Birdie For Now (10 page)

“Even though real dogs are much more bother than dream ones, real ones are way better once you get used to them,” Jody said. “I thought about my first few days with Poppet and decided you might need me to promise you that it'll be fine.”

“Thanks,” Dickon said. “Did Poppet chew up things and pee on the floor?”

“Yup. She still chews up things every so often, but she never pees in the house now. I also brought you a
book on dog raising. It's on loan.”

“Thanks,” Dickon said again.

He'd never be able to read such a fat book. Maybe Mum would read some of it to him.

“It has a couple of pages about Papillons in it,” Jody said. “They go way back in history. Queens owned them. Well, you can read it yourself. There's a whole little book about Papillons at the pet store.”

“Cool,” Dickon said. Maybe that Marie was a queen.

“Call me at this number if you need help,” she said, handing him a slip of paper. “I live just two streets over that way. Did you hear Jenny's idea about going on with Obedience Training? I think Leslie is going to do it if we are serious. My mother says it's okay with her. Even if the classes don't work out, we could start our own Dog Club. Would you like to join?”

He stared at her.

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes shining. “I sure would.”

“Good luck,” Jody said and took off,
Poppet bouncing along next to her.

When he went back inside, he caught his mother looking at him as though she had never seen him before. She smiled.

“Is that girl your friend?” she asked softly.

Dickon hesitated. He understood why she was asking. None of the kids from school had ever dropped by like that. But he was not certain what to answer. Having a friend was so new. He was scared to talk about it in case it was not real. But finally he nodded.

“Yes,” he said huskily. “I think some of the others kind of like me too.”

His mother turned her eyes away from the wonder on his face and cleared her throat.

“That's nice,” she said, keeping it light.

Dickon's “real” dog hopped in and out of her basket many times that night. Every time, she took care to wake him up. When he did go off to sleep at last, she sneaked up onto his bed. He woke to find her curled around his feet.

“Mum will have a fit,” he whispered, but Birdie flew off the bed the moment she heard his mother stirring. She floated to the floor and landed like a feather. When Julie looked in, the tiny dog gazed up at her, innocent as an angel.

It was Saturday morning and Mum was staying home. Dickon went around feeling bubbly. He pestered his mother to admit Birdie was perfect, but she would not. Even so, he believed she was weakening. How could she not?

Then Birdie pooped behind the couch. She had whined at the door, but he had been watching a Batman video and not noticed.

“I can't take this!” his mother snapped. She gave Birdie a disgusted look and brandished the weekend paper at her.

“Bad dog!” she scolded.

Birdie stiffened and gave a small whir in her throat. It was too tiny to be called a growl, but it was the best she could do.

Julie Fielding backed away, her eyes wide.

“Did you hear that?” she demanded
shrilly. “We can't keep a dog who growls. If I hadn't pulled my hand back, she'd have bitten me.”

“No,” Dickon cried, putting his arm around his frightened dog. “She didn't mean it.”

“Oh, didn't she? She's dirty and she is not to be trusted. You heard her snarl yourself. I warned you. No, don't try to clean up. You'll just make it worse.”

She was pale and she did not look him in the eye.

“What are you saying?” he choked, his eyes enormous behind their glasses.

She had her back to him.

“I'm sorry, Bird. I really am. But nobody could expect me to put up with this. Messing in the house. Vicious behavior. She'll have to go back first thing Monday morning.”

Dickon stared at his mother. Surely he had heard her wrong!

“No, Mum. No,” he whispered.

She turned, saw the shock on his face and rushed out of the room, leaving him and his fierce Papillon alone.

He took a deep breath and shut his mouth tight on a roar of anguish. She had left the mess untouched. He got
up and got paper towels. The poop was loose and he knew why she had said he would make it messier. He would show her.

He picked up what he could. Then he got a cloth and washed the carpet over and over until it was cleaner than it had been before Birdie had dirtied it. He actually sniffed it to make sure he had done it right.

Birdie watched him, her head on one side, no curl in her tail. She looked as nervous as he felt. Even her ears seemed to have shrunk.

“It's all right, girl, but don't do it again,” he told her.

She won't have a chance, a voice inside him said.

She will so, he replied.

But his mother was staying in her bedroom with the door shut for a long time.

Then the phone rang. He let it ring until she answered. Then he tiptoed close enough to listen.

“Don't ask,” he heard her say. “I'm afraid she turned out to be vicious.”

Silently, Dickon began to cry. Birdie was not vicious. He knew she wasn't. Mum had scared her; that was all. It was not fair.

He went on listening.

“I can't take the chance that she'll bite him.” His mother's voice rose.

As if she would!

There was a pause. He heard a voice squawking through the phone line.

“Leslie, you say you know that this animal has not a vicious bone in her body. But she growled at me. Birdie will say so himself.”

She dropped her voice then. No matter how hard Dickon strained to hear, he caught no more.

“Well, thanks for calling. I have to get my boy some supper now.”

Her boy bolted across the room and sat with Birdie cradled in his arms.

Julie Fielding went straight to the kitchen, pretending not to see them. She came back with cleaning things and silently went to the spot behind the couch.

“I cleaned it up,” he said hoarsely.

“I see you tried,” she said, scrubbing busily at the clean carpet.

She couldn't even admit that he had done a good job.

He put on Birdie's leash and took her out. When she began to squat, he gently urged her over to the curb. Leslie had taught them to do this and Birdie remembered.

“Good, good girl!” Dickon heaped on the praise.

Supper was a silent meal. Mum had picked up a barbecued chicken, usually one of his favorite meals. Tonight it choked him. Once he tried bringing up the subject, but she refused to discuss it. After that, he was too wretched to talk. Besides, he was as mad as she was.

After they finished, she started taking the chicken off the bones. He pretended to watch TV while really rehearsing what to say the first chance he got. By the set of his mother's shoulders, he could tell that now was not the moment.

“Birdie, go to bed,” she called.

He faced her, holding his dog in his
arms, and burst out, “Mum, I have to talk about Birdie. I have to.”

She looked at his too-bright eyes, his flaming cheeks. She sighed.

“We'll discuss it in the morning,” she said. “I need to sleep on it. Leslie thinks she's not vicious. But both you and I heard her growl.”

“Mum, that was no growl! Listen to me!”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “But don't hope too hard, son. I am afraid I have made up my mind. Not another word until morning.”

Clutching Birdie, he ran to his room. For the first time she could remember, he did not kiss her goodnight.

And it was that dog's fault.

The house was very small. Julie Fielding, putting the meat away in the fridge, could hear her son sobbing.

“I can vouch for that dog's being gentle,” Leslie Hawkin had said. “I re-member the day she was brought in. The kids persuaded me to let Dickon help with her the very next day. He was too young but he reminded me of
my brother Jeremy. Dickon was forlorn and they all liked him … Well, never mind that. He came every day. He sometimes even arrived on weekends when there were no classes, although he was in a hurry then.”

“He must have gone while I was out shopping,” Julie had said slowly.

“The point is,” Leslie said, not letting her finish, “that little dog never once even snapped at anybody. She was nervous. Nervous dogs often do snap. But once Dickon worked with her, she was so sweet. You mustn't separate them, Mrs. Fielding. I think he needs her.”

Julie had cut her short at that point. How dared this stranger tell her what was good for her boy?

But what if the dog was really helping him?

Then a girl called Jenny phoned.

“He's asleep,” Julie said.

“I'm one of his friends,” the girl with the English accent said. “Tell him I'm so happy he's going to keep Birdie.”

One of his friends! Before they
moved, he had never had calls from one friend, let alone several.

Julie knew she should set the child straight, but somehow she could not get the words out. She went to the kitchen and put the chicken carcass on to boil for soup stock. She turned the heat to medium to get it started and went to make a grocery list. It was time she began cooking properly again. Dickon liked her homemade soup. She could bake bread too. He loved freshly baked bread.

She saw his face again. He had never looked at her like that before. Never. Her eyes filled with tears. Turning out the kitchen light, she picked up the newspaper on her way to her room. She undressed, propped herself up in bed, opened the paper and flipped through the pages. They seemed full of pictures of dogs, dogs and children playing, children and dogs in an ad for snowsuits. She felt battered by them.

In the kitchen the soup stock boiled fiercely. Next to the pot, a potholder that Julie Fielding had used earlier slipped from its hook and lay across the stove.

At ten, she sighed with relief. It was perfectly respectable to go to sleep at ten o'clock if you were tired. Never had she felt so weary.

Before she slept, she got out of bed and tiptoed into her son's room. His desk light blazed, his cheeks were tear-streaked, but at least he was sleeping soundly now.

“I'm sorry, Bird,” she whispered, leaning to kiss him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a movement and pulled back, startled. A plumy tail waved on the far side of the bed. The small dog did not growl now. She stood up, shook herself and held up a paw.

Julie stared.

Birdie looked reproachful and kept it extended.

Dickon's mother giggled.

“If I shake, it doesn't mean I promise to keep you,” she told her son's dog in a whisper.

Birdie waited.

Timidly, Julie took the paw in her fingertips and shook it gently up and
down. Birdie waved her tail like a flag of truce. Then she curled up beside her master and gazed up at the woman who had spoken of sending her away.

Laughing softly, almost hysterically, Julie left Dickon's bedroom and went to her own. For some time she lay awake. Finally, she picked up her diary and began to write. It did not take long to put down her surprising new thoughts. She stared at the page for a moment, put the diary back and was asleep in seconds.

It took over an hour more for the stockpot to boil dry. The pot grew hotter and hotter until the stovetop started to heat up as well and the potholder began to singe. The smell of scorched bones and a thread of smoke from the burning potholder stole across the kitchen and into the small hall.

Birdie awoke.

Yap! Yap! Whine! Yelp!

Dickon struggled half out of sleep.

“Stop that,” he mumbled. “Birdie, shut UP!”

Birdie barked on. Dickon heaved himself up on one elbow and froze.

Smoke!

“Mum!” he screamed, leaping up and plunging into the hall. “Mum, FIRE!”

She was still asleep when he reached her. He shook her shoulder and screamed again.