Chewy and Chica (6 page)

“And?” Lizzie held her breath.

“He turned up a truck registered to a company name. Pretty Pups, Incorporated.”

Lizzie felt her heart start to pound. “So it
is
a puppy mill.”

“Probably.” Mom nodded. “I’ll find out for sure tomorrow. Sammy’s dad and I are heading out there. We’ll pose as a couple looking for a dog,
but really I’ll be gathering facts for a story and he’ll be trying to get some pictures.”

Sammy’s dad was a photographer who sometimes took pictures for the
Littleton News
. “Mom! Really? Can I come with you?”

“No, Lizzie.” Mom spoke gently, but she looked very serious. “I don’t think you’d want to be there. From what I have read about puppy mills, it won’t be a very pretty sight.”

Lizzie nodded. She remembered some of the puppy mill pictures she had seen online. Skinny, sick-looking puppies of every size and shape, packed into dark, dirty cages with hardly enough space to turn around. In the pictures, their sad eyes stared out from the cages as if pleading, “Save me, save me!” Lizzie had already had one bad dream about Buddy being trapped in a cage like that. Seeing the real thing would probably give her a lifetime’s worth of nightmares. “I guess you’re right. But I can’t wait to read the story you write.”

“Well, who knows for sure if there even
is
a story?” Mom asked. “We’ll find out tomorrow and take it from there.”

Lizzie heard Charles and Sammy come upstairs. Again they whispered and giggled. What
were
those two up to? Then Chewy let out a “yip-yip-yip,” and Chica leapt off Lizzie’s lap and scampered down the hall to find her brother.

“Okay, Mom,” said Lizzie. “But tomorrow, before you go out to the puppy mill, will you —”

“Yes, I promise. I’ll call the senator and tell him about your demonstration.”

“Thanks, Mom,” said Lizzie. She got up and went to find Chica. But on her way to Charles’s room, Lizzie saw something that made her gasp.

A puddle.

Just a small one.

In the middle of the hall.

How could it be possible? The timer had not even gone off again yet, and Chica had just peed in the
downstairs
hall. Lizzie marched down
to Charles’s room and walked in without knocking. Sammy and Charles were on the floor, playing with the puppies. Charles looked up at her with an expression just like Chewy’s: all wide-eyed innocence. “Hi, Lizzie,” he said. “What’s up?”

Lizzie did not want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that Chica had made another mistake. So without a word, she just scooped up her naughty puppy and swept her out of the room, down the stairs, and out the door. She set Chica down by the rosebush and watched as the puppy sniffed around for a moment. Then Chica sat back and looked up at Lizzie. She tilted her head.

Now what did I do?

“Poor Chica,” Lizzie said. “You must be confused, or upset or something. Was it because
of the way I stomped around all afternoon, when I was mad about the puppies at PetLove? Was that it? Maybe you’re really sensitive. Maybe that’s it.” Lizzie felt awful. Whatever it was, she was sure it was her fault that Chica was making all these mistakes. The great dog trainer. Ha. Maybe Chica was more of a challenge than she could handle.

Lizzie sighed and headed back toward the house. “C’mon, Chica. It must be almost time for dinner.”

Upstairs, Sammy and Charles had watched the whole thing from the window. Sammy laughed, but Charles had started to feel sorry for Lizzie, not to mention Chica. The poor puppy was probably totally confused by now. “Maybe we should tell her,” he suggested.

“No way!” Sammy’s eyes were bright. “Not yet. One more time. Come on, Cheese. Don’t chicken out on me now.”

Charles hesitated. Had Lizzie learned her lesson? Would she quit being such a know-it-all? Was she ready to stop acting so sure that she would win the bet? Hmm. Maybe not quite yet. “Okay,” he said. “But just one more time.”

“Dinnertime,” Dad called from the kitchen.

Charles gathered his tiny dog into his arms. “Let’s go, Chewy.” The puppy mouthed his hand, but before Charles could even squeak, Chewy eased up and stopped biting. “Good boy.” Charles carried Chewy downstairs. In the dining room, Lizzie had just set a big platter of asparagus on the table. Chica trotted along by her feet.

Charles put Chewy down and Chica dashed over to say hello. Tails wagging, the two puppies touched noses and trembled happily, as if they hadn’t seen each other for days instead of minutes.

When Lizzie headed back into the kitchen to bring out more food, Sammy elbowed Charles. “Now!” he whispered.

Charles glanced around to make sure nobody could see what he was about to do. Then he pulled a small bottle out of his pocket and poured a puddle of water onto the floor. He was careful to get as close as he could to a corner of Mom’s beautiful old rug without actually wetting it.

Charles held his breath. His heart pounded. Any minute now, somebody would come in and see the puddle. He wished he had never started this whole business. Why had he let Sammy talk him into it?

He was just about to grab a napkin from the table and mop up the puddle when the Bean and Mom walked into the dining room. “I shut Buddy up,” the Bean announced proudly.

“Shut him up?” asked Charles. “I didn’t hear him barking again.”

“He means he shut Buddy up in his room while we have dinner,” Mom explained. “He’s seen you do that when we have to temporarily keep Buddy away from our other foster pups. What a smartie.”

She patted the Bean’s head. But the Bean wasn’t paying attention anymore. He’d spotted something.

“Puppy uh-oh!” He pointed to the puddle on the floor.

Charles looked down. He was horrified to see that the puddle had seeped into the corner of the rug, creating a large, round, dark stain.

“What’s that, sweetie?” Mom asked the Bean. Then she looked down, too. “Aaah! My rug! These puppies are out of control.”

“It wasn’t Chewy,” Sammy said quickly. “I was holding him.” Sure enough, he had the brown-and-white pup snuggled in his arms.

“Chica?” Lizzie came back into the room with a bowl of potatoes. Her face fell when she saw the puddle. “Oh, Chica, you didn’t.”

Chica sat near the puddle. She squinted up at Lizzie and trembled all over.

No, I didn’t! I really, really didn’t!

Lizzie scooped up the pup and ran her to the back door.

Dad poked his head into the dining room. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Mom just pointed to the puddle on the floor. “Oh, no,” said Dad. “That’s no good. I wondered if caring for two puppies would be too much.”

Sammy nudged Charles and smiled, but Charles didn’t smile back. He didn’t feel much like smiling anymore. Lizzie was really upset. Mom was mad. Dad was probably about to say that they couldn’t keep the puppies. And poor Chica probably thought she had done something terrible.

“It’s not what you think,” Charles burst out. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the little bottle just as Lizzie returned with Chica and a handful of paper towels. “It’s only water.”

“Charles!” said Dad. “You mean you poured water on the floor and let Lizzie believe it was Chica making a mistake?”

Charles looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry.” He held up his hands. “It was just supposed to be kind of a joke.”

“Well, it wasn’t very funny.” Mom frowned at Charles. “Honestly, Charles. I thought that puppy had ruined my rug.”

“That’s not like you, Charles.” Dad shook his head.

Charles felt his face grow hot. Dad was right. It
wasn’t
like him. “It was kind of funny the first time,” he said, trying to explain. “Then — I don’t know. We just kept doing it.”

Lizzie glared at Charles. “I don’t believe it. You mean every one of those puddles tonight was just
water
?” She shoved the paper towels at him. “You are really something else. And guess what? You can forget about your stupid petition idea. You are hereby
un
invited to our demonstration.”

“But —” Charles saw the way Mom and Dad were looking at him, and he decided it might be
better not to say another word. He could try blaming Sammy — but he knew it wasn’t really his friend’s fault. After all, he had agreed to the idea. So he just said, “I’m sorry,” again as he squatted down to clean up the water. He wished he could scuttle under the table and thump his tail while he peeked out pleadingly, the way Buddy did when he knew he’d done something wrong. Lizzie always forgave Buddy. Maybe she would forgive him, too.

Sammy cleared his throat. “Um, you know what? I think I’ll go home for dinner after all.” He handed Chewy to Charles and slipped away, leaving Charles to sit through a very quiet family dinner.

For the rest of the evening, Charles thought about how he could make it up to Lizzie. He tossed his shredded baseball from hand to hand, but no ideas popped into his brain. Maybe the magic was gone now that the baseball was ruined. He flopped around in bed all night as he tried
to come up with an idea. Finally, when the first light of morning brightened his windows and he heard a robin singing outside, Charles jumped out of bed. After he took Chewy out, he went to his closet and rummaged around until he found an old pad of newsprint he used to draw on. He brought it to his desk. Then, at the top, he lettered very carefully
WE, THE UNDERSIGNED . . .

He had to wait until nine in the morning to call Sammy — that was the rule — but at 9:01 he dialed. “Sammy,” he said when his friend answered. “I need your help. And you know you owe me one.”

Mom had left the house early, heading out with Sammy’s dad to investigate the puppy mill. She hoped to finish her article and turn it in that day so it could come out on the morning of the demonstration. But Charles’s dad was happy to drive Charles and Sammy downtown. They brought along Chewy and Sammy’s dogs, Rufus and
Goldie, and set up a table in front of Lucky Dog Books, the bookstore owned by their friend Jerry Small. Charles set out his petition and the brochure Lizzie had printed out. Then Jerry helped him and Sammy hang up the huge sign Charles had made that morning using every color of marker he owned. It said

Charles had cut out pictures of puppies and dogs from a magazine and pasted them all over the sign, and he’d drawn a border of paw prints. It looked pretty good.

“That’ll definitely attract some attention,” Jerry said. He stroked his chin. “But I wonder if you should add a few words about
where
the demonstration will be.”

Oops. Charles grabbed a thick black marker he’d brought (just in case) and wrote
AT PETLOVE STORE
in big block letters, squeezed in around the rest.

“What’s this all about?” A woman approached the table. Maybe she would be the first to sign the petition. She read out loud: “‘We, the undersigned, believe that puppy mills should be illegal in our state. There are enough unwanted puppies in the world without the puppy mills making more of them. Send a message to our lawmakers! Ban the puppy mills! Also, tell PetLove not to sell puppies from puppy mills.’” She turned away from the petition and picked up a brochure, saying, “Hmm,” and “Oh, dear,” as she read. “That’s just awful,” she said finally. She put down the brochure and looked one more time at the empty petition. Then she walked away.

“Hey,” said Charles. But she didn’t turn around.

Jerry Small went over to the petition.
“Sometimes it helps if there’s already another signature on there.” He signed his name with a flourish.

Charles and Sammy signed beneath Jerry’s name. Now the petition looked much, much better. Charles just knew that the next person who looked at it would sign it.

Back at home, Lizzie and Maria were in the kitchen, surrounded by bowls and spoons and bags of ingredients. Every inch of the kitchen — the counters, the handle of the fridge, the sink, and both girls — was covered with a fine dusting of flour. “This was a great idea.” Lizzie wiped some flour off her nose. “Why buy dog biscuits from PetLove when we can make our own to give away at the demonstration?” She began to measure out a tablespoon of brewer’s yeast when her timer went off with a ding. “Oops. Time to go out, Chica.” She picked up the pup and whisked her outside.

Chica trotted right over to the rosebush and did her business.

I get it! I definitely get it! This is what you want me to do when we come out here!

“I am still so mad at Charles,” Lizzie said to Maria after she’d praised Chica and brought her inside. “How could he pull such a dirty trick? I can’t wait to get back at him.”

“Come on, Lizzie. You know Sammy probably talked him into it,” Maria said. “Sammy’s not a bad kid, but you know he loves to play tricks. I don’t think he and Charles meant to be mean.”

“Still,” said Lizzie. She opened the fridge and gazed inside, then pulled out a bottle of ketchup. “I know! When I’m holding Chewy later on, I can pour some of this on my hand and pretend he bit me. It’ll look just like blood.”

Maria shook her head. “That’s not too nice,” she said. “I think you should just forgive and
forget and move on. Training the puppies and finding them good homes is the most important thing, isn’t it?”

“But Mr. Beauregard said it’s good to take action when you’re mad,” Lizzie said, remembering. “That’s how our whole idea for the demonstration started.” She passed a bone-shaped cookie cutter to Maria, who had just rolled out their first batch of dough.

“Well, maybe when it’s a big store you’re mad at, or a puppy mill, that’s true,” said Maria. “But when it’s your little brother? Who didn’t really do anything
that
terrible?” She raised her eyebrows at Lizzie.

Lizzie knew that Maria always wished she had a brother. As an only child, she saw just the
good
side of having siblings. Sometimes she didn’t understand what pests they could be. But Lizzie also knew that Maria was probably right. What good would it do to take revenge on Charles? He obviously felt bad about what he’d done. “You
know how Sammy’s a bad influence on Charles?” she asked her friend. “Well, I guess you’re a
good
influence on me.” She put the ketchup bottle back into the fridge.