Immortal Max (12 page)

“Buddy and Baby are acting this way 'cause they take more after the Pekingese than the poodle. You know,
dignified
. I'm sure as soon as they get to know me better, they'll warm right up.”

“Yes,
dignified
.” Smiling again, Mrs. Callahan gives both dogs a treat. Little dog biscuits shaped like bow ties. Then she turns her smile on me and says, “Now, a treat for
us
.”

She disappears before I can tell her about the treat at Mr. P's house. As I wait for her, I read a description of the two dogs' temperaments, hoping to find something that will make them like me. I learn that Pekingese are independent, assertive, and stubborn. Poodles, especially the miniatures, are picky and excitable.

A mental picture emerges. Chief Beaumont issuing me another citation for disturbing the peace.

I notice a bunch of dog toys on one end of the sofa and pick up a tennis ball. Immediately, Buddy and Baby are in front of me, ears alert. I toss it across the room, and they make a dash for it. One of them returns it, and I toss it again. They're both gone in a flash.

Mrs. Callahan returns with a tray holding two bowls and a glass of milk. “Oh, you found their weak spot. They both love to chase tennis balls.”

One of the dogs brings the ball back to me, covered in slime. I toss the ball again, wipe my hands on my shorts, and take the bowl she hands me.

“What else does it say?” Mrs. Callahan has noticed I've been doing more reading.

I don't answer because I'm looking at what's in the bowl. Vanilla ice cream scooped onto something resembling melted candle wax. Lumpy, mucus-colored candle wax.

She notices my hesitation. “I thought a hot day like today would be perfect for jelly and ice cream. It's a traditional Irish dessert. That's what I am, you know. Irish. I get Granny Smith apples at the orchard—organic, so no sprays—and make the jelly myself.” Beaming her smile, she says, “Organic means it's good for you, Sammy.”

“Yes, ma'am. My grandma used to make her own jelly, too.”

It's my first time for jelly with ice cream topping, but the first bite tells me it's good.
Very
good. I eat fast before the ice cream can melt and use my hand to blot a milky drop off something stuck between my legs. The clipping on peekapoos.

“Look.” I hold up the clipping like it's a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. “This says the peekapoo is a hybrid dog that originated in the United States in the 1950s.”

“Oh.”
Mrs. Callahan claps her hands together. “That's when I grew up. I had a felt skirt with a pink poodle on it and wore saddle oxfords and bobby socks. Now I have to wear these clunky orthopedic shoes.”

I look at Mrs. Callahan's feet. Before she mentioned them, all I saw was her smile.

She points to the clipping. “Go on.
Please
go on.”

“Yes, ma'am. It says now-a-days some breeders are crossing peekapoos with toy poodles, making an even smaller dog.” I glance at Buddy and Baby and estimate their weight at five or six pounds each. A little bigger than Mr. P's Yorkie, Apollo.

“That's exactly what Baby and Buddy are,” Mrs. Callahan says. “My
toys
.” Her face glows when she looks at the two “dignified” pooches. She hands me the bag of dog biscuits. “Here, Sammy. Now that you've finished
your
treat, you can give Buddy and Baby a cookie. They
love
anyone who gives them cookies.”

I give Buddy and Baby three dog biscuits each. I want them to love me a lot. As they sit down in front of me, I notice that one dog's ear ribbon has come loose, so I retie it in a double knot.

“Why, that's very good,” Mrs. Callahan says. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“I have a little sister—her name is Rosie. I watch her when
Mom's working and have to tie her hair up all the time.” When Mrs. Callahan smiles, I know I've got the job.

“Are you walking other dogs?” Mrs. Callahan asks as I'm bribing her “toys” with more cookies.

“Yes, ma'am. One for Mr. P and a dog for Mr. Muller.”

“I talk to them at the office sometimes. They seem like very nice men.”

“I've already talked to Mr. P. I start walking Apollo tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Suddenly, summer turns to winter. Mrs. Callahan's face becomes a pasty-colored sack filled with flabby mouth, eyes, jaws. Sagging flaps for a neck. “And just how much are you charging to walk Apollo?”

“Five dollars, three times a week. Um, that's five dollars for one dog . . . 
each
time.”

“
Goodness gracious
. That's a lot of money for me. You see, I only get my late husband's Social and the little bit they pay me for working in the office here.”

Social. I get it. She's on Social Security—her
husband's
Social Security. My grandma does the same thing. I look around Mrs. Callahan's house. Like Mr. P's, it's nice, but not fancy. Neither of them is rich enough to burn money.

As I try to figure out what to do, I get an idea: I could walk all the dogs at the same time and get through faster.

I tell Mrs. Callahan what I'm thinking. “You see, I can save time by walking all the dogs at once. If you call Mr. P and Mr. Muller and arrange it with them, I'll only charge you five dollars to walk
both
Buddy and Baby. But it has to be three times a week, and five dollars
each
time.”

“Oh, that's a piece of cake.” Her sagging cheeks lift in a smile. “I'm very good with words. That's why I do the newsletter for CountryWood. . . .” She pauses. “But you'll need to come by the office and pick up my house key so you can get in. And after you're through walking Buddy and Baby, lock them inside and bring it back to me.”

“Yes, ma'am, no problem.” Grinning, I hand Mrs. Callahan my empty bowl and milk glass. At forty-five dollars a week, I
can earn two hundred and fifty dollars in five and a half weeks. Still plenty of time to get a puppy this summer.

Mrs. Callahan, Buddy, and Baby walk me to the door. “I'll call Mr. Muller first,” she says. “That way, everything will be all set by the time you meet him.”

“Great.”

“And, uh . . .” Mrs. Callahan pauses, her smile wavering. “Don't worry about Mr. Muller's bearing. I sense that underneath, he's a nice man. Just lonely, like the rest of us.”

Underneath? What does that mean?

Mr. Muller looks like he just stepped out of Hogwarts Castle in the Harry Potter movies. Dark eyes. Pale skin. Wire glasses pinching his nose. His house is filled with dark leather chairs, dark tables with stout legs, and dark bookshelves stuffed with books.

Siegfried is a muscular brown dog with black ears sharpened to a point and dark eyes that never blink. He looks to weigh only nine or ten pounds, but for a little dog, he's intense.

How can a dog that doesn't bark be more intimidating than one that does?

Right away, I learn that Mr. Muller is really Dr. Muller. Not the kind of doctor that prescribes pills, but the kind that teaches you. And he prefers that I call him
Professor
Muller.

“I taught medieval studies, specializing in myth and legends.” He runs fingers along the crease in his dark trousers. Straightens the stiff collar on his gray shirt. “Do you know what that is, Samuel?”

“Yes, sir. Stories about dead heroes and stuff.”

“
Stuff
—” Professor Muller makes a choking sound, his Adam's apple moving up and down like it's on a mechanical pulley. “But you are in part correct. Siegfried was named for a Germanic mythical warrior hero.”

“He was?” I glance at the dog, who looks awfully small to be a warrior, then at Professor Muller. “Mr. P named his dog after Apollo, but I can't remember what he was the god of.”

“Apollo was the Greek god of music, poetry, and many other things.” Because of his knee, Professor Muller has to use a cane
to get around. Stiffly, he shuffles to his bookshelves, which line three walls in his living room. A minute later, he returns with a small dark book.

“This will acquaint you with some of the more popular heroes, gods, and goddesses. You may keep it, as I have no further need of it.” He sits down again, resting his leg on a footstool. “And now let me see the book you have brought.”

I open my scrapbook to the section on miniature pinschers and begin. “Well, for short, miniature pinschers are called Min Pins and they came from Germany. They're real popular as watchdogs and house pets—”

Without warning, Dr. Muller leans toward me and takes the book from my hand. “I am quite capable of reading for myself,” he says.

“Yes, sir.” I sit quietly, watching him read. Siegfried the warrior dog sits quietly, watching me. Seconds pass. Then minutes. Professor Muller reads everything I've collected about Min Pins. Then he sighs, cheeks hollow. Face unhappy. I wonder if my scrapbook didn't pass the test. If
I
didn't pass the test. How I could have made it better.

I breathe deep. “You, uh, you don't like the scrapbook?”

“No, it is good, actually.” He taps the scrapbook with a yellowed fingernail. “A thorough job. I would give you an A- for completeness, a B+ for organization.” He pauses, looking through the pages again. “And a B for neatness. You could have used a little less paste.” He peels a dried blob of Elmer's glue off the corner of a clipping.

I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. “Thanks. My older sister helped me. She works a lot with animals and wants to be a veterinarian.”

“A vet, you say.”

“Yes, sir. She's leaving for college in the fall.”

He nods slowly. “And have you learned how to care properly for animals from her? That could be a big advantage for someone who walks dogs.”

“Oh, yes, sir. She's taught me a lot. And I've taken care of an
old dog for years. He's probably not going to be around much longer, though. I'm going to buy my own dog when I have enough money. And I'll take care of it, too.”

“Is that why you're working?”

“Yes, sir.” I pause, noticing he's still not smiling. “I'd take real good care of Siegfried, and watch him extra close.”

“Oh, I'm sure you would.” He taps a section of one page and sighs again. “
This
part is what saddens me.” Straightening his glasses, he points to a clipping. “It tells how the breed needs a daily walk on a lead, or short hours of free exercise in a safe area.” He closes the book with a
clap
. “In the university town where I lived, there was such a place. A fenced area to take our dogs where they could run free. Now . . .” He waves his hand like he's casting a spell. “We pay for many, many amenities here—swimming pool, tennis court, boat docks—and yet we don't have a dog run.”

As an ornate clock on the mantel chimes the half hour, Siegfried places a paw on the footstool.

“
Ah
. Time for Siegfried's walk. We follow a strict regimen here. Breakfast at eight, lunch at noon, dinner at six. Walks at midmorning and midafternoon. Regrettably, the routine has been interrupted.”

I notice the dog leash lying on the footstool and pick it up. Immediately, Siegfried is at my side. Ears raised. Mouth open, panting.

“He may need to go outside,” Professor Muller says. “I've been putting him on a rope just outside the back door. It's long enough for him to do what he needs to do and get a little exercise, but not nearly enough. I'll let him out as soon as we finish our business.”

“No walk today,” I say, rubbing the dog's head. “Maybe tomorrow . . .” I look at Professor Muller.

“Yes, perhaps . . .” Professor Muller pulls a plastic bag containing dog biscuits shaped like little bones from his pocket. “I worry so much about Siegfried.” He rubs the dog's head.

“Why?” Siegfried looks to be four or five years old and healthy. “Is he sick?”

“Certainly not! I make sure he is properly cared for.” He hands me the bag so I can give the dog a biscuit, too. “I worry that I will die before he does. I don't want him ending up in a cage at a pet store.” He looks at me. “You've seen them. Cages with signs on the front that describe the animal's character traits. The kind of home it would do well in.”

“Yes, sir.” As Siegfried munches down a dog biscuit, I picture him in a cage with a sign that says
WARRIOR DOG ACCUSTOMED TO A STRICT REGIMEN. ENJOYS GERMAN MEDIEVAL STUDIES
.

Oh, yeah, he'd be adopted in a heartbeat.

For some reason, I think of Max, envisioning the sign that would go on his cage if he were being adopted.
BIG SMELLY DOG WITH GARBAGE DISPOSAL FOR STOMACH. PRONE TO EXPLOSIVE ERUPTIONS OF NOXIOUS GASES AND BILIOUS AIR
. His chances of adoption would be as bad as Siegfried's.