Jack's Black Book Read Online Free PDF Page B

me.”
    â€œWhat do you want me to do with him?” the vet asked.
    â€œWhatever you do to the rest,” Dad replied. “As long as it’s free.”
    â€œCremation,” the vet replied.
    â€œCan we get the ashes?” I asked. I could keep them in my piggy bank.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “They all get mixed together—cats, dogs, squirrels, weasels, whatever.”
    On the way back to the car I was struck with an idea. At first I thought my muse had finally woke up, but then I realized it was just a brilliant idea that I had thought of on my own. I turned and went back into the vet’s office. His assistant was struggling to slide BeauBeau into a plastic trash bag. The poor guy had already begun to stiffen up.
    â€œCan you just freeze him?” I asked her. “You know, keep him on ice until I scrape up some money for a proper burial?”
    I didn’t know what a proper burial meant for a dog, but it sounded respectful.
    â€œSure,” the nurse said. “We can keep him for a week.”
    â€œThanks,” I replied.
    I went back to the car.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” Dad asked.
    â€œA private goodbye,” I said. If I told him what else was on my mind he’d give
me
a proper burial.

Five
    The next day, as Mr. Gilette called roll, everyone announced what he was going to make for his final wood-shop project. Mr. Gilette had been instructing us for weeks to come up with something “brilliant and useful,” but not until BeauBeau died was I inspired with the perfect idea.
    â€œAllston,” hollered Mr. Gilette.
    â€œHere,” Allston replied. “Gun rack.”
    â€œCampbell?”
    â€œYo. Canoe.”
    â€œHenry?”
    â€œPresent. Dog coffin.”
    â€œExcuse me,” Mr. Gilette said, and peered up over his roll book. “Did I hear ‘dog coffin’?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I replied.
    â€œA dog coffin is not an acceptable project,” he proclaimed. “Dogs don’t need coffins. They just need ahole and some dirt.” Behind me the class began to laugh.
    But I stood my ground and said, “I think a dog deserves as much respect as a person.”
    â€œLook,” Mr. Gilette explained, “from my point of view most humans don’t deserve coffins. And the whole idea of the final project is to make something that you could actually sell. Something that you could start a business with, like gun racks or shoeshine kits, or canoes. But not dog coffins.”
    â€œWell, I think it’s an exceptional business idea,” I continued. “You can only use it once and then you have to buy a new one. It’s the American way.”
    The class cracked up. I could sense they were shifting to my side and that encouraged me. Once I got it out of my mind that I was supposed to be dumb, I actually felt pretty smart.
    And then Mr. Gilette did what teachers love to do when they find their power slipping. He polled the class. “Okay, wise guys,” he shouted. “How many of you think a dog coffin is about the most stupid business idea ever cooked up? Raise your hand.”
    The hands went up as if he had pulled a machine gun on them.
    I didn’t even bother to count.
    â€œBury that idea, Mr. Henry,” he concluded. “And come up with a new project tomorrow.”
    But I didn’t. The next day he asked again, and again I replied, “Dog coffin.”
    The class went wild.
    â€œIf you persist in making that coffin,” Mr. Gilette said, “I guarantee that you’ll fail this class.”
    â€œBut I’m making something worthwhile.”
    â€œWorthless is more like it,” he cracked. “Why don’t you just make a nice bookshelf? A pair of crutches?”
    â€œDog coffin,” I said, standing firm.
    â€œThen don’t be surprised when you have to repeat seventh grade,” he stated.
    I didn’t take him seriously. Nobody was stupid