Her head tilts again, and her eyebrows and eyes beg along with her tone.
She’s lonely. I get that. Since Jessie moved, I never have anyone to walk with, either, except the dogs now.
“Fine.”
Her house is around the corner at the end of our street. I always try to keep the dogs off everyone’s lawns when we stroll. They gallop along on the stretch of grass between the sidewalk and the street. As we walk east, they’re on our left. “Good boy, walk nice,” I encourage Pong as we go. “Don’t let him pull,” I tell Renée.
But Mason Man’s big red truck attracts their attention. It’s parked across our path, half in and half out of a driveway. Mason Man is large, like his truck, and his arms are as thick as logs. He lives on the other side of the park and owns a golden retriever that we walk. Mason Man does everything with bricks: wishing wells, barbecues, driveways. Today, the sun gleams off his bald head as he spreads mortar on some rust-coloured bricks edging the driveway. It looks like he’s building a wall.
“Hi!” I call, but he’s concentrating and doesn’t answer me.
Renée and I carefully steer the dogs around the back of the truck. Then we turn the corner and Renée goes into her house. “See you tomorrow,” she says.
“See you.” Can’t avoid her, really; she’s in my class, after all. I’m left with the two dogs all by myself now, and I hate to admit it, but Renée really was a big help. As we head back, the dogs become confused and want to stay on my left, just like before. The leashes criss-cross, but I manage to steer Ping off people’s lawns. We turn the corner again. This time it’s Pong who gives me grief. He pulls ahead to the driveway next to Mason Man’s truck. He stretches to reach the pile of bricks, sniffing and saluting the pile with one leg up.
“No, no!” I yell, but it’s too late, he lets go a heavy stream.
“Hey!” Mason Man looks up from his wall and shakes his trowel at me. “You know how old these bricks are?”
I want to be honest, but Mason Man’s a scary-looking dude on the best of days. With the trowel in his hand, he’s armed and dangerous. Still, he’s waiting for an answer. “Um, well, they look pretty ancient, actually,” I finally answer.
He picks up one from the pile, and I duck away as he shoves it under my face. “A hundred years old.”
With a rectangular indent in the middle and the word STANDARD printed inside it, the brick just looks tired to me. You would think the people hiring him to build this wall would spring for new ones.
“These are reclaimed bricks from an old farmhouse on Highway 5. You let that animal pee on antiques.”
“Sorry.” I try to make it right with him. “If you have a hose, I would gladly wash them down for you.”
“Never mind. I don’t have time for that.”
“Here, Mr. Mason, take my card. If you call me, I’ll give Bailey a free walk someday when he needs one.”
He holds it in his hand for a moment and shakes his head. “How can I trust you with him if you can’t control these two. I should find a different walking service entirely.”
“These are new clients for me. We still have to get used to each other,” I explain.
“Huh!” Mason Man grunts and stuffs the card in his back pocket. Maybe he’ll use the number for Dad to complain later.
Mistake number six of the day becomes ticking off one of Dad’s local dog-walking customers, and a meaty, scary-looking one at that.
day one, mistake seven
What if Mason Man cancels our walking service for Bailey? My first day on the job and I screw up. What will Dad say? I’m going to have to call him right away. But first I rush the dogs back to the Bennetts’ house and take them inside, so we can’t get in any more trouble. They’re panting hard, so I head for the kitchen to fill their water bowls.
Pong puffs hot breaths through my pant legs as he follows close on my heels. Ping snaps up a rubber goose and honks it as he runs around with it lodged in his teeth. Look at me. Pay attention to me. I have a toy, you don’t. I grab it from him and toss it as far as I can so the noise stops. His toenails scrabble across the hardwood floor as he chases after it. Despite the walk and extra attention, the two still seem desperate for company; it’s going to be hard to leave them. Let’s face it: back home, I’ll be alone, too. Ping shakes the goose at me. “Listen, your mom’s going to be home in an hour,” I tell them. “I can’t stay and play.”
Both sets of ears perk up at the word play. They haven’t really heard anything else. I guess it wouldn’t hurt if I hung around and tossed the goose for them for a little while.
At this moment my cellphone rings. Uh-oh! Did Mason Man already complain to Dad? I try to be super professional answering the call. Dad bought me this phone because of his business and insists I answer it a certain way. “Hello, Noble Dog Walking. Stephen here. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Stephen. It’s Delilah Bennett. Have you finished with the boys’ walkies?”
Ping honks his goose hello.
I stick my finger in my other ear. “Yes, Mrs. Bennett. We’re back at your house right now.”
“Perfect. As it turns out, I’m going out on another flight. Mr. Bennett won’t be home till late.”
“You want me to give them their supper?”
Pong lifts one ear up straight and tall at the last word.
“Yes, please. A couple of those little white boxes of sirloin stew for Ping. It’s in the cupboard. Half a tin of liver barkies for Pong. His is in the fridge. And Stephen?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bennett?”
“Would it be possible to throw in an extra walk for them? Around seven o’clock?”
“Um, sure.” This may make up for losing Dad a customer if Mr. Mason cancels his service. The dogs watch my mouth and face, ears up, tongues out. “An extra walk,” I repeat.
The mere mention of the W-word makes them go crazy. Ping wags so hard he flips over. Pong jumps up and places his long toes on my chest. They’re super happy and they like me. It’s like having two dogs of my own. Closest I ever got to owning any dogs was while playing Minecraft. But I’m going to have to abandon them now, unless I suggest something that’s totally against Mom’s rules. “Um, Mrs. Bennett, can Ping and Pong hang out at my place?”
“That would be perfect. I’ll pick them up from your house later, then.”
I hang up and set out the stew and barkies for the dogs, and they race each other to finish. The winner? Ping. He polishes off his own, then muzzles into the greyhound’s food and snarfs the rest of that up, too. No wonder Pong is so skinny.
With Dad’s delicious dog treats, I manage to get both dogs sitting long enough to snap on their leashes — so much work and we’re only a couple of houses away.
As we walk, I know this is definitely a huge mistake to bring the boys home. Mistake number seven. I sigh. We aren’t supposed to have any animals in the house because Mom’s so allergic. Still, she’s on the Paris–Amsterdam–London run and will be away for three more days. I’ll keep them outside in the yard the whole time. This should only be for a few hours. For just awhile longer, they won’t be lonely.
Luckily, I keep a tight grip on the leashes. I hear the bass pumping before I see it: the orange Beetle driving by at a clip. And what kind of VW makes an engine noise like that? Ping and Pong pull forward to attack, they’re so mad. Do they remember our last encounter? As I struggle to keep them back, I notice a different person driving this time. I could swear it’s our principal, Mrs. Watier.
My eyes follow the Beetle as it crosses the intersection and doesn’t turn. Hmm. That is the street where