Chewy and Chica (5 page)

“I hate to yell at him,” Charles said. “He’s so sensitive. If I yell, he’ll just tremble and look up at me with those big, bulgy eyes of his. I can’t take it. I decided that instead of yelling, I would just act like I was Chewy’s puppy brother,” Charles said. “Chewy has to understand that
biting hurts people, just like it hurts other puppies. If I don’t say anything, he doesn’t know. But if Sammy or I bark or squeal, he stops right away — at least for a second. That gives me time to praise him for
not
chewing. It really works.”

“That,” said Lizzie, “is the weirdest dog-training idea I ever heard. But hey, good luck with it. You’ll still never win our bet, because I’m way ahead of you. My Twenty-Minute Plan works so well that Chica hasn’t had an accident all day. Tomorrow we’ll go to the Thirty-Minute Plan. Chica’s almost ready for a forever home, and I’ll find her one soon.”

“Chewy’s almost ready, too,” said Charles. “The contest isn’t over yet, you know.”

Lizzie sighed and plopped down on the ground next to Charles. She plucked a piece of grass from the lawn and started to shred it. “Even if we do find homes for Chewy and Chica, that’s only two puppies. Then there are all the puppies at the shelter — they need homes, too — and the
puppy mills just keep turning out
more
puppies to sell to stores like PetLove.” She told Charles and Sammy about the puppies at the store, and how she and Maria had decided not to buy anything there, and how Ms. Dobbins had already asked Mr. Sneed not to sell puppy mill puppies but he had refused. “It just made me so mad.”

“So let’s do something about it,” said Charles.

“That’s what Mr. Beauregard said. But what can we do?” asked Lizzie.

Charles thought for a moment. “What about a petition?”

Charles liked the idea of petitions. He had recently helped his mom take one around the neighborhood. The petition was a piece of paper with an explanation at the top about why the town needed a new soccer field. Charles and his mom convinced a lot of people to sign their names to say they agreed. Other people were taking petitions around their neighborhoods, too. When they had enough signatures, they would show
the petition to the people in charge at the town government, and say, “Look! Five hundred people signed this petition that says we should have a new soccer field.” Then the town would have to do something about it. Charles’s favorite part of the petition was at the top, where big old-fashioned letters said
WE, THE UNDERSIGNED
. . . He thought that sounded cool and important, like a phrase right out of history. “We could get people to sign a petition against puppy mills.”

“Not a bad idea.” Lizzie nodded slowly. “But we need more. We need something dramatic, something that’ll make people think twice before they shop at PetLove.” She plucked three more blades of grass and began to braid them.

By now, Chica had settled on her lap, and Chewy was on Charles’s. Chewy was snuggled up, all cozy, and not biting for once. Charles patted him softly. It was great to have a dog that could curl up right in your lap. Buddy was already getting too big for that. These Chihuahuas sure
did love to be close to their people. Charles thought that if he ever had one for keeps, he would want to slip him into his pocket and take him every where.

“I just know that if other people understood how bad puppy mills are, they wouldn’t want to shop at PetLove any more than I do.” Lizzie threw down her half-made braid. “I’ve got it!” she said suddenly. “A protest. Like, a demonstration. We can march around with signs in front of PetLove, and let people know why they shouldn’t shop there. We’ll get all the dog lovers we know to come out, with their dogs. That will definitely attract attention.”

Charles had to admit that it was a great idea. “It could be our first real Caring Club activity,” he said, “because we’ll be educating people. And maybe it will even make that Mr. Sneed think again about selling puppies who come from puppy mills.”

Sammy wanted to run home for cardboard and
paints so they could start making signs right away. But just then, the Bean came out onto the deck, holding Buddy’s leash. “Uppies!” he yelled. As soon as he started down the stairs, Chewy and Chica began to yip and yap. Buddy took one look at the Chihuahuas and towed the Bean across the yard in the opposite direction. Charles and Lizzie grabbed the Chihuahuas’ collars. Buddy deserved to be out in his own backyard without being chased.

Buddy stood in one corner of the yard and barked at the Chihuahuas. Chewy and Chica yipped back at him. Even Rufus and Goldie, in their own yard next door at Sammy’s house, began to bark.

Charles and Sammy looked at each other and shrugged. Then they began to yip and bark, too. A second later, Lizzie and the Bean joined in with their own barking. Charles laughed as he yipped. He wasn’t even sure why they had all started to
bark together, but it sure was fun. He felt like they were all just one big pack of dogs.

“Hey! What’s all the racket?” Dad came out the back door and glared at them, hands on his hips. “Quiet down out here, all you dogs. Your mom’s trying to get some work done upstairs.” He went over to help the Bean control Buddy.

Slowly, the barking petered out. “That’s better,” said Dad. “Now, whose turn is it to set the table? It’s almost dinnertime.”

For a few moments, between planning the demonstration and barking together, Charles had been having such a good time that he’d forgotten all about the bet. He could tell that Lizzie had forgotten, too. But at the words “set the table,” it all came back. It was great to bark together, but he had to remember: this was war.

Sammy nudged Charles. Charles knew what that meant. “Can Sammy eat over?” he asked.

Dad smiled. Charles knew what
that
meant, too. Dad joked sometimes that Sammy ate more meals at the Petersons’ than at his own house. “Sure, there’s plenty for everyone.”

Charles picked Chewy up. “Come on, Sammy. It’s my turn, so if you want to stay, you have to help me set the table.”

“Hope you like that job, because soon it’ll be your turn for a whole month,” Lizzie teased. “Once I win that bet.”

Charles made a face at Lizzie as he and Sammy went inside. The war was definitely back on. “She thinks she’s so smart,” Charles muttered, gathering forks, knives, and napkins. Sammy filled water glasses at the kitchen sink and carried them to the table, spilling only a little here and there along the way.

“Hey, want to teach Lizzie a lesson?” Sammy asked as he placed the glasses on the table. “I just thought of the best idea.”

Charles put down the last fork and knife, at his dad’s place. He looked at Sammy. Sammy had a lot of ideas. Not all of them worked out so well, but they were almost always fun in the beginning. “What did you have in mind?”

Ding
. Upstairs, Lizzie’s timer went off. She jumped up from the computer, where she was busy downloading information about puppy mills. She looked at the tiny puppy who sat alertly by her feet. “Come on, Chica. Time to go out.” Chica squinted back at her and let out a happy yip.

Again? Already? Well, okay! Fine with me. I’ll go anywhere with you
.

Lizzie scooped up the tiny pup and headed downstairs. Charles and Sammy had finished setting the table, but dinner wasn’t quite ready yet. Good. She had so much to do to prepare for the big demonstration. She had already been on
the phone with Maria, talking about it. They had decided on Friday, the day after next, as the perfect day. Lizzie had already printed out some informational brochures about why puppy mills should be banned. She could hardly stand to look at the pictures of skinny puppies all crowded into tiny cages. She’d saved one to give to Mom, for research for her article, and left one on Charles’s bed. He could use the facts in it when he wrote up his petition.

Lizzie heard Charles and Sammy whisper and giggle in the living room as she walked by. What were those two up to now? How many times had Sammy come up with some wild idea — and then talked Charles into doing some thing crazy? If you asked Lizzie, she’d say Sammy was a bad influence. He was funny, though; she had to admit that. Sammy always had a joke ready.

Outside, Lizzie put Chica down on the grass. The puppy scampered right over to the rosebush
where Chewy and she had peed earlier. She squatted and peed. Then she cocked her head and squinted at Lizzie.

I bet this is why you brought me out here. Am I right? Am I right? Am I right?

“Good girl.” Lizzie ran over and scooped her up. “Oh, Chica, you’re really learning, aren’t you? What a good girl.” She kissed Chica’s nose, and the top of her head, and each of her ears. Chica trembled — and this time Lizzie could tell it was from happiness.

Back inside, Chica let out a yip.

Hey, bro! Where are you?

Chewy yipped back from the living room.

In here! Come find me!

Chica ran to find her brother. “Okay, Chica, you go play,” said Lizzie. She set her timer again and carried it upstairs, reminding herself to write up a description of her Twenty-Minute Plan to post on her favorite dog-training chat group. The plan really was a success. Soon she’d be taking Chica out every half hour, then every hour — until, in a few days, she wouldn’t need the timer at all anymore. By then, Chica would definitely be ready for a forever home.

Upstairs, Lizzie knocked on the door of her mom’s study. Mom was on the phone. She held up a hand to tell Lizzie to wait a second. Buddy and the Bean lay next to Mom’s desk, curled up together on Buddy’s dog bed. Sometimes the Bean liked to pretend he was a puppy.

“Thank you, Senator. I look forward to meeting with you.” Mom finished her phone call and hung up. She threw her hands into the air. “Yes! That’s terrific. Senator Bisbee is willing to meet with
me to hear more about puppy mills and why our state should make them illegal.”

“Mom, that’s so great.” Lizzie gave her mom a high five. Then she thought of something. She was so excited that she started to jump up and down. Buddy got excited, too. He scrambled up from his bed and spun around in circles. The Bean copied him, pretending to chase his own invisible tail.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, you have to call the senator back!” Lizzie said. “Tell him to come to our demonstration. He’ll learn every thing he needs to know about puppy mills.”

Mom looked puzzled. “Demonstration?”

“Yes! It’s our first official Caring Club activity.” Lizzie explained it all: about PetLove’s buying puppies from puppy mills, about the plan she and Charles and Sammy had come up with, even about the idea Maria had added — that they should advertise a free dog wash so that lots of pet owners would be sure to come by. Maria’s
dad was going to ask his friend Manny if they could set up the dog wash outside his hardware store.

“Well,” said Mom. “You certainly have been busy. What does Ms. Dobbins think of all this?”

“She loves the idea,” said Lizzie. “She told me all the best websites to go to for information about puppy mills. Probably some of the same ones you’ve checked out for your article. Have you seen the one with pictures of —”

“Lizzie!” Charles yelled from downstairs. “You better get down here.”

“Uh-oh,” said Lizzie. Without even finishing her sentence, she dashed out of her mom’s office and down the stairs. “What is it?” she asked. “Where’s Chica?”

Charles led her into the hallway and pointed to a puddle on the floor. “I guess Chica couldn’t wait twenty minutes this time.”

“Oh, no.” Lizzie looked at Chica, who sat under the phone table in the hall. The puppy
squinted back, trembling all over and wagging her tail hopefully.

Who, me?

“Oh, Chica,” sighed Lizzie. But she didn’t yell or even say, “No.” It was too late for that. The deed was done — and it was probably her own fault, anyway. Maybe she should have let Chica stay outside longer last time, instead of rushing right back upstairs. She picked the puppy up and ran to the back door. Even though it was too late, Lizzie knew that it was good to show her where she
should
have gone.

She set Chica on the grass near the rosebush. The puppy sat there and looked at Lizzie, her head tilted quizzically. Lizzie thought she looked upset. “Don’t worry about it, Chica.” She picked her up and scratched between her ears. Chica loved that. “It wasn’t your fault.” Chica wriggled happily.

Me, worry? What do I have to worry about?

Back inside, Lizzie cleaned up the puddle with paper towels while Sammy and Charles watched. “Too bad.” Charles shook his head. “Just when she was doing so well, too.”

Sammy clucked his tongue. “I guess Mickey Milligan doesn’t have to worry about the competition from that Twenty-Minute Plan of yours.”

Lizzie gritted her teeth. “Maybe
you
should worry about minding your own business,” she said. “Anyway, that was just one small mistake. It doesn’t mean a thing. We won’t let it happen again, will we, Chica?” She scooped her up and cuddled the tiny pup next to her face. Chica trembled, then licked Lizzie’s cheek. Lizzie carried Chica back upstairs with her head held high, trying to ignore the whispers and giggles from her annoying brother and his pesty friend. What did
they
know about dog training?

Downstairs, Sammy and Charles giggled so hard they could barely manage to smack each other a high five. “That was so awesome!” Sammy gasped.

Charles thought of the look on Lizzie’s face when she first saw the puddle. Ha. Miss Know-It-All sure had gotten a surprise, hadn’t she? “Awesome,” he agreed.

“How long do you think we have to wait until we do it again?” Sammy asked when he finally caught his breath.

“Again?” Charles wasn’t sure about that.

“Definitely,” Sammy said. “Come on! It was hilarious.”

Upstairs, Lizzie reset her timer and carried it and Chica back to Mom’s study.

“Everything okay?” Mom asked.

“Fine,” said Lizzie. “Just a tiny setback. No problem. It’s all cleaned up. So, will you call him? Please?”

“Lizzie,” Mom said, “I get it that you want me to call Senator Bisbee. And I will. But I have a lot of other research and writing to do on this article, so it might not happen tonight. Anyway, it’s nearly dinnertime and I don’t want to bother him.” She spun around on her chair and looked straight at Lizzie. “But guess what? I just heard from my friend at the police station. I asked him to try to trace the numbers Mr. Beauregard gave me. You know, from the license plate of that truck that sells the puppies.”