Every Living Thing

Aladdin Paperbacks

An imprint of Simon & Schuster

Children's Publishing Division

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright © 1985 by Cynthia Rylant

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

First Aladdin Paperbacks edition, 1988

Also available in a hardcover edition from

Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

Printed and bound in the United States of America

40 39

Rylant, Cynthia.

Every living thing/stories by Cynthia Rylant; decorations by S.D. Schindler.—1st Aladdin books ed. p. cm.

Summary: Twelve stories in which animals change people's lives for the better.

ISBN-13: 978-0-689-71263-0 (ISBN-10: 0-689-71263-4) (Aladdin pbk.)

1. Children's stories, American. [1. Animals—Fiction.
2. Animals—Fiction. 3. Pets—Therapeutic use—Fiction. 4. Short
stories.] I. Schindler, S.D., ill. II. Title.

[PZ7.R982Er 1988]

[Fic]—dcl9       88-19359       CIP AC
0810 OFF

For Gerry
and
all the living
things we have
loved

Slower Than the Rest

Retired

Boar Out There

Papa's Parrot

A Pet

Spaghetti

Drying Out

Stray

Planting Things

A Bad Road for Cats

Safe

Shells

And of every living thing of
all flesh, two of every sort shalt
thou bring into the ark, to
keep them alive with thee …

GENESIS 6:19
The Holy Bible

Leo was the first one to spot the turtle, so he was the one who got to keep it. They had all been in the car, driving up Tyler Mountain to church, when Leo shouted, “There's a turtle!” and everyone's head jerked with the stop.

Leo's father grumbled something about turtle soup, but Leo's mother was sympathetic toward turtles, so Leo was allowed to pick it up off the highway and bring it home. Both his little sisters squealed when the animal stuck its ugly head out to look at them, and they
thought its claws horrifying, but Leo loved it from the start. He named it Charlie.

The dogs at Leo's house had always belonged more to Leo's father than to anyone else, and the cat thought she belonged to no one but herself, so Leo was grateful for a pet of his own. He settled Charlie in a cardboard box, threw in some lettuce and radishes, and declared himself a happy boy.

Leo adored Charlie, and the turtle was hugged and kissed as if he were a baby. Leo liked to fit Charlie's shell on his shoulder under his left ear, just as one might carry a cat, and Charlie would poke his head into Leo's neck now and then to keep them both entertained.

Leo was ten years old the year he found Charlie. He hadn't many friends because he was slower than the rest. That was the way his father said it: “Slower than the rest.” Leo was slow in reading, slow in numbers, slow in understanding nearly everything that passed before him in a classroom. As a result, in fourth grade Leo had been separated from the rest of his classmates and placed in a room with other children who were as slow as he. Leo thought he would never get over it. He saw no way to be happy after that.

But Charlie took care of Leo's happiness, and he did it by being congenial. Charlie was the friendliest turtle anyone had ever seen. The turtle's head was always stretched out, moving left to right, trying to see what was in the world. His front and back legs moved as though he were swimming frantically in a deep sea to save himself, when all that was happening was that someone was holding him in midair. Put Charlie down and he would sniff at the air a moment, then take off as if no one had ever told him how slow he was supposed to be.

Every day, Leo came home from school, took Charlie to the backyard to let him explore and told him about the things that had happened in fifth grade. Leo wasn't sure how old Charlie was, and, though he guessed Charlie was probably a young turtle, the lines around Charlie's forehead and eyes and the clamp of his mouth made Leo think Charlie was wise the way old people are wise. So Leo talked to him privately every day.

Then one day Leo decided to take Charlie to school.

It was Prevent Forest Fires week and the whole school was making posters, watching
nature films, imitating Smokey the Bear. Each member of Leo's class was assigned to give a report on Friday dealing with forests. So Leo brought Charlie.

Leo was quiet about it on the bus to school. He held the covered box tightly on his lap, secretly relieved that turtles are quiet except for an occasional hiss. Charlie rarely hissed in the morning; he was a turtle who liked to sleep in.

Leo carried the box to his classroom and placed it on the wide windowsill near the radiator and beside the geraniums. His teacher called attendance and the day began.

In the middle of the morning, the forest reports began. One girl held up a poster board pasted with pictures of raccoons and squirrels, rabbits and deer, and she explained that animals died in forest fires. The pictures were too small for anyone to see from his desk. Leo was bored.

One boy stood up and mumbled something about burnt-up trees. Then another got up and said if there were no forests, then his dad couldn't go hunting, and Leo couldn't see the connection in that at all.

Finally it was his turn. He quietly walked over to the windowsill and picked up the box. He set it on the teacher's desk.

“When somebody throws a match into a forest,” Leo began, “he is a murderer. He kills trees and birds and animals. Some animals, like deer, are fast runners and they might escape. But other animals”—he lifted the cover off the box—”have no hope. They are too slow. They will die.” He lifted Charlie out of the box. “It isn't fair,” he said, as the class gasped and giggled at what they saw. “It isn't fair for the slow ones.”

Leo said much more. Mostly he talked about Charlie, explained what turtles were like, the things they enjoyed, what talents they possessed. He talked about Charlie the turtle and Charlie the friend, and what he said and how he said it made everyone in the class love turtles and hate forest fires. Leo's teacher had tears in her eyes.

That afternoon, the whole school assembled in the gymnasium to bring the special week to a close. A ranger in uniform made a speech, then someone dressed up like Smokey the Bear danced with two others dressed up like squirrels.
Leo sat with his box and wondered if he should laugh at the dancers with everyone else. He didn't feel like it.

Finally, the school principal stood up and began a long talk. Leo's thoughts drifted off. He thought about being home, lying in his bed and drawing pictures, while Charlie hobbled all about the room.

He did not hear when someone whispered his name. Then he jumped when he heard, “Leo! It's you!” in his ear. The boy next to him was pushing him, making him get up.

“What?” Leo asked, looking around in confusion.

“You won!” they were all saying. “Go on!”

Leo was pushed onto the floor. He saw the principal smiling at him, beckoning to him across the room. Leo's legs moved like Charlie's—quickly and forward.

Leo carried the box tightly against his chest. He shook the principal's hand. He put down the box to accept the award plaque being handed to him. It was for his presentation with Charlie. Leo had won an award for the first time in his life, and as he shook the principal's hand and blushed and said his thank-you's,
he thought his heart would explode with happiness.

That night, alone in his room, holding Charlie on his shoulder, Leo felt proud. And for the first time in a long time, Leo felt fast.

Her name was Miss Phala Cutcheon and she used to be a schoolteacher. Miss Cutcheon had gotten old and had retired from teaching fourth grade, so now she simply sat on her porch and considered things. She considered moving to Florida. She considered joining a club for old people and learning to play cards. She considered dying.

Finally, she just got a dog.

The dog was old. And she, too, was retired. A retired collie. She had belonged to a family
who lived around the corner from Miss Cutcheon. The dog had helped raise three children, and she had been loved. But the family was moving to France and could not take their beloved pet. They gave her to Miss Cutcheon.

When she lived with the family, the dog's name had been Princess. Miss Cutcheon, however, thought the name much too delicate for a dog as old and bony as Miss Cutcheon herself, and she changed it to Velma. It took Princess several days to figure out what Miss Cutcheon meant when she called out for someone named Velma.

In time, though, Velma got used to her new name. She got used to Miss Cutcheon's slow pace—so unlike the romping of three children —and she got used to Miss Cutcheon's dry dog food. She learned not to mind the smell of burning asthmador, which helped Miss Cutcheon breathe better, and not to mind the sound of the old lady's wheezing and snoring in the middle of the night. Velma missed her children, but she was all right.

Miss Cutcheon was a very early riser (a habit that could not be broken after forty-three years of meeting children at the schoolhouse door), and she enjoyed big breakfasts. Each day Miss
Cutcheon would creak out of her bed like a mummy rising from its tomb, then shuffle into the kitchen, straight for the coffee pot. Velma, who slept on the floor at the end of Miss Cutcheon's bed, would soon creak off the floor herself and head into the kitchen. Velma's family had eaten cold cereal breakfasts all those years, and only when she came to live with Miss Cutcheon did Velma realize what perking coffee, sizzling bacon and hot biscuits smell like. She still got only dry dog food, but the aromas around her nose made the chunks taste ten times better.

Miss Cutcheon sat at her dinette table, eating her bacon and eggs and biscuits, sipping her coffee, while Velma lay under the table at her feet. Miss Cutcheon spent most of breakfast time thinking about all the children she had taught. Velma thought about hers.