Girl's Best Friend (2 page)

Preston and I had fun in Prospect Park and I think we found your ring, too. Please see bag! (You also might want to put on some gloves and hold your nose.)

See you tomorrow,

Maggie

While my parents would be upset about my new business, they’d be happy that I finally found a use for the personalized stationery my aunt Sally gave me for my eighth birthday.

Yes, stationery for an eight-year-old. Obviously she doesn’t have any children.

I capped my pen and headed for the door, glancing over my shoulder for one last look. Isabel wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but her crutches? They were still lying on the couch, untouched.

Chapter 3

♦     ♦     ♦

Milo did his business. And by business, I mean he pooped and peed. I fed him a cup of kibble, as instructed, and gave him two treats.

See you tomorrow,

Maggie

Unlike boy-Milo, dog-Milo is extremely easy to deal with. He’s always happy to see me and he’s very well behaved.

Bean is a different story. I picked her up as a client two weeks ago. Parminder referred me. She and Bean’s owner, Cassie, live in the same building, except I can’t walk her and Milo together because Bean tries to fight with every dog she sees. I guess no one told her she’s a six-pound Maltese.

Another annoying thing about Bean—she wears a sweater. Not in the house; that would be too easy. Bean’s owner has me dress her in a sweater before I take her outside. Although I’ve been told that this is strictly a cold weather–month policy. Once summer hits, I’ll get to dress her in a T-shirt. Something to look forward to.

So after dropping off Milo, I walked up one flight of steps so I could fetch—and dress—Bean.

Her red-and-blue-striped cashmere hoodie sat folded on the kitchen table, still in its dry-cleaning bag. The dog has a nicer wardrobe than I do.

Since walking Bean is all about avoiding other animals, we headed away from the park. Everything went okay for a while. As soon as I spotted the flat-faced Boston terrier up ahead, I crossed the street. Bean didn’t even notice him. Then I heard a kid on a scooter rolling up from behind. I picked up the pace and turned the corner because Bean also snarls at anything on wheels.

A minute later she sniffed at a half-eaten granola bar. “Let’s go, Bean.” I gave her leash a slight tug but Bean wouldn’t budge. She’s surprisingly strong for a six-pound animal. Stubborn, too.

After she finally did her thing, we turned around and headed back to her place. Before we even got close I spotted trouble up ahead: five humongous dogs pulling along one small woman. Like sled dogs racing, but without the sled.

Bean saw them, too, and she went crazy. Teeth bared and growling the most ferocious growl her half-pint-size body could muster, she strained to get at them.

And once the other dogs noticed her acting aggressive, they went crazy, too—barking, snarling, the works.

Their annoyed-looking walker had straight dark hair and short bangs. She wore hiking boots, faded jeans, and a gray sweatshirt with a big picture of a Dalmatian and the words
DIAL-A-WALKER
embroidered above it in red stitching.

“Can you move, please?” She barked even louder than her dogs. Also? Her “please” sounded more sarcastic than polite, like she owned the sidewalk and I should’ve known better than to trespass.

I scooped up Bean fast and turned to cross the street, but there was a truck coming. So the best thing I could do was step between two parked cars.

When she passed, the dark-haired woman squinted at me like she needed glasses, although she already wore a pair—rectangular ones with thin wire rims.

Bean growled and two of the woman’s dogs snarled right back.

Suddenly one of them—a chubby chocolate Lab—broke free from his leash and darted straight at us.

I held Bean up high over my head, closed my eyes, and hoped for the best.

Luckily the dog ran right past. Turns out he was chasing a squirrel.

“Stop him!” the woman yelled, like a drill sergeant giving orders.

But it was all I could do to hang on to Bean, now flailing around like crazy.

The Labrador moved fast, darting across Garfield and up toward Prospect Park West—one of the busiest streets in the neighborhood.

I heard shouts.

Squealing brakes.

Skidding tires.

Then a horrific crash that seemed to reverberate for miles.

Next, silence. The scariest kind.

My heart ping-ponged in my chest.

The air reeked of burned rubber and it made me dizzy.

I squeezed my eyes shut tight and buried my face in Bean’s neck, not minding the tickle of fur against my cheeks or the sharp perfume of her shampoo.

Doors slammed and people yelled.

I held my breath and did not move.

I was afraid to look—and once I finally did, I cried.

Chapter 4

♦     ♦     ♦

They were tears of relief, because the dog had made it.

The silver SUV was a different story. It was half on the sidewalk, a crushed garbage can under one tire, smoke billowing from its hood.

The owner was steaming worse than the car, because in swerving to avoid the dog, he’d run over the garbage can, then hit a lamppost.

“What’s wrong with you, lady?” he screamed at the dark-haired woman.

“It’s not my fault,” she cried as she pulled a spare leash from her backpack and clipped it to the Lab’s collar. (A jogger in green spandex had finally caught and returned the dog.) “The leash broke because he was pulling, and he was pulling because of her.”

I thought it was kind of strange, blaming an innocent dog. That’s before I noticed the woman’s finger pointing at me, not Bean.

I took a step back. This so wasn’t my fault, but before I could tell her, the guy said, “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re gonna blame a kid?”

As he pulled out his cell phone and punched in some numbers, the dark-haired woman turned to me. “You need to be more careful with your dog. She could really get hurt. When you picked her up like that, my dogs thought she was a toy. That’s why they got so crazy.”

“They were acting crazy anyway,” I said as I lowered Bean to the sidewalk. With her pink tongue thrust out, she marched back and forth like a hairy little soldier.

The chocolate Lab yawned and stretched out on the sidewalk. The other five dogs had calmed down, too. All sober like they knew how awful the accident could’ve been.

Meanwhile, I was still shaking. I took a deep, steady breath and willed my heart to slow down. “Anyway, she’s not my dog. I just walk her.”

The other walker did a double take and asked, “Wait. Is that Bean?”

I nodded. “You know her?”

“I didn’t recognize her in the new sweater.”

“It’s cashmere.”

“Of course it is,” she snapped. “Where are you from?”

“Um, a few blocks away.” I pointed in the general direction, not about to give up my address to a surly stranger.

The woman closed her eyes for a moment and huffed, impatient. “I mean who do you work for? Matilde’s Mutts? Parker’s Pooches? Tail Waggers Express?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Which dog-walking company are you with?”

“There are companies?”

“Of course there are companies.”

She said it like I was stupid, but who ever heard of a dog-walking company? Not me. “I didn’t know. I only walk a few dogs.” This seemed to upset her even more.

“Great. You’re not even a professional.” She bent down to pet the Labrador. Then she spoke to him in a loud whisper. “I can’t believe I got replaced by a child.”

Okay, now she’d gone too far. “You know, I’m standing right here. I can hear you.”

The woman groaned. “Don’t take it so personally. It’s just an expression. But how old are you, anyway?”

“I’m none of your business,” I replied. “And a half.”

She let out a short, angry breath, clearly not appreciating my sense of humor. “This is probably some fun little hobby for you, but I take my job seriously and I need these clients.”

“I had no idea that you walked Bean. Cassie called me out of the blue. I’ve never even met her in person. And Bean is just one dog.”

“One dog today. Tomorrow it’s gonna be five.” She said it like she’d figured me out. Like I had some diabolical plan to systematically crush all the other dog-walking competition in town. But she couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“No way can I walk five dogs. There’d be no time for my homework.”

“Homework?” she spit out, furious now. “How did Cassie find you anyway? Craigslist? A flyer? Do you Tweet? All the dog walkers are on Twitter these days. It’s so annoying.”

“My old teacher Parminder recommended me. She lives in the same building as—”

“Parminder Patel?” she asked, interrupting.

I gulped and nodded.

“Milo’s owner.” She glared at me, incredulous. “So that means you stole him, too?”

Whoops. “I didn’t steal him. She just asked me if I could walk him and—”

“Likely story,” the woman huffed.

This seemed like the perfect time to disappear. “Um, gotta run,” I said, backing away and pulling Bean along with me. Luckily, for once the little dog complied. We turned the corner and walked the three blocks to her building.

But before we made it inside, we ran into more trouble—this time in the form of a sticky blond toddler. He had strawberry ice cream in his hair, all over his face, and running down one arm. “Cookie!” he yelled as he ran over, blue-gray eyes as wide as nickels. Arms stretched out in front of him like a pint-size Frankenstein.

Bean bared her teeth. I tightened my grip on her leash and whispered, “Relax,” but to no avail.

“Cookie!” he screamed again, even though by now he was right next to us.

I patted my empty pockets. “I don’t have any on me.”

The kid glanced at me, seemingly unimpressed.

It was one thing for the angry dog walker to make me feel dumb, but a three-year-old? “What?” I asked.

He pointed at Bean. “Dat’s Cookie!”

“Oh! You mean she looks like your dog, Cookie?” I asked. “That’s funny. Her name is Bean, actually.”

“Beckett!” yelled the kid’s mom as she hurried over. She had curly blond hair just like her son’s, only longer and cleaner. “You can’t run away like that!”

The kid took a step closer.

Bean growled and I understood why. From her point of view, Beckett was a clumsy giant. And only two steps away from crushing her.

“Beckett, please.” His mom dropped to her knees, placed her hands on his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. “That’s not Cookie, honey.”

“Yes, Cookie.” He screwed up his mouth and stomped his foot. The heel of his silver high-top flashed red. Light-up shoes—Finn and I used to have them. I didn’t realize they were still in style.

His mom cringed and looked up at me. “He thinks that’s our old dog,” she explained, and then turned back to her son. “Cookie went bye-bye to the farm. Remember?”

“Bye-bye, Cookie.” The kid opened and closed his hand in front of Bean’s face—some approximation of a wave. “Why you leave me? Because of the gum?”

“We’ve been over this, honey. Cookie forgives you for putting all that gum in her fur, but she still had to go to the farm,” his mom said.

The kid looked from his mom to Bean. “Farm?” he asked.

She winked at me. “Yes, Cookie went to the farm.”

According to my parents, Finn and I’ve had six goldfish that have also gone to the farm. Wonder if it’s the same one … 

At least Beckett seemed convinced—for the moment. His mom stood, took his hand, and led him away.

But before I could walk much farther, Beckett broke free, raced back, and got right in Bean’s face. “Come back,” he said. “I won’t pull your tail no more. Or eat your food.”

Bean snapped, barely missing Beckett’s cheek and coming close enough to make him scream.

Beckett’s mom scooped him up in her arms—much to Beckett’s chagrin. “No more throw you in toilet!” Beckett shouted over her shoulder.

“Sorry to bother you,” his mom said as she struggled to contain her flailing kid. “She really does look a lot like Cookie, though. It’s been weeks since she, well, went to the farm, but Beckett still talks about her.”

“That’s so sad. Was there an, um, accident?” I asked, shuddering at the thought.

Beckett’s mom sighed. “No, she had a rare heart defect. We tried surgery but it was too late.”

“Surgery,” Beckett repeated.

“Yes, honey. Remember? Poor Cookie had surgery, and instead of coming home she decided to go to the farm.”

“Horsies there, too?” asked Beckett.

“Yes, probably,” said his mom.

“And sheep?”

“Yup.” She nodded.

“Let’s visit,” said Beckett.

“Oh dear.” His mom cringed and furrowed her brow. “No, we can’t. It’s too far. But I’ll take you to the zoo later, okay? Now say bye-bye.”

“Bye-bye, Cookie!” said Beckett. And he kept saying it, even after he and his mom turned the corner.

Sad, but at the same time, almost funny, too. At least that’s what I’d thought at the time. Turns out I never should’ve laughed.

Beckett knew exactly what he was talking about.