Gus lifted his great head

to listen.

The night was still dark,

but there it was again . . . that sound.

He sighed

and dropped his chin

to his paws.

Whoever was calling

had nothing to do

with him.

Truth be told,

no one

had anything

to do with him

these days.

Even his boy

spent little time

out in this green yard

with his dog.

So whoever was making that noise

was none

of his

concern.

“Help!”

The call came again,

and Gus lifted his head

once more.

The voice was so close.

Almost as though the call came

from inside his yard.

Almost as though it came

from inside

his very own

doghouse.

Which wasn’t possible,

of course.

Who would dare

go inside

a doghouse

belonging

to the meanest dog in town?

“Please!”

the voice said.

“Can someone come?”

Gus rather liked that word . . .

please.

He couldn’t remember

when anyone

had ever

said “Please!” to him.

They said, “NO!”

They said, “SIT!”

And “STAY!”

Even “SHUT UP!”

But never “Please!”

Gus tilted his head

to hear better.

“Somebody!”

the voice said again.

And then, “Anybody!”

And then, “Please!”

once more,

though the “Please”

got very small

this time.

Gus leaped to his feet.

He was certainly an anybody!

He was,

in fact,

somebody.

He was

even

a rather large somebody.

And whoever was calling

might need

to

be

helped

down

from

a low branch

or                      bog

dug            a

out  of

   over

lifted          some

or                      obstacle.

If that was the kind of help needed,

a large dog such as he

could surely be useful.

He shook himself awake,

the shake

starting with his head

and

his

long,

limp

ears,

traveling down his back

and ending

with his whiplike tail.

But before he stepped

down into the yard,

he stopped to think.

Maybe

when he got there—

wherever there was—

whoever was calling would say,

“Not you!

I didn’t mean for you to come.”

Maybe they would say,

“I don’t need help from the meanest dog in town.”

Who would?

Gus lay down once more,

rested his head on the concrete stoop,

and closed his eyes.

Some things just weren’t his problem.

But then . . . there it was again.

Louder this time.

“Please!”

And this time when Gus lifted his head

he knew . . .

the voice really did come

from his doghouse.

The nerve!

He would have to do something

about that.

Not that he liked his doghouse

all that much.

He much preferred the big house

where his boy lived.

But still,

the doghouse did belong to him.

It was

just about

the only thing

in this world

that did.

So . . .

Gus lumbered across the dark yard

and shoved his big head

inside the deeper dark of his doghouse,

a growl

already gathering

in his throat.

Can you imagine the picture that greeted him?

Gus found

the

ugly,

patchy

cat,

the one he had sent away

earlier in the day,

curled into a corner,

as though she owned the place.

“What are you doing in my house?”

he roared,

and he opened his mouth

so wide

that he could have . . .

well,

you know exactly what he could have done.

But he didn’t.

Not yet,

anyway.

Which leaves us all waiting

to see

what will happen

next.