must have checked the clocks in every room of the school, Amy thought, for just about everybody seemed to have personally seen his jumping routine.
Still, at least he remembered not to talk, even when one of the girls commanded, "Speak, Sherlock. Speak!"
Sherlock glanced at Amy for instructions.
Feeling like a fool, Amy barked, to show him what was expected.
Agreeably, Sherlock barked, too.
One of the fourth graders howled, like a wolf baying at the moon.
So did Sherlock.
Then all of the fourth graders howled.
Sherlock howled louder.
So much for sneaking home quietly,
Amy thought. The neighbors had to be able to hear them from a block away.
But finally the noisy crowd arrived at her front yard, and finally—after many, many
Good-byes
and
Good doggies
and
See you tomorrows
—they moved on from her front yard. And then Amy realized she had an even bigger problem: She could no longer put off worrying about what she was going to do with Sherlock. She sat down on the front step and rested her chin on her hands, her elbows on her knees.
Sherlock sat down next to her and wedged his head between her arms so that she pretty much
had
to pet him. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Is that boy going to call Animal Control? Or Dr. Boden at the college?"
Boy?
Amy had to think. "You mean Sean?" She shook her head. "No, I think we can trust him." She thought about it and realized she wasn't just saying it to reassure Sherlock. "I think he's OK. I'm just trying to figure out what I should tell my parents."
"I can tell them," Sherlock offered. "Just like I told you."
Amy must have been making a face, because Sherlock asked, "What? What's wrong?"
"Oh, I don't know if anything is," Amy said. "It's just that sometimes parents.... Well, they're grown-ups."
Sherlock waited for more to this explanation. "Do you want to scratch my belly while you're thinking?" he asked. He rolled over, as though for her convenience, exposing the soft paler fur underneath.
Distracted, Amy scratched. "I mean, I don't
think
they'd call Dr. Boden. I don't
think
they'd want somebody to cut open your brain. But they might say it's none of their business. They might say you belong to the college and we don't have any right to keep you. I just can't be sure."
"Oh." Sherlock rolled back over and laid his head on his paws with a sad sigh. "You don't think they'd like me."
"Of course they'd like you," Amy said. "What's not to like?"
Sherlock gave a feeble wag of his tail.
Amy continued, "They'd
want
to be on your side. But I can just imagine them getting a letter-writing campaign going—like they did when they thought there needed to be a light at the corner, instead of just a stop sign. They went around and talked to the neighbors and got them to sign a petition and had town meetings, and they got the light, but it took about two years."
"Dr. Boden isn't going to wait two years," Sherlock said.
Amy nodded. "I know. So we can't tell them the truth. I'll tell them..."—she considered—"...that you followed me home. That you're a lost dog."
"Is
lost
different from
strayed
?" Sherlock asked. "Or will they be afraid I'll bite and call Animal Control?"
Amy ignored the fact that he was right. "I'll tell them how nice and friendly you are," she said. "And smart. I'll say"—Amy let a little bit of whine creep into her voice—"'Can't we keep him until his owners show up? We'll put up signs saying we've found him, and I promise to walk him and feed him and take care of him myself.' I'll say, 'Ever since Mom went back to work, I'm always alone and you never say
yes
to me anymore about anything.'"
Sherlock looked skeptical. "Is that likely to work?"
"It might," Amy said.
But she couldn't even convince herself.
More Plans
"Are you hungry?" Amy asked. Mom didn't approve of snacks—but surely the rules were different for dogs than for people.
Sherlock nodded. "I haven't eaten since last night."
That definitely meant the rules should be different.
Amy took
Still, at least he remembered not to talk, even when one of the girls commanded, "Speak, Sherlock. Speak!"
Sherlock glanced at Amy for instructions.
Feeling like a fool, Amy barked, to show him what was expected.
Agreeably, Sherlock barked, too.
One of the fourth graders howled, like a wolf baying at the moon.
So did Sherlock.
Then all of the fourth graders howled.
Sherlock howled louder.
So much for sneaking home quietly,
Amy thought. The neighbors had to be able to hear them from a block away.
But finally the noisy crowd arrived at her front yard, and finally—after many, many
Good-byes
and
Good doggies
and
See you tomorrows
—they moved on from her front yard. And then Amy realized she had an even bigger problem: She could no longer put off worrying about what she was going to do with Sherlock. She sat down on the front step and rested her chin on her hands, her elbows on her knees.
Sherlock sat down next to her and wedged his head between her arms so that she pretty much
had
to pet him. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Is that boy going to call Animal Control? Or Dr. Boden at the college?"
Boy?
Amy had to think. "You mean Sean?" She shook her head. "No, I think we can trust him." She thought about it and realized she wasn't just saying it to reassure Sherlock. "I think he's OK. I'm just trying to figure out what I should tell my parents."
"I can tell them," Sherlock offered. "Just like I told you."
Amy must have been making a face, because Sherlock asked, "What? What's wrong?"
"Oh, I don't know if anything is," Amy said. "It's just that sometimes parents.... Well, they're grown-ups."
Sherlock waited for more to this explanation. "Do you want to scratch my belly while you're thinking?" he asked. He rolled over, as though for her convenience, exposing the soft paler fur underneath.
Distracted, Amy scratched. "I mean, I don't
think
they'd call Dr. Boden. I don't
think
they'd want somebody to cut open your brain. But they might say it's none of their business. They might say you belong to the college and we don't have any right to keep you. I just can't be sure."
"Oh." Sherlock rolled back over and laid his head on his paws with a sad sigh. "You don't think they'd like me."
"Of course they'd like you," Amy said. "What's not to like?"
Sherlock gave a feeble wag of his tail.
Amy continued, "They'd
want
to be on your side. But I can just imagine them getting a letter-writing campaign going—like they did when they thought there needed to be a light at the corner, instead of just a stop sign. They went around and talked to the neighbors and got them to sign a petition and had town meetings, and they got the light, but it took about two years."
"Dr. Boden isn't going to wait two years," Sherlock said.
Amy nodded. "I know. So we can't tell them the truth. I'll tell them..."—she considered—"...that you followed me home. That you're a lost dog."
"Is
lost
different from
strayed
?" Sherlock asked. "Or will they be afraid I'll bite and call Animal Control?"
Amy ignored the fact that he was right. "I'll tell them how nice and friendly you are," she said. "And smart. I'll say"—Amy let a little bit of whine creep into her voice—"'Can't we keep him until his owners show up? We'll put up signs saying we've found him, and I promise to walk him and feed him and take care of him myself.' I'll say, 'Ever since Mom went back to work, I'm always alone and you never say
yes
to me anymore about anything.'"
Sherlock looked skeptical. "Is that likely to work?"
"It might," Amy said.
But she couldn't even convince herself.
More Plans
"Are you hungry?" Amy asked. Mom didn't approve of snacks—but surely the rules were different for dogs than for people.
Sherlock nodded. "I haven't eaten since last night."
That definitely meant the rules should be different.
Amy took
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