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Dog Heaven Page 2


  Ledward lifted a hand off the steering wheel. “This is where I grew up. My pops, Uncle Shorty, bought this farm way back in early times. He lives in Kaneohe, now, in a condo. But back then he grew bananas, papaya, avocado, mint.”

  “How come you call your dad Uncle Shorty?”

  Ledward chuckled. “His friends called him Shorty in high school. The name stuck. And all my friends called him uncle. So, Uncle Shorty. He’s retired now.”

  That confused me. Ledward was as tall as a telephone pole. “Your dad’s short?”

  “Six foot six.”

  Wow.

  “I took this place on when my parents moved,” he continued. “Long time, my family been here. Now it’s just me, my dogs, and my pig. I don’t have any sisters or brothers.”

  “Dogs?”

  “You see.”

  How come Mom had never said a word about his place? She must have known about it. “Has Mom been up here?”

  “Sure. In fact, she got a little garden.”

  “She does?”

  “I show you.”

  I frowned. “She never told us.”

  The jeep bounced and jerked along ruts in the road. The old seats squeaked. The engine growled low.

  After a moment, Ledward said, “Your mama is cautious.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well … I’m sort of like the new kid on the block. Takes a while to get to know the new kid, ah?”

  The dirt lane burst out of the bananas into the sun. Ledward’s house sat in the middle of a large, neat grassy yard. The house was dark red with white around the edges. It had a silvery tin roof and stood off the ground on legs, with white slats around the base.

  “Wow. Nice place.”

  Ledward pulled up on the grass and shut the engine down. A gray dove landed on the hood of the jeep.

  Ledward whistled softly and the dove flew off.

  So quiet.

  “Where are the dogs?”

  Ledward lifted his chin. “Out back.”

  “They don’t bark?”

  Ledward winked. “They know my jeep.”

  “Cool.”

  I saw them in my mind. Hunting dogs. Long fangs and fur that stuck up on their backs. Danger in their eyes.

  Ledward got out of the jeep. Darci stood, and he lifted her up and sat her on his shoulders, holding her feet. We headed around to the back of the house.

  Ledward pointed his chin toward a patch of dirt. “That’s your mama’s garden.”

  Why hadn’t Mom told us she’d been here?

  “The pig is still young,” Ledward said. “I call him Blackie.”

  “You named a pig?”

  “Sure. He’s a good pig. There’s my dogs.” Four dogs looked out at us, each in its own wood kennel with a wire door. Like the house, the kennels stood off the ground on stilt legs.

  The dogs paced behind their wire doors. One of them growled, its head low.

  “Hush,” Ledward whispered.

  The dog whined. It was dirty white with black spots. It didn’t have fangs or hair standing up on its back. It was a scruffy dog—skinny, even. All of them were.

  Ledward pointed to each of them. “Typhoon, Paco, Snake-eye, and Jimmy.”

  “Man oh man,” I whispered. Hunting dogs. If only my friends could see this.

  Darci wrinkled her nose. “Something stinks.”

  Ledward chuckled. “That would be Blackie.”

  Like Manly Stanley, Ledward’s pig had his own resort—a slimy, stinky, mud-sucky pigpen.

  Blackie wasn’t as fat as the pigs I’d seen in books at school. He wasn’t pink, either. He had short black hair and was as scrappy as Ledward’s dogs.

  Darci crouched and looked through the wire fence. “He looks like he’s smiling.”

  “He’s a happy pig.”

  Lazy, too. He was lying on a pile of hay under a slant-roof shelter, smiling and winking flies away.

  Ledward snapped his fingers. “Hoo-ie.” He made kissy sounds, like when you call a dog.

  Blackie lumbered up and waddled over. He stuck his flat nose through the wire and snorted.

  Darci jumped back.

  The sound was deep. I reached over the fence and scratched the stiff hair behind Blackie’s ear. Dried mud flaked off.

  Ledward reached over to scratch him, too. “Good boy, Blackie.” Just like you’d say to a dog.

  I looked up at Ledward. “A pig is a nice pet, I guess. But it can’t do what a dog can do, like follow you on your bike, or catch a Frisbee or tennis ball. A pig … well, it just … stinks.”

  “You think? Watch this.”

  Ledward opened the gate and snapped his fingers. Blackie waddled out and followed him around to the front yard.

  Darci and I looked at each other. “Weird,” she whispered.

  “No kidding.”

  The caged dogs eyed everything that moved as we hurried to catch up with Ledward. “Where are we going?”

  “For a ride.”

  “In the jeep?”

  “Yup.”

  Ledward snapped his fingers and pointed to the front passenger seat. Blackie waddled up and tried to jump in. But he was too fat. He couldn’t even get a foot up.

  Ledward bent down and put his arms under him. “When he was small, I just scooped him up and dropped him on the seat. He’s a big guy now.” Ledward grunted as he hefted the pig onto the seat.

  Blackie sat, smiling.

  That is one strange pig, I thought.

  Ledward scratched at a block of caked mud on Blackie’s back and brushed away the dirt. “Hop in,” he said.

  Darci and I climbed over the back tire into the jeep.

  Soon we were driving back through Kailua with Blackie sitting up front like somebody’s German shepherd, nose high, sniffing the air.

  People in cars and on the sidewalks gaped, pointed, and laughed their heads off.

  Ledward smiled and waved.

  Julio, Willy, Rubin, and Maya would never believe this. Calvin, they’d say. Pigs don’t ride in jeeps.

  I looked at Darci. “You think Mom would let me get a pig for a pet, Darce?”

  That night I took my spiral notebook and a chewed-up pencil and climbed the ladder to my bunk. The faint smell of gas from the lawn mower crept in under the door. Or maybe it was from Mom’s car, which was only a few feet away on the other side of the wall.

  I lay on my stomach, thinking.

  Outside, inches from my face, small moths fluttered against the window screen. The light in my room drew them out of the night like a magnet.

  I tapped the pencil against my teeth. What should I write about, a dog or a pig? Stella wasn’t allergic to pigs, so maybe—

  Bam!

  I jumped and the pencil flew from my hand.

  Bam! Bam!

  Jeese! “What?”

  “Open up!” Stella yelled.

  “Why?”

  “I have something for you.”

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  “All right, all right, I’m coming.”

  I slid off the bunk.

  When I opened the door, Stella shot me.

  “Hey!”

  Stella aimed the orange squirt gun at my face and fired again.

  “What’d you do that for?”

  “That’s for getting into my Diet Sprite, twerp. Next time, ask.”

  “I didn’t get into your dumb Sprite.”

  “That’s Diet Sprite, and you stole my empties.”

  Well, she was right about that. I’d taken them to Kalapawai Market and turned them in for money to buy her a birthday present. “How was I supposed to know you wanted them?”

  Stella shot me again. “Guilty as charged.”

  I backed away, trying to block the water with my hands.

  Stella kept shooting. I was soaked. “I’m telling Mom, Stella. You’re in trouble.”

  “Go ahead. Tell. It’s worth it.”

  I ducked and dodged while Stella squirted me until the gun ran out of wat
er. I wiped my face. “I’ll get you for this.”

  Stella blew me a kiss. “Looking forward to it, sweetie.”

  I slammed the door and locked it, then moved my desk chair over and propped it under the doorknob. “Wart face,” I muttered.

  I changed my T-shirt and climbed back onto my bed.

  What I wanted so bad I could taste was suddenly clear. I picked up my pencil and wrote:

  What I want so bad I can taste it is for Stella to get a big fat wart on the end of her big fat nose. My wish should come true because she’s an ugly toad and ugly toads have warts, lots and lots of warts. And since it’s totally unfair to get squirted because of some dumb pop cans, Mr. Purdy should want my wish to come true. Because he’s a fair teacher. And boot campers should stick together. Against all enemies. Forever and ever.

  Yeah!

  Maybe it wasn’t what I was supposed to write, but it felt good. I grinned. Then I tore the paper out of my notebook and tossed it toward the wastebasket.

  Missed.

  I ran the pencil under my nose. It smelled good. What I wanted was a dog. But I couldn’t get one. So what was I going to write?

  Argh!

  This assignment was hard.

  Hey … I banged my forehead with the palm of my hand. Duh … this isn’t for real. I can write whatever I want.

  I want a dog!

  I erased the exclamation point. Too much.

  I want a dog, because I love dogs … except I probably don’t want a hunting dog. Dogs like people. Cats mostly don’t, except for Maya’s cat, Zippy. Zippy is cool. But dogs are better.

  It was a start. Not a very good one, but I could make it better later. What next?

  I want a dog that can keep up with my bike.

  I erased it.

  I want a dog that likes to run.

  Erased that, too.

  I grinned, thinking how awesome it would be to have a dog next time Stella banged on my door. It would bark and spit out the dander stuff that makes her eyes puff up and she’d scream and run for her life. Ho, yeah! How funny would that be?

  New ideas popped up like popcorn.

  I could train it to follow Stella around like a shadow. I could make a sign for my door: BEWARE! DANDER BUGS!

  I could—

  I put my pencil down and rolled over onto my back. The black spider on the ceiling above my head was still in its same spot. It hadn’t moved in a week. Maybe it ate a fly and wasn’t hungry. I squinted at it. Was it even alive?

  I put my hands behind my head.

  How do you get something you can’t have?

  Mr. Purdy was excited.

  And that made us all nervous.

  He rubbed his hands together. “It’s Friday, boot campers. First-draft day!” He raised his fist as if this was the greatest thing since Batman tangled with the Joker. “Who’s going to read first?”

  I put my head down and shielded my eyes with my hand, whispering, “Not me, not me, not me.”

  “Nobody?”

  That classroom got so quiet I looked up to see if everyone was still there. Manly Stanley was watching me from the resort on Mr. Purdy’s desk. Was that fool grinning?

  “Oh, come on, guys,” Mr. Purdy said. “Where’s your confidence?” Even Shayla kept quiet. So quiet that I thought I heard Manly Stanley burp. Where was that roach, anyway?

  “Shayla?” Mr. Purdy said.

  Shayla’s paper was lying upside down on her desk. She touched it but didn’t turn it over. “It’s not very good yet, Mr. Purdy.”

  Mr. Purdy snapped his fingers. “Exactly, Shayla. That’s part of what I’m trying to teach you. Your first draft isn’t meant to be a great work of art. But you know what? You can make it better. Trust me, all of you, no matter how bad you think your first draft is, you can fix it. So, let’s hear what you’ve written, Shayla.”

  Shayla turned her paper over and started reading.

  “I want—”

  She stopped. “Everyone will laugh.”

  Mr. Purdy went over to the list of class rules and tapped number six: Never laugh at someone else’s mistakes. “First of all, whatever you’ve written is not a mistake. And even if it were, it would not be laughed at, would it, class?”

  “No, Mr. Purdy,” everyone mumbled.

  “Go ahead, Shayla.”

  “Don’t be shy-la,” Rubin whispered, loud.

  I looked back and grinned.

  Mr. Purdy gave Rubin his cork it squint.

  Shayla read, “I want to take yoga lessons.”

  She waited for everyone to laugh.

  I thought, Yoga? What’s yoga?

  Shayla read more.

  “I want to take yoga lessons with my mom, because she says they make her feel young and healthy. Mr. Purdy should want me to take yoga lessons, too, because I would do it with my mom. And I would get better grades, because I would be young and healthy like my mom.”

  Mr. Purdy smiled. “Very good, Shayla. Thank you. Yoga is an excellent practice, and doing something with your mom would be wonderful. Good work. Who’s next?”

  I slid lower in my seat.

  Mr. Purdy brightened. “Rubin. Great. Let’s hear it.”

  Rubin stood and cleared his throat.

  “I want a skateboard because skateboards are cool and if I had one I could race Maya and beat her because I’m a boy. Mr. Purdy will want me to have a skateboard because he’s a boy, too.”

  Maya looked at Rubin like, That has GOT to be the STUPIDEST thing I have ever heard in my LIFE!

  I covered my head and laughed. If that was a page of writing, his letters had to be six inches tall.

  “You’re right, Rubin,” Mr. Purdy said. “I am a boy. But you’re dreaming if you think you can beat Maya on a skateboard.”

  Maya smiled at Rubin.

  “That’s a good start, Rubin. Thank you for trying. Who’s next?”

  Willy was erasing something on his paper. Maybe he’d wanted a skateboard, too.

  Mr. Purdy looked my way. “Mr. Coconut, what have you got for me today?”

  Dang.

  My paper was in my pocket. I’d folded it down to the size of a postage stamp. I took it out, unfolded it, and looked up.

  Mr. Purdy nodded.

  “I want … a dog … maybe a small one, but not too small. I don’t want something that yaps and looks like a rat.”

  Mr. Purdy laughed, and when everyone saw he thought it was funny, they laughed, too.

  I went on, feeling braver. “Mr. Purdy should want me to have a dog because it will make me get better grades.”

  Now the class really laughed. Julio whooped in the back.

  Mr. Purdy held up his hands for quiet. “Just how might a dog make you do that, Calvin?”

  “Well, see … if I have a dog I’ll be happier, and if I’m happier I’ll work harder, and if I work harder, I’ll get better grades. Get it?”

  Mr. Purdy nodded. “If that’s all it takes to get better grades, I’m bringing everyone a dog tomorrow.”

  Rubin started barking. The whole class joined in.

  “Ssssssss,” Mr. Purdy hissed.

  “Ssssssss,” everyone hissed back.

  “I like your thinking, Calvin. And you grabbed my attention. We’ll talk about going deeper after we hear a few more essays, so hang on to your good thoughts.”

  “I can do that.”

  But which thoughts were the good ones?

  After a few others read their papers, Mr. Purdy said, “Good work, all of you. You make me proud. Now it’s time to talk about revision.”

  “Aww, man.”

  “It’s too much work.”

  “It’s junk.”

  Mr. Purdy sat on his desk next to Manly Stanley’s resort. Manly was trying to climb the glass.

  I grinned. Maybe Manly wrote a paper, too, and he was trying to get out so he could read it: What I want so bad I can taste it is another big fat juicy cock-a-roach!

  “This weekend,” Mr. Purdy said, “take what yo
u’ve written and make it better. Especially your opening sentence. That sentence has to pick me up and shake me. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Not really.

  “For example,” Mr. Purdy went on. “Instead of Shayla saying she wants to take yoga lessons, she could open with something like this: If you’ve ever seen someone twisted up like a pretzel, you know that yoga is an amazing practice. See? Now we’re interested, because a person twisted up like a pretzel is unusual. We try to imagine it.”

  Shayla nodded.

  Mr. Purdy spread his hands. “Now, I know yoga isn’t about pretzels, but that word does create an interesting image. That’s what I want you to do with your opening sentences. Make them more interesting. Invent your own pretzels.”

  A pretzel?

  Boy, was I stumped.

  After school, Darci, Julio, Willy, Rubin, and I kicked across the grassy field, heading home.

  I was thinking.

  Sometimes Mr. Purdy was strange. Invent your own pretzel?

  But it did get my attention.

  Okay. So I could write: A dog is like a pretzel.

  Dumb. No way is a dog like a pretzel.

  Then I thought, Hey! Ledward’s pig!

  A pig in a jeep would be a monster pretzel. I mean, who could resist wanting to hear more about that? So maybe Ledward’s pig was my pretzel.

  But if I’m writing about a dog, how can I make a pig my pretzel?

  I kicked a crushed pop can on the side of the road. It skittered past Darci and Julio, who were walking in front of me.

  Julio looked back. “How come you so quiet?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Pretzels.”

  Julio grunted.

  Okay, I thought, how about this: A dog is like a pig in a jeep, only he’s riding with a kid on a bike. The dog’s name is …

  What is his name? I liked Streak.

  Streak.

  Yeah.

  Ho! The second I named that dog, he became real. Alive. Streak was a real dog. He was living somewhere right now. Or was Streak a girl dog? He or she was probably a puppy curled up in a cardboard box in somebody’s laundry room.