I started for the back door, thought again, and brought her the stuffed monkey. She gave it a chew or two, maybe just to please me. I backed off a few steps and took another picture with my phone. Then I left, not forgetting to bolt the dog door. If she messed inside, I would just have to clean it up.
As I walked back home, I thought about gutters no doubt plugged with leaves. The unmowed lawn. The place badly needed a paintjob and that was beyond me, but I could do something about those dirty windows, not to mention the sagging picket fence. If I had time, that was, and given the upcoming baseball season, I didn’t. Plus there was Radar. That was love at first sight. For her as well as for me, maybe. If the idea strikes you as weird, or corny, or both, all I can say is deal with it. As I said to my father, she was a nice dog.
When I went to bed that night, I set my alarm for five AM. Then I texted Mr. Neville, my English teacher, and told him I wouldn’t be there period one, and to tell Ms. Friedlander that I might miss period two as well. I said I had to visit a guy in the hospital.
CHAPTER THREE A Hospital Visit. Quitters Never Win. The Shed.
1
The Psycho House looked less psycho by the dawn’s early light, although the mist rising from all that high grass did give it a gothic air. Radar must have been waiting, because she began thudding against the bolted dog door as soon as she heard me on the steps. Which were loose and spongy, another accident waiting to happen and another chore waiting for someone to do it.
“Easy, girl,” I said, putting the key in the lock. “You’ll sprain something.”
She was all over me as soon as the door was open, jumping up and putting her front paws on my leg, arthritis be damned. She followed me into the kitchen and watched, tail wagging, as I scraped one last full cup from her diminishing food supply. While she ate, I texted Dad and asked if he would stop at a place called Pet Pantry on his lunch hour or after work and pick up a bag of dog food: Orijen Regional Red. Then I sent another, saying I’d pay him back and Mr. Bowditch would pay me. I considered and sent a third one: Better get a big bag.
It didn’t take me long, but Radar was already done. She brought me the monkey and dropped it beside my chair. Then burped.
“Excuse you,” I said, and soft-tossed the monkey. She pounced and brought it back. I tossed it again, and while she was going after it my phone binged. It was Dad. No problem.
I gave her another toss, but instead of going after it, she limp-trotted down the Hall of Old Reading Matter and outside. Not knowing if there was a leash, I broke off another piece of pecan sandy to coax her back in if needed. I was pretty sure it would do the job; Radar was the original chow hound.
Getting her in didn’t turn out to be a problem. She squatted in one place to do her number one and in another to do her number two. She came back, looked at the steps the way a mountaineer might look at a tough climb, then made her way halfway up. She sat for a moment, then managed the rest. I wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to do that without help.
“Gotta go,” I said. “See ya later, gator.”
We’d never had a dog, so I didn’t know how expressive their eyes could be, especially up close and personal. Hers told me not to go. I would have been happy to stay, but as that poem says, I had promises to keep. I stroked her a few times and told her to be good. I remembered reading somewhere that a dog ages seven years for each one of ours. Just a rule of thumb, surely, but at least a way to figure, and what did that mean to a dog, time-wise? If I came back at six to feed her, that would be about twelve hours of my time. Would that be eighty-four hours for her? Three and a half days? If so, no wonder she was so happy to see me. Plus she had to be missing Mr. Bowditch.
I locked the door, went down the steps, and looked toward the place where she’d done her business. Policing the backyard was another chore that could use doing. Unless Mr. Bowditch had done it himself. With all that high grass it was impossible to tell. If he hadn’t, somebody should.
You’re somebody, I thought as I went back to my bike. Which was true, but as it happened, I was a busy somebody. In addition to baseball, I was thinking of trying out for the end-of-year play: High School Musical. I had fantasies of singing “Breaking Free” with Gina Pascarelli, who was a senior and gorgeous.
A woman bundled up in a tartan coat was standing by my bike. I thought she was Mrs. Ragland. Or maybe it was Reagan. “Are you the one who called the ambulance?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“How bad is he? Bowditch?”