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missing puppies. I was trying to decide what to tell her—any number of predators could have grabbed them—when Dinah spoke up.
    “I ‘spect the owl got ‘em,” she said.
    Coleman frowned. “What owl? Why?”
    “The big horny owl that lives by the river,” Dinah said. “He probably ate ‘em.”
    “Dinah means the great horned owl,” I said. “I’ll show you its picture in the bird book. Dinah might be right. That owl could easily take a small dog. I’ve known a horned owl to take a cat bigger than one of those puppies.”
    Coleman scowled. “That’s horrible, eatin’ puppies. I never heard of such a thing. That ol’ owl ain’t a-goin’ to get this one; I’m keepin’ him safe inside. He’ll sleep with me and Dinah.” She stuck out her chin, and her cheeks flushed. I fear the look on her face means she’s made up her mind, and nothing will change it. Like about the Methodist Church.
    “Not ain’t , isn’t,” I said, but before I could tell her we didn’t allow dogs in the house, let alone in our beds, Ida beat me to it. Ida never raises her voice, but she laid down the law: no dogs in the house. Coleman didn’t talk back, but I could see she was determined that Peter would live, and live with her. We were in for it again.
    We reasoned with her for hours. We told her Nana would be worried if Coleman took her puppy, but Coleman just smiled, because after Nana moped around a while, she’d wandered off. It seemed she’d had enough of full-time motherhood. She came back ever so often to nurse the puppy, but she didn’t stay long, and we had to supplement her milk with table scraps, despite what we’d told Coleman about our inability to feed a dog. We explained that the puppy would grow up big and ugly like Nana. Coleman knew better: Peter would grow up beautiful. And truth to tell, Nana must have been acquainted with the Guthrie’s poodle, because after Coleman washed and brushed the puppy, his fur was honey-colored, and not short and coarse like Nana’s, but soft and wavy. I couldn’t resist petting and cuddling him, he felt so good.
    We said Peter would be dirty and have fleas. Coleman said she’d wash him, and she’d ask the Herb Lady for a flea potion and special soap; she’d pay for them by working in the Herb Lady’s garden. (Rena lives far out in the country, and how Coleman would get there and back was a mystery, but never mind that.) When we told her Peter would be unhappy indoors, Coleman declared he’d be a lot unhappier if the owl got him.
    Finally, we offered the unanswerable excuse: as we’d said from the beginning, we can’t afford to feed him.
    Coleman looked serious. I felt sure she understood, and she was going to give in. I was relieved: we really can’t afford to feed a dog.
    “I’ve been studyin’ how to make us some money,” she said. “We’ll have us a roadside stand and sell corn and tomatoes and peaches and berries and such, and Miss Ida’s cakes and all. I’ve figured out just how to do it. There’ll be plenty of money for food for Peter, and more besides.”
    Ida and I exchanged glances. Where had this child come from? There hasn’t been a “go-getter” like Coleman in our family in living memory. A roadside stand? We couldn’t possibly have a roadside stand. Who would build it? Run it? And is it really appropriate for two old ladies and two little girls to do something like this? What would people think?
Dinah
    Soon as Coleman said “roadside stand” I wondered why we hadn’t thought of it before now. Everybody goin’ to the beach has to drive through Slocumb Corners. People say the fruit and vegetables for sale at the beach aren’t real fresh, and the prices are as high as a cat’s back. Ours would be right out of the garden, and cheaper. Lots of folks passin’ by would stop at our stand, and those who came to pick up Miss Ida’s cakes and fried chicken and ham biscuits, and the ladies who have fittings with Aunt Polly—they’d all buy