The Last Dog on Earth (5 page)

For a long time, White Paws sat by the highway in silence.

But after a while, he began to howl. It was a howl born of a loneliness that every creature of the wild knows—a howl born of the primal understanding of loss.

“We're getting you a dog,” Robert announced.

Logan didn't look up from his cereal bowl. He'd been expecting something like this. It was Monday morning, and most Mondays began with one of Robert's stupid announcements. (First prize for the stupidest announcement ever: “We're taking away your how-tobuild-electronics books, Logan.”)

Somehow, Robert always thought that getting something or taking something away would solve all of Logan's problems. It didn't matter how complicated the problems were or if there even
were
any problems. What mattered was solving them in a jiffy. Robert was all about finding a quick fix. The less he had to
deal
with Logan, the better.

Logan was actually relieved. Ever since the barbecue, he'd been worried that Robert would make good on his threat to ship him off to that juvenile delinquent boot camp.

It had been two days since the stereo disaster. Robert had confiscated the LMMRC immediately; no surprise there. But over the weekend, he and Mom had also met for several hushed conferences in the bedroom. With the door locked. And the radio on. That way Logan couldn't hear what they were saying. Which made Logan very nervous.

So when he considered all that, a dog was good news. Sure,
dogs slobbered all over everything and chewed up stuff and barked a lot—but compared to boot camp, they were a piece of cake. They could even come in handy. They could scare off burglars. They could freak out and knock over a stereo at a lame barbecue. Dogs were even given as
gifts
sometimes.

Not in this case, obviously. No, this dog was supposed to teach Logan a lesson. This dog was punishment. Like confiscating the how-to-build-electronics books. Which was ridiculous, if you really thought about it, because now Logan was more determined than ever to build a lot of electronic things—not just weed whackers or remote controls, but a fire-breathing mechanical robot of such horrible destructive power that Robert would take one look at it and scream, “Oh my God, Logan! What have you done? It's eight hundred feet tall!” … and Logan would just laugh the way evil geniuses laughed (“Moo-hoo, ha, ha, ha!”), and Robert would flee the house in terror, never to return.

Maybe Logan should pretend that the dog was really a gift. He could act all wound up and excited about getting it.
A dog? No way! You mean it? Oh, boy! Gee, thanks, Robert!
Robert wouldn't be able to say anything because then he'd have to admit the “gift” was actually punishment. That would really tick him off.

Then again, a ticked-off Robert (more ticked off than usual, that is) could be dangerous.

“Don't you have anything to say?” Robert demanded.

Logan decided it was probably wisest to keep quiet. He shook his head and ate another spoonful of cereal.

Robert stood over him. “You know why we're getting you a dog, don't you?”

Sure
, Logan answered silently.
You're hoping that getting me
a dog will magically transform me into the next Devon Wallace.

“I'm asking you a question,” Robert stated in a clipped voice.

Logan shrugged.

“You know, this is exactly what I'm talking about,” Robert said. “This attitude of yours. It needs a major adjustment.”

“Sorry,” Logan mumbled.

“Don't tell me you're sorry,” Robert snapped. “You need to grow up. Training a dog will teach you the value of discipline and responsibility.”

In spite of the fact that Robert's angry face was only inches from his own, Logan almost smiled. He couldn't believe that Robert had actually memorized what Mr. Wallace had said to him at the barbecue. Word for word. Maybe Logan had misjudged him. Maybe that phony-baloney interested act wasn't so phony-baloney after all.

“What's so funny?” Robert asked.

“Nothing,” Logan said. He stood and carried his cereal bowl over to the sink.

“Rinse that bowl properly. I've noticed a lot of crud in the dishwasher lately. I don't want to have to replace it because you can't be bothered to rinse your dishes.”

Logan ran the bowl under steaming hot water for several seconds. He held it up for Robert's inspection, then shoved it into the dishwasher with a
clink.

Apparently it passed the test. Robert kept quiet.

“Where's Mom?” Logan asked.

“On the phone with the breeder,” Robert said.

Logan's eyes narrowed. “The breeder?”

“We're getting Jack from the same place where the Wallaces got Otis. They specialize in purebred Labrador retrievers.”

“Who's Jack?” Logan asked.

“The
dog
, Logan,” Robert said with elaborate patience. “That's the dog's name.”

Logan shook his head. The conversation wasn't making any sense. “Um … who says the dog's name is Jack?”

“I do,” Robert said. “Jack was the name of my dog when I was growing up. It's a good name for a dog. A strong name.”

“But what if it's a girl?”

Robert sighed. “It's
not
a girl because I told them we don't
want
a girl. I told them we want a male, about three months old, and chocolate brown. Like Otis.”

“Oh, so that's what
we
want.” Logan nodded slowly. “And— uh—this is
my
dog?”

Robert just gave him a look. “Don't make this a production, Logan.”

Logan exhaled.
Okay.

The way he saw it, it would be sort of like ordering an anchovy pizza for Robert—even though he knew Robert hated anchovies— then eating it himself because he loved anchovies. It would be pretty obvious that he'd ordered the pizza for himself all along. Not that it would do any good to point this out to Robert. He already seemed angry enough.

Robert marched out of the kitchen.

“So when are
we
getting the dog?” Logan called after him.

“Today.” Robert's voice floated back from the front hall. “You and your mother are picking it up this morning. Now, if I've answered all your questions satisfactorily, maybe you'll excuse me. Some of us work for a living.” He slammed the front door.

“See you later,” Logan said to the empty kitchen.

Robert always went on about how he “worked for a living”— and worked very hard. Mom worked, too, though. She worked at the Newburg library, five days a week plus every other Saturday. But she never talked about how hard
she
worked.

Robert sold cars. Nice ones—mostly BMWs and Porsches, the kinds of cars that pretty much sold themselves. That didn't seem like very hard work to Logan. Then again, Robert liked to make a big deal about pretty much everything.

Logan looked sideways at his mother. She hadn't said a word since they'd left the house. They'd already been in the car for twenty minutes. Judging from the creases in her forehead, she wasn't in a good mood. Maybe she didn't want a dog, either.

Of course, Mom was a nervous driver. That might have something to do with her mood. The breeder lived in a hilly area west of Newburg, and the roads were twisty, with a lot of unexpected stoplights.

Mom didn't drive that much. Robert always insisted on doing the honors—since he was in the automotive business, as he liked to point out.

“So, Mom,” Logan finally said. “Isn't buying a dog from a breeder pretty expensive?”

She nodded. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“How much will Jack cost?” Logan asked.

“Six hundred dollars,” she murmured.

“Six hundred dollars?” he cried. “You've got to be—”

“You should consider yourself lucky, Logan,” she interrupted. “Until last night, Robert was going to spend that money on sending you to the Blue Mountain Camp for Boys. After Saturday he called and reserved a spot.”

Logan shook his head. “Oh, okay,” he said. “I get it. He decided a dog would be a better way to spend the money than boot camp. That way, even if I get into trouble again,
he'll
at least have the perfect pet. Right? Plus I'm sure the dog is cheaper.”

Mom's lips thinned even more. “Logan, I don't know what to do with you,” she said. “Robert may not be perfect—”

Understatement of the year
, Logan thought.

“—but at least he's trying,” Mom went on. “Why do you seem to do everything you possibly can to antagonize him?”

“Trying?” Logan burst out. “
Trying?
The only thing he's
trying
to do is turn me into Devon Wallace. Either that or get rid of me. And you just go along with everything he says!”

Logan's mother winced. “I try to defend you. I really do,” she said quietly. “But with all the trouble you've had at school, and then the Wallaces' barbecue on top of that—” She shook her head. “You don't leave me a leg to stand on.”

After that there really wasn't much to say. They rode in silence for a few moments.

“So we're really going to spend six hundred dollars on a dog,” Logan said at last.

“We really are.”

“That's totally insane,” Logan said. “It's worse than insane. It's wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?”

Logan searched for an argument. “I mean, there are dogs at dog pounds and animal shelters. And nobody wants them, and they don't cost a cent, and if people don't take them, they get put to sleep.”

Logan's mother gave him a look out of the corner of her eye. “Since when do you care so much about homeless animals?”

“Whatever,” Logan mumbled. “It just seems to me that if we're going to get a dog, we should get a dog from a shelter. That way Robert can spend the six hundred bucks on buying something nice for himself. Because that's what he really wants to do, anyway. And he should. Like he always tells me, it's
his
money.”

Mom slowed to a stop at a red light. She turned to Logan. “Robert really wants this dog, Logan,” she said. “This particular dog. A chocolate Lab.”

“Exactly,” Logan said. “That's
exactly
my point. Robert told me that we were getting this dog to teach me 'discipline and responsibility.' But that's not true. The truth is, Robert just wants a dog like Otis. Which is fine. He can get one. But if I'm going to spend all day with a dog for the next few months, trying to train it to pee outside and stuff, then I want to get one from a shelter. It's going to be a pain. I might as well feel good about myself. I might as well save a life.”

Mom stared at him.

Logan took a deep breath.
Whew.
He wasn't really sure where that little speech had come from. He hardly ever said so much at one time. And yes, he
did
think that spending six hundred bucks on a dog was ridiculous and that rescuing a dog from the shelter was a noble thing to do. But deep down, he was mostly imagining the look on Robert's face when Robert came home tonight, expecting to see another Otis—and instead was greeted by the ugliest, stinkiest, mangiest mutt Logan could possibly find.

The light turned green. Mom stepped on the gas.

“So you're saying we should get two dogs,” she said.

Logan shrugged. “I'm saying Robert should do whatever he wants for himself with the money. But he shouldn't try to make it seem like he's doing something for me. That's all.”

Mom nodded.

All of a sudden, she pulled to the side of the road.

“What are you doing?” Logan asked.

“I'm turning around,” she said. “Because you're right. If you're going to give this dog-training thing a real shot, then you should be able to do it with a dog you choose. We'll turn around and go back to town. I know where the shelter is.”

“Really?” Logan asked. He was flabbergasted.

“Really,” Mom said. She drew in a deep breath and fluttered her fingers on the steering wheel. Then she twisted in her seat so that she was facing Logan. “But if we get this dog, Logan, you have to promise me that you'll work hard every single day to train it. You have to promise me that you'll do things Robert's way for once.”

Logan opened his mouth, then closed it.

He had no idea how to respond. The truth was, the very thought of doing things Robert's way turned his stomach. On the other hand, it
would
keep him out of boot camp. And maybe Logan could even train the dog to be some kind of genius, like Otis was supposed to be. Only, Logan wouldn't train the dog to fetch its own leash. No … he would train it to sneak into Robert's car dealership and pee on every single BMW Robert was trying to sell—and after that, to chew through every car seat in a frenzy of madness, all the while howling:
Ahh-ooo!

Or not. But life was full of comprises. Even Robert could appreciate that.