Junkyard Dog (2 page)

“Have any robbers with your kibble, you sorry excuse for an animal?” the kid asks.

His friends nudge each other and laugh some more.

From where I am, I can't see Smokey, but I hear him growl. It's a strange growl. Lower and more hoarse than you'd expect from a dog his size.

“Back off, will ya?” Pete finally says to the boy.

You go, Pete, I think, when something at the other end of the store—near the long row of freezers—comes crashing to the floor. The store window rattles.

I jump. Loud noises spook me. They remind me of what happens when Dad loses it.

Everyone turns to look—Pete, the private-school boys, me. Maybe it's a trick—a way to distract Pete and empty the cash when he isn't looking. Just because these kids are rich doesn't mean they're angels. I've seen them stuff bags of chips into their backpacks when Pete's back is turned.

“What the hell is going on back there?” Pete shouts.

There's no one by the freezers. On hot days, kids hang out there to cool off, but Popsicle weather's been over in Montreal for a couple of weeks now. I hear something rolling on the floor. It's a can of wax beans. My shoulders relax.

“Something must've fallen over,” I call out.

A crate of bean cans has tumbled over. Some of the cans have come loose. I pick up the one in front of me.

“Dog!” I hear Pete say. “It's okay. Stay.”

The noise must have upset Smokey too. After all, he's a guard dog.

One of the private-school boys grabs hold of his buddy's arm. “Let's get outta here,” he says. “See the fangs on that monster? And the way his ears are sticking up?”

I don't like him calling Smokey a monster. If Smokey's baring his fangs, it's because he's on the alert.

I head for the cash. I feel like Smokey needs me. Like I understand him in a way no one else here does.

Another crate crashes to the floor. This one makes even more noise. But I'm less jumpy, because now at least I know where the sound is coming from. I hear shuffling behind the counter.

“Stay, Dog,” Pete says. Smokey wants to get out. He wants to know what's happening at the back. It's what he's trained to do. Look for trouble.

The private-school boys rush out, blocking the entrance to the store. “I'll bet you anything that monster has rabies,” one says.

“What I want to know,” his friend says, “is why that dog doesn't bark. What good's a guard dog that can't bark?”

It's true. Smokey didn't bark. Now that I think of it, I've never heard him bark. Growl, yes, but not bark. Not once. It's weird how I never thought about it before.

I'm at the end of the aisle that leads to the cash register. I bend my head so I can see Smokey. The boys were right—his ears are sticking up, like he can hear something we can't.

“Don't get too close,” Pete hisses.

But it's too late.

I'm too close. When Smokey bites my hand, it happens in slow motion. I see his sharp yellow fangs sink into the flesh between the bottom of my thumb and my pointer finger.

My hand hurts like crazy, and now there's blood on the tile floor.

But I'm not thinking about the blood or how much my hand hurts. I'm thinking about Smokey. If he wasn't upset, he'd never have bitten me. No way.

I crouch down. The guard hairs on Smokey's back are raised. I don't look him in the eye. Something tells me that would upset him again. Something also tells me Smokey's not angry. He's just scared.

“It's okay, Smokey,” I say, extending my other hand.

“You all right, kid?” Pete sounds nervous— as if he's afraid he might lose his job. “Want me to call your mom or something?”

“I'm all right.”

I reach out to stroke Smokey under his chin. It's the first time I've ever touched him. His fur feels good under my fingers.

I don't bother telling Pete I don't have a mom—or how if I do, I don't know where she's gone to.

Pete's relieved I don't want him to call anyone. I know, because he doesn't tell me to stop petting Smokey.

He's handing me Kleenex to stop the bleeding when someone else comes into the store.

“Thank god you're here!” Pete says. “Dog lost it just now. He bit this kid.”

The man Pete is talking to is wearing navy blue coveralls. “How ya doing, kid?” he asks, leaning over to inspect my hand.

“It wasn't the dog's fault,” I tell him. “There was a lot of noise and some kids were bugging him. I got too close.”

“It doesn't look like he minds you being close right now,” the man says. “Let me get in there and have a look at him.”

The man works for the company that rents out dogs like Smokey. He takes hold of Smokey's muzzle and checks his eyes. “He's getting old is all. You sure you're okay, kid?”

I wrap the Kleenex tight around my hand so the bleeding stops. The dog guy has some antibiotic cream he wants me to use.

I feel him looking me up and down—a little like the way he looked at Smokey. “Seems to me you got a way with dogs. You know, we could use a kid like you when we do our rounds. It's mostly afternoons, but now and then we'd need you in the morning too. Early—before school starts. Any chance you might be interested in a part-time job?”

I lean on the counter to steady myself. “Interested? Sure, I'm interested. When can I start?”

chapter four

The van is waiting outside the school. When the door slides open, the first thing I notice is the smell of dog. “Get in!” a voice calls out, so I do—and the van takes off.

There are five huge animal crates in the back. When I peer through the gates, I see two liver-colored Dobermans, a square-jawed pit bull and a big shaggy black mutt.

The mutt charges against the bars of his crate and bares his teeth at me. What kind of job have I signed on for? “Nice to meet you too,” I tell him.

“Titus,” the driver says sternly. He keeps his eyes on the road. I can see his potbelly, but not his face. The black mutt settles down in his crate.

The guy from the convenience store is in the passenger seat. “I told you he'd be on time,” he tells the driver.

He turns to me. “Kid, I don't think I introduced myself when we met last week. I'm Vince. This here's Floyd. You ready to learn the ropes?”

“Yup, I'm ready.” What I'm really ready for is payday. Vince had said I'll get paid twenty dollars for every shift. It's less than minimum wage, but it means grocery money for Dad and me. It also means I may get to eat something besides mac and cheese this week. Maybe we'll get some hamburger—or even a couple of T-bone steaks—and I can keep the leftovers for Smokey.

“There isn't much to it,” Vince says. “Basically you let the dogs out of the crates—you change their water, give 'em food and scoop the poop. There's a shovel on the floor.”

The shovel is lodged between a crate and a tank of water.

When we hit a pothole, two of the crates crash into each other, and one of the Dobermans snarls. “So these dogs don't bark?” I say. Since Smokey bit me, I've been trying to imagine what it would feel like to be a dog who couldn't bark. I figure it'd be like having laryngitis—only worse, because laryngitis goes away.

“It's not that they don't bark,” Vince says. “They can't bark. They're debarked. That way they can really scare the pants off a burglar.”

“If they barked, we'd get grief from the people who live out by the junkyards where our dogs work,” Floyd adds.

“How do you get a dog debarked?” I ask. “Does the vet do it?”

Floyd laughs. The weird thing is his laugh sounds like a dog's bark—hard and fast. We stop at a red light. Floyd turns to face me. He has a surprisingly thin face for a guy with such a big belly. A thin pale scar runs down from his forehead to the top of his nose. “Lemme give you some advice, kid,” he says. He smiles, but not in a friendly way. “In this business, you don't wanna ask too many questions. It's better to just do as you're told.”

I feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to say something. I think of the twenty bucks. One hundred bucks if I work five days a week. Vince said I might, if I'm a good worker. I might work more than that when they need me for morning shifts too. “Okay,” I tell Floyd, “I get it. No more questions.”

Our first stop is a used-car lot off the expressway. The brakes squeal as Floyd pulls into a narrow alley that leads to the back entrance. “Have a look at that baby!” Floyd says when we pass a shiny red convertible. “She's a 2006, maybe even a 2007—one hundred and seventy horsepower. Check out those chrome mags.” When Floyd whistles, it sounds like a birdcall. “Can't you just see me driving that baby?”

“I don't think you'd fit behind the wheel,” Vince says.

Floyd doesn't laugh—and neither do I. A guy like me doesn't mess with a guy like Floyd.

These are fancy cars all right—with sunroofs and tinted windows.

“That's the condo,” Floyd says as he parks next to a small plywood shed. I always thought a condo was a fancy building with a doorman downstairs. This condo has no windows and looks out of place around all the fancy cars, like a weed at the botanical gardens.

“This is King and Killer's stop. They're the Dobies,” Vince tells me.

Killer? I wonder how Killer got his name, but I remember what Floyd said about asking too many questions.

I take a deep breath as I pop open the back of the van. King and Killer must know where we are, because they're moving around inside their crates.

“Okay, boys,” I say, my voice sounding braver than I feel, “time to get to work.”

I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke. Vince and Floyd have gotten out of the van to have a smoke. “Hey, kid, don't forget your shovel!” Floyd calls out, laughing his bark-laugh.

I manage to slide the first crate to the back edge of the van. This would be way easier with Vince or Floyd's help, but it looks like I'm on my own. King—or is it Killer?— presses his muzzle against the bars.

I take another deep breath as I unlatch the crate. Please don't eat me, I think. Or if you do, do it fast and get it over with. But the Doberman doesn't eat me. Instead he leaps out of the crate. Most of his weight lands on his front legs. When he straightens himself out, he raises his head to sniff the air.

One more crate left. That's when I feel the heels of my sneakers slide into something gooey. Dog poop. I want to wipe it off my sneakers, but the other Doberman wants out of his crate. Now.

This must be Killer, I think when he bares his teeth. They're as sharp as razors.

“Everything okay back there, kid?” Vince calls out.

“Uh-huh.” My fingers shake as I unlatch Killer's cage. I heard somewhere that dogs can smell fear. I wonder if Killer can smell mine. The latch makes a clicking sound. Killer leans back on his haunches, then sails right over my head. Who knew dogs could fly?

I grab the shovel. No wonder I stepped into a pile of poop—there's poop everywhere. Something tells me this place hasn't been shoveled in weeks. Now I understand why Vince wanted me to start work right away. “Where do you want me to dump all this?” I call out.

“Just add it to the pile by the shed,” Vince calls back.

I work quickly and try to hold my breath. King and Killer patrol the edge of the car lot, their heads down as they sniff the ground. The shed has a rickety door and smells like mold—and worse. I peek inside through a crack in the doorframe. There's no floor—just rubble with piles of old newspapers scattered on top. This must be where the dogs live when they're not in their crates.

“Don't forget to change their water,” Vince says. He's come to check on me. “It's with the kibble in the van.”

The dogs' water goes in a dented tin bowl. I rinse the bowl as best I can before I refill it.

“You look like you're doing okay, kid,” Vince tells me.

Soon, I think, I'll tell him my name is Justin—not kid. Maybe when he pays me at the end of my shift.

But when the end of my shift finally comes, I don't get paid. My lower back aches from dragging around crates and scooping poop. There was even more of it at the next two stops—another car lot and a construction site.

“Whatcha waiting for?” Floyd says when they drop me off near our apartment.

“Uh,” I say, stumbling for words, “I, uh, thought I'd get paid at the end of my shift. Vince said—”

“Vince said nothing,” Floyd says. “I'm the boss. You get paid Fridays.”

So there won't be any T-bone steak for us—or for Smokey. Not tonight anyway.

“See ya tomorrow, kid. Same time,” Vince says when I jump out of the van. I figure that means they're keeping me.

chapter five

“Why are you home so late?” Dad's back is to me. It's not dark yet, and I can just make out how one rectangular spot is paler than the rest of the wall. There used to be a picture hanging there of Mom and us, but Dad smashed it during a cloudy mood. He broke the frame and shattered the glass, but I fished the picture out of the garbage. Now it's in my bottom drawer, hidden under my socks. I look at it sometimes when Dad isn't around.

I'm glad I kept the picture. After Mom left, I'd sometimes think some lady at the store or on the street was her, but that doesn't happen anymore. To be honest, I'm starting to forget the sound of Mom's voice and what she looked like. The picture helps me remember.

“I…uh, I got a job.” I should have told Dad before, but I didn't know how. And with Dad, you never know what'll set off a cloudy mood.

“You got a job? What kind of job would they give a kid like you?” I wonder if Dad's jealous. He's been out of work since July. He used to work for a contractor, doing odd jobs, but they let him go. Dad says it was because the economy tanked. After that, the man who owns our building hired Dad to do some painting, but that didn't work out either. Dad said the job was beneath him.