Twelve

Kat helps us get the dogs to the car. Popeye helps me carry the kennels. We’re still only using two kennels because I don’t have the heart to put the Pomeranian or the frightened terrier into cages again.

Dakota climbs in front. Mrs. Coolidge doesn’t allow animals in the front seat of her new car, even though the car’s big enough for a couple of horses, so that leaves me in back with all the dogs.

“Mrs. C.,” Dakota reasons, “don’t you think we should at least call the activities director and tell her we’re on our way?”

“No, sirree,” Mrs. Coolidge answers. “We don’t want to give them fair warning.”

“But it’s all set up, isn’t it?” I ask. “I mean, they know we’re coming. They’re up for this pilot pet program, aren’t they?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Mrs. Coolidge?” I press. “They want our dogs, don’t they?”

“Well, not exactly. Not yet,” she admits. “Consider this an audition. A tryout.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Dakota says.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Mrs. Coolidge says. “Don’t be such a worrywart. The board at Nice Manor approved our pet project, although they left the details to their activities director.” She adjusts her air-conditioning vent, even though she hasn’t turned on the AC yet. “The problem is their activities director. As soon as she found out I was behind the project, she got cold feet. I’m afraid Miss Golf and I have a history.”

This can’t be good. Mrs. Coolidge should have told us before now. “What if nobody’s there to meet the dogs?” I ask.

The woman shoots me a frown in the rearview mirror. “It’s all under control,” she says. “I have an inside man.”

“An inside man?” Dakota repeats.

“Woman, actually,” Mrs. Coolidge clarifies. “Her name is Buddy, and she’s got spunk. Believe me, our Miss Golf is no match for Buddy.”

I don’t ask anything else, and neither does Dakota. I’m trying to picture an inside woman with spunk who goes by the name of Buddy. It’s enough to keep me busy until we get there.

Nice Manor is set back from the road and surrounded by trees. The brick building isn’t a skyscraper or anything, but there must be at least five stories. Hard to believe this is an old people’s home. They probably fix up the outside and leave the inside junky.

“Out you go!” Mrs. Coolidge commands.

“You’re not coming?” Dakota sounds terrified.

“Places to go, people to see,” Mrs. Coolidge explains.

I have to hang on to the Pomeranian so he won’t bolt out of the car when Dakota opens the door. The terrier acts like she’s glued to my thigh, but I wrestle her loose and hand her to Dakota. The other dogs are banging to get out of their kennels. Dakota leashes the terrier and the Blab while I juggle the Pom and the bulldog.

Mrs. Coolidge taps the steering wheel. “Call my cell when you’re ready to be picked up.”

Dakota and I back away from the car, our dogs straining at the leashes. I feel like I did the first time I was dropped off at a foster home.

Before she drives away, Mrs. Coolidge rolls down her window and calls out, “Get along, little doggies!”

We don’t move. I couldn’t wave good-bye if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. This whole thing is her fault.

Mrs. Coolidge honks her horn twice, then peels out of the parking lot, leaving Dakota and me on our own, with four dogs who are as scared as we are.

Every other time I’ve wanted to find a home for one of the rescued dogs, I’ve been able to reach inside and bring out “friendly Wes.” That’s what Kat calls me when I kick into gear to gain the confidence of strangers so they’ll trust me to give them a good pet.

The first time Kat saw friendly Wes, I was placing an Irish setter with the perfect owners, an older woman and her teenage grandson. Kat waited until they left with their new dog. Then she stomped up behind me and demanded to know who I was and what I’d done with the real Wes.

Now, standing outside Nice Manor, I’m wondering what I’ve done with friendly Wes. I could use him about now because I’m feeling more like Mad Dog with every minute. Mrs. Coolidge should have given us more time to work with the dogs. She should have set everything up for us at the Manor. She shouldn’t have left us to face them alone.

“You okay?” Dakota asks. She’s staring at me, probably wishing Eddy Barker were standing here instead of Wes “Mad Dog” Williams.

“Okay?” I ask, the sarcasm not coming from friendly Wes. “What’s not to be okay about, Dakota? Let’s go meet old people.” I lead the way through the covered porch and into Nice Manor.

I was wrong about the place only looking good on the outside. If anything, Nice Manor is even nicer on the inside. The entryway is all wood and plush carpet, with a fireplace and sofas. I can see past it to a dining room with white tablecloths and flowers. Glassed-in shelves run the length of the hallway, filled with fancy plates and little glass animals. My grandma would have loved this stuff. Come to think of it, this place smells a lot like my grandmother’s apartment did.

“Pssst! This way!”

I pivot in the direction of the whisper, but I don’t see anybody. Not until I look down.

A woman rolls her wheelchair into the hall, then back, disappearing through a dark doorway.

“What was that?” Dakota whispers.

I shrug. The bulldog growls.

A hand appears through the doorway, a lone finger crooked and motioning us into the dark room.

I glance at Dakota. She stays where she is, the Blab’s leash in one hand, the terrier’s in the other.

“Well?” comes a scratchy voice. “Don’t just stand there. Get in here!”

Dakota and I herd the dogs into the room. The second we’re in, the old woman wheels over and rams her wheelchair into the door, forcing it shut. A T-shirt has been duct-taped to the door, covering the window and blocking all views from the hall.

“Lights, girlie.” The woman points to a switch too high for her to reach from her wheelchair.

“Sorry,” Dakota says, scurrying to turn on the light.

“Why?” the woman demands. “Are you the one who put that switch up so high?”

The overhead light gives me my first good look at the woman in the wheelchair. She’s short and wide. Her body overflows the wheelchair seat. Wisps of gray hair spring out from under her Chicago Cubs cap, which is on sideways. Spindly legs stick out from a gray skirt. She’s wearing a Chicago White Sox sweatshirt and high-top tennis shoes. Her face and neck aren’t so much wrinkled as they are baggy, like maybe a long time ago her face was twice this big, and when it shrank, her skin didn’t.

“Buddy?” Dakota asks.

The woman’s pudgy face lights up. “So my reputation precedes me.” She winks at us. “How is the old Coolidge busybody these days?”

“She’s okay,” Dakota answers. “I guess.”

Buddy eyes Dakota, then me, then the dogs scrambling at our feet, trying to get out of here. “Are you fans?” she asks, looking skeptical.

“I like baseball,” Dakota volunteers.

“But who do you root for?” Buddy demands.

Dakota grins. “The underdog.”

Buddy breaks into a gap-toothed smile, until she turns to me. “How about you? We have to get these important matters settled first. Cubs? White Sox? Which is it?”

She’s making me nervous. “Both,” I answer. “Especially the Sox.”

Buddy claps her hands, sending the terrier to hide behind Dakota. “All right, then! Let’s roll!” She puts two fingers to her lips and lets out a piercing whistle.

A closet door flings open in the back of the room. People hobble out. It’s a parade of old people. Two are pushing walkers as they all shuffle to a row of folding chairs.

Buddy whistles again. The bulldog jerks away, yanking the leash out of my hands.

“Come back here!” I call. But I haven’t worked on the “come” command.

The dog dashes toward Buddy and slides halfway across the freckled linoleum floor, not stopping until she slams into Buddy’s wheelchair.

“Sorry!” I run up and grab the bulldog’s leash. “I haven’t trained the dogs yet.”

“Obviously,” Buddy observes.

“This wouldn’t have happened if I’d had more time to work with them.” I can see the whole project slipping away, the dogs going back to the pound.

Suddenly, the bulldog lunges at the wheelchair and jumps up, planting her front paws on Buddy’s knees.

“No!” I cry.

Buddy waves me off. “I reckon this one likes me.” She scratches the ugly dog on her chest.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I think you’re right.” Maybe Buddy and the rest of them will give our dogs a chance after all.

Buddy stares into the bulldog’s face. The dog stares back. Their heads are inches apart. It’s eerie how much they look alike with saggy faces, pug noses, and deep brown eyes.

“Ugly ol’ girl, isn’t she?” Buddy comments.

As if in reply, the dog’s mouth opens in a big smile.

Dakota gasps.

Someone behind me says, “EEEeeeyew!”

And out of the dog’s mouth comes a giant glob of slobber—right onto Buddy’s lap.