Chapter Four

 

Behind Angel’s house lay an open, grassy backyard, some bushes, and the backyard of the house on the next street over. The stray dog Angel saw must run around between all of the backyards, Philip thought. Philip stood next to the tree separating Angel’s yard from her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Beebe’s, yard. He inspected all of the windows in Angel’s house, hoping to see her at one, but she wasn’t there. What should he do now? The dog could be anywhere.

“Woof,” went Philip. “Woof. Woof.” Philip listened for an answer but got none. Philip barked in a louder voice. “Woof! Woof! Woof!”

“Well, hello little doggie.” Mrs. Beebe, an older gray-haired woman, who lived alone, stood on her back porch staring at him. She had a blue bandanna on her hair and gardening tools in one hand. “Would the doggie like to be petted?”

Philip felt ridiculous. It was the first time he’d ever been caught barking like a dog.

“I was just . . . trying something,” Philip stammered.

“Was the doggie asking for a bone?” the old woman cackled.

“No, no. I was . . . I gotta go.” Philip hurried across the backyard and went out to the sidewalk. Was the doggie asking for a bone? Philip repeated. He felt so stupid. With Mrs. Beebe digging in her garden, he wouldn’t be able to get the dog even if it showed up. He decided to hide the food he’d taken and try again tomorrow.

But the next day, Sunday, his parents took him to the mall to get new sneakers for the summer. Then they went to the Chinese restaurant, Hong Fat’s Wok, to eat. After dinner, he settled down to do his homework for Monday. He thought he might try to sneak out for a while afterwards, but his mother called him into the laundry room. When he got there, he saw she had those lines above her nose again.

“Philip, what is this . . .? Ugh! What is this . . . stuff in your pants pocket?”

The runaway meatball! He’d forgotten he’d stuffed it into his pocket yesterday.

“It looks like ground meat. Did you put meat in your pocket?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot. I put a meatball in my pocket. In case I got hungry. You know. Like later, after my sandwich.”

“You put a meatball into your pocket?” his mother repeated in astonishment.

“Just one.”

“Just one,” his mother repeated. “Philip, would you like to put your hand into this pocket and take out what you put in there?”

Philip looked at the mess on his mother’s fingers.

“No, thank you,” he said softly.

“This is . . . how could you . . .?” Philip’s mother silently shook her head and Philip walked away. It didn’t seem like a good time to ask to go out.

The next day after school Philip walked by Angel’s house. Emery had to go home to walk his dog. He didn’t want to talk to Emery anyway after spending half his lunch period trying to make up a story to explain to Emery why he only ate the bread and not the meat from his ham sandwich. Angel was nowhere in sight, so Philip walked around her house and into the wide space of backyards. There, as if by magic, stood the dog Angel had described, sniffing in an open garbage can, three houses down. Philip tossed his school bag off his shoulder and scuffled around inside until he found his supply of meat and the short rope and noose he’d prepared. He walked slowly toward the dog. When he got one house away from the rooting dog, the dog looked his way.

“Meat,” Philip whispered. “Meatballs, turkey and ham. Want some?”

The dog twisted its head and studied Philip. Philip tossed one of the meatballs gently toward the dog. The dog watched the meatball roll to a stop. It took the few steps needed to reach the meatball, then bent down and sniffed at it. Slurp! The meatball disappeared. The dog looked expectantly at Philip.

“Come here.” Philip held the other meatball between his fingers. The dog walked over and sniffed it. Slurp! Gone. It disappeared so fast into the dog’s mouth that Philip checked his fingers to make sure he still had five.

“I have more,” Philip told the dog. He rolled up a slice of turkey and broke it in two. The dog ate one piece, then the other. Philip put a bunch of rolled-up turkey and ham on the grass. As the dog inspected each one before slurping it up, Philip got his noose and rope ready. After the dog ate the third from last piece of ham, it looked up at Philip, and Philip slipped the noose over the dog’s head.

“Arolwll!” the dog whelped.

“Whoa!” screamed Philip.

The dog began running around the backyard trying to get the rope off its head. Philip held on, tripped, and slid across the grass on his knees, then his stomach, then his back.

“Wait, wait. Here’s more meat,” Philip yelled at the dog. The dog stopped and shook its head, but the noose stayed in place. Philip got up. The dog took off again and jumped over a short fence. Philip went with him and leaped desperately but caught his knee on the top of the fence and his pants ripped.

“Wait a minute, you dumb dog. Hold it!”

The dog ran through Mrs. Beebe’s newly watered garden. Philip slipped on the grass and went down among the daffodils. He could feel the wet dirt moosh through his jeans. The dog gave a strong yank, and Philip’s right ear splashed into the mud.

Philip struggled to his feet. One of his sneakers had come off and his white sock had already turned brown with mud and started to slide off his foot.

The dog started running again, but running away from Philip’s house, back through Mrs. Beebe’s yard. Philip gave a fed-up yank on his rope. The dog went, “Rolwp!” and stopped.

“Come this way, dumb dog.” Philip pulled the dog toward the opening between Mrs. Beebe’s house and the garage next to it. The dog saw the direction Philip suggested and ran through the space. Philip felt another strong yank on his rope, and off he went behind the speeding dog. A nail stuck out of the garage and Philip’s shirt went rrriiipppp. He purposely slid to the ground and tried to pull the dog to a stop, but he was already on the cement leading up to the garage.

“Owww!” Philip barked as he slid along on his knees.

“Rorrff,” the dog barked back.

Philip got up and stared at the dog, which now sat quietly in the driveway looking back at him.

“Will you calm down?” Philip growled at him.

“Grrrrrr,” the dog replied and started running. Philip ran, too.

“Wait, wait, wait. This is where I live,” Philip called as the dog tore past his house and down the street. Philip managed to stop the dog and turn it around, but the dog kept on running.

“No, no, no, here,” cried Philip as he and the dog charged past his house a second time. Philip again turned the heavily panting dog, and finally convinced it to try the path leading to his front door. Halfway there the dog sat down and panted some more.

Philip panted, too. “You think you’re tired! Come on. We’re almost there.” Philip pulled one way and the dog pulled the other, but little by little Philip forced the stubborn dog to his front door. He opened the door and dragged the dog inside.

“Philip!” His mother stood ten feet away from him, her mouth wide open.

Philip could feel the wet mud on the right side of his face. He looked down. His sock hung halfway off his foot like a long, muddy tongue. Both knees of his jeans were torn open, and he knew his knees were scraped and bloody. Grass stains spotted his jeans, and his ripped shirt hung off his right shoulder.

“Mom,” Philip huffed and puffed, “this cute little dog . . . just followed me home.” Philip took three deep breaths. “Can I keep him?”