A Short Tale About a Long Dog Read online

  “I have to discuss this with your mother,” he said.

  “Great, I can hear her in the kitchen,” I said. “Let’s go ask her.”

  “You stay here, Hank. This is an adult decision.”

  “Then you can’t leave out Papa Pete,” I said, knowing he would take my side. “He’s an adult.”

  “Have been for quite some time now,” Papa Pete said.

  Papa Pete winked at me as he followed my dad into the kitchen. As for me, all I could do was put my ear against the kitchen door and try to hear what they were saying.

  I couldn’t hear a word.

  When we walked into the animal shelter on 85th Street and Amsterdam, I heard barking. It was like a doggy glee club that was out of tune.

  Officer Perez was in charge of the shelter. She had lots of curly hair and looked a little like the French poodle in cage three.

  “How will I know which dog to pick?” I asked Officer Perez.

  “Oh, you’ll know,” she said with a smile. “The right dog will give you a sign. It just happens, like magic.”

  We split up. Each of us took a row. Except Emily. She refused to participate. Instead, she just sat by Officer Perez’s desk reading her book, How to Think Like a Reptile.

  I started down the middle aisle. There were cages stacked two-high on both sides. Each cage held a lost or abandoned dog. I wondered which dog was going to give me a sign. It was definitely not the little guy in the first cage—he was completely hairless except for tiny tufts coming out of his ears.

  “Sorry, pal,” I said as I passed by him. “Our family only has one bald guy, and that’s my uncle Gary.”

  I continued down the aisle, looking in every cage. I passed a furry little black dog with white paws and a white spot on his chest. His bottom teeth stuck out much farther than his top teeth.

  “You are going to need braces,” I said to him.

  He didn’t laugh. I moved on.

  The dog in the next cage was a boxer. He drooled a lot. It looked like the Hudson River was coming out of his mouth. If we adopted him, he would definitely need a bib.

  I passed a cage with the funniest-looking little dog you’ve ever seen. He looked like a beige hot dog. He had a long tail but definitely came up short in the fur department. And speaking of short, his legs were so short, there was no room for muscles. I couldn’t believe those stubby legs were able to hold up that long body of his.

  By this time, I had looked at probably twenty dogs. There wasn’t one that connected with me.

  I turned around and headed back the way I came.

  As I passed the cage with the beige hot dog again, he ran to the front of the cage and sat down.

  I knelt down slowly. I didn’t want to scare him. Then, he put his paw through the bars of the cage and held it out to me. Without even thinking, I took his paw. Before you could say, “Nice to meet you,” we were shaking hands.

  “What’d I tell you?” a voice said behind me.

  I turned around to see Officer Perez smiling at me. “You don’t pick them, they pick you.”

  I looked at the little dog, never letting go of his paw. He was not at all what I had in mind. But I’ll tell you this: When a dog gives you a sign, you have to listen.

  “Mom! Dad! Emily!” I hollered. “Here he is! I’ve found him.”

  All three of them came running. Emily looked in the cage and started to laugh.

  “He looks like a corn dog without a stick!” she hooted.

  “Let me take him out so you can meet him,” Officer Perez said.

  “Before we get carried away here,” my dad said, “let me remind everyone that small dogs are extremely yappy.”

  “This little dachshund is still a puppy,” Officer Perez said. “Puppies can be trained.”

  She already had unlocked his cage and was lifting him out. She gently placed him on the floor in front of us. He was so happy to be free. I know this sounds crazy, but it really looked like he was smiling at me.

  “You make me smile, too,” I said, kneeling down right next to him.

  With that, he started running in a circle, the way dogs do when they chase their tails. He went faster and faster, until you couldn’t see where his head stopped and his tail began.

  “Look at him!” I said, holding my sides and laughing. “He looks like a Cheerio.”

  No sooner had I said those words, than the dog stopped spinning. He looked up at me and wagged his long tail.

  “You like that name?” I said to him. “Cheerio?”

  He snuggled right into my arms, licking my face like I was an ice-cream cone.

  Even my dad had to laugh. And at that moment, I knew that Cheerio would be coming home with us.

  On the way home from the animal shelter, we stopped at Pets for U and Me to buy Cheerio’s supplies. I picked out a food bowl with a doggy bone on the bottom of it. I got a water bowl, too, and a neon blue collar. My dad got a crate and a sheepskin mat to put inside it. Cheerio picked out a squeaky toy shaped like a banana. My mom arrived at the cash register carrying a big package of something called wee-wee pads.

  “

  What are those?” I asked.

  “I’ve been reading up on how to train a puppy. Cheerio will have to be trained to go to the bathroom outside,” she said. “If he starts sniffing or turning around in circles, then he probably has to go. And if we’re inside when this happens, we direct him to the wee-wee pad. That way, he’ll learn to just go on the pad when he’s inside the house.”

  “Ewww,” Emily groaned.

  “You’re not putting those gross things down in my room. Katherine would hate them.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “Cheerio doesn’t want to hang out with you guys, anyway. He’s not interested in watching Katherine catch flies.”

  “Good,” Emily said. “Because we’re not interested in watching him wee-wee.”

  When we got home, Cheerio ran around and sniffed the entire apartment. He sniffed every piece of furniture until he found my dad’s slippers, which he keeps tucked under his favorite leather chair.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” my dad said, diving for his slippers. But Cheerio was fast, and got one of them in his mouth before my dad could reach it.

  “That’s my slipper,” my dad said. “Drop it.”

  Cheerio didn’t. In fact, he bit down even harder. My dad reached down to take the slipper out of Cheerio’s mouth. He pulled, but Cheerio pulled harder. It was a major tug-of-war. At last, Cheerio let go. My dad flew backward and bumped into the table where my mom kept her grandmother’s glass vase.

  Crash! Boom! Bam!

  The vase fell off the table and smashed into a million pieces.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” my dad said to Cheerio.

  “Actually, Dad, you did it,” I pointed out.

  “I can see this dog is going to cause a lot of trouble,” he answered, shaking his head.

  My mom came in from the kitchen carrying a broom and a dustpan.

  “Cheerio and I are so sorry about the vase, Mom,” I said. “I know it was your grandma’s.”

  “Oh no, Hank. Grandma’s vase is in the kitchen cabinet. I bought that old vase at a yard sale for fifty cents.”

  While she swept up the mess, my dad turned to Cheerio, who had no idea he had done anything wrong.

  “Don’t wag your tail at me,” my dad said to him. “If you’re to be in this family, you have to follow the Zipzer rules. No slipper chewing. No furniture sniffing. Is that clear?”

  Cheerio turned his head to one side, as if to say, I have no idea what you’re talking about, but do you happen to have a hamburger in your pocket?

  “And while we’re at it, Hank,” my dad went on. “There are dog-care rules for you, too. I expect you to walk Cheerio every day. He must always be on a leash. And you
are to keep his water bowl full and feed him every day. These are the responsibilities you assume when you get a dog.”

  “No problem, Dad,” I said. “I will be the picture of responsibility, I promise.”

  I lifted Cheerio into my arms. “Let’s go to our room.”

  “Don’t forget to take one of the wee-wee pads,” my mom said. “We don’t want Cheerio having an accident on the carpet.”

  “Cheerio says he would never do a thing like that, Mom.”

  “I didn’t hear that dog say one word,” Emily snorted.

  “That’s because you don’t speak puppy,” I told her. “You only speak lizard.”

  I went into the kitchen and took a wee-wee pad from the package. Tucking it under one arm, I picked up Cheerio with the other and headed to my room.

  Once we were inside, I put him down on the carpet. “Okay, boy, let’s play catch,” I said.

  I tossed the pad on my bed, then went to my desk drawer to look for my pink rubber ball. I found it and rolled it across the rug. Cheerio watched it go by. Nothing moved but his head.

  “Go get it, Cheerio.”

  He didn’t move. He just stared at me as if to say, Why would I want to do that?

  “So you’re not a ballplayer,” I said to him. “That’s okay. What do you want to do instead?”

  He trotted over to the corner of my room and sniffed around.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked him.

  He answered me by lifting his leg. I think we all know what happened next.

  “Wait, Cheerio. You can’t pee there!” I shouted. “You have to go on the wee-wee pad, which is . . . oh no . . . on my bed. I forgot to put it down!”

  Cheerio continued to go about his business. The puddle spread halfway across my room. As I watched it sink into the carpet, I had only one thought and it was this: Uh-oh, Hank Zipzer, you are in big trouble now.

  When he was finished peeing, Cheerio wagged his tail and looked at me happily. He had no idea he had done anything wrong.

  “You wait here,” I said to him. “I’ll go get help.”

  I opened the door and tiptoed into the living room. “Mom,” I whispered. “I have a little problem. Can I talk to you in the kitchen? I don’t want to disturb Dad.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Hank,” my dad said from his chair. “What’s on your mind?”

  I had no choice. I took a breath and began.

  “Cheerio peed in my room,” I said. “All over the carpet.”

  “What happened?” my mom asked.

  “Did you forget to put the wee-wee pad down?” my dad asked me.

  “I meant to put it down, Dad. My brain just didn’t remember.”

  “Okay, Hank,” he said with a sigh. “I think it’s best if Cheerio doesn’t spend any more time in your room—at least until you can be more responsible.”

  “But, Dad, it’s almost time for bed. Where’s he going to sleep?”

  “We’ll put his crate in the kitchen, and he’ll sleep there,” he answered.

  “All alone? He’ll be so sad.”

  “He’ll be fine,” my dad said. “That’s what you do when you’re training a puppy. And as for you, I believe you have some cleanup work to do in your room.”

  My mom helped me clean the carpet with tons of paper towels and a special spray that would stop Cheerio from peeing there again. While we were doing that, my dad got Cheerio and put him in his crate in the kitchen.

  “Can I at least say good night to him?” I asked when I had finished cleaning up.

  “Of course,” my dad said. “Just make it short. It’s been an exciting day. Both you and Cheerio need to get some rest.”

  I went into the kitchen and knelt down by Cheerio’s crate. His tail wagged when he saw me.

  “Good night, boy,” I said. “We’ll go on a nice walk tomorrow. I promise. It will be morning before you know it.”

  With one last look at him, I turned out the lights and went to my room.

  As I climbed into bed, I could hear Cheerio crying for me.

  “Cheerio, that’s enough!” my dad yelled. “Go to sleep.”

  I lay there in bed, thinking of poor little Cheerio alone in the kitchen. He was there because of me. If only I had remembered to put down that pad, maybe I could have kept his crate in my room, right next to my bed.

  I couldn’t sleep. Listening to Cheerio cry was just too sad. Then I remembered that the store owner at Pets for U and Me had said to put a piece of my clothing into Cheerio’s crate.

  If it smelled like me, Cheerio would feel like I was there with him.

  So I crept out of bed and pulled a Mets sock from the dirty-laundry hamper. I sniffed it. Oh yeah, that was me, all right.

  I tiptoed into the kitchen. Cheerio was lying in his crate, his little nose sticking through the front gate. The minute he saw me, he almost did a backflip. I slid my fingers as far as I could into his crate, and felt his wet tongue licking them. Boy, that felt good. Cheerio whimpered a little louder.

  “I miss you, too, puppy,” I said. “Here, I’ve brought something so you won’t be so lonely.”

  I held up my sock for him to smell. He stuck his nose into them and took a big whiff. Then his tail started to wag like crazy. He was the only living thing on the planet who liked the way my sock smelled.

  “Okay, boy,” I whispered. “I’ll just open the door and put it right next to you. Keep very quiet so you don’t wake Dad.”

  As soon as I opened the door just a crack, he shot out of there like a jet plane.

  “Cheerio! Get back here!” I yell-whispered.

  He didn’t listen. He pushed open the kitchen door and disappeared.

  I followed him as fast as I could. I couldn’t see him in the dark, but I could hear the clicking of his toenails on the wood floor. He was running in giant circles all around the dining-room table.

  “Cheerio, please don’t do this now,” I said to him. “You’re going to get us both in trouble.”

  He never stopped circling the table for one second. I tried to catch him, but he whizzed right by me, his ears flapping behind him.

  I ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the bag of dog treats we had bought for him.

  When I came back to the dining room, I shook the bag as quietly as I could.

  “I have a cookie for you, Cheerio,” I whispered.

  Suddenly, he came screeching to a stop right in front of me. I ripped open the bag and took out a treat. Holding it in front of his nose, I backed into the kitchen. He followed, never taking his eyes off that cookie. I put it inside his crate next to my sock. He dove in and gobbled down that treat in one bite. I locked the door as quickly as I could.

  It was really late by then. I had to get to bed, but I hated to leave him all alone. I flicked on the TV that sits on the kitchen counter.

  “This will keep you company,” I said, flipping through the channels. I didn’t want him watching the news—it was too scary. And the jewelry channel was definitely too boring. I found some all-night cartoons that he seemed to like.

  “I love you,” I whispered into his cage.

  The last thing I heard as I crept back to my bedroom was a happy little doggy yawn. I smiled. It felt really good to know I had made Cheerio feel at home.

  The next day at school, all I thought about was Cheerio. I’m usually pretty bad about paying attention. Like when Principal Love is talking on the loudspeaker, I always stare at the clouds outside, wondering if ants could build a colony in them.

  After school, my dad came to pick me up. When I saw him, I was totally surprised. He was holding a leash, and at the end of it was my new dog.

  “Cheerio!” I called out.

  “Hey, is that your dog?” Nick McKelty said as he tripped down the front steps. “He’s really short.”

 
; “But very cute,” Katie Sperling said. Katie has loved animals ever since we were in preschool.

  Everyone wanted a chance to pet him, but all Cheerio wanted was to see me. He tugged on the leash and stood up on his hind legs, panting. I ran to him and knelt down, letting him kiss me all over my face.

  “Taking Cheerio on a walk together was a great idea, Dad,” I said. “Why don’t we take him to the park? The fresh air will be good for all of us.”

  “You might be right, Hank,” my dad answered. “I just read an article that says exercise can sharpen the mind.”

  My dad has a way of making everything fun seem like a life lesson. But I didn’t care. I was getting park time with Cheerio. I couldn’t wait to see what he’d think of all that grass.

  We walked down 78th Street all the way to Riverside Park. The minute Cheerio saw the grass, he took off running. I was holding the leash, and he practically pulled me off my feet.

  There were so many new things for him to explore. He couldn’t decide what to do first. He ran to the rocks and sniffed all around them. He ran to the tree and sniffed some more. When he found a fire hydrant, I thought his nose was going to fall off from over-sniffing.

  We headed toward the basketball courts.

  “Oh, look who’s there shooting some hoops,” my dad said. “Isn’t that boy in your class? He’s with his father, who just bought the bowling alley on Eighty-Sixth street.”

  When I looked over to the basketball court, my heart sank down to my knees. There was Nick McKelty, shooting baskets with his dad. Nick was the last person I wanted to see right now.

  “Let’s go say hello,” my dad suggested.

  “Let’s not and say we did.”

  “Well, I’m going to say hello,” my dad said. “A man with a new bowling alley is going to need some help with his computers. And, might I remind you, that is what I do for a living.”