The Missing Dog Is Spotted (11 page)

“What about her?” Trevor demanded, surprising himself for the second time in the conversation. Why was he feeling so protective of Loyola?

“Could she take Buster?” Mr. Creelman asked.

“Oh. I don't think so,” Trevor said, standing down. “She lives in a condominium. No dogs allowed.”

“Hurrumph
,
”
Mr. Creelman said, sounding like Duncan. “Well, I have to get back to work.” He repositioned the grass trimmer in both hands. “This cemetery doesn't take care of itself.”

Trevor felt bad about bailing out on cemetery duty. And now Mr. Creelman was the only person who might be able to help him catch Buster and put his mind at rest before he left this place for good. He took a step toward Mr. Creelman.

“About that,” Trevor said. “Maybe Loyola and I should have volunteered with the Twillingate Cemetery Brigade after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's because we volunteered with the Pet Patrol that Buster doesn't have a home.”

“I don't follow.”

“We didn't believe Mr. Fester about Buster. And now he's moved to the seniors' residence because no one believed him.”

“I see,” Mr. Creelman said, scowling all the more.

“So maybe we would have been better off here,” Trevor said, his voice trailing away, “cleaning gravestones and not interfering with living things and all.”

“What about the other dogs?” Mr. Creelman said.

“The other dogs?” Trevor repeated.

“You've been walking all those other dogs. Who would do that if you weren't volunteering at the animal shelter?”

“No one, I guess,” Trevor admitted.

Mr. Creelman took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He rubbed his stubbly face with his gnarly, yellow-stained fingers. He cleared his throat.

“Trevor,” he said, less gravelly than before. “Those dogs deserve good care. All dogs do.” He shrugged. “Life is for the living. Don't you ever forget that, no matter what the future throws your way.”

Trevor looked at Mr. Creelman, who stood surrounded by grave markers with the words on the bottom rows covered by tall grass that needed trimming. But that's not what he would remember when he thought back to this day. Trevor would remember Mr. Creelman's advice, which brought him enormous relief now, and would bring him relief many times down the road, move after move after move.

As Trevor left the cemetery, he decided he would stop by the public library across the street, where he first learned about dog breeds, to complete his last assignment. He called home as soon as he arrived.

“Don't be too late,” his dad advised. “Your mom's flying in around five.”

“I didn't know she had a flight today,” Trevor said.

Even the fridge calendar with their flight schedules — always one of the last household items to be packed — had been boxed up.

After Trevor made the call, he settled at the table underneath the stained-glass window with the Twillingate Cemetery Brigade plaque. The sunlight coming through the window was spectacular — jewels of ruby red, indigo blue, pumpkin orange, grass green and lemon yellow. He dug out his notebook and a pen and opened to a fresh page.

Then he wrote his opening line:
This is a story about Buster
.

When Trevor arrived at the animal shelter for the last time, Loyola was already there. They put on their safety vests, grabbed their walkie-talkies and some plastic bags, then headed out, Trevor still on his sidewalk, Loyola on hers, a wide-open street between them. It was a cloudy day, cooler than the day before when Trevor had met Mr. Creelman at the cemetery.

Trevor caught up to Loyola and her dogs at the water fountain, just like always. This time none of his dogs tried to pull into Mr. Fester's yard. It was as if they could read the brand-new sold sign.

“Nice outfit,” Loyola said as Trevor's dogs took their drink.

She wasn't talking about Trevor. She was talking about Misty, who was sporting a purple jacket with a feather boa around the neckline. Her toenails were also painted purple.

“Yes, Duncan certainly thinks so,” Trevor said.

He, Loyola and Misty all looked at Duncan.

Duncan didn't even flinch at the mention of his name. He had planted himself in the shadow of a nearby tree, his enormous tongue doing its usual thing. He was staring at the path ahead of him, completely oblivious to Misty.

“I'm going to miss Duncan,” Trevor admitted.

“Me, too,” Loyola said. “I'm going to miss all the dogs.”

Silence followed, and what Trevor really wanted to say next was, “I'm going to miss you, too.”

But he couldn't. He wasn't brave enough. And besides, he'd never said that to anyone before.

Instead, he thought that maybe he would give the book in his knapsack to her now.

No.

He wasn't ready to say goodbye. So he avoided looking at Loyola, all the while hoping she might say that she would miss him.

“We'd better get going,” Loyola said, cutting into the silence, and they gathered their dogs.

As they walked along the outside path, Trevor noticed that the dogs had not changed one bit since they first started walking them. Poppy was always on the hunt for birds, her long ears perking up whenever she heard a caw or a chirp. MacPherson was continually scanning the skies for incoming Frisbees. Ginger was always hanging back plotting her escape route. And Scout never let up casting Trevor a look of suspicion, as if to say, “You're not fooling me, young man.”

Both Trevor and Loyola gave the dogs extra cookies all along the way, knowing that this was their last walk together and ignoring Duncan's diet. In fact, Trevor emptied the box. The dogs enjoyed the extra attention, unaware they would not be seeing Trevor or Loyola again.

It would be nice to be a dog, Trevor thought with envy. But then he realized that it would be nice to be a dog only if the dog had a good home.

Buster.

Poor Buster.

“Thanks ever so much for your help,” Mr. Fines said when Trevor dropped off Poppy. “You've been brilliant.”

Trevor scratched behind Poppy's ears and under her soft jowls before he turned to go. “Stay away from the birds,” he joked as he headed out the door.

“Poor Duncan,” Mrs. Ruggles said. “He's going to miss you.”

Trevor gave Duncan one last pat on top of his wrinkled head. Duncan stood patiently for his goodbye. When the patting ended, he waited a bit longer, then grunted before trundling off to the kitchen for a nap after his long walk. Trevor could hear him collapse with a
hurrumph
.

“Misty has so enjoyed her play dates with Duncan,” Mrs. Tanelli said. “You've been very kind. And now that the weather has improved, I'm looking forward to taking her out myself in our matching outfits.”

Misty sat on his feet and smiled up at him, her purple boa floating all around her face.

“Goodbye, Misty,” Trevor said. “You're a real show-stopper.”

Trevor felt choky as he left Misty's house. He tried to shake it off as he walked, but his throat only got tighter as he neared the animal shelter. Why was this feeling so strong? What was so different? He'd never felt so sad about any of his previous moves. He took a deep breath and opened the door, the bell announcing his arrival.

Isabelle Myers must have been in the backroom with the animals, because she wasn't at her desk. Loyola was the only one in the waiting room. Together, they took off their safety vests and placed their walkie-talkies on her desk without a word. But they could hear voices behind the swinging door.

Trevor and Loyola stood awkwardly by the desk. They knew they should wait until she came back out so that they could say goodbye. The muffled voices behind the door continued, along with a laugh. A man's laugh.

Trevor looked at Loyola and Loyola looked at Trevor. They had heard that laugh before. But where?

The swinging door pushed open. Out came Isabelle Myers, followed by Mr. Creelman. Only Mr. Creelman wasn't the one who had been laughing. It was the younger man who came out last.

Mr. Easton.

Mr. Easton walking with a spotted dog on its leash.

A spotted dog named Buster.

Eleven

—

Last Assignment

“YOU'VE FOUND BUSTER
!
”
Trevor and Loyola exclaimed.

“And a home for Buster, too,” Mr. Creelman growled.

“You're going to adopt Buster?” Trevor asked Mr. Easton.

“Looks like it,” Mr. Easton said happily. “He'll move with me to Ferndale. And I've promised to bring him by to visit Heimlich Fester from time to time. Ferndale is quite close to Lower Narrow Spit where he now lives.”

“How did you catch him?” Trevor asked Mr. Creelman.

“I called up Heimlich. He told me I was going at it all wrong. Instead of reading out loud something Buster liked, which kept him alert and full of beans, he told me to read something that put the dog to sleep. Then all I had to do was clip a leash on his collar. Simple.”

“What did you read?” Loyola asked.

“Heimlich suggested
A Bridge Player's Handbook
, specifically the chapter on winning no-trump leads. I own a copy.”

“That would certainly put Mr. Fester to sleep,” Trevor said, turning to Mr. Easton. “He didn't like bridge, but his wife was excellent. She used to play with Mr. Creelman.”

“Never lost a tournament,” Mr. Creelman said. “We were great at camouflaging
and
sacrificing queens.”

Mr. Easton bent down to scratch Buster's head. Trevor and Loyola knelt to pat his back. He was a muscular dog and his fur was short and wiry, but his ears were very soft. Buster wagged his skinny tail.

“We'll just need to complete some paperwork,” Isabelle Myers said, expertly pulling out documents from the drawer of her desk.

Mr. Easton handed the leash to Mr. Creelman and sat down to fill out the forms.

“Thank you,” Trevor said to Mr. Creelman.

“For what?” he demanded, knitting his bushy white brows together.

“For everything,” Trevor said.

Mr. Creelman kept scowling, but he reached down and patted Buster. Then he slowly straightened and handed the leash to Trevor.

“I have to get back to the cemetery,” he declared to everyone in the room. “I have a bone to pick with a bagpipe player who insists on practicing at the cemetery so loud, it's enough to wake the dead.”

Mr. Easton turned around in his chair when he heard that.

“Will you be at Twillingate this weekend? I'll drop off the book you lent me,” he said.

“I'll be there,” Mr. Creelman said gravely. Halfway out the door, he turned and briefly nodded at Trevor before continuing on his way.

“What book did he lend you?” Trevor asked Mr. Easton.

“Famous Last Words,”
Mr. Easton said, turning back to his paperwork.

“The book with the epitaphs?” Trevor asked. “The one he read to us at the Queensview Mystery Book Club?”

“That's the one,” Mr. Easton said, filling in the blanks, Buster lying at his feet. “I especially liked the epitaph about the fire-station mascot.”

“Oh! I know it,” Isabelle Myers said. She paused before reciting.
“The spotted dog last seen …”

“Patrolling ladders touching skies
,
”
Trevor continued.

“Now rests beneath the green
,
”
Loyola chimed in.

“And our tapestry of sighs
,
”
Mr. Easton finished.

Everyone smiled, including Buster.

“Oh! I almost forgot! I have something for Buster,” Trevor said.

He dug into his knapsack and pulled out the stuffed toy ladybug, which was jammed against the book that he had bought for Loyola.

Buster stood up and wagged his tail. Trevor handed the toy to him. Buster gently set the toy between his two front paws as he lay back down beside Mr. Easton.

It was such a nice moment that Trevor wondered if he should give Loyola the book. He was beginning to slide his hand into his knapsack when she spoke.

“Well, I better get going, too. I still have to complete the last assignment for tomorrow's time-capsule ceremony. Thank you so much for everything,” she said to Isabelle Myers.

“Thank
you
,” Isabelle Myers said. “You both did such a good job that we've decided to run the program again next year. I hope I get two more students who are as responsible as you.”

Loyola left, the bell ringing behind her. Trevor might have chased after her if he had not been holding Buster's leash.

Instead, he stayed put while Mr. Easton signed the last of the papers.

“All set?” Trevor asked as he handed the leash to Mr. Easton.

“You bet,” Mr. Easton said. “I'll just need to drop by the grocery store for some dog food on the way home.”

The grocery store was the opposite way from where Trevor lived, so he replied, “See you tomorrow.”

He walked about a half a block, then stopped and did something he never did.

He looked back.

Mr. Easton was walking away, an extra spring in his step. Buster bounced along, wagging his tail nonstop and looking up at Mr. Easton from time to time.

Trevor let out the biggest sigh of his life.

It was the last day of school. Trevor woke up to a bright but empty bedroom. Everything had been packed, except for his bed. Even the curtains were gone. His room no longer felt like home.

His dad opened the door and poked his head in.

“Time to fly,” he said.

Trevor flung back his covers and followed his dad downstairs where his mom sat drinking coffee from a paper cup in the bare kitchen with the emptied-out fridge.

“Breakfast on the go,” his dad said, pushing a brown bag toward Trevor.

Trevor opened the bag. Inside was a warm egg and sausage sandwich, a banana muffin and a bottle of apple juice. He took out the food and flattened the bag to use as a plate because the dishes were packed, too. Tonight, he knew, they would go out for dinner, probably Trevor's choice, and then they would head straight to the airport for a late night flight. But before that, before they left for good, he still had one more day at school. That day included the time-capsule ceremony. And he still had no idea what he'd leave behind in the locker besides his last assignment, now that all his belongings were boxed up.

On his way to school, Miller joined him.

“I saw Mr. Easton last night,” Miller reported. “At the soccer field. He was playing fetch with a dog.”

“I know,” Trevor said. “Loyola and I were at the animal shelter when he adopted it.”

“He told me it was the same stray dog that was hanging around the school these past few weeks,” Miller continued.

“Buster,” Trevor confirmed.

They walked side by side for another block before Miller spoke again.

“I had to say goodbye to everyone at the used clothes depot,” Miller said. “It was hard,” he admitted. “I'm not very good at it, at saying goodbye.”

“Not many are,” Trevor said, feeling the weight of the book he had bought for Loyola still in his knapsack. But he liked how Miller had just told him goodbye without coming right out and saying it.

And then to change the subject to a happier topic, Trevor asked, “Did you complete the last assignment?”

“Yes. Got it in a sealed envelope and everything,” Miller said. “It's awesome to think that no one will read our stories for fifty years.”

“Wait up!” Craig called from behind them. He stopped to sneeze three times before joining Trevor and Miller. “Did Miller tell you about Mr. Easton's new dog?”

“Yes. I bet the whole Queensview Mystery Book Club knows by now!” Trevor said.

Bertram joined them as they headed up to the second floor.

“Do you have your last assignment?” Trevor asked.

“Yes. Mine's a poem,” Bertram said. “An epic ballad.”

“I'll bet,” Craig said. He sneezed again.

Trevor undid his combination lock and put his knapsack in his locker one last time. He had already emptied out the rest of the locker in preparation for turning it into a time capsule.

As they entered the classroom, Trevor spied a note on the front board, written in Mr. Easton's loopy, backwards, left-handed writing.

Time-capsule ceremony: 2:00 p.m.

Trevor scanned the room, which was practically empty. Mr. Easton wasn't there yet, but he saw Loyola at the back, sitting alone at her desk, slightly slouched, trying hard to reduce her height. The usual routine.

His heart started to thump harder because he realized that it might be a good time to give her the book, with no one around to tease them. He was about to rush out the door, back to his locker to retrieve the gift, but then more and more students started to file in, and his moment was lost. Trevor slid behind his desk. Would he get another chance?

“Good morning, everyone,” Mr. Easton called out jovially as he strode into the room.

“Good morning, Mr. Easton,” the class chimed back, everyone in an excited mood.

After the national anthem was played, with students standing at attention, and the end-of-year announcements were read by the principal over the scratchy intercom, Mr. Easton led them through the morning's lessons. Only he went easy on them, it being the last day and all. Mostly he handed back homework and reviewed some math problems for those who didn't do as well on their last test. Then he read out loud the final chapters of
The Science Fair Incident
.

Before long, it was lunch.

“I did not predict that ending,” Noah said, when he sat down to join the group.

Everyone knew he was talking about
The Science Fair Incident.

“That's what makes a good mystery,” said Bertram. “You can't predict the ending.”

“Kind of like real life,” Miller said, digging into his pudding.

Everyone stopped eating to stare at him.

Trevor knew why. It was probably the most insightful observation that Miller had made all year.

Trevor half-listened to the conversation as it continued, but for once he did not feel like joining in. Instead, he was lost in his own thoughts. Some things he
could
predict, he thought wistfully. In his haste to make new friends, he was pretty sure he would lose track of this group of classmates, just like he had done at every other school, with only his yearbooks to turn to. There would be promises to write and even promises to visit, yet Trevor knew those types of promises were made to avoid saying goodbye altogether.

Saying goodbye was just part of life. Trevor knew that. Why would this be any different?

“I wonder if another teacher will keep the Queensview Mystery Book Club going, now that Mr. Easton is leaving,” Bertram said.

“Even if someone else does, it won't be the same,” Craig said.

Trevor thought back to the club photo, where everyone sat in a circle on the soccer field reading books that Mr. Easton had recommended for each of them. He nodded, along with the others. No one could replace Mr. Easton.

Having finished his lunch, Trevor glanced around the room. He spotted Loyola and her group of chatties at one of the tables. He could hear her laughter from where he sat, despite the loud voices and the clatter of dishes and cutlery all around.

Trevor briefly wondered if now might be a good time to give his present to Loyola, but he quickly dismissed the idea. She was surrounded by the chatties, and there was no way he was about to infiltrate that group. He'd have to try to catch her alone.

But when?

The afternoon wore on, and Trevor spent most of it trying to figure out the best time to approach Loyola. He couldn't even seem to catch her eye. It was rather hopeless.

And then it was two o'clock. The time-capsule ceremony. Everyone grabbed their last assignment and headed out the door.

The entire school was crammed in the hallway, just outside the grade-six classroom, with only a tight half-circle of space around Trevor's locker. Someone had placed a small wood platform on the floor right in front of the locker, and that's where Mr. Easton and the principal stood. Across the hallway, in the music room, the school's band and the choir had assembled, ready to perform as part of the ceremony. There was also a photographer standing off to the side. Trevor recognized him from the yearbook photo day.

The principal brought everyone to attention with his booming voice. He called upon Mr. Easton to deliver a speech on behalf of the grade-six class.

Mr. Easton told the crowd he was honored to speak to them on the last day of school. He thanked everyone he had worked with during the year — the librarian, the janitors, the secretary and the other teachers who helped him along the way.

Then he talked about how hard it was to say farewell. He said that he was going to miss them even though it had only been a year, and he got a bit choky.

There was not a peep in the crowd. Mr. Easton continued with his speech.

He went on to say that every single person at Queensview was a leader, that everyone showed it in their actions every day — in acts of kindness around the school or on the playground that inspired other students and their teachers. Mr. Easton ended his speech by borrowing a phrase from Mr. Creelman's
Famous
Last Words
. He said that everyone should take what they learned from Queensview Elementary and use that to build ladders so high, they could touch the sky.

Trevor knew what that meant — everyone had endless potential.

He also had a hard time trying not to cry. It felt like he was swallowing broken glass, and he was pretty sure everyone else in the audience felt the same way. He had never been so sad about leaving a place in his life. And he now knew why.

It was because of Mr. Easton.

It was because of the animal shelter's Pet Patrol program.

And it was because of Loyola.

It was Trevor's turn to say a few words. He stepped onto the platform. Still, only the front row could really see him, so Trevor used his extra loud voice.