Immortal Max (13 page)

No, worse. Which is why he ended up with us.

“Well, maybe someone would adopt him. That's how we got our old dog. He's been living with us four years now.”

“Is that so?” Professor Muller nods, looking thoughtful. “Well, clearly, he found a good home.” He looks at me, eyes unswerving. “All right then, it's settled. Mrs. Callahan called and explained the terms and I find them agreeable . . . on one condition. That you also pick up the waste in my backyard on those days that you come. I should be able to handle that job myself in a few weeks, but not right now. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Yeah, sure. Great.
Super
-great.” I stick out my hand for a handshake to clinch the deal. Professor Muller's fingers are all bones. His knuckles are knotty knobs.

Professor Muller accompanies me to the door, his back a steel girder. “Until tomorrow, Samuel.” But as the door closes, the wooden face cracks open in a smile.

I grin. Mrs. Callahan pegged Dr. Muller right.

I sprout wings after I pick up my bike and head for the security gate. Flying around golf carts, cars, trucks.

I've done it.

Suddenly, I hear a golf cart, the gasoline-powered kind. I stop pedaling and push my bike onto the right-of-way. Seconds later, Justin comes speeding up.

“I'm gonna get you, Spammy!” he yells. He spins around as the security gate comes into view, driving off fast.

Chief Beaumont walks outside when I turn in my pass. The ball cap is pulled low to keep off the sun's glare. Curly black hair, starting to gray at the temples, pokes out around his ears. “How'd things go, Sam?”

“
Solid
. I'll be walking dogs Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Starting tomorrow at ten o'clock.”

He nods toward the woman at the window. “Bertha here will have a pass waiting for you.” The woman behind the sliding glass panel smiles at me.

I smile, too, then hesitate, wondering if I should mention Justin's threat.

“Something else, Sam?” Chief Beaumont's eyes slice through his glasses.

I shake my head. But on the way home, I think about Justin a lot. I can't remember a time he got into it with anyone at school in the three years he's been here.
Really
got into it. Not one black eye. Or bloody nose. A shoving match. He won't even play contact sports. But at CountryWood, he's the Terminator.

And now there's a new bull's-eye painted on his target.

Me.

Sid arrived right on time Tuesday afternoon, with George. For the last half hour, George has been investigating the inside of Rosie's blue plastic wading pool. Like a corral, its walls keep him contained. A jar lid serves as a water bowl.

Gerbil heaven.

Sid insisted we drag the pool around to the barn because he wanted to see Max guarding Birdie. But right after we got there, he asked to look at my dog scrapbook. His head has been stuck in it ever since. And as he turns the pages, he looks toward Max.

“How long did it take you to get here?” I pull grass, toss it in the wading pool, watch George nibble.

“Twenty-five minutes, maybe thirty.”

“That's not too bad. 'Bout the same time it takes to get to CountryWood.”

Sid turns more pages.

“George is glad to get out of his cage.” I pull a dandelion, toss it into the wading pool, watch George push it around like a soccer ball.

Sid nods his reply. Turns another page.

I swat at a fly. Scratch an itch. Blow out my breath. “What
are
you looking for, Sid? The section on Chihuahuas is closer to the front. I made the book alphabetical.”

“Yes, I read about Chihuahuas. . . .” He turns another page, glancing toward Max. “But I am determining Max's breed.”

That makes me laugh. “Max doesn't have a breed, Sid.”

He looks at me, poker-faced. “Sam,
all
dogs start out as some breed.”

“Well, yeah, I know that, but . . .”

“I believe Max is Bouvier des Flandres and Schapendoes. And perhaps some Pyrenean sheepdog.”

“You're kidding.” Sid's face says he's dead serious.

“Look here.” He begins to talk, pointing out sections in my dog book as he turns pages. “You see, it tells how the Bouvier des Flandres originated in Belgium, France, and the Netherlands.”

Sid pronounces the name so that it sounds like Boo-vee-ay duh Flahnders. Since he's one of the smartest kids in class, I figure he knows.

“It says the Bouvier is square built with a big head and a large nose, high-set ears, and dark brown eyes covered with long eyebrows that give the dog a melancholy look.” Another glance at Max. “I think Max looks very melancholy.”

I look at Max. See stringy hair. A long tongue drooling slime.

“And further,
Bouvier
means ‘cowherd' in French.” Sid gives me a satisfied look.

“Look around, Sid.” I laugh. “You see any cows?”

“Obviously not, but I think Max has substituted birds for cows.” He frowns. “I do find it a bit strange that he has switched his loyalty to birds.”

It's because you told Max to pester someone else
, the voice in my head whispers.

“And . . .” Sid turns to the section on Schapendoes and pronounces the syllables carefully. “The
SHA-pone-dues
is similar looking, but smaller, and the coat is blue-gray in color. It is very loyal to its owner.” He looks at Max again. “In this case, that would be a bird.”

I look at Max, too. His coat
is
bluish gray, except around his mouth where the hair has turned white.
Snow
white.

Max is getting old.
Real
old.

“And here . . .” Sid turns to another section of my dog book. “The Pyrenean sheepdog”—pronounced
Pi-REN-e-an
—“is also
from the same part of the world as the Bouvier. Its color is basically gray, often tipped with grayish silver, white, or yellow. It, too, has a black nose, but its eyes are chestnut.” He looks at me. “What color are Max's eyes?”

“I don't know.” I hunch my shoulders. “What color's a chestnut?”

Sid raises his eyebrows. “The color of a chestnut nut, Sam.”

“Sid, I've never seen a chestnut nut.”

Sid rolls his eyes, walks to a chinquapin oak tree, and returns with fuzzy nut he picked up off the ground. Peeling off the husk, he holds up a glossy red-brown nut. “A chestnut nut.”

“Oh. We call those hairy acorns.”

Together, we walk over to Max and lift the hair so we can see his eyes.

“Chestnut,” Sid says, looking smug.

“So . . . 
what?
You're saying Max is a . . . a Boo-sha-peer.”

Sid grins. “That's very good, Sam. I like it.”

“I was kidding, Sid,” I groan. “You don't find any of those breeds around here—much less all three.”

“Do you know Max's history?”

“Well, no. I think he was found running loose. You know, a stray.”

“Then perhaps he did not come from around here. I, too, am different. Why? Because I emigrated here from India.”

Even nonsense makes sense when Sid says it. Then I wake up. “That's crazy, Sid. All you've done is mix up a bunch of different breeds.”

“So? Until a few years ago, I had never heard of a Shi-poo, a labradoodle, or a Morkie.”

“A Morkie?”

“Yes. A cross between a Maltese and a Yorkshire terrier.”

“You just made that up.”

“One of our motel guests last week had a Morkie. He paid six hundred dollars for it.”

I should have known better. Sid never makes things up.
Besides, he's right again. The peekapoos I'll be walking at Country-Wood are a made-up breed.

Correction:
designer
breed.

“What are you doing?” Rosie runs around the corner of the barn, and she's not alone. Bailey is with her, and she's smiling.

Sid quickly explains how we have concluded that Max is a Boo-sha-peer.

“Wow.”
Rosie gives Max a wide-eyed look. “That's elegant.”

Elegant. Another word that sounds like it came out of a British news commentator's mouth. Namely, Sid's.

As Sid shows the appropriate pages in the dog book to Rosie, Bailey sits down next to me. She's wearing one of her creations, a yellow-and-purple tie-dyed tee, and her feet tap the ground like two drumsticks wearing Converses. She's bursting to tell me something.

“Yee and Anise called.” Soft whispering. “They might be coming over to practice at my house on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You know, opposite days we have cheerleading. They said you told them I have a good place to practice.”

“Well, you do.” I shrug like it's not important. Inside, I'm all shouts.

“But you didn't have to tell them.”

“It was the truth.”

“They're biking over today to see how long it takes them”—she pauses, frowning—“and to see if they think it would work out. I told them Rosie and I would be over here 'cause Sid was coming out.”

Just then, I see two bikes pull into the driveway. Yee and Anise walk into the backyard, looking hot and sweaty. I motion them over.

“Gee,” Anise says, looking around the backyard. “This is like a park.” She sits down next to Sid.

“It is?” I look around our backyard to see if something has changed. It hasn't.

“Really, it is.” Yee sits down next to Anise. “So big and green.
Not just the grass, but . . . 
everything
. And your mom's flowers are beautiful.” She indicates Mom's perennial garden. “This is a lot prettier than CountryWood.”

Just what Mom said. . . .

“I think so, too,” Sid says. “Much more pleasant than our asphalt parking lot.” He catches everyone up on Max's new pedigree as a Boo-sha-peer.

“Doesn't that make Max sound
splendid
.” Bailey gives Anise and Yee her smiley-face grin.

Anise and Yee roll their eyes.

Translation: Bailey's being too “perky.”

“He would be much more splendid if he were clean.” Sid wrinkles his nose at Max, who is doing his thing. Lying in a heap. Imitating a pile of dead leaves. Emitting foul odors.

Looking at his watch, Sid puts George back in his cage.

“Where you going?” Rosie says, eyes wide. “I didn't get to play with George yet.”

“I must be home before three o'clock. That is when we eat dinner.”

“Three o'clock?” I stare at Sid. “You eat at three o'clock?”

“Yes. We must have the smell out of the lobby before check-in time. That starts at four o'clock.” Sid's face blooms rosy pink. “You see, we enjoy our food with a lot of spices, and some of our guests find the smell repulsive.”

I walk Sid to his bike and watch as he straps George's cage on the back. A blue bandanna serves as a sunshade.

“Thank you for inviting me over, Sam. Perhaps George and I can come back again?”

“Sure. How 'bout every Tuesday and Thursday?”

“Splendid.”

Suddenly, I have an idea. “Hey, I could use a favor, Sid.” I tell him how Rosie thinks she's a shoo-in to win the pageant because he and I are friends.

“Oh, that is a very big problem. Have you explained to her that she may not win?”

“Sure, but I'm her brother. Sisters never listen to brothers.”

He nods, looking sympathetic. “If you think it would help, I can talk to Rosie. I will explain that we are only supplying the space for the pageant, nothing more. The judges are unknown to us.”

“Solid.”

Sid wheels off, George's blue sunshade rippling behind. I wait until he reaches the corner, wondering if he will turn to wave. He does.

I grin. Three big problems solved in one day. Bailey isn't mad at me anymore. Sid's going to straighten out Rosie's thinking about the pageant. And Yee and Anise are going to start practicing with Bailey . . . maybe.

I return to the backyard, feeling good. But I'm the only one smiling when I get there. I look around and see that Rosie is gone.

“Where's my little sister?” I sit down next to Yee. Anise is next to her, and Bailey sits across from us.

“Making lemonade,” Bailey says, grinning big. “She said your mom buys the packaged kind that gets mixed with cold water and ice because it's healthier than soda pop.” She looks at Yee and Anise again. “Isn't that cool—I mean, their mom is
so
into this healthy food thing! Wish I could be more like her. I'm into ice cream . . . and cookies . . . and mayo. Geez . . .” She grins bigger. “I just love mayo. I put mayo on everything. Sandwiches and hamburgers—I even dip French fries in mayo. Do you do that? Dip French fries in mayo?”

Yee and Anise look at their shoes.

Bailey grins bigger.

I nudge Yee in the ribs.

Yee glares at me, then turns to face Bailey. “Um, why do you do that?”