Smells Like Dog (4 page)

“My dog?”

“What’s the matter with you, Homer? Are you asleep or something? Yes,
your
dog. The dog that came today. The weird dog that Uncle Drake gave you.”

“Oh. Right.” Homer wasn’t yet used to having a dog. He tightened his bathrobe and looked out the window. Then he smiled. Mr. Twaddle had believed that the “most treasured possession” mentioned in the letter was the dog. Clearly, the most treasured possession was the mysterious gold coin. If the coin had been sent in an envelope or a box, any run-of-the-mill thief might have found it. Hiding it in the folds of the dog’s droopy skin had been a brilliant maneuver by Uncle Drake. The dog
had been the perfect delivery boy. Homer stopped smiling. But now the delivery boy was howling.

Mrs. Pudding hurried into Homer’s bedroom, the hem of her nightgown swishing across the floor. “Oh dear, what a fuss he’s making. We’d better do something about that racket before it wakes your father.” Mr. Pudding’s nap had lasted all day and into the night. Sometimes, when sadness is overwhelming, a person needs a place to hide and sleep can be the perfect place. “Go out to the barn, Homer.”

Homer slid off the windowsill. “What should I do to make him stop howling?”

“Oh for goodness sake, Homer, stop being such a knothead!” Gwendolyn said.

“I’m not a knothead.” Homer scratched his ear. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“You’ve got a lot on your mind?” Gwendolyn flung her arms in the air. “I’ve got an oral report tomorrow. How am I supposed to get an A if I’m exhausted?”

Homer had never discussed the subject of older sisters with anyone, but he was willing to bet that Gwendolyn was one of the worst older sisters in the world. Always bossing him around and calling him names. He was also willing to bet that when he did finally find some treasure, she’d change her tune.
That giant ruby’s for me? Oh, Homer, you’re the best brother in the world!

“Go out there and give him some attention,” Mrs. Pudding said as she adjusted her sleeping bonnet. “He’s in a new place. He’s probably a bit frightened.”

Homer went downstairs and out the front door, where he slid his feet into his rubber boots. Clutching a flashlight, he started across the yard. A full moon hung high over the farm, casting creepy shadows. He didn’t like walking across the yard at night. Thanks to his sister’s hobby he knew all about the predators that stalked the farm. Gwendolyn had stuffed a fox, a raccoon, and a possum after they’d been killed by the farm dogs. Each of those critters had nasty sharp teeth. Sometimes Gwendolyn used the raccoon as a hole punch.

Homer raked the flashlight beam across the yard. Over the hill, the neighbor’s dogs began to howl, a sure sign that coyotes were out and about. Coyotes often traveled in packs. Mr. Pudding hated coyotes because they’d snatched quite a few goats over the years. Homer had the sudden urge to turn back but what would Uncle Drake have thought about that? Professional treasure hunters can’t be scared of the dark, not with all those caves, tunnels, and tombs to explore. And night was the best time for treasure hunting. “A treasure hunter must always cover his tracks and night provides the best cover of all,” his uncle had told him.

The new dog’s howl pierced the night air. Homer
thought of his dad who was trying to sleep. He forged ahead and pushed open the barn door. Max, Gus, and Lulu nearly knocked him over, wagging their black tails and frantically licking his hands. The place was in an uproar. Creatures squawked, stomped, and squealed, trying to get away from the horrid sound. Homer aimed the flashlight at the back of the barn. The new dog stood on his straw bed, his big head thrown back, his jowls flapping.

“HOWOOOOOOO!”

“Hey you,” Homer called out. “You’d better stop howling or Gwendolyn’s gonna get real mad.”

The dog stopped. The chickens settled and the barn fell silent.

That was easy. The dog must have already figured out not to get on Gwendolyn’s bad side. “Okay. Bye.” Homer turned to leave.

“HOWOOOOOOO!”

The other dogs joined the howl and the chickens got all worked up again. “Uh, you’d better stop that,” Homer warned.

The dog stopped and again, the barn quieted. Then the dog stepped off his straw bed and ambled toward Homer.

“Good boy,” Homer said, bending to pat the dog’s wrinkled forehead. “You’ll get used to this place. I know
it’s kind of smelly in here but it’s not so bad. Go on back to bed.”

But the dog didn’t go back to bed. He moseyed right past Homer and out the barn door.

“Hey, where’re you going? Hey…
you.
” What was his name, anyway? “Hey, Rover? Spot? Come here…
Killer
?”

That dog had a mind of his own. No matter how much Homer called, no matter how many times he tried to explain that Pudding dogs were supposed to sleep in the barn, that dog kept right on walking. Across the yard he went, his big white paws pressing into the dewy ground. Homer shut the farm dogs back into the barn, then ran after the new dog. “Wait. You’re supposed to sleep in the barn.”

The dog stopped in front of the Puddings’ porch and started sniffing the ground with his black nose. Then he lay down and started rolling, just the way the farm dogs rolled when they found a fresh patch of goat manure.
Great,
Homer thought.
Now he’s gonna need a bath.
“Stop doing that.”

Rolling and rubbing, the dog wiggled his rump and wagged his tail.

“Come on. Let’s go back.” Just as Homer reached out to grab the dog by his collar, the dog scrambled upright and started digging.

“Uh-oh,” Homer said, shielding his eyes as dirt flew into his face. “You can’t dig there. That’s right in front of the porch.” Homer had dug plenty of holes over the years in his search for buried treasure and his father had gotten mad plenty of times after stepping in those holes. So digging in the yard was strictly forbidden. Homer stepped back as clumps of dirt pelted his bathrobe. The dog went into a frenzy, digging so fast that Homer had to turn away.
I’m gonna get in big trouble,
he thought. “Cut that out!”

The digging stopped.

“Urrrr.”

The dog dropped something on Homer’s boot. Homer aimed his flashlight and picked the something up. He shook off a clinging earthworm. The something turned out to be a decoder ring that Uncle Drake had given to him on his eighth birthday. Too big for his eight-year-old finger, it had slipped off that very day and hadn’t been seen since. “Neat,” Homer said, delighted by the reunion. Even though he owned a professional decoder ring, purchased with saved allowance money, this one had a secret compartment for chewing gum.

Eager to see if the ring still worked, Homer quickly filled in the hole. “You’ll just keep howling if I put you in the barn, won’t you?” he asked the dog. “Maybe you can sleep on the porch, just this one time.” He led the dog
onto the porch and closed the porch gate. Then he patted the welcome mat. “You sleep here, okay?” The dog sat on the mat, looking up at Homer with those watery eyes. “I’ll come back and check on you.”

Homer rushed upstairs with the ring. He sat at his desk and wiped the ring clean with his bathrobe belt. Unfortunately, the decoder dial had rusted shut. But even though it no longer worked, he was thrilled to have it. One more thing to remind him of Uncle Drake.

Homer leaned back in his desk chair and gazed around his room. Thumbtacked maps covered every inch of the four walls and every inch of the ceiling. He’d displayed as many as could fit—the rest were rolled and kept in boxes. The newest map lay open on the desk, beckoning him to study its winding stone passageways and steep golden staircases. Inviting him to journey to a mysterious time when warriors ruled the jungles and sacrificed unlucky intruders to their gods. The warriors were long gone but someday Homer would go to that jungle and search for what they’d left behind.

But for now he was stuck in Milkydale. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. Tomorrow was a school day. He wouldn’t tell anyone at school about his gold coin. Wilbur, or one of the other boys, would probably try to steal it. Homer went to turn off his light.

“Urrrr.”

The new dog, having pushed open the front door, and having followed Homer up the stairs, stood with his paws on the end of Homer’s bed. “What are you doing here?” Homer asked. “You can’t sleep here. Dad won’t let you.” He pointed to the hallway. “You have to go back outside.”

The dog threw back its head. “HOWOO—”

“Shhhh.”

“HOWOO—”

Homer clamped his hands around the dog’s muzzle. “Okay, okay. You can sleep here. Just be quiet.” He heaved the dog onto the bed. Then he ran downstairs, shut the front door, ran back upstairs and shut his bedroom door. Dirty paw prints covered Homer’s quilt. That dog was going to get him into so much trouble.

The dog, his eyes now closed, had settled on Homer’s only pillow. “Hey, that’s mine.” Homer tried to pull the pillow away.

The dog opened one eye. “Grrrr.”

“Fine.” Homer took off his bathrobe and wadded it into a ball. Then he crawled under the covers and stuck the bathrobe pillow under his head. “Scoot over, will ya?” He tried to push the dog but it was like pushing a boulder. “How am I supposed to sleep if you’re hogging the whole bed?” The dog started snoring. A bit of drool trickled from his droopy lips. “Now I’ll have to wake
up early just so I can get you out of here before Dad sees you.” Homer pulled his bathrobe pillow away from the drool. A big paw pressed against Homer’s face so he turned away. He wasn’t sure he was going to like taking care of this dog. But the dog had found the decoder ring so one night sharing the bed seemed like a fair trade.

Soon, the snoring had the same effect on Homer as a yawn. Before he could worry too much about the situation, he fell into a deep sleep.

W
HAT IS THAT?” Mr. Pudding hollered.

Homer, who’d been sleeping at the very edge of the bed, thanks to the new dog’s tendency to kick while dreaming about rabbits, woke with a start and fell onto the floor. What was happening? Had morning come so soon? Why were his parents in his room?

Mr. Pudding cleared his throat. “I said, WHAT IS THAT?”

“It’s a dog, dear.” Mrs. Pudding helped Homer to his feet.

“I know it’s a dog. I can see right fine. What I want to know is,
whose
dog?”

“It belonged to your brother but now it belongs to Homer.”

“My brother had a dog? He never told me about a dog.” Mr. Pudding yanked his overall straps over his shoulders. “That dog’s not a border collie. We only keep border collies on this farm.”

Mrs. Pudding handed Homer some clothes, then gently pushed him into the hallway. “You’ll be late for school, sweetie. Hurry and get changed.” Homer took the clothes, then wandered into the bathroom. His brain was still fuzzy with sleep as he looked into the mirror. Shallow lines from his bathrobe pillow crisscrossed one side of his face. Why had he stayed up so late?

“That’s one ugly dog,” Mr. Pudding told his wife as they walked past the bathroom and down the stairs. “I reckon those stubby legs can’t herd worth a darn.”

“Maybe we can teach the new dog to do something else,” Mrs. Pudding suggested.

“Like what? Fetch my slippers? Squeak does that right fine. What use could there be in a dog like that?” Mr. Pudding’s voice faded down the stairs.

What use?
Homer remembered the coin.
Where was it?
He pulled a shirt over his head, crammed his legs into a pair of pants, then ran back to his room. With a relieved sigh he grabbed the mysterious coin off the windowsill. As he gazed at it, yesterday’s reality crept back. Uncle Drake was dead. And this coin, for some reason, had been his most treasured possession. He had chosen Homer, his twelve-year-old nephew, to take care of it. “And I will,” Homer whispered.

After a hearty, yet hurried breakfast of huckleberry pancakes and goat milk yogurt, Homer joined his sister on the front porch for the morning good-bye. Mrs. Pudding checked to make sure they had their book bags, their lunch baskets, and whatever else they needed at school. “Do you have your frogs?” she asked Gwendolyn.

“Yep.” Gwendolyn pulled two stuffed frogs from her pocket. “And my notecards in case I forget some of my facts.”

“You’ll do right fine,” Mrs. Pudding said while running her hand down Gwendolyn’s long hair. “We’re so proud of your interests.”

Mr. Pudding stepped onto the porch, shaking his head. “That dog’s still in Homer’s bed. What was my brother doing with a lazy dog like that? He should have gotten himself a herding dog. He should have stayed here and
worked the farm, then he’d be alive today. Do you hear, children? Goat farming’s what a Pudding should do.” He patted Homer and Gwendolyn’s heads. “Be good at school.” Then he called the farm dogs and headed toward the field.

Gwendolyn started down the driveway. Mrs. Pudding handed Homer his lunch basket. “I packed an extra cookie because I know you’re feeling sad,” she said. “To cheer you up, I’ll take you to Walker’s Department Store this weekend and get you some new clothes.” She smiled, the morning sun warming her gold-flecked eyes.

Homer forced a smile. How were new clothes supposed to cheer him up? Nothing was more embarrassing than trying on boxers and jeans in the Husky Boys’ section.