Notes From a Liar and Her Dog Read Online Free PDF Page A

there?”
    I’m quiet. I blink the tears back.
    My father knocks again. When I don’t answer, he opens the door a crack. “Antonia, are you okay?”
    “Sure,” I say. “I’m fine. I’m seeing to Pistachio is all. He’s sick.”
    “Oh,” he says, glancing down at Pistachio as if he has forgotten I have a dog. “You don’t want to come down and welcome your dad home?”
    I think about telling him that he is not my real dad, so there’s no sense in me going through this nonsense about welcoming him home. But I don’t. “I can’t leave,” I say. “Pistachio needs me.”
    He blows air out of his nose and bites his bottom lip, the way he does when he’s annoyed. This is not the way things are supposed to go when he comes home. There is supposed to be a show and then he is supposed to give out presents and then we are supposed to eat a special dinner.
    “I have a present with your name on it,” he says. “I guess I’ll have to give it to Elizabeth.” I can see by the way he says this that he is sure this will make me come around. It has worked before.
    “I guess so,” I say. I wonder what he has brought this time. Once he gave us Mexican blouses. Another time, it was wooden shoes. The thing is he never travels to Mexico or Holland, he always goes to places like Cleveland or Omaha or St. Louis, so I am not sure how he gets those gifts, but he does. I hope he will suggest I bring Pistachio downstairs. I think about telling him I will come down if I can bring Tashi.
    We are both quiet a long time. I smell the lasagna my mother is cooking. It smells like tomatoes and garlic and fried onions. My mother makes great lasagna. It’s the only thing she doesn’t make from a box.
    I try to open my mouth to ask if Pistachio can come downstairs with me, but I am too slow. “Suit yourself, Antonia,” he says, and walks out of my room, closing the door between us.
    I jump up and open it again. “My name is Ant.”
    He stops at the stairs and shakes his head without even looking at me. “Ants ruin a picnic, Antonia,” he says, and then he is gone.
    The tears are hot in my eyes. It’s safe to let them fall. I’ve hurt his feelings, he won’t be back. I creep out into the hall and strain to hear what is going on downstairs.
    “What happened?” my mom asks.
    “She says Pistachio is sick and he needs her. I’m gone for six weeks and she doesn’t even come down to say hello. She doesn’t need anybody, does she?”

4
P ISTACHIO
    A ll weekend I’ve been watching Pistachio, trying to figure out what to do. He is so tired, he doesn’t do anything but sleep and stand at my door as if he wants to go out. But when I take him out he wants to go in. In. Out. In. Out. He is all confused, and he can’t seem to get comfortable. His dark eyes are dull, as if even the simplest decision is too much for him. He looks up at me like can’t I do something to make him feel better?
    I don’t know how to help. I’ve taken him to the clinic twice in the last few weeks, but they don’t seem to know what’s the matter. “A blander diet,” the vet with the chunky blond braid said, and then she gave me this special food that’s a funny yellow color and smells like vitamins. Tashi won’t touch it. The vet with the shaky hands gave him a shot. That didn’t help, either. Then I tried the rice and cottage cheese diet, and my mom went nuts. “Why on earth are you feeding cottage cheese to a dog?” she asked. “Do you know how much it costs?” Cottage cheese is nothing compared to what a visit to the doggy doctor costs.But my mom doesn’t know I’ve been going there.
    The problem is my mom hates dogs. So does my dad. It’s pretty amazing that we even have a dog. What happened was right after we moved to Sarah’s Road, my father was supposed to open an insurance office in Toledo. My dad wanted this really good insurance agent named Irene to move from Indiana to Ohio so she could run the office. But Irene wouldn’t go, on