News For Dogs (4 page)

Bruce first encountered Connor when he was on his way to Aunt Alice’s house to deliver the second issue of the paper. Connor had just pulled into the driveway of the Gordons’ house next door and was climbing out of a silver Miata, exactly the car Bruce dreamed of owning one day. It looked out of place next to Jerry’s scuffed-up skateboard, which was positioned against the garage door in its usual attack mode.

Bruce’s first reaction was a startled impression that he was looking at Jerry Gordon, four inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, and that Jerry had somehow managed to charm the people at the Department of Motor Vehicles into giving him a driver’s license two years before he was eligible.

Then he immediately realized that this thought was ridiculous and the young man was Jerry’s visiting cousin.

“Nice wheels!” Bruce said, for he felt he had to say something. The two of them were standing directly across from each other with just a small strip of lawn between them. “I’m Bruce Walker. I live a few houses down from here.”

He braced himself for Connor’s response, recalling with a shudder how unpleasant his first meeting with Jerry had been. The resemblance between the cousins was so remarkable that he felt as if he were meeting Jerry all over again.

But Connor gave him a friendly smile and came over with his hand extended.

“Thanks! I’m Connor Gordon,” he said. “Aren’t you and your sister the kids who are publishing a newspaper?”

“That’s us,” Bruce said, taking his hand and shaking it. Connor’s grip was firm and self-confident and his smile seemed genuine. “How did you know about the paper?”

“Word gets around,” Connor said. “I’d like to subscribe. How much is it?”

“Three dollars for the summer,” Bruce told him. “Do you own a dog?”

“No, but I wish I did,” Connor said, pulling out his wallet and counting the money. “Jerry tells me
he used to have a setter, but it ended up with you. I’m sure there’s a story behind that.”

“There is,” Bruce said, but he didn’t offer to elaborate. “I guess you’re aware that I’m not exactly Jerry’s favorite person.”

“That’s what I gathered,” Connor said with a sympathetic chuckle. “My cousin’s basically a good kid, but he can sometimes be a pill. That’s the reason Uncle Gerald invited me to visit. He thought I’d be a good influence.”

“Lots of luck!” Bruce said. “Here, take a copy of this current issue. The paper’s a weekly, so I’ll deliver the next one next Wednesday.”

“Sounds good,” Connor said. “I’m looking forward to reading them. You and your sister must have good heads for business; you’ve zeroed in on a hot market.” He gave Bruce a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Good to meet you, bud. I’ll see you around.”

“So long,” Bruce said. “And thanks for subscribing to the paper.”

Connor loped back across the driveway and disappeared into the Gordons’ house, and Bruce continued on to Aunt Alice’s, disconcerted by the friendly exchange. Connor could have been Jerry’s clone as far as looks went, but his personality was
so different that it had been like talking to Jerry, yet
not
talking to Jerry, or like talking to Jerry when he was pretending to be somebody else.

“I just met Connor Gordon,” Bruce told Aunt Alice when she opened the door to him. “I didn’t realize Jerry’s cousin was old enough to drive.”

“Apparently so,” Aunt Alice said. “He’s very mature, and he doesn’t let any grass grow under his feet. He’s been here only a week, and it’s amazing the way he’s made himself a part of the community. Every morning and evening he’s off doing volunteer work, and when he’s not working, he and Jerry go door-to-door selling their magazine subscriptions. Busy, busy, busy!”

She eagerly reached for the paper, but her face drooped in disappointment when she saw the front-page photo.

“That’s definitely not Bully Bernstein.”

“No,” Bruce said. “That’s Snowflake Swanson. She’s a very important dog. She’s been winning beauty contests for over eight years. The Swansons have her insured for fifty thousand dollars.”

“That must be why she’s wearing a crown,” Aunt Alice commented. “Does she always stick her nose in the air like that?”

“She’s vain about her looks,” Bruce acknowledged. “She goes to the beauty parlor every week to get her nails done. But there’s a lot of other stuff in this issue if Snowflake doesn’t interest you. There’s an article about how to pull ticks off dogs without popping them. That can be very tricky. And there’s a new poem by Andi called ‘Virginia’s Tragedy.’”

“Well, that should keep me occupied,” Aunt Alice said. “But I’d love to read more about Bully.”

The second fifty-dollar sale to the Tinkles that Andi had anticipated did not materialize. Mrs. Tinkle seemed irritated by the suggestion. “I’m not concerned about ‘Virginia’s Tragedy,’” she told Andi. “None of our friends will recognize Ginger by that name.”

However, Snowflake Swanson’s owners bought six copies because they loved Snowflake’s picture, and Dr. Bryant, the veterinarian who owned the Bryant Pet Clinic, was so impressed by the article about tick removal that he bought fifty copies to use as handouts for his patients.

“Summer is tick season,” he told Bruce. “Every pet owner should have this important information.”

But the newspaper’s strongest selling point was turning out to be the gossip column. Every pet
owner whose dog was mentioned in that column bought multiple copies, and several took out subscriptions.

“I’ve got to find a way to get more gossip,” Debbie said at their weekly editorial meeting. “I’ve used up all of my sources. Tiffany Tinkle won’t talk to me since we printed that poem about Ginger, and my other friends won’t tell me anything about their dogs except how sweet they are. A gossip columnist’s life is not as easy as you’d think.”

“You need a new territory,” Tim told her. “What about the Doggie Park?”

Debbie regarded him blankly.

“It’s over on Oak Street,” Tim said. “That big grassy area with the fence around it. It’s a park where people can let their dogs off their leashes. I took my dog, MacTavish, there once, and the dogs were having a great time playing together. Mac would have loved to go back, but I couldn’t stand it. It was filled with a bunch of overweight women sitting on benches and yammering to each other while their dogs got all the exercise.”

“That sounds perfect!” Debbie exclaimed. “Would they let me in without a dog? I don’t own one, because Mom is so devoted to her cat.”

“You can borrow Bebe,” Andi offered. “Friday’s too shy to enjoy that, but Bebe’s very sociable.”

“No, take MacTavish!” Tim pleaded. “He’s dying to go back.”

“I’ll take turns,” Debbie said. “First Bebe, then MacTavish. I can wear disguises and, with two different dogs, nobody will suspect I’m the same person.”

So, the following day, Debbie came by to pick up Bebe to go to the Doggie Park. It cost a dollar to get in — “There are always business expenses,” Tim reminded them — but she returned with a notebook filled with such interesting information that it was more than worth the entrance fee. Andi’s eyes widened as she read Debbie’s notes:

Andi was stunned by that final item.

“My parents aren’t going to Europe!”

“Yes, they are,” Debbie said. “Foxy’s owner works for a travel agency. She was telling Fifi’s owner about how your dad came in and booked
reservations for a three-week tour. They’re going to France and Italy and Switzerland and London.”

“Just them — not Bruce and me?”

“Just the two of them, to celebrate their fifteenth anniversary. It’s a surprise for your mom. Your dad said she’s always dreamed of going to Europe. They wanted to do it on their honeymoon, but they couldn’t afford it. Now they can.”

“I think that’s terrific!” Bruce said. “Mom deserves a treat. It wasn’t easy for her to pull up roots and move when Dad got his job transfer. But she never complained about leaving her own job and all of her friends. She just smiled all the time like it was a great adventure.”

“But what about us?” Andi cried. “We’ll be stuck with Aunt Alice!”

“We can stand it for three weeks,” Bruce said.

“But the dogs —”

“They’ll be right down the street. We’ll be over there all the time except when we’re sleeping. We couldn’t go off and leave our new business anyway.” He regarded his sister apprehensively. “Don’t you dare tell Mom or blab to Dad that we know. And, Debbie, you can’t put that information in your gossip column. This is Dad’s surprise for Mom, and
he’s got to be the one to break the news. We don’t want to ruin it for him.”

Andi nodded unhappily. “I won’t say anything, but I don’t want to stay with Aunt Alice. I want to sleep with my dogs, and I don’t want to live next door to Jerry for three weeks. Every time we step out the door he’ll run us over with his skateboard.”

“I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Bruce told her. “I mean, of course you can’t sleep with Bebe and Friday, but we won’t be attacked by Jerry. His cousin, Connor, isn’t going to let that happen.”

“Have you met Connor?” Tim asked him. “I haven’t had a chance to yet, but I’ve seen him driving around in his silver bullet. That sure is a cool car!”

“Connor’s cool, too,” Bruce said. “He looks like Jerry, but he isn’t nasty at all. In fact, the whole reason he’s here is to straighten Jerry out.”

Bruce was disappointed that the Miata was not in the driveway when he stopped by the following Wednesday to deliver Connor’s paper. He’d been looking forward to having another chance to talk with him and possibly even to beg a ride in his car.

But apparently Connor and Jerry were off somewhere together, because it was Mr. Gordon who came to the door.

“Please give this to Connor,” Bruce said, handing him the paper. “And this is for you, sir — an installment payment on Red Rover.”

“Fifty dollars!” Mr. Gordon exclaimed. “That’s a sizable amount, Bruce, especially in comparison to your usual five-dollar payments. Jerry told me he thought you might be planning to default and return Red Rover, but obviously he was wrong.”

“He was,” Bruce said. “I am definitely buying Red Rover.”

“If you have any thoughts to the contrary, don’t feel committed,” Mr. Gordon told him. “At the time I agreed to sell you the dog, Jerry was not at his best. But that’s how teenagers are, and I’ve now come to realize that he’s basically a good kid who got off on the wrong track. I think he was probably running with the wrong companions. Bad influences are a danger to vulnerable young people, and sometimes it takes a family effort to get them back on track. Jerry will be busy doing things with his cousin this summer. You’ve obviously met my nephew?”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “He seems like a very nice guy.”

“He’s a charmer,” Mr. Gordon agreed. “Connor’s home is in Chicago, but his parents wanted him to spend the summer here in Elmwood. They thought that a small-town atmosphere would be a nice change for him.”

“I’m sure it will,” Bruce said politely, both startled and impressed by how smoothly Mr. Gordon was concealing Connor’s true reason for being there. “Aunt Alice says Connor’s doing a lot of volunteer work as well as selling magazine subscriptions.”

“I’m very much in favor of his volunteer work,” said Mr. Gordon. “It’s a marvelous thing for young people to give of themselves to the community. However, you’re mistaken about the magazine subscriptions. Connor sold magazines in Chicago, but he doesn’t do that now.”

“He doesn’t?” Bruce exclaimed in surprise. “But Aunt Alice told me — a lot of people told me —”

“They’re mistaken,” Mr. Gordon said firmly. “Connor is not selling magazine subscriptions here in Elmwood. So, what about you, Bruce? What’s
the source of this large payment? A summer job mowing lawns?”

“Better than that,” Bruce told him. If Mr. Gordon could stretch the truth a bit, he could, too. “I’m working as a photographer for the hottest new publication in town.”

Newspaper sales took a downhill slide when the story about Trixie was the lead article. It seemed that people weren’t interested in a smoke-detecting dog who didn’t detect smoke.

“That’s cheating,” complained one dissatisfied customer, who had bought the issue because of the photograph of Trixie wearing a firefighter’s hat with a medal that said “World’s Best Dog.” Bruce was proud of that picture. He had purchased the child-size fire helmet at a toy store and created the medal with aluminum foil and a felt marker. But he had to admit that, in a way, it
was
cheating, because the thing in the garbage disposal hadn’t been worth barking about. It had been a piece of fish. He offered to give the customer her money back, but she decided to keep the issue because of Andi’s article about how to make your own flea powder.

“We’ve got to find more interesting subjects,” Tim said. “What we need is another Bully Bernstein.”

“Bully Bernsteins don’t grow on trees,” Bruce retorted. “We’re going to wait a long time before we find another Bully.”

“How
did
you find him?” Tim asked.

“Debbie learned about him from Tiffany,” Bruce said. “The Tinkles were mad at the Bernsteins, and Tiffany was ranting to Debbie about how immature Bully was and let it drop about the high chair. If it hadn’t been for that, we wouldn’t have known about him.”

“We need to find more dog owners who are mad at other dog owners,” Tim said. “There must be a lot of them out there. But how do we get them stirred up enough to squeal on each other?”

“We could run an ad,” Debbie suggested. She was wearing one of her disguises, because as soon as the meeting was over she was headed for the Doggie Park. This particular disguise involved hair extensions that belonged to her mother and a pair of false eyelashes. Bruce thought she looked ridiculous.

“Maybe we could offer a free subscription for tips about interesting stories,” she continued as she practiced fluttering the lashes.

It was not a bad idea, even coming from Debbie, and they were mulling it over when the phone rang. A moment later, Mrs. Walker appeared in the doorway.

“It’s for you, Andi,” she said. “I didn’t recognize the voice. I assume it’s one of your subscribers.”
Mr. and Mrs. Walker both thought their paper was adorable, although they didn’t take it seriously as a source of income.

Andi picked up the receiver.

“The Bow-Wow News
,” she said in a businesslike voice. “This is the editor speaking.” She sat for a moment in silence and then asked, “Is there a particular time of day when this happens?” Listening intently, she reached for her notebook and began taking notes. “We’ll get right on this, and thank you so much for informing us.”

When she hung up the phone, she was beaming.

“We’ve got a scoop! Bruce, this will be your first major photo assignment!”

“What do you mean, my first assignment?” Bruce demanded. “I photographed Bully, Ginger, Snowflake, and Trixie. Don’t they count?”

“I said
major
assignment. An investigative news story! That tipster owns one of the Bulldales. She’s informing on another dog owner. She said Mr. Murdock, who lives two houses down from her, has a fox terrier named Barkley. Three times a day the Murdocks walk Barkley around the neighborhood, and
Mr. Murdock doesn’t carry a pooper-scooper!”

“My dad knows Mr. Murdock from the Rotary Club,” Tim said. “He’s vice president of the bank. Nobody messes with Mr. Murdock. If we publish something like that, he’ll sue us for libel.”

“Libel means ‘lies,’” Andi said. “It isn’t libel if it’s true. We’ll have to furnish proof, but that won’t be a problem. Not if Bruce gets a picture.”

“A picture of a man walking a dog without a pooper-scooper?” Tim protested. “He’ll slide out of that one easily. He’ll say Barkley didn’t need to go, and there was nothing to scoop.”

“But a picture is worth a thousand words,” Andi said. “If one of those words begins with
p
—”

“Okay, I get it,” Bruce said. “When does he do this?”

“Mr. Murdock walks Barkley at eight in the morning,” Andi said, referring to her notes. “Mrs. Murdock walks him in the afternoon, but she carries a scooper. Mr. Murdock walks him for a final time after dinner. When do you think would be the best time to get a picture?”

“Not after dinner,” Bruce said. “The light won’t be good. Not the afternoon walk, because Mrs. Murdock obeys the law. So it will have to be in the
morning. That’s the best time anyway. Barkley will have been inside all night.”

“I’ll write a draft of the story,” Andi said. “When you get back with the picture, we’ll fill in the details, like exactly where and when it happened.”

Bruce had a hard time sleeping that night, and between spells of wakefulness he dreamed. Each time he dozed off, the same dream started over, like a defective DVD that wouldn’t stay in place when you hit the
PAUSE
button.

He dreamed about taking Red for a predawn run. At the start, they ran in darkness, but soon that lessened, and trees and houses began to take shape around them. The sky in the east turned pink and then orange and then gold, and the sun came bursting over the edge of the horizon. Red Rover was a wild thing, first dashing ahead, then rushing back to Bruce, practically dancing with joy as he stretched out his long, lean muscles and raced like a flaming arrow straight into the path of the rising sun.

In the dream, as in real life, Bruce had a plastic bag in his pocket and carried a pooper-scooper.

The final time he awakened, the sky outside his window had grown light enough so he could
make out the branches of the elm tree. He lay there, listening to the chirping of the birds and feeling an almost irresistible urge to take Red running and sneak him back in the yard before his parents woke up.

But he couldn’t make himself do it. Bruce was an honorable boy, and when he made a promise he kept it.

This can’t go on
, he told himself.
I’ve got to finish paying for Red.

He got up and dressed and, although it was too early, slung his camera strap around his neck and walked the three blocks to the street where the Murdocks lived. In the hush of early morning, the sky turned pink and orange and gold, and he had a mystical sense that he was still dreaming. Except in the dream, Red Rover had been there with him. It seemed strange to be out at this hour alone.

Of course, he didn’t have to be alone. Tim had offered to go with him. In fact, they all had wanted to go. But Bruce had insisted that he had to do this by himself if he was going to get a picture. There weren’t many people on the sidewalks at that
time of morning, and the ones who were there stood out. One boy, half-hidden behind a clump of bushes, might get by unnoticed, but a group of four children, staring and giggling (he knew that the girls would giggle, even though they swore that they wouldn’t), couldn’t help but attract Mr. Murdock’s attention. And it might be disconcerting to Barkley, who was used to having the sidewalk to himself at that hour.

It was a long wait, but 8
A.M.
finally arrived. It arrived and passed without any indication of life from within the Murdock house. Nobody even bothered to come out and get the newspaper.

The minute hand of Bruce’s watch crept to 8:05, then to 8:10, then to 8:15. By 8:22, he was ready to give up and go home, when the door to the Murdock house suddenly flew open and a man and a dog stood framed in the doorway. Mr. Murdock was wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase. He plucked the paper from the lawn and tossed it, along with the briefcase, through the open window of the shiny black Lexus in the driveway. Barkley was small and white, with one brown ear and a stub of a tail that wasn’t wagging. He didn’t look like a dog who was out to have fun. He looked like a dog on a mission.

Bruce had positioned himself across the street from the house in the shadow of an oak tree. The tipster hadn’t told Andi which direction Mr. Murdock would take, so Bruce held back and waited until he saw the man turn right. Then he turned in that direction also and kept pace with him as he strode along the sidewalk. Mr. Murdock had a stern face, bristly gray hair, and a gray mustache that was perched above a mouth that didn’t look like it smiled much. He clearly was not enjoying this time with his dog. He wanted to get this over with so he could go to work and read his newspaper.

Bruce made a mental note of the fact that he was not carrying a pooper-scooper.

When Mr. Murdock reached the corner, he turned right again, so Bruce was forced to cross the street and fall into step behind him. They continued on to the next corner, where Mr. Murdock again turned right and Bruce did likewise. They were already halfway around the block and Barkley hadn’t even lifted his leg. He just kept marching along like a little white robot. Bruce found himself wondering if this was, in fact, a real dog, or if it might be one of those realistic battery-operated dogs that people sold in shopping malls.
But no, Barkley had to be real. Mr. Murdock was not a playful enough man to take a toy dog for a walk. He kept glancing impatiently at his watch and mumbling things to Barkley that Bruce wasn’t close enough to hear. In fact, Bruce was starting to worry that he wasn’t close enough to get a picture if something newsworthy did occur.

He quickened his pace to close the distance between them just as Mr. Murdock took another right turn at the corner — and then
it happened!
Barkley went into squat position. The angle could not have been better. Bruce had not yet started to turn the corner himself, so he was not exactly behind Barkley, but kitty-cornered to him, and could aim his camera across a flower bed. He clicked the shutter over and over and then zoomed back to include Mr. Murdock in the picture as he urged the dog to hurry and then yanked the leash to jerk him away from the evidence.

Bruce continued clicking frame after frame, too exhilarated to think about stopping. All caution about his own safety had been thrown to the winds and he had no thought for anything except his assignment.
This must be what it is like,
he thought,
to be a war correspondent, standing on the edge of a battlefield, immune to the dangers all around you, intent only on getting your story.

He took a step forward to frame a shot with a spray of hydrangea. The dainty blue blossoms made an interesting contrast to the brown-and-white dog and the gray-and-white man.

Mr. Murdock gave the dog’s leash another hard yank, and then he raised his eyes and looked straight at Bruce. For a moment he stared at him blankly. Then his eyes began to bulge and his mouth flew open.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.

Bruce started running. He wished Red Rover were with him, because Red would have loved this. He had never run so fast before in his life.

Later, at Tim’s house, the four of them gathered around Tim’s computer as Bruce displayed one image after another.

“You sure took a lot of pictures,” Tim said. “I can’t believe you hung around that long.”

“Time stood still,” Bruce told him. “I was so caught up in it — tracking my subjects, looking
for just the right angle. I know now for sure what I’m going to do for a living. I’m going to be a photojournalist.”

“The close-ups are great,” Debbie said. “You zoomed right in.”

“But just on the dog,” Andi said. “They’re all great pictures, but Mr. Murdock isn’t in them.”

Bruce continued to click through the pictures until they gasped in unison, “That’s the one!”

It was the final picture he had taken, framed with lacy blue flowers. Barkley had finished his business, and Mr. Murdock was jerking him forward. Bruce had snapped it at the exact moment Mr. Murdock spotted him. The man’s face was contorted with fury. His left hand held Barkley’s leash, and his right hand was aimed at Bruce as if he held a pistol. Neither hand held a pooper-scooper.

“That one’s perfect!” Andi said.