Gus was the meanest dog in town.

Everyone said so.

He lived

in the green yard

belonging to a small tan house

on the corner

of Birch and Larpenter Streets.

The post office,

the Piggly Wiggly,

and Joe’s Gas and Grill

sat on the other three corners,

which made Birch and Larpenter

a very busy intersection.

And that made Gus

a very busy dog.

All day

he             up             down

          ran           and

his chain-link fence,

barking at every car

that passed by.

He barked at every bicycle,

too.

In fact,

he barked at every cat

and dog

and person

who ran

or walked

or tried to sneak past.

Sometimes he even barked

at the birds

in the trees

just to show them

who was boss.

He curled his lips

to show his long yellow teeth

and growled

and snarled

and yelled.

“Go!

“Get out of here!

Go! Go! Go!”

Not that humans heard

“Go! Go! Go!”

They heard only

“Bark! Bark! Bark!”

But you and I know

what Gus was really saying.

Gus was enormous,

but he wasn’t exactly handsome.

He had long legs

and a skinny tail

and ears that hung down

like limp

w

a

s

h

r

a

g

s.

He     had     a     head

about     the          size

and     the          shape

of     a     shoe       box.

He was gray,

the color of the ashes

left behind in your fireplace

after the cheerful fire

has grown cold.

And his coat was coarse

and wiry,

not the least bit soft

to the touch.

Gus wasn’t an orphan.

He had a man,

a woman,

a boy

inside the tan house.

Actually,

he had once lived

inside the tan house

himself.

He’d spent his puppyhood

there,

cheerfully knocking over vases,

putting his paws

on the shoulders

of visiting grandmothers,

and gulping

every bit of food

he could get

his mouth

around.

And what Gus could manage

to fit into his enormous mouth

was truly amazing.

Once

he rested his chin

on the dining room table

and ate

a huge steak,

three baked potatoes,

a green salad,

and an ear of corn

without pausing

to take

a breath.

(It was when he stopped

to spit out the cob

that he got caught.)

And it didn’t help

that when one of his humans said,

“Sit!”

Gus got a look in his eye

that said,

Who, me?

or that when they said,

“Stay!”

he galloped away

and

ran

all around

the

house.

Then

there was that other problem.

I don’t like to mention it,

but the truth was . . .

Gus smelled.

And when I say he smelled,

you will understand

he did not smell

like roses

or like baking bread

or like any of the many scents

we all welcome

when we walk

into a house.

He smelled—

no doubt about it!—

like dog,

a large

and rather dirty

dog.

And yes,

I hear your question.

“Hadn’t anyone ever thought

of giving the poor thing

a bath?”

If only the problem

could be solved

so easily.

You see,

the man,

the woman,

and the boy

had tried,

more than once,

to bathe Gus.

But Gus was so big

and the tub so small

and the water so wet that . . .

well,

let me explain it this way.

Imagine the damage

an enormous dog

might do

galloping

merrily

through a small house.

Then consider

what an enormous, wet, muddy, soapy dog

might accomplish

careening

through the same small space.

So perhaps

when you consider all Gus’s faults

you’ll understand

why the man finally declared

that Gus must

never,

ever,

ever

come inside the house

again.

You might think the man hardhearted—

the boy did—

but even the woman agreed.

“Some dogs are not meant

for inside,”

she said.

Which was why Gus

lived in the green yard

and spent his days

running along the chain-link fence

shouting, “Go! Go! Go!”

It was also why

he’d turned

sad

and angry . . .

and,

let’s face it,

rather mean.

Gus didn’t mind

that the town thought he was mean.

In fact,

he had grown rather proud

of his fierce reputation.

Proud of the way

a dash at the fence

with his bark blaring

could make folks decide,

quite suddenly,

to cross        the street

(pretending

as they hurried away

that across the street

was where they had meant to go

all along).

And so,

when Gus saw

a small calico cat

marching toward him

with her tail high,

as though she owned the whole town,

he took his job

as the protector of his corner—

not to mention his reputation

as the meanest dog in town—

very seriously.

“Go!”

he shouted.

“Get away from here,

right now!

Go! Go! Go!”

The little cat

kept right on coming.