Smells Like Dog (5 page)

“And don’t you worry,” Mrs. Pudding said. “Squeak and I will take good care of your dog. Now hurry and catch up with your sister.”

“Bye, Homer,” Squeak said. Still in his pajamas, he held his mother’s hand, longing for the day when he would also walk to school.

The goats, lazily chewing tender blades of spring grass, watched from the field as Homer and Gwendolyn started down Grinning Goat Road. “I don’t care how many times he says it, I ain’t never gonna be a goat farmer. Not in a million years.” The morning breeze
blew her bangs, exposing a forehead creased by years of serious thought. “I’m way too smart to be stepping in goat poop all day. And as soon as I get a job at the Museum of Natural History, I ain’t never eating goat yogurt again. Even if they serve it in the museum’s cafeteria, I ain’t eating it. I ain’t even gonna look at another goat, unless it’s dead and stuffed.”

Homer wasn’t listening because he was reading the coin book.

Homer always walked to school with a map or book in front of his face. It takes great skill to walk while reading. If you think it’s easy, go ahead and give it a try. You’ll probably fall into a hole, or step on a rake, or tumble off a cliff or something. But Homer could go anywhere while reading. He could cross any terrain without injury—as if his shoes had grown eyeballs.

Because Homer was scanning the pages, searching for a coin with a treasure chest on one side, and the letters
L.O.S.T.
on the other side, he didn’t notice that bluebells had sprouted along the road, or that the lilac hedges were in bloom. Or that a lone cloud hovered directly overhead.

“That’s a weird-looking cloud,” Gwendolyn said.

Homer didn’t care about clouds. He had sixty-four more pages to read. His uncle had made sure the mysterious coin was safely delivered so it was Homer’s obligation… no… it was his
honor
to figure out why.

“Stop mumbling to yourself, Homer. Here comes Carlotta and you’re gonna embarrass me.”

Homer peered over the top of his book as Carlotta Crescent ran down her driveway. She was the same age as Gwendolyn and the girls always walked to school together. Two border collies followed at Carlotta’s heels. “Hi, Gwendolyn. Hi, Homer,” she called.

“Hi, Carlotta,” Gwendolyn said.

Carlotta gave her dogs a pat, then sent them back up the driveway. Her yellow plaid skirt reminded Homer of a picnic tablecloth. When she smiled at him, his legs turned to stone. She was the prettiest girl in school and he never knew what to say to her. She swung her lunch basket and started walking alongside Gwendolyn.

“Homer,” Gwendolyn called. “Stop standing there. You’ll be late again.”

Homer hurried to catch up, his book bag thumping against his hip.

“We had puppies last night,” Carlotta said.

Neither Homer nor Gwendolyn bothered to ask what kind of puppies. Carlotta Crescent lived on the Crescent Farm and her family kept border collies, just like every other family in Milkydale. “My border collies are the best herders around,” Mr. Crescent always said. He had even posted a sign at the end of his driveway.

CRESCENT GOAT FARM

Home of the Champion Crescent Border Collies,

Winners of Five County Fair Blue Ribbons
.

“That’s
his
opinion,” Mr. Pudding had said while nailing a sign at the end of the Pudding driveway.

PUDDING GOAT FARM

Home of the Champion Pudding Border Collies
,

Winners of Four County Fair Blue Ribbons
.

“Homer got a new dog,” Gwendolyn said. “It’s real ugly.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Carlotta stopped walking and turned to ask Homer a question, but he hurried past. He didn’t mean to be rude but talking to Carlotta was kind of like getting the flu—both made his stomach hurt.

With the coin book perched in front of his nose, Homer turned onto Peashoot Lane, a narrow dirt road lined with slender white birch trees. He crossed the bridge over Milky Creek and passed the mercantile and the feed store. Through the town he walked, past the Milkydale Savings and Loan, past the Milkydale Coffeehouse, until his feet led him up the steps of the schoolhouse and into the coatroom, where he closed the
book with a disappointed sigh. No success, yet, but he wouldn’t give up. Then he placed it on a shelf because that was the rule.

Gwendolyn stomped into the coatroom, pulled yesterday’s squirrel out of her bag, and set it on the same shelf. Carlotta took off her yellow cardigan and hung it on a hook. Homer made sure his Galileo Compass was tucked beneath his shirt, then he followed his sister into the classroom.

“Find any treasure yet?” Wilbur asked as Homer walked to his desk. He asked that question most every day, in a real nasty tone.

Homer used to answer that question. When he was little, he used to tell the other kids all about how he was going to help his uncle Drake find the lost treasure of Rumpold Smeller the pirate, but that always made them
laugh, and not in a nice way. They’d also laugh when they caught him digging holes or searching the fields with his metal detector. “You ain’t never gonna find nothing,” they’d say.

And that’s what Wilbur said that very morning. “You ain’t never gonna find nothing.”

Homer bit his lip. He hadn’t found any treasure because, like most kids, he wasn’t allowed to take off and explore places like Egypt, or the Bermuda Triangle, or Dead Man’s Island, which is what a professional treasure hunter does. He wasn’t even allowed to go into The City on his own.

“Better use your compass or you might not find your desk,” Earl said, poking Homer in the leg with a pencil.

Homer hurried past the snickering kids and settled into his seat. Then he picked up his English composition book and stuck it in front of his face.

A bell rang and the class settled. “Homer and Gwendolyn, I was very sorry to hear about your uncle,” Mrs. Peepgrass said. Mrs. Peepgrass taught all the grades in Milkydale, since there were only twenty-one students. “Would you like to postpone your oral report, Gwendolyn, on account of the tragic circumstances?”

“I’m ready.” Gwendolyn strode to the front of the classroom and pulled the stuffed frogs from her pocket.

Mrs. Peepgrass rapped her fingers on her desk. “Now, Gwendolyn, you know the rule.”

“But these are for my report.”

“I have told you many, many times that I cannot abide having dead animals in my classroom. It’s unsanitary. You’ll get germs everywhere.”

Gwendolyn squeezed her forehead into one big crease. “I washed these frogs real good before I stuffed them. I bet there’s more germs in your nose than what’s on these frogs.”

Mrs. Peepgrass covered her nose. “Gwendolyn Maybel Pudding, do I have to telephone your mother?”

“Go ahead and call my mother. She thinks that my interests are interesting.”

Mrs. Peepgrass rushed at Gwendolyn and tried to grab the frogs but Gwendolyn darted down the aisle. The kids laughed. Homer rested his chin in his hand. It was going to be a long morning. Gwendolyn wasn’t the kind of person to give up an argument. He rubbed the sore spot in his leg where Earl had jabbed the pencil. Wouldn’t Earl feel stupid when an entire museum was named the Homer Winslow Pudding Museum of Treasure? He set the English composition book upright on his desk, then stuck his hand into his jean pocket and clutched the gold coin.

That’s when a shadow passed over Homer’s desk.

The sun, which had been shining through the row of windows, suddenly disappeared. Homer peered over his English composition book. Outside the center window, a small cloud hung much lower than a cloud is supposed to hang. Homer stared at it.

And something in the middle of the cloud stared back at Homer.

A
cloud with eyeballs is perfectly acceptable in a fairy tale. And if the reader finds the cloud confusing, he or she can reread the chapter as many times as he or she wants until it makes sense. There might even be a glossary in the back of the book with a definition:

Cloud with Eyeballs—A distant cousin to Tree with Ears
.

But in the real world, clouds with eyeballs are not supposed to exist. Even Homer, who believed in all sorts of things that weren’t supposed to exist, like the Lost City of Atlantis and King Arthur’s Camelot, felt dumbfounded. But a treasure hunter knows to listen to his gut, and Homer’s gut insisted that this was not a mirage. So he crept to the window to get a better look.

Mrs. Peepgrass stopped chasing Gwendolyn. “Homer Pudding, what are you doing now? Why are you staring out the window?”

“Um, there’s a weird cloud.”

Mrs. Peepgrass pressed her hand to her bosom as she tried to catch her breath. “I swear, you Pudding children are going to be the death of me. Homer, this is not the time to talk about clouds. Gwendolyn, put those dead frogs away and get on with your presentation.”

“Fine!” Gwendolyn set the frogs on the coatroom shelf, then, with her arms folded tightly across her chest, she took her place at the front of the classroom. Homer, however, stayed at the window.

The cloud moved closer. The pair of eyes blinked. They were normal-size eyes, the kind you’d find on most people’s faces. When Homer tilted his head, the cloud tilted. When he tilted his head the other way, the cloud tilted the other way. It was the creepiest thing he’d ever seen.

“Homer!” Mrs. Peepgrass screeched.

Gwendolyn stomped her foot. “Homer!”

Homer wasn’t trying to be rude. He didn’t know that his sister had spent ten hours in front of the mirror practicing her presentation. He didn’t know that she’d changed her clothes four times that morning or that she’d brushed her hair with one hundred strokes to make it extra smooth. What he did know was that a cloud with eyeballs was staring at him and that is why he said, loud enough for the entire class to hear, “That cloud has eyeballs and it’s staring at me.”

As soon as those words left his mouth he regretted saying them, of course. But words, once they float out of someone’s mouth, are forever. If you could figure out a way to retrieve words, you’d become a very rich person indeed.

All the students jumped from their chairs and ran to the window. “What cloud?” Carlotta asked, pressing so close that Homer could smell her bubblegum lip gloss.

“I don’t see a cloud,” Beatrice said.

“That’s because there is no cloud,” Melvin said. “Homer’s a liar.”

Indeed, the cloud had gone. Homer leaned on the windowsill, craning his neck to look up at the sky. How could it have disappeared so quickly? Had it evaporated? Could eyeballs evaporate?

Earl punched Homer’s arm. “Maybe the cloud’s lost. Maybe you should let it borrow your compass.”

Mrs. Peepgrass clapped her hands three times. “Back to your desks everyone. Homer, where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going outside to look…”

“This is not the time for games. Back to your desk, young man.”

“Homer!” Gwendolyn curled both her hands into fists. Her face got all blotchy. “Stop being so weird. You’re ruining my presentation.”

Homer shuffled back to his desk. He didn’t want to ruin his sister’s presentation, but he couldn’t shake off the image of those unnatural eyes. Maybe he’d eaten one too many huckleberry pancakes for breakfast. His body was so busy digesting the big lump of dough that his brain had gone all fuzzy.

He slid low in his seat and pulled his English composition book closer to his face. While Gwendolyn explained what the inside of a frog looked like, Homer hid from the stares and snickers of the other students. Great, another reason for the kids to make fun of him. He tried to distract himself by reading a paragraph about incomplete sentences. Totally boring. That, by the way, was an incomplete sentence.

At the end of the school day, Homer waited for the
schoolhouse to clear, then he collected his coin book from the shelf and stepped onto the porch. Soft light filtered through the school yard’s grand oak tree. Gwendolyn and Carlotta had already passed the feed store and none of the other kids had stuck around to tease him. A group headed into the mercantile to buy nickel candy. Homer searched the sky, happy to see only normal clouds. He hoped that Gwendolyn wouldn’t say anything to their parents, because Mrs. Pudding would probably get all worried and make him go to the doctor for an eye exam.