My Dog's a Scaredy-Cat (11 page)

I heard the sounds of laughter echoing from all over the building. I saw our haunted house just waiting to be enjoyed.

And I wondered how such a happy night could have turned so sad.

1. His brown eyes that look at me and say, “Hank, buddy, I can't believe you're not sharing your steak with me!”

2. His long hot-dog body that is so close to the ground, he could walk under my bed on his tiptoes if he wanted to.

3. The way he is absolutely positive he's a big dog even though he's not.

4. His floppy ears that perk up when he hears the
SpongeBob SquarePants
theme song on TV.

5. The way his bottom teeth stick out over his top teeth to make him look like he's smiling at you upside down.

6. The way he looks like a Cheerio when he chases his tail and spins in a circle.

7. The way he snarls at Katherine when she's having a hissy fit.

8. The way he snarls at Katherine when she
isn't
having a hissy fit.

9. The way his little claws click on the linoleum when he's cruising around the kitchen looking for leftovers, which is most of the time.

10. The way he drops his favorite golf ball at my feet and looks at me as if to say, “Any chance for a catch, pal?”

11. A million billion other things that are all so cute if I mention them I swear I'll start to cry.

WE JUST SAT THERE on the couch, my mom, my dad, and me, feeling like a black cloud had blown into our apartment and was raining on our heads. I have to hand it to Frankie and Ashley. They stayed right there by my side, which is hard to do when someone is as sad as I was.

The doorbell rang.

“It's probably more trick-or-treaters,” my mom said.

“Let's just turn out the lights and pretend we're not home,” I said. The last thing I wanted was noisy little pirates swaggering through our door. I know that sounds horrible and grumpy, but all I could think about was Cheerio, out there on the street somewhere, lost and scared and alone.

“That's not right, Hank,” my mom said.

“Frankie, answer the door please and give the children a piece of prune taffy. We shouldn't deprive them.”

I could tell Frankie didn't want to be the one handing out the prune taffy. Trying to give away my mom's “treats” is a really tough job. Last year when I was handing out her curried fig roll-ups, which looked even more like shoe leather than the prune taffy, one little boy actually cried.

Frankie is too nice a kid to say no to anyone's mom, especially mine, who is like his second mom anyway. He took a piece of prune taffy off the platter and opened the door. I was surprised to see that it wasn't one of the kids from our building. It was Ryan Shimozato, who is probably the coolest kid in our class—after Frankie, that is. He was dressed like a goalie for the New York Rangers.

“Hey, Frankie,” Ryan said. “I just saw Luke Whitman on the street. He says you guys have an extremely excellent haunted house. Can I see it?”

“I don't know, dude,” Frankie said. “This isn't exactly a good time. The ghosts are kind of resting.”

“I heard you have a real zombie,” Ryan said. He wasn't taking no for an answer.

Frankie didn't know what to say, so Ashley got up and went to the door. She is very good at handling business matters.

“I'm sorry, Ryan,” she said. “But the haunted house is closed for repairs right now.”

“Too bad,” he said. “I wanted one of those Frankenstein eyeballs.”

“They rolled themselves into the closet,” said Ashley. “Maybe try again next Halloween. And thanks for your interest.”

Wow, she was smooth. Ryan turned to leave.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Ryan said, just before Ashley shut the door. “McKelty said to tell you guys he'd be here later. He said he had to meet the governor of New York at the bowling alley first.”

“Right,” said Frankie. “And my name is Bernice. Like I'm sure the governor of New York wants to hang out with Nick McKelty.”

McKelty exaggerates everything. We call it the McKelty factor—truth times a hundred. Instead of meeting the governor, I bet he was really washing dishes for his dad's party. But it didn't matter to me. I really had zero interest in proving what a jerk Nick McKelty was.

I just wanted my dog back.

My dad decided to go outside again and look on the street. He was hoping that Cheerio might have wandered into Mr. Kim's grocery store, since there's a cat named Butcher there that Cheerio likes to chase. I can't even tell you how much I was hoping the same thing.

As my dad opened the front door to leave, we heard the
ding-ding
of the elevator arriving on our floor. The doors slid open and out came Papa Pete. He was wearing a huge gray elephant head, but you could see his face through a mesh screen under the trunk. He was with Mrs. Fink, who looked exactly like—well, there's no nice way to say this—the rear end of an elephant. No disrespect intended to Mrs. Fink.

“Hello, my darling family,” Papa Pete called out as he came galloping into the apartment. “Hankie, say hello to Dumbo, Part One . . .”

He swished his trunk at me like he was waving hello.

“. . . And Dumbo, Part Two,” he said, gesturing to Mrs. Fink. “I'll have you know, you are looking at the second place winners in McKelty's Roll 'N Bowl Halloween Costume Extravaganza.”

Papa Pete pulled out a blue ribbon from his trunk and dropped it on the coffee table. I tried to smile, but I couldn't.

“Hey, why the long face?” Papa Pete said. “I know it's not first place, but it's still pretty good. Oh, I know. You're wondering where Emily and Robert are. Well, they'll be along. They stopped off to show Robert's mother their costumes.”

Papa Pete looked from me to my mom and dad. He could tell something was wrong. He pushed back his elephant head so I could see his eyes and sat down next to me.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Cheerio has disappeared,” I said. I could hear my voice cracking as I tried to speak. “I wasn't watching him and he ran away.”

“Ah, so that's what this is about,” Papa Pete said.

I nodded, but I couldn't look him in the eyes. I felt bad from head to toe. Irresponsible. Ashamed. Stupid. Guilty. Sad. Take your pick, because I felt them all.

“I take it you didn't read my note,” Papa Pete said to me.

“You mean the note with the instructions for the haunted house?” I asked. I wondered what that had to do with Cheerio. All I remembered about the note was that I stuffed it in my back pocket because I was too ashamed to read it out loud in front of Papa Pete.

“Yes, that note.”

Papa Pete was looking at me funny. He curled the ends of his big, bushy mustache with his fingers. His mustache had gotten pretty droopy under the elephant face. It must have been hot in there. Papa Pete just sat there, rolling his mustache, waiting for me to answer.

“I . . . uh . . . didn't have time to finish it, Papa Pete. I had . . . uh . . . a lot to do.”

“Can I see you on the balcony a moment, Hankie?” Papa Pete said.

I followed him out to the little balcony that is off our living room and has a peekaboo view of the lights on Broadway.

“I want you to level with me,” Papa Pete said, “because I am your grandfather and I love you no matter what.”

I didn't know what he was going to ask me, but I knew that whatever it was, I was going to tell the truth.

“You didn't read my note at all, did you, Hankie?”

I shook my head no.

“And why not?”

“Because . . . because I couldn't,” I said. My eyes were filling up with tears. I didn't know if I was crying because I missed Cheerio so much or because I felt bad because I couldn't read Papa Pete's note or because I hadn't really told him the whole truth. All I know was that my eyeballs were very wet.

Papa Pete put his arms around me. The elephant fur of his costume smelled like peanuts.

“Talk to me, Hankie.”

“There were too many words,” I said, the truth suddenly pouring out in one big rush like water tumbling down Niagara Falls. “They were jumping all over the page and getting mixed up and every time I'd try to read them, I couldn't follow what they were saying. And it was on narrow-lined paper. I hate narrow-lined paper.”

“Why didn't you just tell me all that?” he asked.

“Because I'm tired of always having to tell people what I can't do,” I said. “It sucks. Just once, I'd like to be able to do everything that everyone else can do.”

Papa Pete nodded.

“Do you still have my note?” he asked me.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled it out. It was pretty squished up, but Papa Pete smoothed it out as best he could.

“Now,” said Papa Pete, pointing to a few lines at the bottom of the page. “Let's read this part together, shall we?”

He pointed to the end of the note.

“What does that say?” he asked me.

“P.S.,” I said. I could read that, no problem. I even knew that's an abbreviation for something you put at the end of a letter when you've forgotten to say something in the letter. Like
P.S. I Love You
or
P.S. Longer Letter Later
.

“P.S.,” I read out loud. That was a start.

“Good, Hankie. Go on. I'll help you.”

“P.S. I have taken Cheerio,” I read. I stopped and looked up at Papa Pete. I could feel myself starting to smile.

“Continue reading, Hankie. Follow the words with your finger if you need to. One at a time.”

I pointed to each word as I read it. My eyes followed my finger, and my voice followed my eyes. The words came out . . . slowly . . . but loud and clear!

“I have taken Cheerio to Mrs. Fink's apartment so he won't get sc . . . sc . . .”

“Scared,” Papa Pete read.

The words soaked into my brain.

“Papa Pete! You took Cheerio?”

“I believe that's what the note says,” said Papa Pete.

I started jumping up and down like a madman. Those were the best words I had ever read!

“Let's go get him!” I screamed. “I can't wait to grab that little guy and give him an extraspecial, super-duper Double-Trouble-Tummy-Ear Scratch!”

“Okay, we'll go,” said Papa Pete. “But only if you promise me one thing first.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “I promise that when I read out loud, I'll do it slowly and carefully. Right?”

“No, Hankie.” Papa Pete took my face and held it in his big hands. He looked me right in the eyes. “I want you to promise never ever to be ashamed of who you are. Because who you are is one terrific kid, no matter how you read.”

Wow. I felt like two tons of rocks had been lifted off my back.

“Papa Pete,” I said, throwing my arms around him, “did anyone ever tell you that you are absolutely the best front half of an elephant in the whole wide world?”

“Actually, yes,” Papa Pete laughed. “Mrs. Fink just told me that very thing.”

Now I ask you—what are the odds of that???