

Nora and Brody joined in Mason’s helpless laughter.

On Wednesday at art camp, Mrs. Gong showed the campers how to do origami. Brody was the best at it. Mason had a pang remembering how hard Brody had worked to make a folded-paper pirate hat for Hamster. Maybe Brody’s grasshopper origami would be the artwork chosen for the class prize. Or would have been, if Dunk hadn’t managed to tear part of it as he was picking it up when he wasn’t supposed to.

Also on Wednesday, Mrs. Gong brought in their glazed bowls, fresh from the kiln. The glaze on Mason’s bowl for Dog was patchy, but not as bad as the glaze on Dunk’s bowl for Wolf, which was almost the same color as the stuff that Dog had rolled in. Brody’s bowl for Dog had glazed perfectly, a deep rich blue. Brody had decided that blue was Dog’s favorite color. But even if Dog liked Brody’s
bowl
better—and Mason had to admit that Brody’s bowl was amazing—it wouldn’t mean that Dog liked
Brody
better.

After camp that day, Brody went to his own house;
he and his sisters were going to see a movie that Mason didn’t want to see. Why go see a movie in the theater with Brody and his sisters when he could watch a movie on a DVD at home with Dog and nobody else?

It didn’t matter that Brody and Nora had been the ones to give Dog his bath. Dog was still living in Mason’s house, sleeping on Mason’s bed, watching a movie on Mason’s TV, while he lay at Mason’s feet, wagging his tail against Mason’s leg.

If Mason had been Cat, he would have been purring.

On Thursday at art camp, the final project was a huge mural of kids playing in a park. The whole class was working together on it. It wasn’t really a mural, because they weren’t painting directly on the wall; they were painting on a long sheet of paper to tape up on the wall.

Unfortunately, Dunk was working right next to Mason and Brody.

“How’s your dog?” Dunk asked. “Has he bitten anyone yet?”

“No,” Mason said. He hoped Brody heard that
Dunk had asked
him
the question, and that
he
was the one answering it.

“Dog would never bite anyone!” Brody said. “He’s the friendliest, sweetest, most loving, best dog in the whole world!”

Mason couldn’t disagree with that.

“Right,” Dunk said. “Are you bringing him to the art show, or are you too ashamed of him?”

“Can we bring pets to the art show?” Brody asked Mrs. Gong as she came walking up behind them.

“Pets?” She looked uncertain. But then, because it was Brody asking and teachers always liked Brody, Mason could see her reconsider. “Well, I suppose if your pet is
very
well behaved. And if your pet comes with a parent.”

“Yes,” Brody said to Dunk. “I’m bringing Dog. Of course I’m bringing Dog.”

Wait a minute
, Mason wanted to say.
He’s my dog, too, and I’m
not
bringing him
. He tried to catch Brody’s eye, but Brody was looking the other direction. On purpose? Did Brody know that he shouldn’t have decided something like that without asking Mason? Did Brody have any clue what a bad idea this was?

Dunk would laugh at Dog. He’d say mean things
to Dog, like “Nice leg!” That was the kind of thing Dunk would say. Or: “You forgot one of your legs.”

Well, you forgot all of your brain
, Mason could say back.

Mason practiced saying it in his head. It was a pretty good line.

But Mason would just as soon skip the whole conversation and keep Dog home safe and sound, eagerly waiting for the two pottery dog bowls that Mason and Brody would bring home for him after the art show. And then Brody would hug Dog, and Mason would hug Dog, but Mason’s hug would be bigger. Dog would thump his tail for Brody’s hug, but for Mason’s hug, he’d thump it harder.

That was a better plan, in Mason’s opinion, not that Brody had asked Mason’s opinion.

A much better plan.

On Friday morning, the day of the art show, Mason woke up early. He brushed Dog’s wonderfully clean fur (Dog had smelled vastly better ever since his bath) until it was sleek and shining. He hunted for an old toothbrush in the medicine cabinet and brushed Dog’s teeth so that Dog’s breath would smell sweet. He found a roll of blue ribbon on a shelf in his mother’s office and tied a big blue bow around Dog’s neck.

Then he imagined what Dunk would say about the bow:
Trying to give him
away like a dumb present? Well, nobody wants a dog with three legs
.

Mason took off the bow.

At eight-thirty, Brody appeared in the kitchen. Art camp didn’t start until nine o’clock, and it was only a ten-minute walk, but both boys wanted to be early. Mason’s mother was going with them; Mason’s dad and Brody’s parents had to work.

When Mason’s mother saw Dog on his leash waiting with the boys by the front door, her brow creased. “Are you sure you want to take him?” she asked. “Art shows aren’t really places for pets.”

“Yes!” Brody said. “Mrs. Gong said we could bring pets. And Dog wants to go. Don’t you, Dog?”

For an answer, Dog thumped his tail.

They ended up driving to art camp so they’d have the car for carrying everything home afterward. Dog jumped into the backseat next to Mason and Brody as if he were heading off for some wonderful adventure. Would he be as happy if he knew he was heading off to meet a mean boy and his mean dog?

Mason wondered if lots of kids would bring their pets. It wasn’t a pet show; it was an art show. He knew at least one other pet would be there: Wolf.

At the school, Brody took Dog’s leash and led him down the hall to the art room, Mason and his mother following along behind. They were the first ones there, except for Mrs. Gong.

“Brody! Mason!” She shook hands with Mason’s mother and said some untrue things about what a talented artist Mason was.

“I think Mason has really
grown
as an artist,” she concluded.

Mason’s mother’s face was wreathed in smiles. Apparently she didn’t know that “grown as an artist” was code for “isn’t quite as terrible as he was two weeks ago.”

“And, Brody, this must be your dog. I don’t think I caught his name when you were talking about him the other day.”

“Dog,” Mason said.

She looked bewildered.

“His name is Dog,” Mason explained.
And he’s not Brody’s dog
, Mason wanted to say.

Two more kids arrived, without pets or parents, and then Nora, with her father but not with her ant farm. Maybe Mason and Brody
would
go see it someday. Nora’s father looked like her: tall, thin, serious.

Dog seemed completely happy to see Nora when she stooped down to hug him, returning her hug with an affectionate lick. Apparently he had forgiven her for the indignity of the bath. Lots of other kids crowded around Dog, telling him how beautiful he was.

Mason felt himself beaming. He saw that Brody was beaming, too.

By nine o’clock, all the other campers had arrived, except for Dunk. Some had parents with them, and one girl had a pet: a cute cocker spaniel named Lulu. Dog and Lulu sniffed each other politely. Not only was Dog beautiful; he had lovely manners, too.

There was still no sign of Dunk or Wolf. Surely Mrs. Gong hadn’t kicked Dunk out of art camp on the very last day. The best time for kicking Dunk out would have been the first day.

Then Mason heard loud, sharp barks coming down the hall. In answer, Dog and Lulu began barking, too.

Into the art room bounded a big, snarling dog, dragging Dunk behind him. Dunk’s mother brought up the rear. Mason had thought she’d look like a larger, grown-up, female version of Dunk, if there could be such a thing. But instead she was small and
gray-haired. Maybe she was Dunk’s grandmother. In any case, she didn’t look like someone who could control Dunk
or
Wolf, let alone both of them together.

“Good morning, everybody!” Mrs. Gong said. “Children, do see if you can make those dogs be more quiet.”

“Shush!” Brody whispered to Dog, but it was unfair to expect Dog to stop while Wolf and Lulu were still barking.

Mrs. Gong made a short speech about the two wonderful weeks of art camp, and about how proud she was of everybody’s splendid accomplishments. It was a bit hard to hear her over the chorus of barks.

“Parents, thank you for sharing your talented young artists with me,” she finished.

The parents realized that this was their cue to clap.

“And now, I want to announce our winner whose artwork will be displayed for the rest of the summer at the city art gallery in the atrium of the public library.”

Mason saw Brody drawing himself up taller, his face aglow with hope. Even if Brody’s picture of Albert had been ruined by Dunk, and his Monet-inspired painting had been swept away in the creek, Brody’s dragon print was terrific; his origami of a grasshopper,
even mended from its tear, was extremely cool; and his blue bowl for Dog was the best bowl in the class.

“It was hard to choose among so many splendid pieces, but I finally decided that our runner-up is the detailed pencil-sharpener drawing by Nora Alpers, and our winner is the glazed ceramic bowl by Brody Baxter!”

The parents applauded again. Most parents were good at acting happy when other people’s kids got picked for things. Mason thumped Brody on his back in celebration.

“Nora, Brody, come up and get the certificates I have for you.”

“Mrs. Gong?” Brody said, staying in his spot, right by the shelf where the ceramic bowls were displayed. “It was nice of you to pick me, but I can’t put my bowl in the library for the whole summer.”

Mrs. Gong looked puzzled. “But why not, Brody? It’s a wonderful bowl!”

“I made it for Dog. Dog’s
expecting
it.”

“Oh, Brody,” Mrs. Gong said. “Are you sure?”

Brody’s shoulders drooped, in an un-Brody-like way, but he said, “I’m sure.”

“Well, then, Nora, your drawing will represent our
camp this summer. Congratulations to both of you! Now, parents, please walk around and admire what everybody has created.”