Junkyard Dog Page 3

  “I’m not scared.” Only I am. Something tells me this dog has never had a rabies shot.

  “Lemme give you a hand,” Vince says. Together we transfer the mutt into one of our crates. The dog settles down. Maybe he’s so tired even a strange crate looks good right now.

  The next dog is a German shepherd. Well fed, well groomed—what Smokey might look like if he’d had a different kind of life. This dog’s eyes look confused. As if he wants to ask, what in the world is going on?

  The next two could be brothers. They’re mutts, but I can tell from their rust markings they have rottweiler blood.

  I notice the collar when I’m sliding the last crate back into Terence’s truck. A brand new green leather collar with silver stars. There’s an id tag on it. I reach for the collar. It must belong to the German shepherd.

  Floyd grabs my arm. “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice is even sharper than usual. “Leave that right there.”

  “Junkyard dogs don’t need collars,” Terence says.

  I let the collar fall from my hands. It lands without a sound on the carpeted floor of the truck. “I thought…”

  “You don’t think nothing,” Floyd tells me. “You were hired to scoop poop. Not to think.”

  Though the letters on the id tag are upside down, I can see the name Star engraved on it. There’s a phone number too, but I can’t make it out.

  One thing I know for sure is Star is not some stray. He’s someone’s pet. And somehow Terence got hold of him.

  “You sure this kid’s okay?” Terence asks.

  “He’s fine,” Floyd says, slapping my shoulder again. “Which reminds me, it’s payday, ain’t it, kid?” He pulls six crisp twenties from his front pocket.

  I can practically taste that T-bone steak.

  “So, you enjoying this line of work?” Floyd asks as he hands me the bills. I feel his eyes on my face.

  The door to the back of our van is open. I hear a dog whimpering. Probably Star. I take the money and swallow hard. “Yes, sir,” I tell Floyd. “I sure am.”

  chapter seven

  Even my head is sweaty from shoveling. Now that I’m back in our building, I can take off my cap.

  “Why hello, Justin.” Mrs. MacAlear pops out from behind the mailboxes.

  “How are you, Mrs. MacAlear?” I ask, slipping my cap back on.

  “Never mind me,” she says. “I’m an old woman. Young people like yourself are far more interesting. Your hair seems to be growing in.”

  I feel my cheeks get hot. But Mrs. MacAlear is right about my hair. There’s fuzzy hair filling in the bare patches. Maybe it’s because I’m eating better—or because I’m less worried about how Dad and I are going to pay the bills.

  “Have you seen our friend at the convenience store?”

  It takes me a minute to realize Mrs. MacAlear means Smokey. “I didn’t make it over there today. I had to work.”

  “Which reminds me,” Mrs. MacAlear says, tapping the side of her head, “I have some things for you. Why don’t you come along and I’ll give them to you straightaway?”

  I have never seen the inside of Mrs. MacAlear’s apartment. From her doorway, I can see the apartment is packed with knickknacks—crystal vases and porcelain dolls are displayed on shelves, tables and even on the windowsills.

  Mrs. MacAlear catches me checking the place out. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Uh, maybe another time. My dad’s waiting for me.”

  Mrs. MacAlear disappears into her kitchen. She comes back with two shopping bags filled with empty bottles. “I thought you might want these.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I tell her. “But are you sure you don’t want to cash them in yourself?”

  Mrs. MacAlear shoos me away. “You’d be doing me a favor if you took them,” she says. “Besides, this will give you an excuse to visit your friend.”

  I’m nearly at the door to our apartment when Mrs. MacAlear calls me back. “I nearly forgot. I have this for you too.”

  I leave the two bags on the floor. Mrs. MacAlear hands me a hardcover book. It smells old, and there’s a cocker spaniel on the cover.

  “It’s a history of dogs. When I spotted it at the secondhand bookshop, I thought you might enjoy it.”

  “Are you sure?” It’s not like it’s my birthday or anything.

  “Of course I’m sure.” She reaches toward me. The veins on the outside of her hand are thick and blue. Without meaning to, I take a step back. When Mrs. MacAlear smiles, her eyes close for a second. Even her eyelids are wrinkled. “Let me know whether you like the book.”

  “Where did that book come from?” Dad asks when I’m settled under the blanket reading.

  “The woman next door gave it to me,” I say.

  “The witch with the broom?” he asks.

  “She’s not a witch,” I say.

  “We don’t need anyone’s charity.”

  “It’s not charity. It’s a book about dogs,” I say.

  Dad groans. He’s not done arguing. “Shouldn’t you be doing your homework— and not reading some book about dogs?”

  “I finished all my homework.”

  Dad adjusts the pillow on his side of the pullout couch. “So what does the book have to say anyhow?”

  I turn to look at Dad, half expecting him to be rolling his eyes, but he isn’t. “Well,” I tell him, “it says here the Latin name for dogs is Canis lupus famil—” It’s not easy to speak Latin.

  “Familiaris,” Dad says. “It means common. Lupus means wolf.”

  “You know Latin?”

  “I know a lot of stuff, Latin included.”

  “It says dogs are a subspecies of the gray wolf. And that dogs are believed to be the first species domesticated by humans.”

  Dad snorts. “That doesn’t say much for dogs, does it? Now cats, they’re far more intelligent. No self-respecting cat would fetch a ball or chase a Frisbee.”

  The thought of a cat chasing a Frisbee makes me laugh. “Maybe getting along with humans is smart,” I say.

  Dad turns over so he’s facing away from me. “Never worked for me,” he mutters.

  Soon Dad is snoring. I’m tired, but I keep reading. The book says dogs have been around for 15,000 years. That’s more than 1,000 times longer than I’ve been around! There’s a section about how dogs were domesticated. There’s something called the “garbage theory” that says wolves used to raid ancient peoples’ garbage dumps. The wolves that were least afraid of humans got the most food. I think there is something smart about getting along with people. I’d way rather be a dog curled up on someone’s living room rug than a gray wolf scavenging for food on a freezing day.

  I decide to peek at the section on working dogs. Dogs can learn to perform simple tasks, the book says. I stop at a picture of a dog pulling a sled over the snow. The book says sled dogs can pull hundreds of pounds.

  The dog on the next page is a German shepherd like Smokey that works as a seeing-eye dog. It’s important, the book says, that people do not disturb seeing-eye dogs while they work. Seeing-eye dogs need to focus on their task. I guess it’s the same for Smokey. The book also mentions how many dogs seem to enjoy having jobs.

  I’m trying to decide whether I like working—or whether I just like making money. I definitely don’t like shoveling poop, but I like hanging out with dogs.

  I put the book down and pull the blanket up so it nearly covers my chin. As I doze off, I think about working dogs. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with making dogs work. Maybe it really is what the book calls “a mutually beneficial arrangement.” It’s good for the people who need the dogs’ help, and good for the dogs too.

  I think about those first gray wolves who weren’t scared of humans 15,000 years ago. It’s like they made a sort of pact—be good to us, and we’ll be good to you. We’ll help herd your sheep and guard your convenience stores, and in return you feed us and pet us and treat us right.

  But then I remember the matted clumps on
Smokey’s coat, and the way the dogcatcher tried to get rid of that dog collar from the back of his truck…

  If those gray wolves had known about Floyd and Terence the dogcatcher, maybe they’d never have come close in the first place.

  chapter eight

  I don’t hear the phone because I’m scrubbing the bathtub. “Turn that darn water off!” Dad bellows from the hallway. “You didn’t hear the phone, and then you didn’t hear me call you. You know I don’t like getting up for nothing. There’s a guy on the phone, says he’s your boss.”

  I turn off the faucet. My heart is thumping in my chest. This is the first time Floyd has phoned for me. Something must be wrong.

  “Hey, kid, how ya doin’?” Something is definitely wrong if he’s asking how I’m doing.

  “Look, I know it’s Sunday, but I need some help—with a special project. There’s fifty bucks in it for you.”

  “What time do you want to pick me up?” I ask.

  When I tell Dad I’ll be out, he says, “At least he’s paying you for your trouble. Better than that old biddy next door who sends you out to pick up her prescriptions and gives you nothing for it.”

  The special mission turns out to be a visit to the SPCA . “You go in,” Floyd tells me. “Ask to see the dogs. I need a bitch—” He must notice me bristle. “Relax, kid,” he says, laughing, “I’m not being rude. I need a bitch—a female dog. Unspayed. That part’s important. It’ll say so on the card outside the cage. Most of the bitches in there are spayed, so you’ll have to look around. And be discreet about it, will ya?”

  “Are you going to breed her?”

  The scar on Floyd’s forehead throbs.

  “I know, I know. No questions,” I tell him as I hop out of the van.

  “Hey, kid,” Floyd says, “what’s your name anyhow?”

  “Justin.”

  “Well, Justin, I need some gas. I’ll meet you inside in”—Floyd checks his watch— “fifteen minutes. And one more thing, what’s your old man’s name?”

  “Ted Leduc.” I know better than to ask Floyd why he needs my dad’s name. Or to say I know Floyd has a full tank of gas.

  A case of air freshener couldn’t mask the smell of dog at the SPCA . A cheerful woman with curly blond hair leads me to the dogs that are up for adoption. She tells me her name is Glenda and that she volunteers here on Sundays. “You’re welcome to have a look. But because you’re under eighteen, you’ll have to have an adult come back with you if you’re serious about adopting.”

  Glenda doesn’t have to tell me we’re nearing the dog room. I hear the barking and howling from down the hall. The smell of poop and pee is even stronger now. When I push open the door, I see both sides of the room are lined with cages.

  It feels like a prison. Or even worse. It feels like death row.

  Some of the dogs press their muzzles against the bars. Some are whimpering. Others huddle at the back of their cages, too afraid to meet me.

  I walk down the center aisle. I’m supposed to be looking for an unspayed female, but I want to see the dogs first. One boxer is so old his muzzle is all gray. A couple of dogs are so thin their bones nearly poke through their skin. They must be from one of those puppy mills I read about in the paper. Places where they breed dogs but don’t look after them properly.

  Glenda shakes her head. “We’re full up, what with the last puppy mill. We’ve got hardly any room for new arrivals. Things are almost as bad here as they were back in July on moving day.”

  I remember back to July 1, moving day in Montreal. There were moving trucks everywhere, holding up traffic. And now that I think about it, I remember how the janitor in the building across the street from ours told me and Dad how a tenant packed all his stuff but left his tabby cat behind.

  “You wouldn’t believe the number of people who abandon their dogs and cats when they move.” Glenda shakes her head as if to say she’s seen it all.

  I can feel my throat tightening. I’m thinking about all those animals and also about how my mom left me and my dad behind.

  I’m glad Glenda can’t tell I’m upset. “Are you looking for any kind of dog in particular?” she asks. “Most people want a pup, but training a pup takes a lot of work. I always say, ‘Go for an older dog instead.’ Your mom and dad okay with adopting a dog?”

  “They’re coming ’round to it,” I say, and immediately I feel bad about lying.

  I decide not to ask about unspayed females. The last thing I need is for Glenda to think that I’ve come for a breeding dog for a puppy mill.

  There’s a chocolate-Lab mix in the next cage. “That girl’s still kind of young. Hasn’t been spayed,” Glenda tells me.

  The door to the dog room opens. “Hi, Son,” Floyd says. “Fall in love with a dog, yet?”

  He turns to Glenda. “Justin’s birthday’s coming up, and he wants a dog. I told him we’d be doing a good thing if we adopted one.”

  Floyd’s loving-father routine catches me off guard. When Glenda turns her head, he gives me a stern look.

  “Justin likes this girl over here,” Glenda says, gesturing for Floyd to follow her.

  Floyd reads the card taped onto the outside of the cage. “So she hasn’t been spayed?” You can’t tell from his voice whether he thinks that’s a good thing. Floyd is a way better actor than I would have guessed.

  “We do recommend that all the dogs that leave here are spayed or neutered. We have a vet on the premises who’ll do the operation at a disc—”

  “No problem,” Floyd cuts Glenda off. “We’ve got a friend who’s a vet, and we’d like to give him the business, wouldn’t we, Justin?”

  Floyd peers into the cage. “Aren’t you a lovely girl?”

  There is paperwork to do. “Your name, please,” Glenda says to Floyd.

  Floyd shoots me a look before he answers. “Ted Leduc.”

  I suck in my breath. Why didn’t Floyd tell her his real name?

  When Glenda asks for id, Floyd makes a fuss. “Can you believe it?” He whacks the side of his head with a brochure. “I was so excited about getting Justin a dog, I forgot my license at home.”

  “Do you have your Medicare card?” Glenda asks.

  “It’s with my license. Justin, show Glenda here your school id. That’ll do, won’t it, Glenda? Kid’s my son after all.” Floyd throws his arm around my shoulder. Floyd is scary when he tries acting nice.

  Glenda takes my id card. “I just need to go to the office to make a photocopy of this. I’ll only be a minute,” she says.

  Floyd waits until she has closed the door behind her. “There’s one more thing,” he whispers. He’s using his rough voice again. “Don’t mention this to Vince. He thinks I already have too many pets. This’ll be our little secret, okay?”

  I can feel him waiting for an answer.

  “Okay,” I tell him.

  When Glenda gets back, she hands me my id. Another volunteer brings the dog. The dog licks the outside of my hand.

  Floyd pets her head. “Ain’t you a beauty?” Then he turns to me. “Happy birthday, Son.”

  Glenda flashes us a big smile. “Nothing makes me feel better,” she says, “than when our animals go to good people.”

  That makes Floyd laugh. “We’re good people all right, ain’t we?” Floyd gives me a nudge.

  To be honest, I’m not so sure.

  chapter nine

  When the van pulls up on Friday afternoon and Vince isn’t in the passenger seat, the muscles in my stomach tighten. I don’t like the idea of being alone with Floyd again. I’m more nervous around him than I am around the guard dogs. But it’s payday, so I climb into the front seat.

  “Hey, kid,” a raspy voice says, and I relax. Vince is driving. “Floyd’s under the weather. It’s just us today.”

  “My name’s Justin,” I say in a quiet voice.

  At first I think Vince doesn’t hear me. The radio is on, and he is humming along to some country-and-western song. “Well, Justin, I want to say I th
ink you’ve been doing a fine job. And I’m taking the credit”—Vince takes one hand off the wheel to thump his chest—“for finding you.”

  “Th—thanks.” I can hardly get the word out I’m smiling so hard.

  Vince helps me lug the crates to the back of the van. He’s nicer when Floyd’s not around. “Uh-oh,” Vince says when he unlatches King’s crate.

  There’s a jagged gash caked with dry blood on the side of King’s neck. King growls when Vince runs his finger along the gash. “Something must’ve happened to him in the lot last night. Maybe he got caught on the fence. The technician who picked him up this morning should’ve spotted it.”

  “Should we get him to a vet?”

  Vince shakes his head. “We don’t bother much with vets. Vet visits cut into Floyd’s profits. Nah, I should be able to stitch him up.”

  We have to force King’s snout into a muzzle. Then I hold his head while Vince washes the wound with antiseptic.

  Vince bites his lower lip as he works. When he presses down on the gash, King’s spine stiffens. “It’s gonna be okay, boy,” Vince tells him. “But I don’t think you’re gonna be doing much guard work tonight. We’d better let you nap in that fancy condo of yours.”

  “Get me the emergency case from the glove compartment, will ya?” Vince says when he’s done cleaning the wound.

  I wince when Vince takes out a sewing needle and a spool of surgical thread. The thread looks like dental floss. “Don’t worry, kid. Dog’s gonna be just fine. Keep a hold of him, okay? Look away if you want to.”

  In the end, I don’t look away. I watch as the needle pierces King’s fur, then goes out and back in again. King’s eyes are glassy. His tail droops between his legs, and his whole body shakes as Vince stitches him up. I put my arms around King to steady him. I feel as if somehow, if I’m strong enough, I can take away King’s pain.

  The needle weaves in and out again. Vince never lifts his eyes from the tip of the needle. It takes eight stitches to close the gash. King is panting now. “It’s all done, boy,” I tell him.