Mr. Muller looks like he just stepped out of Hogwarts Castle in the Harry Potter movies. Dark eyes. Pale skin. Wire glasses pinching his nose. His house is filled with dark leather chairs, dark tables with stout legs, and dark bookshelves stuffed with books.
Siegfried is a muscular brown dog with black ears sharpened to a point and dark eyes that never blink. He looks to weigh only nine or ten pounds, but for a little dog, he’s intense.
How can a dog that doesn’t bark be more intimidating than one that does?
Right away, I learn that Mr. Muller is really Dr. Muller. Not the kind of doctor that prescribes pills, but the kind that teaches you. And he prefers that I call him Professor Muller.
“I taught medieval studies, specializing in myth and legends.” He runs fingers along the crease in his dark trousers. Straightens the stiff collar on his gray shirt. “Do you know what that is, Samuel?”
“Yes, sir. Stories about dead heroes and stuff.”
“Stuff—” Professor Muller makes a choking sound, his Adam’s apple moving up and down like it’s on a mechanical pulley. “But you are in part correct. Siegfried was named for a Germanic mythical warrior hero.”
“He was?” I glance at the dog, who looks awfully small to be a warrior, then at Professor Muller. “Mr. P named his dog after Apollo, but I can’t remember what he was the god of.”
“Apollo was the Greek god of music, poetry, and many other things.” Because of his knee, Professor Muller has to use a cane to get around. Stiffly, he shuffles to his bookshelves, which line three walls in his living room. A minute later, he returns with a small dark book.
“This will acquaint you with some of the more popular heroes, gods, and goddesses. You may keep it, as I have no further need of it.” He sits down again, resting his leg on a footstool. “And now let me see the book you have brought.”
I open my scrapbook to the section on miniature pinschers and begin. “Well, for short, miniature pinschers are called Min Pins and they came from Germany. They’re real popular as watchdogs and house pets—”
Without warning, Dr. Muller leans toward me and takes the book from my hand. “I am quite capable of reading for myself,” he says.
“Yes, sir.” I sit quietly, watching him read. Siegfried the warrior dog sits quietly, watching me. Seconds pass. Then minutes. Professor Muller reads everything I’ve collected about Min Pins. Then he sighs, cheeks hollow. Face unhappy. I wonder if my scrapbook didn’t pass the test. If I didn’t pass the test. How I could have made it better.
I breathe deep. “You, uh, you don’t like the scrapbook?”
“No, it is good, actually.” He taps the scrapbook with a yellowed fingernail. “A thorough job. I would give you an A- for completeness, a B+ for organization.” He pauses, looking through the pages again. “And a B for neatness. You could have used a little less paste.” He peels a dried blob of Elmer’s glue off the corner of a clipping.
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Thanks. My older sister helped me. She works a lot with animals and wants to be a veterinarian.”
“A vet, you say.”
“Yes, sir. She’s leaving for college in the fall.”
He nods slowly. “And have you learned how to care properly for animals from her? That could be a big advantage for someone who walks dogs.”
“Oh, yes, sir. She’s taught me a lot. And I’ve taken care of an old dog for years. He’s probably not going to be around much longer, though. I’m going to buy my own dog when I have enough money. And I’ll take care of it, too.”
“Is that why you’re working?”
“Yes, sir.” I pause, noticing he’s still not smiling. “I’d take real good care of Siegfried, and watch him extra close.”
“Oh, I’m sure you would.” He taps a section of one page and sighs again. “This part is what saddens me.” Straightening his glasses, he points to a clipping. “It tells how the breed needs a daily walk on a lead, or short hours of free exercise in a safe area.” He closes the book with a clap. “In the university town where I lived, there was such a place. A fenced area to take our dogs where they could run free. Now . . .” He waves his hand like he’s casting a spell. “We pay for many, many amenities here—swimming pool, tennis court, boat docks—and yet we don’t have a dog run.”
As an ornate clock on the mantel chimes the half hour, Siegfried places a paw on the footstool.
“Ah. Time for Siegfried’s walk. We follow a strict regimen here. Breakfast at eight, lunch at noon, dinner at six. Walks at midmorning and midafternoon. Regrettably, the routine has been interrupted.”
I notice the dog leash lying on the footstool and pick it up. Immediately, Siegfried is at my side. Ears raised. Mouth open, panting.
“He may need to go outside,” Professor Muller says. “I’ve been putting him on a rope just outside the back door. It’s long enough for him to do what he needs to do and get a little exercise, but not nearly enough. I’ll let him out as soon as we finish our business.”
“No walk today,” I say, rubbing the dog’s head. “Maybe tomorrow . . .” I look at Professor Muller.
“Yes, perhaps . . .” Professor Muller pulls a plastic bag containing dog biscuits shaped like little bones from his pocket. “I worry so much about Siegfried.” He rubs the dog’s head.
“Why?” Siegfried looks to be four or five years old and healthy. “Is he sick?”
“Certainly not! I make sure he is properly cared for.” He hands me the bag so I can give the dog a biscuit, too. “I worry that I will die before he does. I don’t want him ending up in a cage at a pet store.” He looks at me. “You’ve seen them. Cages with signs on the front that describe the animal’s character traits. The kind of home it would do well in.”
“Yes, sir.” As Siegfried munches down a dog biscuit, I picture him in a cage with a sign that says WARRIOR DOG ACCUSTOMED TO A STRICT REGIMEN. ENJOYS GERMAN MEDIEVAL STUDIES.
Oh, yeah, he’d be adopted in a heartbeat.
For some reason, I think of Max, envisioning the sign that would go on his cage if he were being adopted. BIG SMELLY DOG WITH GARBAGE DISPOSAL FOR STOMACH. PRONE TO EXPLOSIVE ERUPTIONS OF NOXIOUS GASES AND BILIOUS AIR. His chances of adoption would be as bad as Siegfried’s.
No, worse. Which is why he ended up with us.
“Well, maybe someone would adopt him. That’s how we got our old dog. He’s been living with us four years now.”
“Is that so?” Professor Muller nods, looking thoughtful. “Well, clearly, he found a good home.” He looks at me, eyes unswerving. “All right then, it’s settled. Mrs. Callahan called and explained the terms and I find them agreeable . . . on one condition. That you also pick up the waste in my backyard on those days that you come. I should be able to handle that job myself in a few weeks, but not right now. Is that agreeable to you?”
“Yeah, sure. Great. Super-great.” I stick out my hand for a handshake to clinch the deal. Professor Muller’s fingers are all bones. His knuckles are knotty knobs.
Professor Muller accompanies me to the door, his back a steel girder. “Until tomorrow, Samuel.” But as the door closes, the wooden face cracks open in a smile.
I grin. Mrs. Callahan pegged Dr. Muller right.
I sprout wings after I pick up my bike and head for the security gate. Flying around golf carts, cars, trucks.
I’ve done it.
Suddenly, I hear a golf cart, the gasoline-powered kind. I stop pedaling and push my bike onto the right-of-way. Seconds later, Justin comes speeding up.
“I’m gonna get you, Spammy!” he yells. He spins around as the security gate comes into view, driving off fast.
Chief Beaumont walks outside when I turn in my pass. The ball cap is pulled low to keep off the sun’s glare. Curly black hair, starting to gray at the temples, pokes out around his ears. “How’d things go, Sam?”
“Solid. I’ll be walking dogs Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Starting tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
He nods toward the woman at the window. “Bertha here will have a pass waiting for you.” The woman behind the sliding glass panel smiles at me.
I smile, too, then hesitate, wondering if I should mention Justin’s threat.
“Something else, Sam?” Chief Beaumont’s eyes slice through his glasses.
I shake my head. But on the way home, I think about Justin a lot. I can’t remember a time he got into it with anyone at school in the three years he’s been here. Really got into it. Not one black eye. Or bloody nose. A shoving match. He won’t even play contact sports. But at CountryWood, he’s the Terminator.
And now there’s a new bull’s-eye painted on his target.
Me.