Ghost Dog Secrets (2 page)

“Ewww,” said Jordan. “Gross!”

“What else could you do to solve the problem, besides cleaning up the park yourself ?” Mrs. Webster asked.

Ideas flew. “Call the parks department and complain.” “Write a letter to the editor of the local paper.” “Ask a service organization, maybe the Boy Scouts, to have a cleanup day.” “Go do it ourselves but wear disposable gloves and take those gripper things that let you pick stuff up without touching it.”

“All excellent suggestions,” said Mrs. Webster. “Remember that
you
are the someone in the phrase ‘Someone ought to do something about that.' Each of you. Me too. We are all the someone who needs to take action.” She walked to the board where today's homework assignment was written. When she erased it, a few kids cheered; the rest of us waited to see what would happen next.

“I've changed your homework assignment,” she said. “Instead of math, I want each of you to think of a problem that you personally can help to solve.”

I made up my mind right then that I was going to help that dog. As soon as I got home from school, I'd ride my bike back to where I'd seen him. I didn't know what I planned to do when I got there. If the dog was gone, I wouldn't have to do anything except think of a different problem for my homework. But if he was still tied to the tree, I knew I was the someone who had to help him. I just hadn't figured out yet how I would do it.

The dismissal bell finally rang, and I bolted out the door. The school bus took a less direct route from school to my house than the one Mom had driven that morning, so it didn't pass the yard where I'd seen the dog. I couldn't quit thinking about him, though. After I ate some toast with peanut butter and drank a glass of apple juice, I rode my bike to where the dog had been. He was still there, chained to the same tree, asleep on the cold muddy ground.

He looked up when I stopped my bike.

“Hi, dog,” I said. “I'm your friend, Rusty.”

He stood, looking wary. He was a German shepherd, with a long, bushy tail. He was full grown but he looked young. A year old, maybe. Or two? Since I had never had a pet myself, my knowledge of dogs was limited to the dogs my friends had and to what I'd read or seen on TV.

A row of ribs pushed against his fur on each side. I looked around the yard and saw no bowls for food or water. I should have brought food for him. An owner mean enough to leave the dog chained to a tree all day in the rain probably didn't feed him properly.

As I looked at him, something brushed against my leg. I glanced down but saw nothing. I looked behind me. Nothing there, either.

“I'll be back,” I told him, and I pedaled away. There was a convenience store two blocks down the street. I bought a hot dog and took it back to the dog.

I got off my bike and walked slowly toward the dog. He backed away as I approached him. He didn't growl or act threatening, but he clearly did not want me to come closer. When I was near enough to be within reach of his chain, I broke the hot dog into quarters. Using the wrapping paper as a plate, I laid the pieces of hot dog and bun on the ground where he could reach them. Then I returned to my bicycle.

The dog kept a watchful eye on me as he gobbled the food. When he had finished, which took about one second, I went toward him, and again he backed away.

“Good dog,” I said. “You're a fine dog.” He didn't wag his tail or respond in any way. I knew I needed to earn his trust before I tried to pet him.

“I'll come to see you again tomorrow,” I told him. “I'll bring more food.” Then I picked up the hot-dog wrapper and rode back home.

CHAPTER TWO

T
he next day, Mrs. Webster asked, “Did you think of a problem that you personally might be able to help solve?”

Several hands shot up.

“I'm going to ask my youth group at church to collect canned goods for the food bank,” said Kylie.

Tyler said, “My neighbor is old and uses a cane. I'm going to rake the leaves in her yard.”

Lexi said, “My mom said I can go with her when she volunteers at the library. I'm going to help shelve the returned books.”

Mrs. Webster beamed at all of us. “Gerald? ” she said. “Did you think of a problem you could help solve?”

Gerald said, “I was thinking I could murder my stupid sister.”

Mrs. Webster's smile disappeared. “That might solve one problem,” she said, “but what bigger problems would it create ?”

Gerald shrugged.

Marci said, “I saw a news report last night about a puppy mill that got raided. It was horrible! The sheriff 's deputies took more than a hundred dogs out of one house, and they were all filthy and covered with fleas and some were sick. I'd like to help them, but I don't know how.”

“What's a puppy mill?” asked Tyler.

Mrs. Webster said, “A puppy mill is a business run by unscrupulous people whose dogs are bred to have litter after litter, as fast as they can, and who then sell the puppies, usually to pet stores. The dog parents are treated as machinery in a factory, not as living beings. Many spend their whole lives in cages.”

“I saw that report, too,” said Lexi. “Three of the dogs had a stump in place of one of their legs.”

“Often the dogs are inbred,” Mrs. Webster said, “which causes birth defects.”

“Many of them were sick,” Marci said, “but they had received no veterinary care.”

“Puppy mills are a disgrace,” Mrs. Webster said, “and I hope the people who ran this one get prosecuted for animal cruelty.”

I had never seen Mrs. Webster so angry. Usually she was calm and tried to make sure we thought about all sides of an issue, but this time it was clear that the puppy mill infuriated her.

Everyone began talking at once. The class was outraged about the puppy mill and quickly agreed that we wanted to help these dogs. “We can make it a class project,” Marci said. “We can raise money for them or help to find them good homes.”

“I'll take one,” said Gerald. “I could train it to keep my sister out of my room.”

I hoped whoever was responsible for the puppies would be careful about who got to adopt them.

“They may not be available for adoption right away,” Mrs. Webster said. “Sometimes in cases like this, the animals are considered evidence in the cruelty case, and they can't be adopted until the trial is held.”

This statement brought more outrage from the students.

The room buzzed with suggestions. We had many ideas about how we could help but we all agreed on one thing: we wanted to do
something
to help those puppy mill dogs.

“I'll contact the shelter where they were taken,” Mrs. Webster said, “and find out what they need.”

 

When we came back after lunch she said, “I've spoken to the Humane Society, where the puppies are being housed. They need blankets, dog food, laundry detergent, towels, and money. Five of the dogs are in need of urgent veterinary care, including two that need surgery. One dog's teeth are so rotten that he cannot keep his tongue in his mouth. He needs dental care immediately. The people who run the shelter are determined to help these dogs, but they are mostly volunteers and they don't yet have funds to pay for all of it.”

“Let's have a bake sale,” said Hayley.

“And a car wash,” said Andrew.

“If we do a car wash, maybe we could do a dog wash, too,” Emily said.

“We could collect old towels and blankets,” I said.

Mrs. Webster wrote all of the ideas on the board. When the list had grown to fifteen, she had each of us write down the three that we would most like to do. While we were at recess, she tallied the results.

“Collecting dog food, towels, and blankets was your first choice,” she said. “Second choice is a bake sale, and third is to do something creative, such as make bookmarks about animals, and sell them.”

She divided us into three groups. Each was supposed to make the plans for how to carry out our assigned idea. I was in the group that would collect blankets, towels, and dog food. Andrew was in that group, too.

For most class projects, Mrs. Webster split up friends, putting pals in different groups, but this time she let us be together. I think she wanted as much enthusiasm and cooperation as possible for this project because she wanted us to succeed in helping the dogs. She volunteers for an animal rescue group and sometimes showed us photos of her own rescued dogs, Shakespeare and Hemingway.

I lingered after class until everyone else had left. Then I asked Mrs. Webster, “How did the sheriff know about the puppy mill?”

“A concerned citizen made a complaint,” she said.

“So if you know about a dog that's not being cared for, you should call the sheriff?”

“It's difficult to prove a case of animal cruelty,” Mrs. Webster said. “It helps if you have documentation such as photos or video, or witnesses who will testify, but certainly you should always try to help the animal. If you personally know of a dog that's being mistreated, you should tell your mom or some other trusted adult. They can help you decide if you need to call the authorities.”

“Okay,” I said, but I was not ready to tell Mom or anyone else about the dog.

“Is it the dog in your poem?” Mrs. Webster asked.

I nodded.

“It's a wonderful poem, Rusty,” she said. She didn't ask anything else about the dog who had inspired it, but as I walked toward the door she added, “You are always welcome to talk to me about a problem.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I kept going.

When I got home, I took two of Mom's old aluminum pie tins and a bottle of water. I cut up some leftover pot roast and cooked carrots and put the food in a plastic bag. As I worked I thought about the puppy mill puppies and about the chained dog, innocent animals who were suffering because of uncaring humans.

When we worked on our writing in language arts, Mrs. Webster always said it's better to be specific than general. That advice seemed to apply to my current situation, not just to my writing. The puppy mill dogs were a general problem; the dog that was chained to the tree was specific. All the dogs led unhappy, uncomfortable lives. They all needed help. I'd work with my group to collect supplies for the dogs at the shelter, but probably lots of other people would come forward to help those dogs, since their sad plight had been broadcast on TV.

Nobody else was helping the dog that was chained out in the rain. Only me. I would help that one specific dog.

I got my camera and put it in my backpack with the food, water, and pie tins. Mrs. Webster had said photos would prove that the animal was being mistreated, so I planned to take a picture every day, showing the dog chained up with no food, no water, and no place to get out of the rain.

My camera has a feature that will put the date at the bottom of the photo. One picture might not prove anything, but if I had proof that this happened day after day, it ought to carry some weight. When I got to the dog's yard, I found him in the same place he'd been the day before. Had he been there all night? Probably. People who would leave a dog chained up with no food and no shelter would not be likely to take the dog inside at night. I wondered if he'd had anything to eat since the hot dog I had given him.

I got the camera out of my backpack and held it up, staying back far enough to clearly show the barren surroundings and the chain. I didn't want a close-up shot because I wanted it to be clear that he had no shelter.

If I had a dog, I'd let him sleep on my bed with me, and I'd brush him and play with him every day. I can't have a dog, or any pet, because Mom says we can't afford it and nobody's home all day to take care of it.

Things might have been different if my dad were still here. I know he liked dogs because I've seen old pictures of him when he was a teenager, hugging his mutt, Banjo. Dad was killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq when I was eight years old. I keep a picture of him in his army uniform next to my bed. I miss him a lot.

I know Mom misses him, too. Losing him has made her cautious about everything we do, especially if it costs money or involves taking on any extra responsibility. I'm not a bad boy, but I guess I'm all she can handle.

As I pushed the button on the camera, I felt a gentle nudge on the back of my leg. It felt exactly as if a dog had poked me softly with his snout, but when I looked there was no dog. No animal of any kind. A faint shiver ran along the back of my neck. It hadn't bothered me yesterday when I felt something brush my leg. I assumed it had been an odd gust of wind or a twitchy muscle. But this time, it was definitely not the wind. Something—someone?—had poked me. I felt cold, as if the temperature had suddenly dropped about twenty degrees.